Title: The Solitary Farm
Author: Hume, Fergus, 1859-1932
Language: English
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                          The Solitary Farm

                           BY FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE SACRED HERB," "THE SEALED
MESSAGE," "THE GREEN MUMMY," "THE OPAL SERPENT," "THE RED WINDOW," "THE
YELLOW HOLLY," ETC., ETC., ETC.


    G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK

    Copyright 1909 by
    G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

    _The Solitary Farm_



[Illustration: AS BELLA RAN INTO HIS ARMS HE DRAGGED HER INTO THE
STANDING CORN.]



CONTENTS


I. THE DOMAIN OF CERES

II. THE WOOIN' O'T

III. THE TARDY LOVER

IV. SUDDEN DEATH

V. A MYSTERIOUS CRIME

VI. THE INQUEST

VII. CYRIL AND BELLA

VIII. THE WITCH-WIFE

IX. THE COMING OF DURGO

X. A LOVER'S MEETING

XI. A RECOGNITION

XII. CYRIL'S STORY

XIII. MRS. TUNKS' DISCOVERY

XIV. WHAT SILAS PENCE KNEW

XV. DURGO, THE DETECTIVE

XVI. THE PAPERS

XVII. A CONFESSION

XVIII. THE GHOST

XIX. AN AWKWARD POSITION

XX. THE MASTER MAGICIAN

XXI. A DESPERATE ATTEMPT

XXII. MRS. VAND'S REPENTANCE

XXIII. WHAT LUKE TUNKS SAW

XXIV. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY

XXV. RUN TO EARTH



THE SOLITARY FARM



CHAPTER I

THE DOMAIN OF CERES


"S' y' want t' merry m' gel, Bella!" remarked Captain Huxham, rubbing
his stout knees slowly, and repeating the exact words of the clerical
suitor. "S' thet she may be yer handmaiden, an' yer spouse, and yer
sealed fountain, es y' put it in yer flowery pulpit lingo. Jus' so! Jus'
so!" and shifting the quid which bulged his weather-beaten cheek, he
stared with hard blue eyes. "Jus' so, Mr. Pence!"

The young minister and the elderly skipper discussed the subject of
marriage in a shabby antique room of small size, which had the
appearance of having been used to more aristocratic company. The
dark-oak panelled walls, the grotesquely-carved ceiling-beams, the
Dutch-tiled fire-place, with its ungainly brass dogs, and the deep
slanting embrasure of the lozenge-paned casement, suggested Georgian
beaux and belles dancing buckram minutes, or at least hard-riding
country squires plotting Jacobite restoration. But these happenings were
in the long-ago, but this stately Essex manor-house had declined
woefully from its high estate, and now sheltered a rough and ready
mariner, who camped, rather than dwelt, under its roof.

Captain Huxham, seated on the broad, low window-sill, thrust his hands
into the pockets of his brass-buttoned pea-jacket, and swung his short,
sturdy legs, which were enveloped in wide blue-cloth trousers. He was a
squat man, with lengthy arms and aggressively square shoulders, and his
large, flat face was as the winter sun for redness. Clean-shaven, save
for a fringe of white hair which curved under his stubborn chin from one
large ear to the other, his tough skin was seamed with innumerable
wrinkles, accumulating particularly thickly about his eyes. He had gold
rings in his ears, and plenteous grey hair hung like seaweed from under
a peaked cap, pushed back from his lined forehead. He looked what he
truly was--a rough, uneducated, imperious old sea-dog, whose knowledge
of strong drink and stronger language was only exceeded by his strenuous
grip of the purse which held the savings of many rapacious years. In
this romantic room he looked entirely out of place. Nevertheless it was
his own property, and while considering his answer to Mr. Pence, he
examined it mechanically.

To the left he beheld a large open fire-place, which gaped under an
ornate oak mantel-piece, carved with the crest and motto of the
dispossessed family. A door appeared on the right, leading to the
entrance hall, and this also was elaborately carved with wreaths of
fruit and flowers, and with fat, foolish Cupids, entangled in knots of
ribbon. The fourth wall was unbroken, and faced the window, but against
it stood a common deal table covered incongruously with an embroidered
Indian cloth. Above this, and leaning forward, was a round convex
mirror, surmounted by a Napoleonic eagle. This was flanked on one side
by an oilskin coat and a sou'-wester, and on the other by a sextant and
a long brass telescope. A Louis Quinze sofa, with a gilt frame, and
covered with faded brocade, fitted into the space between the fire-place
and the casement. In the opposite corner, with its back to the outer
wall, stood a large modern office-desk of mahogany, with a flexible
curved lid, which was drawn down and fastened, because a visitor was in
the room. Captain Huxham never received anyone in his sanctum unless he
first assured himself that the desk was closed, and a small,
green-painted safe near it fast-locked.

There were three or four rush-bottomed chairs, which looked plebeian
even on the dusty, uncarpeted floor. On the mantel-shelf stood a
lyre-shaped clock, bearing the sun symbol of Louis XIV.; several cheap
and gaudy vases, and many fantastic shells picked up on South Sea
beaches. Here and there were Japanese curios, Polynesian mats and war
weapons; uncouth Chinese idols, stuffed birds, Indian ivory carvings,
photographs and paintings of various ships, and all the flotsam and
jetsam which collects in a sailor's sea-chest during endless voyages.
The deal table was littered with old magazines, yellow-backed novels,
and navigation books with ragged covers; while the fire-place was a
species of dust-bin for matches, cigar-ends, torn papers, orange peel,
and such like. Everywhere the dust lay thick. It was an odd room--at
once sumptuous and dingy, markedly chaotic, yet orderly in an untidy
way. It reflected more or less the mind of its present owner, who, as
has been before remarked, camped, rather than lived, amidst his
surroundings. In the same way do Eastern nomads house in the ruined
palaces of kings.

Silas Pence, who was the minister of the Little Bethel Chapel in
Marshely village, curled his long thin legs under his chair and looked
anxiously at his meditative host. That portion of the light from the
casement not intercepted by Huxham's bulky figure, revealed a lean,
eager face, framed in sparse, fair hair, parted in the centre and
falling untidily on the coat collar. The young preacher's features were
sharply defined and somewhat mean, while a short and scanty beard
scarcely concealed his sensitive mouth. His forehead was lofty, his chin
weak, and his grey eyes glittered in a strange, fanatical fashion. There
were exceptional possibilities both for good and evil in that pale
countenance, and it could be guessed that environment would have much to
do with the development of such possibilities. Mr. Pence was arrayed in
a tightly-fitting frock coat and loose trousers, both of worn
broadcloth. He wore also a low collar with a white tie, bow-fashion,
white socks, and low-heeled shoes, and every part of his attire,
although neat and well-brushed and well-mended, revealed dire poverty.
On the whole, he had the rapt ascetic gaze of a mediæval saint, and a
monkish robe would have suited him better than his semi-ecclesiastical
garb as a Non-conformist preacher.

But if Pence resembled a saint, Huxham might have passed for a grey old
badger, sullen and infinitely wary. Having taken stock of his worldly
possessions, recalling meanwhile a not altogether spotless past, he
brought his shrewd eyes back again to his visitor's attentive face.
Still anxious to gain time for further consideration, he remarked once
more, "So' y' want t' merry m' gel, Bella, Mr. Pence? Jus' so! Jus' so!"

The other replied, in a musical but high-pitched voice almost feminine
in its timbre, "I am not comely; I am not wealthy; nor do I sit in the
seat of the rulers. But the Lord has gifted me with a pleading tongue,
an admiring eye, and an admonishing nature. With Isabella by my side,
Brother Huxham, I can lead more hopefully our little flock towards the
pleasant land of Beulah. What says Isaiah?"

"Dunno!" confessed the mariner. "Ain't bin readin' Isaiaher's log
lately."

"Thou shalt be called Hephzibah," quoted Mr. Pence shrilly, "and thy
land Beulah: for the Lord delighteth in thee, and thy land will be
married."

"Didn't know es Isaiaher knew of m' twenty acres," growled Huxham, with
another turn of his quid; "'course ef it be, es y' merry Bella, th' land
goes with her when I fits int' m' little wooden overcoat. Y' kin take
yer davy on thet, Mr. Pence, fur I've a conscience, I hev,--let 'em say
contrary es likes."

It must have been an uneasy conscience, for Captain Huxham glared
defiantly at his visitor, and then cast a doubtful look over his left
shoulder, as though he expected to be tapped thereon. Pence was puzzled
as much by this behaviour as by the literal way in which the sailor had
taken the saying of the prophet. "Isaiah spoke in parables," he
explained, lamely.

"Maybe," grunted Huxham, "but y' speak sraight 'nough, Mr. Pence.
Touching this merrage. Y' love Bella, es I take it?"

"I call her Hephzibah," burst out the young minister enthusiastically,
"which, being interpreted, means--my delight is in her."

"Jus' so! Jus' so! But does th' gel love you, Mr. Pence?"

The face of the suitor clouded. "I have my doubts," he sighed, "seeing
that she has looked upon vanity in the person of a man from Babylon."

"Damn your parables!" snapped the captain; "put a blamed name t' him."

"Mr. Cyril Lister," began Pence, and was about to reprove his host for
the use of strong language, when he was startled by much worse. And
Huxham grew purple in the face when using it.

It is unnecessary to set down the exact words, but the fluency and
originality and picturesqueness of the retired mariner's speech made
Silas close his scandalised ears. With many adjectives of the most lurid
description, the preacher understood Huxham to say that he would see his
daughter grilling in the nethermost pit of Tophet before he would permit
his daughter to marry this--adjective, double adjective--swab from
London.

"I ain't seen th' blighter," bellowed the captain, furiously, "but I've
heard of his blessed name. Bella met him et thet blamed Miss Ankers',
the school-mistress', house, she did. Sh' wanted him t' kim an' see this
old shanty, 'cause he writes fur the noospapers, cuss him. But I up an'
tole her, es I'd twist her damned neck ef she spoke agin with the
lop-sided--"

"Stop! stop!" remonstrated Pence feebly. "We are all brothers in----"

"The lubber ain't no relative o' mine, hang him; an' y' too, fur sayin'
so. Oh, Lister, Lister!" Huxham swung two huge fists impotently. "I hate
him."

"Why? why? why?" babbled the visitor incoherently.

The surprise in his tones brought Huxham to his calmer senses, like the
cunning old badger he was.

"'Cause I jolly well do," he snorted, wiping his perspiring face with a
flaunting red and yellow bandana. "But it don't matter nohow, and I arsk
yer pardon fur gittin' up steam. My gel don't merry no Lister, y' kin
lay yer soul t' thet, Mr. Pence. Lister! Lister!" He slipped off the
sill in his excitement. "I hates the whole damned breed of 'em;
sea-cooks all, es oughter t' hev their silly faces in the slush tub."

"Do you know the Lister family then?" asked Pence, open-mouthed at this
vehemence.

This remark cooled the captain still further. "Shut yer silly mouth," he
growled, rolling porpoise-fashion across the room, "and wait till I git
m' breath back int' m' bellers."

Being a discreet young man, Pence took the hint and silently watched the
squat, ungainly figure of his host lunging and plunging in the narrow
confines of the apartment. Whatever may have been the reason, it was
evident that the name of Lister acted like a red rag to this nautical
bull. Pence ran over in his mind what he knew of the young stranger, to
see if he could account for this outbreak. He could recall nothing
pertinent. Cyril Lister had come to remain in Marshely some six months
previously, and declared himself to be a journalist in search of quiet,
for the purpose of writing a novel. He occupied a tiny cottage in the
village, and was looked after by Mrs. Block, a stout, gossiping widow,
who spoke well of her master. So far as Pence knew, Captain Huxham had
never set eyes on the stranger, and could not possibly know anything of
him or of his family. Yet, from his late outburst of rage, it was
apparent that he hated the young man.

Lister sometimes went to London, but for the most part remained in the
village, writing his novel and making friends with the inhabitants. At
the house of the board-school mistress he had met Bella Huxham, and the
two had been frequently in one another's company, in spite of the
captain's prohibition. But it was evident that Huxham knew nothing of
their meetings. Pence did, however, and resented that the girl should
prefer Lister's company to his own. He was very deeply in love, and it
rejoiced his heart when he heard how annoyed the captain was at the mere
idea of a marriage between Lister and his daughter. The preacher was by
no means a selfish man, or a bad man, but being in love he naturally
wished to triumph over his rival. He now knew that his suit would be
supported by Huxham, if only out of his inexplicable hatred for the
journalist.

Meanwhile Huxham stamped and muttered, and wiped his broad face as he
walked off his anger. Finally he stopped opposite his visitor and waved
him to the door. "Y' shell merry m' gel, Bella," he announced hoarsely;
"m' conscience won't let me merry her t' thet--thet--oh, cuss him! why
carn't he an' the likes o' he keep away!" He paused, and again cast an
uncomfortable look over his left shoulder. "Kim up on th' roof," he said
abruptly, driving Pence into the entrance hall. "I'll show y' wot I'll
give y' with m' gel--on conditions."

"Conditions!" The preacher was bewildered.

Huxham vouchsafed no reply, but mounted the shallow steps of the grand
staircase. The manor-house was large and rambling, and of great age,
having been built in the reign of Henry VII. The rooms were spacious,
the corridors wide, and the ceilings lofty. The present possessor led
his guest up the stairs into a long, broad passage, with many doors
leading into various bedrooms. At the end he opened a smaller door to
reveal a narrow flight of steep steps. Followed by the minister, Huxham
ascended these, and the two emerged through a wooden trap-door on the
roof. Silas then beheld a moderately broad space running parallel with
the passage below, and extending from one parapet to the other. On
either side of this walk--as it might be termed--the red-tiled roofs
sloped abruptly upward to cover the two portions of the mansion, here
joined by the flat leads forming the walk aforesaid. On the slope of the
left roof, looking from the trap-door, was a wooden ladder which led up
to a small platform, also of wood, built round the emerging chimney
stack. This was Captain Huxham's quarter deck, whither he went on
occasions to survey his property. He clambered up the ladder with the
agility of a sailor, in spite of his age, and was followed by the
preacher with some misgivings. These proved to be correct, for when he
reached the quarter-deck, the view which met his startled eyes so shook
his nerve, that he would have fallen but that the captain propped him up
against the broad brick-work of the chimney.

"Oh, me," moaned the unfortunate Silas, holding on tightly to the iron
clamps of the brick-work. "I am throned on a dangerous eminence," and
closed his eyes.

"Open 'em, open 'em," commanded the captain gruffly, "an' jes' look et
them twenty acres of corn, es y'll git with m' gel when I'm a deader."

Pence slipped into a sitting position and looked as directed. He beheld
from his dizzy elevation the rolling marshland, extending from the
far-distant stream of the Thames to the foot of low-lying inland hills.
As it was July, and the sun shone strongly, the marshes were
comparatively dry, but here and there Pence beheld pools and ditches
flashing like jewels in the yellow radiance. Immediately before him he
could see the village of Marshely, not so very far away, with red-roofed
houses gathered closely round the grey, square tower of the church; he
could even see the tin roof of his own humble Bethel gleaming like
silver in the sunlight. And here and there, dotted indiscriminately,
were lonely houses, single huts, clumps of trees, and on the higher
ground rising inland, more villages similar to Marshely. The flat and
perilously green lands were divided by hedges and ditches and fences
into squares and triangles and oblongs and rectangles, all as
emerald-hued as faery rings. The human habitations were so scattered,
that it looked as though some careless genii had dropped them by chance
when flying overhead. Far away glittered the broad stream of the Thames,
with ships and steamers and boats and barges moving, outward and inward
bound, on its placid surface. The rigid line of the railway shot
straightly through villages and trees and occasional cuttings, across
the verdant expanse, with here and there a knot representing a station.
Smoke curled from the tall chimneys of the dynamite factories near the
river, and silvery puffs of steam showed that a train was on its way to
Tilbury. All was fresh, restful, beautiful, and so intensely green as to
be suggestive of early Spring buddings.

"When I took command of this here farm, ten years back," observed
Captain Huxham, drawing in a deep breath of moist air, "it were
water-logged like a derelict, es y' might say. Cast yer weather-eye over
it now, Mr. Pence, an' wot's yer look-out: a gardin of Edin, smilin'
with grain."

"Yet it's a derelict still," remarked the preacher, struggling to his
feet and holding on by the chimney; "let me examine your farm of
Bleacres."

Bleacres--a corruption of bleakacres--consisted of only twenty acres not
at all bleak, but a mere slice out of the wide domains formerly owned by
the aristocratic family dispossessed by Huxham. It extended all round
the ancient manor-house, which stood exactly in the centre, and every
foot of it was sown with corn. On every side waved the greenish-bluish
crop, now almost breast high. It rolled right up to the walls of the
house, so that this was drowned, so to speak, in the ocean of grain. The
various fields were divided and sub-divided by water-ways wide and
narrow, which drained the land, and these gave the place quite a Dutch
look, as fancy might picture them as canals. But the corn grew
everywhere so thick and high, in contrast to the barren marshes, that
the farm looked almost aggressively cultivated. Bleacres was widely
known as "The Solitary Farm," for there was not another like it for many
miles, though why it should have been left to a retired sailor to
cultivate the soil it is hard to say. But Huxham for many years had sown
corn on his twenty acres, so that the mansion for the most part of the
year was quite shut off from the world. Only a narrow path was left,
which meandered from the front door and across various water-ways to
Marshely village, one mile distant. In no other way save by this path
could the mansion be approached. And as guardian of the place a
red-coated scarecrow stood sentinel a stone-throw from the house. The
bit of brilliant colour looked gay amidst the rolling acres of green.

"The domain of Ceres," said Pence dreamily, and recalling his meagre
classical studies; "here the goddess might preside. Yet," he added
again, with a side glance at his rugged host, "a derelict still."

"Mr. Pence don't know the English langwidge, apparently," said Huxham,
addressing the landscape with a pitying smile. "A derelict's a ship
abandoned."

"And a derelict," insisted Pence, "can also be described as a tract of
land left dry by the sea, and fit for cultivation or use. You will find
that explanation in Nuttall's Standard Dictionary, captain."

"Live an' larn; live an' larn," commented Huxham, accepting the
explanation without question; "but I ain't got no use for dix'onaries
m'self. Made m' dollars to buy this here farm without sich truck."

"In what way, captain?" asked Silas absently, and looked at the view.

Had he looked instead at Huxham's weather-beaten face he might have been
surprised. The captain grew a little trifle paler under his bronze, an
uneasy look crept into his hard blue eyes, and he threw another anxious
glance over his shoulder. But a stealthy examination of the minister's
indifferent countenance assured him that the question, although a
leading one, had been asked in all innocence. And in all innocence the
captain replied, for the momentary pause had given him time to frame his
reply.

"I arned m' dollars, Mr. Pence, es an honest man should, by sweatin' on
th' high an' narrer seas these forty year'. Ran away fro' m' father, es
wos a cobbler," added Huxham, addressing the landscape once more, "when
I wos ten year old, an' a hop-me-thumb et thet, es y' could hev squeezed
int' a pint pot. Cabin boy, A.-B., mate, fust an' second, and a skipper
by m' own determination t' git top-hole. Likewise hard tack, cold
quarters, kickin's an' brimstone langwidge es would hev made thet hair
of yours curl tremenjous, Mr. Pence. I made 'nough when fifty an' more,
t' buy this here farm, an' this here house, th' roof of which I've
walked quarter-deck fashion, es y' see, these ten years--me bein' sixty
odd, so t' speak. Waitin' now fur a hail t' jine th' angels, an' Mrs.
Arabeller Huxham, who is a flier with a halo, an' expectin' me aloft, es
she remarked frequent when chokin' in her engine pipes. Asthma et wos,"
finished the widower, spitting out some tobacco juice, "es settled her
hash."

This astonishing speech, delivered with slow gruffness, did not startle
Silas, as he had known Captain Huxham for at least five years, and had
before remarked upon his eccentric way of talking. "Very interesting;
very commendable," he murmured, and returned to the object of his visit.
"And your daughter, sir?"

"Y' shell hev her, an' hev this here," the captain waved his hand to the
four points of the compass, "when I jine the late Mrs. Arabeller Huxham,
ef y'--ef y'--thet is----" he halted dubiously.

"If what?" demanded Pence, unsuspiciously.

"Ef y' chuck thet Lister int' one of them water-ways," said Huxham.

"What?" cried the preacher, considerably startled.

"I want him dead," growled Huxham gruffly, "drown dead an' buried."

Perhaps his sojourn in distant lands on the fringes of the empire had
familiarised the captain with sudden death and murder, for he made this
amazing proposition in a calm and cheerful voice. But the minister was
not so steeled to horrors.

"What?" he repeated in a shaking voice and with dilated eyes.

"All fur you," murmured the tempter persuasively, "every blamed acre of
et, t' say nothing of Bella es is a fine gel, an'----"

"No, no, no!" cried Silas vehemently, spreading his hands across his
lean, agitated face, "how dare you ask such a thing?"

"Jus' a push," went on Huxham softly, "he bein' on the edge of one of
them ditches, es y' might say. Wot th' water gits th' water holds. He'd
go down int' the black slime an' never come up. It 'ud choke him. Cuss
me," murmured Huxham softly, "I'd like t' see the black slime choke a
Lister."

Pence gasped again and recalled how the Evil One had taken the Saviour
of men up to an exceedingly high mountain, to show Him the kingdoms of
the world and the glory of them. "All these things will I give thee,"
said Satan, "if----"

"No!" shouted Silas, his eyes lighting up with wrath. "Get thee behind
me----" Before finishing his sentence, and before Huxham could reply, he
scrambled down the ladder to rush for the open trap. The captain leaned
from his quarter-deck scornfully. "Y' needn't say es I gave y' the
chance, fur no one 'ull believe y'," he cried out, coolly, "an' a
milksop y' are. Twenty acres, a house, an' a fine gel--y'd be set up for
life, ef y'd only push----"

Pence heard no more. In a frenzy of horror he dropped through the
trap-door, inwardly praying that he might be kept from temptation.
Huxham saw him vanish and scowled. "Blamed milky swab," he grumbled,
then turned to survey the bribe he had offered for wilful murder. He
looked at the corn and across the corn uneasily, as though he saw danger
in the distance. "No cause to be afeared," muttered the ex-mariner; "he
can't get through the corn. It keeps me safe anyhow."

But who the "he" referred to might be, Huxham did not say.



CHAPTER II

THE WOOIN' O'T


Imagine a man wrapped from infancy in the cotton wool of civilisation
suddenly jerked out of the same into barbaric nakedness. Deprived of the
strong protection of the law, brought suddenly face to face with the
"might-is-right" theory, he would have to fight for his own land, even
to the extent of slaying anyone who thwarted his needs. Such a man,
amazed and horrified at first, would gradually become accustomed to his
Ishmael existence, since habit is second nature. Silas Pence felt sick
when he reflected on the offer made by Captain Huxham, and to him of all
people--a minister of the Gospel, a follower of the Prince of Peace. For
the first time in his guarded life, he became aware of the evil which
underlies the smiling surface of things, and it was as though an abyss
had opened suddenly at his feet. But although he did not know it at the
time, the seed had been sown in his heart at the right moment, and would
germinate almost without his knowledge. In a few days Silas could look
back at the horrifying suggestion with calmness, and could even consider
the advantages it offered.

But just now he felt sick, physically sick, and descending with
trembling limbs to the ground floor of the house, staggered towards the
hall and door. All he desired was to get away, and put the corn-fields
between himself and the evil atmosphere of Bleacres. But his legs failed
him as he laid hands on the latch, and he sank white-faced and shaking
into a chair. In this state he was discovered by Mrs. Coppersley, the
captain's sister and housekeeper. She was a buxom, amiable woman, with a
fixed smile meaning nothing. The expression of her rosy face changed to
one of alarm when she saw the heap in the chair. "Save us, Mr. Pence,
what's wrong?"

Pence was about to break forth into a denunciation of Huxham's
wickedness, but a timely recollection of the captain's last words--that
his story would not be believed--made him pause. After all, Huxham was
well known as a decent man and an open-handed friend to one and all, so
there was nothing to be gained by telling a truth which would certainly
be scoffed at. The preacher changed his mind in one swift instant, and
replied nervously to Mrs. Coppersley's inquiry. "I have been on the
quarter-deck, and it made me dizzy. I am not accustomed to----"

"Drat that brother of mine," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley angrily, "he
got me up there once, and I thought I'd never come down. Here, Mr.
Pence, you hold up while I get you a sup of rum."

"No, no! Strong drink leads us into desperate ways," protested the
preacher. But Mrs. Coppersley was gone, and had returned before he could
make up his mind to fly temptation. Silas was not used to alcohol, but
the shock he had sustained in learning so much of Huxham's true nature
prevented his exercising his usual self-control. With his highly strung
nerves he was half-hysterical, and so, when forced by kindly Mrs.
Coppersley, readily drank half a tumbler of rum slightly diluted with
water.

"Drink it all, there's a good soul," entreated the housekeeper, forcing
the glass to his lips.

"No!" He pushed it away. "I feel better already!" and he did, for the
strong spirit brought colour to his cheek and new strength to his limbs.
He stood up in a few minutes, quite himself, and indeed more than
himself, since the rum put into him more courage than came by nature.
"Wine maketh glad the heart of man," said Silas, in excuse for his
unusual indulgence.

"Rum isn't wine," said Mrs. Coppersley, with a jolly laugh, "it's
something much better, Mr. Pence. Now you go home and lie down."

"Oh, no! I feel as though I could charge an army," said Pence valiantly.

"Then wait in the study." She indicated the panelled room with a jerk of
her head. "Jabez will be down from his quarter-deck soon."

"No." Pence shivered, in spite of the rum, at the thought of again
having to face his tempter. "I must go now. My presence is required in
the village."

"Then you can take a message for me to Mr. Vand," said Mrs. Coppersley,
with a slight accession of colour to her already florid face. "Say that
I am coming to Marshely about seven o'clock, and will call at the shop."

This request changed Pence into the preacher and the leader of the godly
people who called his chapel their fold. Vand was the son of the woman
who kept the village grocery shop, and a cripple who played the violin
at various local concerts. He was at least ten years younger than Mrs.
Coppersley, who confessed to being thirty-five--though probably she was
older--and the way in which the widow ran after him was something of a
scandal. As both Mrs. Coppersley and Henry Vand were members of Little
Bethel, Silas felt that he was entitled to inquire into the matter. "You
ask me to take such a message, sister?" he demanded austerely.

The widow's face flamed, and her eyes sparkled. "There is no shame in it
that I am aware of, Mr. Pence," she declared violently; "if I choose to
marry again, that's no one's business but mine, I take it."

"Oh, so you desire to marry Henry Vand?" said Pence, amazed.

"It's not a question of desiring," said the buxom woman impatiently.
"Henry and I have arranged to be married this summer."

"He is a cripple."

"I know that," she snapped, "and therefore needs the care of a wife."

"His mother looks after him," protested Pence weakly.

"Does she?" inquired Mrs. Coppersley. "I thought she looked after no one
but herself. She's that selfish as never was, so don't you go to defend
her, Mr. Pence. Henry, poor boy, who is an angel, if ever there was one,
is quite neglected; so I am going to marry him and look after him. So
there!" and Mrs. Coppersley, placing her hands akimbo, defied her
pastor.

"Henry has no money," said Pence, finding another objection.

"As to that," remarked Mrs. Coppersley indifferently, "when my brother
dies I'll have money for us both, and this house into the bargain."

"You will have nothing of the sort," said Silas, surprised into saying
more than was wise. "Your brother's daughter will inherit this----"

"Oh, will she?" cried Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and much you know
about it, Mr. Pence. When my late husband, who was a ship's steward, and
saving, died ten year ago, I lent my brother some money to add to his
own, so that he might buy Bleacres. He agreed that if I did so, I should
inherit the house and the land. I promised to look after Bella until she
got married, and----"

"Mrs. Coppersley," said Pence, with an effort at firmness, "your brother
told me only lately that if I married Bella, he would give her the farm
and the house when he died, so----"

"Ho, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley wrathfully, "pretty goings on,
I'm sure. You call yourself a pastor, Mr. Pence, and come plotting to
rob me of what is mine. I take everything, and Bella nothing, so you can
put that in your pipe and smoke it, though you ain't man enough to smoke
even a penny cigar. You marry Bella? Why, she's as good as engaged to
that young Lister, who has got more gumption about him than you have."

"I advise you," said Pence, and his voice sounded strangely in his own
ears, "not to tell your brother that his daughter is engaged to Mr.
Lister."

"I never said that she was. But----"

"There is no but. The mere mention of such an engagement would send
Captain Huxham crazy."

"In heaven's name, why?" gasped Mrs. Coppersley, looking the picture of
stout amazement and sitting down heavily.

"Because for some reason he hates Mr. Lister, and would kill him rather
than accept him as his son-in-law."

Mrs. Coppersley's florid face turned quite pale. Evidently she knew what
her brother was like when roused. "Why should Jabez hate Mr. Lister?"
she asked.

"You had better ask him," said Pence, opening the hall door; then to
soften his abruptness he added, "I'll tell Henry Vand that you will see
him." After which he departed, leaving Mrs. Coppersley still pale and
still gasping.

After all there was no reason why the ship steward's widow would not
marry the young man. Vand was handsome in a refined way, and very clever
as a musician. He was only slightly crippled, too, and could get about
with the aid of a stick. All the same, he needed someone to look after
him, and as his own mother did not do so--as was notorious--why should
he not become Mrs. Coppersley's husband? The disparity in age did not
matter, as Vand, in spite of his good looks, was club-footed and poor.
But Pence doubted if Mrs. Coppersley would inherit Bleacres after
Captain Huxham's death, in spite of the arrangement between them.
Unless--and here was the chance for the housekeeper--unless Bella
married Lister, notwithstanding her father's opposition. In that event,
Huxham would assuredly disinherit her. "I'll point this out to her,"
said the preacher, as he left the manor-house, "and urge my suit.
Common-sense will make her yield to my prayers. Moreover, I can plead,
and----" here he smiled complacently as he thought of his pulpit
eloquence. Besides, the unaccustomed spirit of the rum was still keeping
him brave.

Pence sauntered in the glowing sunshine down the narrow path which ran
between the standing corn. The path was not straight. It wound
deviously, as though Huxham wished to make the approach to his abode as
difficult as possible. Indeed, it was strange that he should sow corn at
all, since corn at the time was not remunerative. But every year since
he had entered into possession of Bleacres the owner had sown corn, and
every year there had only been the one meandering path through the same,
the very path which Pence was now taking. There was evidently some
purpose in this sowing, and in the fact that only one pathway was left
whereby to approach the mansion. But what that purpose might be, neither
Pence, nor indeed anyone else, could guess. Not that they gave it a
thought. Huxham was presumed to be very wealthy, and his farming was
looked upon more as a hobby than a necessity.

The preacher brushed between the breast-high corn, and walked over two
or three narrow planks laid across two or three narrow ditches. But
where the corn ended was a wide channel, at least ten feet broad, which
stretched the whole length of the estate and passed beyond it on its way
under the railway line to the distant river. The water-way ran
straightly for some distance, and then curved down into the marshes at
its own will, to spread into swamps. On one side sprang the thick green
corn, but on the other stretched waste-lands up to the outskirts of the
village, one mile distant. There was no fence round Bleacres at this
point. Apparently, Huxham deemed the wide channel a sufficient
protection to his corn, which it assuredly was, as no tramps ever
trespassed on the land. But then, Marshely was not a tramp village. The
inhabitants were poor, and had nothing to give in the way of charity.
The loafer of the roads avoided the locality for very obvious reasons.

Before crossing the planks, which were laid on mid-channel supporting
tressels over the water-way, Pence looked from right to left. The
evening was so very beautiful that he thought he would prolong his walk
until sundown, and it wanted some time to that hour. He was still
indignant with Captain Huxham for his base offer, and came to the
conclusion that the ex-mariner was mad when he made it. Pence, in his
simplicity, could not think that any man could ask another to kill a
third in cold blood. All the same, the offer had been made, and Silas
found himself asking why Huxham should desire the death of a stranger
with whom--so far as the preacher knew--he was not even acquainted.
Huxham had always refused to permit Bella to bring Lister to Bleacres,
and indeed had forbidden her even to speak to the young man. He
therefore could not be cognisant of the fact, stated by Mrs. Coppersley,
that Lister and the girl were on the eve of an engagement.

Thus thinking, Pence mechanically wandered along the left bank of the
boundary water-way, and found himself near a small hut, inhabited by the
sole labourer whom Huxham habitually employed. He engaged others, of
course, when his fields were ploughed, and sown, and reaped, but
Tunks--such was the euphonious name of the handy-man--was in demand all
the year round. He resided in this somewhat lonely hut, along with his
grandmother, a weird old gipsy reputed to be a witch, and it was this
reputation which set Mr. Pence thinking.

Remembering that Mrs. Tunks was of the Romany, he thought, and blushed
as he thought, that it would be worth while to expend a shilling in
order to learn if his suit with Bella would really prosper. The temple
of fate was before him, and the Sibyl was probably within, since the
smoke of cooking the evening meal curled from the chimney. It was only
necessary to lift the latch, lay down a shilling, and inquire. But even
as the temptation drew him, he was seized with a feeling of shame, that
he--a preacher of the Gospel, and the approved foe thereby of
witches--should think for one moment of encouraging such traffic with
the Evil One. Pence, blushing as red as the now setting sun, turned away
hastily, and found himself face to face with the very girl who was
causing him such torment.

"How are you, Mr. Pence?" said Bella Huxham, lightly. "A lovely evening,
isn't it?" and she tried to pass him on the narrow path. Probably she
was going to see the Witch of Endor.

The preacher placed himself directly before her.

"Wait for one moment."

The girl did not reply immediately, but looked at him earnestly, trying
to guess what the usually nervous preacher had to say. Bella looked more
lovely than ever in Pence's eyes, as she stood before him in her white
dress and bathed in the rosy glory of the sunset. She did not in the
least resemble her father or her aunt, both of whom were stout, uncomely
folk of true plebeian type. Bella was aristocratic in her looks, as tall
and slim and willowy as a young sapling. Her hair and eyes were dark,
her face was a perfect oval of ivory-white delicately flushed with red,
like a sweet-pea, and if her chin was a trifle resolute and hard, her
mouth was perfect. She carried herself in a haughty way, and had a habit
of bending her dark brows so imperiously, that she reminded Pence of
Judith, who killed Holofernes. Judith and Jael and Deborah must have
been just such women.

"Well?" asked Bella, bending her brows like an empress, "what is it?"

"I--I--love you, Miss Huxham."

She could not be angry at so naive a declaration, and one coming from a
man whom she knew to be as timid as a hare. "I am somewhat surprised,
Mr. Pence," she replied demurely, "are you not making a mistake?"

"No," he stuttered, flushing with eagerness, for amorous passion makes
the most timid bold. "I have loved you for months, for years. I want you
to be my wife--to share with me the glorious privilege of leading my
flock to the land of Beulah, and----"

"Stop, stop!" She flung up her hand. "I assure you, Mr. Pence, that it
is impossible. Forget that you ever said anything."

"I cannot forget. Why should I forget?"

"You must not ask a woman for her reasons, Mr. Pence," she answered
drily, "for a woman never gives the true ones."

"Bella!"

"Miss Huxham to you, Mr. Pence." She spoke in a chilly manner.

"No," he cried wildly; "to me you are Bella. I think of you by that
sweet name day and night. You come between me and my work. When I
console the afflicted I feel that I am talking to you. When I read my
Bible, your face comes between me and the sacred page. To me you are
Hephzibah--yes, and the Shulamite. The Angel of the Covenant; the joy of
my heart. Oh, Bella, I love the very ground that you tread on. Can you
refuse me? See!" He threw himself on the path, heedless of the fact that
Mrs. Tunks might be at her not far distant window. "I am at your feet,
Bella! Bella!"

The girl was distressed by this earnestness. "Rise, Mr. Pence, someone
will see you. You must not behave like this. I cannot be your wife."

"Why not? Oh, why not?"

"Because I am not fit to be a minister's wife."

The young man sprang to his feet, glowing with passion. "Let me teach
you."

Bella avoided his extended arms. "No, no, no!" she insisted, "you must
take my answer once and for all, Mr. Pence. I cannot marry you."

"But why?" he urged despairingly.

"I have a reason," she replied formally; "don't ask me for it."

"I have no need to. I know your reason."

Bella flushed, but overlooked the bitterness of his tone because she
guessed what he suffered. "In that case, I need not explain," she said
coldly, and again tried to pass. Again he prevented her.

"You love that man Lister," he said between his teeth.

"That is my business, Mr. Pence."

"Mine also," he cried, undaunted by her haughtiness. "Your father's
business, too. Mrs. Coppersley said that you were almost engaged to this
man Lister. But you shall not marry him; you will not even be engaged to
him."

"Who will prevent me?" asked Bella angrily.

"Your father. He hates this man Lister."

"How can my father hate a man he has never even seen?" she demanded;
"you are talking rubbish."

"Miss Huxham"--Pence detained her by laying his thin fingers on her
arm--"if you marry this man Lister"--he kept to this sentence as though
it were a charm--"you will be a pauper."

She flashed up into a royal rage and stamped. "How dare you say that?"

"I dare tell the truth."

"It is not the truth. How can you tell if----"

"Your father told me," insisted the preacher, hotly.

Bella withdrew a step or so, her eyes growing round with surprise.
"My--father--said--that?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Silas feverishly. "I went to him this very
afternoon to ask permission to present myself to you as a suitor. He
consented, but only when he heard that you loved this man who----"

"You told him that?" demanded Bella, her breath coming quick and short.

"Yes," said Pence, trying to be courageous, "and it is true."

"Who says that it is?"

"Everyone in the village."

"The village has nothing to do with my business," she declared
imperiously, "and even if I do love--but let that pass. You told me that
my father said I should be a pauper."

"If you married the man Lister," he reminded her. "Yes, he did say so,
and declared also that he would give me the manor-house and the farm
when he died, if I made you my wife."

Bella shrugged her shoulders. "My father does not mean what he says,"
she remarked disbelievingly; "as I am his only child, the Solitary Farm,
as they call it, comes to me in any case. And I see no reason why I
should discuss my father's business with you. Stand aside and let me
pass."

"No." Silas was wonderfully brave for one of his timid soul. "You shall
not pass until you learn the truth. You think that I am a fool and weak.
I am not. I feel wise and strong; and I am strong--strong enough to
withstand temptation, even when you are offered as a bribe."

Bella grew somewhat alarmed. She did not like the glittering of his
shallow, grey eyes. "You are mad."

"I am sane; you know that I am sane, but you think to put me off by
saying that I am crazy. I have had enough to make me so. Your
father"--here his voice took on the sing-song pulpit style--"your father
took me up to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed me the kingdoms
of the world. All of them he offered me, together with you, if I
murdered Lister."

"What!" Bella's voice leaped an octave; "you--you--murder Cyril?"

"Yes, Cyril, the man you love. And if I dared----"

"Mr. Pence"--Bella saw the necessity of keeping herself well in hand
with this hysterical youth, for he was nothing else, and spoke in a
calm, kind voice--"my father has not seen Mr. Lister, and cannot hate
him."

"Go and ask him what he thinks," said Pence fiercely. "I tell you that
to-day I was offered everything if I would kill this man Lister."

"You are talking at random," she said soothingly; "go home, and lie
down."

"I am talking of what may come to pass. Your father wishes it, so why
not, when I love you so deeply? I offer you the heart of an honest man,
and yet you would throw that aside for this profligate."

"Cyril is not a profligate," interrupted Bella, and could have bitten
out her tongue for the hasty speech.

"He is. He comes from London, the City of Evil, that shall yet fall like
Babylon the Great. But your soul shall not be lost; you shall not marry
him."

"I shall!" cried Bella, indignantly, and becoming rash again in her
anger; "and what is more, I am engaged to him now. So there! Let me
pass."

She slipped deftly past him, and walked swiftly homeward. Silas Pence
stood where he was, staring after her, unable to speak or move or to
follow. Then the sun sank, leaving him in the twilight of sorrow.



CHAPTER III

A TARDY LOVER


Miss Huxham did not credit for one moment the story which Pence had told
her. It was ridiculous to think that her father would even hint at the
murder of an unoffending man whom he had never seen, and to hesitating,
timid Silas, of all people. Bella remembered that, months previously,
when she had mentioned a chance meeting with Lister--then a stranger--at
the cottage of the Marshely school-mistress, Captain Huxham had not only
forbidden her to bring him to Bleacres, which the young man desired to
see, but had ordered her to discontinue the acquaintance. Evidently the
retired mariner deemed this prohibition sufficient, for he made no
further mention of the matter. That he gave no reason for his tyrannical
edict, did not trouble him; but because of this very omission, his
daughter took her own way. By stealth, it is true, lest Huxham should
exhibit annoyance--for annoyance with him meant wild-beast rage.

Now the girl felt puzzled. According to Silas, her father knew that she
had disobeyed him, and she returned to the Manor in a somewhat nervous
state of mind, quite prepared to do battle for her lover. But, to her
surprise, Captain Huxham made no remark, and behaved much the same as
usual, save that at odd times he was more observant of her comings and
goings. In the face of his newly-acquired knowledge this very unusual
demeanour should have made Bella more circumspect, but, being
high-spirited, she did not change her life in any way. Also she believed
that Silas had greatly exaggerated the captain's anger, and argued from
his quietness that he cared very little what she did. She had reason to
take this view, for Huxham was not an affectionate parent, and, save
when things interfered with his own comfort, usually ignored his
daughter. And on her side, Bella could not subscribe to the fifth
commandment. It was impossible to honour King Log, who had an unpleasant
way of becoming King Henry VIII. when contradicted.

Several times, Bella, needing sympathy, was on the point of reporting
Pence's conversation to Mrs. Coppersley, so as to learn her opinion as
to the truth of the preacher's preposterous statement. But the buxom
widow was too much taken up with her own love-affairs to trouble about
those of her niece, for whom she displayed no great affection. She
attended to the house-keeping, cajoled her brother into a good humour
when necessary, and nearly every evening slipped out to meet Henry Vand,
who usually awaited her arrival on the hither side of the boundary
channel. He did not dare to venture nearer to the lion's den, as Captain
Huxham, aware of his sister's desire to contract a second marriage,
discouraged the idea. The captain being aggressively selfish, did not
intend to lose Mrs. Coppersley, whose services were necessary to his
comfort. Besides, as she managed everything connected with the domestic
arrangement of Bleacres, assisted by Bella, Huxham was spared the
necessity of paying a servant. It was better, from the captain's point
of view, to have two slaves who asked for no wages, and who could be
bullied when he felt like playing the tyrant.

To a young girl in the first strong flush of womanhood, life at the
solitary farm was extremely dreary, Captain Huxham rose early and
strolled round his wealthy acres until breakfast, which for him was a
Gargantuan meal. He then shut himself for the whole morning in his den,
where he laboured at his accounts, with a locked door. In the afternoon
he ordinarily walked to Marshely and conversed over strong drink with
cronies at the village public-house. He returned to walk around the farm
again, and after supper again sought his room to smoke and drink rum
until bedtime, at ten o'clock. The routine of the captain's life never
varied in any particular, even to seeking the quarter-deck once a day
for the purpose, apparently, of viewing the results of his life's work.
Also from his eyrie, the captain, armed with a long telescope, could
gaze at outward and homeward-bound ships, and so enjoy vicariously the
sea-life he had abandoned these ten years. Of Bella he took scarcely any
notice.

It was indeed a dull life, especially as Bella was intellectual, and
felt that she required food for her active brain. For some odd reason,
which did not suit with his rough nature, Huxham had given his neglected
daughter a first-class education, and only within the last two years had
she returned from a fashionable Hampstead school to live this
uneventful, unintellectual life on an Essex farm. She possessed a few
books, and these she read over and over again. Huxham was not actively
unkind, and gave her plenty of frocks, ribbons, hats, gloves, and
such-like things, which he presumed were what the ordinary girl wanted.
But he overlooked the fact that Bella was not an ordinary girl, and that
she hungered for a more moving life, or, at least, for one which would
afford her an opportunity of displaying her social abilities. Bella sang
excellently, and played the piano unusually well; but her uncouth father
did not care for music, and Mrs. Coppersley scorned it also. The girl
therefore allowed her talents to lie dormant, and became a silent,
handsome image of a woman, moving ghost-like through the dreary mansion.
But her chance meeting with the clever young man aroused all her disused
capabilities; aroused also her womanly coquetry, and stimulated her into
exhibiting a really fascinating nature. Warned that her father would
have no strangers coming to the manor, by his own lips, she kept secret
the delightful meetings with Lister, and only when the two met at the
cottage of Miss Ankers could they speak freely. Bella thought that her
secret attachment was unknown, whereas everyone in the village watched
the progress of Lister's wooing. It came as has been seen, to Pence's
jealous ears, and he reported the same to Captain Huxham. Knowing this,
Bella was more perplexed than ever, that, as time went on, Huxham did
nothing and said nothing. At one time he had been peremptory, but now he
appeared inclined to let her act as she chose. And the mere fact that he
did so, made Bella feel more than ever what an indifferent father she
possessed.

For quite a week after his interview with the captain, and his futile
wooing of Bella, the lovesick preacher kept away from the farm and
attended sedulously to his clerical duties in connection with Little
Bethel. The truth was, that he felt afraid of Huxham, now knowing what
use the captain desired to make of him. For this reason also, Silas did
not report that Bella was engaged to Lister. He feared lest Huxham, in a
rage at such disregard of his wishes, should slay the young journalist,
and perhaps might, in his infernal cunning, lay the blame on Silas
himself. At all events, Pence was wise enough to avoid the danger zone
of the farm, and although, after reflection, aided by jealousy, he was
not quite so shocked at the idea of thrusting Lister to a muddy death,
he yet thought it more judicious to keep out of Huxham's way. The old
mariner, as Pence knew, possessed a strong will, and might force him to
be his tool in getting rid of the journalist. Silas was wiser than he
knew in acting so discreetly, for the sailor-turned farmer was a more
dangerous man than even he imagined, despite the glimpse he had gained
of Huxham's possible iniquity.

Things were in this position when Bella, rendered reckless by her
father's indifference, actually met Cyril Lister in a secluded nook of
the corn-field, and on the sacred ground of Bleacres itself. Usually the
lovers met in Miss Ankers' cottage, or in Mrs. Tunks' hut, but on this
special occasion the weather was so hot that Lister proposed an
adjournment to the open field. "You will be Ruth, and I Boaz," suggested
the young man, with a smile.

Bella shivered even in the warm air into which she had stepped out of
the malodorous gloom of Mrs. Tunks' hut. "What an unlucky comparison,"
she said, leading the way along the bank of the boundary channel.

"Ruth left her people and her home, to go amongst strangers, and earn
her living as a gleaner."

"But she found a devoted husband in the end," Cyril reminded her.

"Peace and happiness also, I hope," sighed Bella. "I have plenty of
peace, but very little happiness, save of the vegetable sort."

"When we are married," began Lister, then stopped short, biting his
moustache--"we shall be very happy," he ended lamely, seeing that Bella
looked inquiringly at him.

"That is obvious, since we love one another," she said somewhat tartly,
for his hesitation annoyed her. "Why did you change the conclusion of
your sentence?"

Lister threw himself down on the hard-baked ground and under the shadow
of the tall blue-green corn stalks. "It just struck me that our marriage
was very far distant," he said gloomily.

Bella sat beside him shoulder to shoulder, and hugged her knees. "Why
should it be far distant?" she inquired. "If I love you, and you love
me, no power on earth can keep us apart."

"Your father----"

"I shall disobey my father if it be necessary," she informed him
serenely.

Lister looked at her through half-shut eyes, and noticed the firmness of
her mouth and the clear, steady gaze of her eyes. "You have a strong
will, I think, dear," he murmured admiringly.

"I have, Cyril--as strong as that of my father. When our two wills
clash"--she shrugged--"there may be murder committed."

"Bella!"--the young man looked startled--"what dreadful things you say."

"It is the truth," she insisted quietly; "why shirk obvious facts? For
some reason, which I cannot discover, my father detests you."

"By Jove!" Cyril sat up alertly. "And why? He has never seen me, as I
have kept well out of his way after your warning. But I have had a sly
glimpse of him, and he seems to be a jolly sort of animal--I beg your
pardon for calling him so."

"Man is an animal, and my father is a man," said the girl coolly, "a
neolithic man, if you like. You are a man also, Cyril--the kind of firm,
bold, daring man I like. Yet if you met with my father, I wonder----"
She paused, and it flashed across her brain that her father and her
lover would scarcely suit one another. Both were strong-willed and both
masterful. She wondered if they met, who would come out top-dog; so she
phrased it in her quick brain. Then abruptly she added, before Cyril
could speak. "Be quiet for a few minutes. I wish to think."

Lister nodded, and, leaning on one elbow, chewed a corn-stalk and
watched her in silence. He was a slim, tall, small-boned young man of
the fairskinned type, with smooth brown hair, and a small, drooping
brown moustache. His present attitude indicated indolence, and he
certainly loved to be lazy when a pretty girl was at his elbow. But on
occasions he could display wonderful activity, and twice had been chosen
as war correspondent to a London daily, when one or two of the little
wars on the fringe of the Empire had been in progress. He was not
particularly good-looking, but the freshness of his five-and-twenty
years, and the virility of his manner, made women bestow a great deal of
attention on him. Much more than he deserved, in fact, as, until he met
with Bella, he had given very little attention to the sex. He had
flirted in many countries, and with many women; but this was the first
time he had made genuine love, or had felt the genuine passion. And with
a country maiden, too, unsophisticated and pathetically innocent. So he
meditated as he watched her, until, struck by the firm curve of the chin
and the look of resolve on the tightly-closed lips, he confessed
privately that if this country maiden were placed in the forefront of
society, the chances were that she would do more than hold her own.
There were Joan-of-Arc-like possibilities in that strongly-featured
face.

"But, upon my word, I am quite afraid," he said aloud, following up his
train of thought and speaking almost unconsciously.

"Of what?" asked Bella, turning quickly towards him.

"Of you. Such a determined young woman, as you are. If I make you my
wife, I know who will be master."

"My dear," she said quietly, "in marriage there should be neither a
master nor a mistress. It's a sublime co-partnership, and the partners
are equal. One supplies what the other lacks, and two incomplete persons
are required to make one perfect being."

Lister opened his brown eyes. "Who told you all this?"

"No one. I have ample time to think, and--I think."

"You asked me to be quiet, so that you could think," he remarked lazily;
"may I ask what you have been considering?"

She surveyed him quietly. "You may ask; but I am not sure if I will
reply."

"See here, my dearest"--Cyril struggled to his knees, and took her hand
firmly within his own--"you are altogether too independent a young
woman. You always want your own way, I perceive."

"It will never clash with yours," said Bella, smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because you will always wish to do what I desire, and I will always be
anxious to act as you indicate. You have your line of life, and I have
mine, but the two are one."

"Humph! At school I learned that two parallel straight lines never met."

"Ah, Euclid was a bachelor, and ignorant. They meet in marriage, for
then the two lines blend into one. What's the matter?"

She asked this question because Cyril suddenly let go her hands and
swerved, blinking his eyes rapidly. "A sudden flash almost blinded me.
Some one is heliographing hereabouts." He stood up, considerably taller
than the already tall corn, and stared in the direction of the manor,
shading his eyes with one slim hand. "There's someone on the roof there
and----"

Bella pulled the sleeve of his coat, with a stifled cry. "Oh, sit down,
do sit down," she implored. "It must be my father on his quarter-deck.
The flash, perhaps, came from his telescope, and if he sees you--do sit
down."

Cyril laughed and relapsed into a sitting position. "Dearest, your
father cannot harm me in any way. I have heard of his quarter-deck. I
suppose he has it to remind him of the bridge of a steamer when he was
skipper."

"I hope he hasn't seen you," said Bella anxiously, "for then he would
come straight here, and----"

"Let him come, and then I shall ask him to let me marry you."

"He will refuse. He wants me to marry Mr. Pence."

"What!" Lister frowned. "That half-baked psalm-singer? What nonsense,
and what cheek. The idea of that Pence creature aspiring to your hand. I
wish we could marry at once. But----" He paused, and shook his head.
Lines appeared on his forehead, and a vexed look in his eyes. "It's
impossible," he said with a deep breath.

"Why is it impossible?" asked Bella imperiously and very directly.

"My dear, I am very poor, and just make enough to keep my head above
water. Besides, there is another reason."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you," he said in low voice, and becoming suddenly pale;
"no one but the wearer knows where the shoe pinches, you know."

"Cyril." Bella wreathed her arms around his neck. "You have a secret. I
have noticed several times that you have been worried. Sometimes you
forget everything when we are together, and your face becomes like that
of an old man. I must know your secret, so that I can help you."

"God forbid." Lister removed her arms, and grew even paler than he was.
"The kindest way I can act towards you, Bella, is to go out of your
life, and never see you again."

"Cyril, how can you when I love you so?"

"Would you love me if you knew of my troubles?"

"Try me. Try me," she implored, clasping his hand warmly.

"There are some things which can't be told to a woman," he said sternly.

"Tell them to a comrade, then. I wish to be your comrade as well as your
wife. And I love you so that anything you say will only make me love you
the more. Tell me, Cyril, so that I can prove my love."

"Upon my soul, I believe you'd go to hell with me," said Lister
strongly.

"Yes, I would. I demand, by the love which exists between us, to be told
this secret that troubles you so greatly."

Lister frowned, and meditated. "I cannot tell you everything--yet," he
remarked, after a painful pause, "but I can tell you this much, that
unless I have one thousand pounds within a week, I can never marry you."

"One thousand pounds. But for what purpose?"

"You must not ask me that, Bella," and his mouth closed firmly.

"'Trust me all in all, or not at all,'" she quoted.

"Then I trust you not at all."

"Oh!" She drew back with a cry of pain like a wounded animal.

In a moment he was on his knees, holding her hands to his beating heart.
"My dearest, if I could I would. But I can't, and I am unable just now
to give you the reason. Save that I am a journalist, and your devoted
lover, you know nothing about me. Later I shall tell you my whole story,
and how I am situated. Then you can marry me or not, as you choose."

"I shall marry you, in any case," she said quickly.

"Do you think that I am a poor, weak fool, who demands perfection in a
man. Whatever your sins may be, to me you are the man I have chosen to
be my husband. We are here, in the corn-fields, and you just now called
me Ruth. Then, like Ruth, I can say that 'your people will be my people,
and your God will be my God.'"

"Dearest and best," he kissed her ardently, "what have I done to deserve
such perfect love? But do not think me so very wicked. It is not myself,
so much as another. Then you----"

"Is it a woman?" she asked, drawing back.

Lister caught her to his breast again. "No, you jealous angel, it is not
a woman. The thousand pounds I must have, to save--but that is neither
here nor there. You must think me but a tardy lover not to carry you
off, forwith, and----" he rose, with Bella in his arms--"oh, it's
impossible!"

"Do carry me off," she whispered, clinging to him. "Let us have a Sabine
wedding. As your wife, you can tell me all your secrets."

"Bella, Bella, I cannot. I am desperately poor."

"So am I, and if I marry you my father will leave all his money to my
aunt, for he told Mr. Pence so. But what does poverty matter, so long as
we love one another with all our hearts and souls."

"Oh!" Cyril clenched his hands desperately. "Do not tempt me. Only one
thousand pounds stands between us. If I had that I could make you my
wife within a week. I would steal, or murder, or do anything in the
world to get the money and remove the barrier. But"--he pushed her away
almost brutally, and frowned--"you are making me talk rubbish. We must
wait."

"Until when, Cyril?" she asked sadly.

"Until Destiny is kinder."

"You will tell me----"

"I tell you nothing. Give me one kiss, and then good-bye for----"

He bent to touch her lips, but was caught and hurled back. Bella uttered
a cry of astonishment and dread, for between Cyril and herself stood
Captain Huxham, purple with anger.



CHAPTER IV

SUDDEN DEATH


"Y' shell not kiss m' gel, or merry her, or hev anything t' do with m'
gel," said Captain Huxham, in a thick voice. "Oh, I saw y' fro' th'
quarter-deck with m' gel. Jus' y' git, or----"

He made a threatening step forward, while Cyril waited him without
flinching. What would have happened it is hard to say, for Captain
Huxham was in a frenzy of rage. But Bella, recovering from her first
surprise, threw herself between the two men.

"Father," she cried passionately, "I love him."

"Oh, y' do, do y'?" growled the fireside tyrant, turning fiercely on
her, "an' arter I told y' es y'd hev t' leave the swab alone. Did I, or
did I not?"

"Yes, but you assigned no reason for asking me to avoid Cyril, so----"

"Cyril! Cyril!" The captain clenched his huge hand, and his little eyes
flashed with desperate anger. "Y' call him Cyril, y'--y'--slut." He
raised a mighty fist to strike her, and the blow would have fallen, but
that Lister suddenly gripped Huxham's shoulder and twitched him
unexpectedly aside.

"If you blame anyone, sir, you must blame me."

"I'll break yer neck, cuss y'," raged the older man.

Cyril shrugged his shoulders, indifferently. "You can try, if you like,
but I don't propose to let you do it. Come, Captain Huxham, let us both
be reasonable and talk matters over."

"Y're on m' land; git off m' land," shouted Huxham, swinging his fists
like windmills.

"Go, Cyril, go," implored Bella who was terrified lest there should be a
hand-to-hand struggle between the two men. That was not to be thought
of, as if Lister killed the captain, or the captain killed Lister, there
would be no chance of her becoming the wife of the man she loved.

"I am quite ready to go," said Cyril, keeping a watchful eye on Huxham;
"but first I should like to hear why you, sir, object to my marrying
Bella." He spoke quietly and firmly, so that the level tones of his
voice, and the admirable way in which he kept his temper, had a cooling
effect on the enraged sailor.

Huxham, born bully as he was, found that it was difficult for him to
storm at a man so cool, and calm, and self-controlled. "Y' ain't m'
chice," said he in lower but very sulky tones; "m' gel's goin' t' merry
th' sky-pilot, Silas Pence."

"Oh, no, she's not," said Lister smoothly; "she will marry me."

"If she does, she don't get no money o' mine."

"That will be no hindrance," said Bella, who was rapidly regaining her
colour. "I am willing to marry Cyril without a penny."

"Y' shent, then," grumbled her father savagely.

"I have yet to hear your objections, sir."

"Yer name's Lister, and----"

The objection was so petty, that Bella quite expected to see Cyril
laugh. But in place of doing so, he turned white and retreated a step.
"What--what do you know of my name?" he asked, with apparent
nervousness.

"Thet's my business," snapped Huxham, seeing his advantage, "an' I
shen't tell y' m' business. Y' git off m' land, or----" he suddenly
lunged forward in the attempt to throw Lister when off his guard.

But the young man was watchful, and, unexpectedly swerving, dexterously
tripped up his bulky antagonist. Huxham, with a shout, or rather a
bellow of rage like a wounded bull, sprawled full length amongst the
corn. Bella pushed her lover away before the captain could regain his
feet. "Go, go, I can see you to-morrow," she said hastily.

"Y' shell never see the swab again," roared Huxham, rising slowly, for
the fall had shaken him, and he was no longer young. "I'll shut y' in
yer room, an' feed y' on bread an' water."

"If you dare to say that again, I'll break your head," cried Lister,
suddenly losing his temper at the insult to the girl he loved.

"Oh, will y'?" Huxham passed his tongue over his coarse lips and rubbed
his big hands slowly. Apparently nothing would have given him greater
pleasure than to pitch this man who dared him into the boundary channel;
but he had learned a lesson from his late fall. Lister was active and
young; the captain was elderly and slow. Therefore, in spite of his
superior strength--and Huxham judged that he had that--it was risky to
try conclusions of sheer brute force. The captain therefore, being a
coward at heart, as all bullies are, weakened and retreated. "Y' git off
m' land," was all that he could find to say, "an' y' git home, Bella. Es
m' daughter I'll deal with y'."

"I am quite ready to go home," said Bella boldly; "but you are not going
to behave as though I were one of your sailors, father."

"I'll do wot I please," growled Huxham, looking white and wicked.

Bella laughed somewhat artificially, for her father did not look
amiable. "I don't think you will," she said, with feigned carelessness.
"Cyril, go now, and I'll see you again to-morrow."

"Ef y' come here again," shouted Huxham, boiling over once more, "I'll
kill y'--thet I will."

"Take care you aren't killed yourself first," retorted Lister, and was
surprised at the effect the threat--an idle one--had on the ex-sailor.

Huxham turned pale under his bronze, and hastily cast a look over his
left shoulder.

"Why do you hate me so?" asked the young man sharply. "I never met you
before; you have never set eyes on me. Why do you hate me?"

"Ef I'd a dog called Lister, I'd shoot it; if I'd a cat called Lister,
I'd drown it; and if I'd a parrot named Lister, I'd twist its blamed
neck, same es I would yours, ef I could. Bella, come home;" and casting
a venomous look on the astonished Cyril, the captain moved away.

It was useless to prolong the unpleasant scene, since Huxham declined to
explain his objection to the young man's name. And again, as she took a
few steps to accompany her father, Bella noticed that Cyril winced and
paled at the coarse taunts of his antagonist. "What is the matter with
your name?" she asked sharply.

Lister strode forward and caught her in his arms. "I shall explain when
next we meet," he whispered, and kissed her good-bye, while Huxham
grated his strong white teeth at the sight. Indeed, so angry was the
captain, that he might again have assaulted his daughter's lover, but
Cyril walked rapidly away, and without even a backward glance. Bella
watched him with a heavy heart: there seemed to be something sinister
about this mystery of the name. Huxham's inexplicable hatred appeared to
be foolish; but Lister undoubtedly took it seriously.

"Kim home," breathed the captain furiously in her ear; "you an' me hes
t' hev a talk."

"It will be a last talk if you do not behave properly," retorted Bella,
walking proudly by his side, "even though I have the misfortune to be
your daughter, that does not give you the right to treat me so rudely."

"I'll treat y' es I blamed well like, y' hussy. Y'll go t' yer room, an'
eat bread an' drink water t' cool yer hot blood."

Bella laughed derisively. "There is law in this country, father," she
said quietly. "I shall go to my room certainly, as I have no wish to
remain with you. But there need be no talk of bread and water."

"Tea an' dry toast, then," grunted Huxham, looking at her savagely with
his hard blue eyes. "Y' shell be punished, y' slut."

"Because I have fallen in love? Nonsense."

"Because y've disobeyed me in seein' this blamed Lister."

"Father"--Bella stopped directly before the front door of the
manor-house--"why do you hate Cyril? What have you against his name?"

The captain quivered, blinked his eyes, cast his usual look over the
left shoulder, and then scowled. "Shut yer mouth," he growled, "an' go
t' yer room, cuss y'. This house is mine. I am master here." He rolled
into the doorway and suddenly turned on the threshold. "I'd ruther see
y' dead an' buried than merried t' a man of t' name of Lister," he
snarled; and before Bella could recover from her astonishment, he
plunged into his den and shut the door with a noisy bang.

The girl passed her hand across her forehead in a bewildered way. The
mystery was becoming deeper, and she saw no way of solving it. Huxham
would not explain, and Cyril evaded the subject. Then Bella remembered
that her lover had promised an explanation when next they met. A
remembrance of this aided her to possess herself in patience, and she
tried to put the matter out of her head. But it was impossible for her
to meet her father at supper and forbear asking questions, so she
decided to obey him ostensibly, and retire to her bedroom. The next day
she could have an interview with her lover, and then would learn why the
captain stormed and Cyril winced when the name was mentioned.

Bella's room was on the first floor, and in the front of the mansion, so
that she had an extended view of the corn-fields, of Mrs. Tunks' hut
near the boundary channel, and of the pathway through the wheat leading
deviously from the front door of Bleacres, across the channel, and to
the distant village of Marshely. Standing at the window, she could see
the red-roofed houses gathered round the square tower of the church, and
the uncultivated fields, green and moist, spreading on all sides. The
sun was setting, and the landscape was bathed in rosy hues. Everything
was peaceful and restful outside, but under the manor roof was discord
and dread. Huxham in his den paced up and down like a caged bear,
angered exceedingly by his daughter's obstinacy, as he termed it. And
Bella, in the seclusion of her own room, was trying to quieten her
fears. Hitherto, she had lived what she termed a vegetable life; but in
these ominous hints it seemed as though she would very shortly have more
than enough to occupy her mind.

As the twilight darkened, Bella still continued to sit at the window
vainly endeavouring to forecast a doubtful future. It was certain that
Huxham would never agree to her marriage with Lister, and would probably
insist that she should become the wife of Pence. As Bella had no money,
and no expectations of any, save by obeying her father, she did not know
what to do unless the captain ceased to persecute her. He would possibly
turn her out of doors if she persisted in thwarting his will. In that
event she would either have to earn her bread as a governess, or would
be forced to ask Lister to marry her--a direct question which her
maidenly pride shrank from putting. Moreover--as she recollected--Cyril
had plainly told her, only a few hours previously, that he could not
marry her unless he obtained one thousand pounds within the week. It was
now Tuesday, and it was not easy to raise such a large sum within the
next few days. Of course, Bella did not know what resources Cyril had to
draw upon, and it might be that he would gain what he wanted. Then he
could take her away and marry her: but until the unexpected happened,
she did not know what to say or how to act. It seemed to her that she
had come to the cross-roads of life, and that all her future depended
upon the path she now chose. Yet there was nothing to show her how to
select the direction.

Her idle eyes caught at the vivid spot of scarlet which came from the
red coat of the martial scarecrow. There it stood, bound stiffly to a
tall pole in the midst of the corn--the sentinel of those prosperous
acres. Bella wondered that her father, having been a sailor, had not
arrayed the figure in nautical dress. As it was, the red hue annoyed
her, for red was the colour of blood, and there lingered in her mind the
ominous speeches which had been made by her father and Lister, when
quarrelling. "I'll kill y'!" said the captain; and "Take care," Cyril
had replied, "that you aren't killed yourself first!" Also there was the
wild tale of Pence regarding the offer made by Huxham to compass the
death of Lister. These things flashed into Bella's uncomfortable mind,
as she looked at the red and ominous figure of the scarecrow. Then, with
a shudder, she rose and dismissed these evil fancies.

"I am growing morbid," she thought, looking at her anxious face in the
glass. "To-morrow, when I see Cyril--oh, come in!" said she aloud.

She broke off to give the invitation, as a sharp knock came to the door,
and it opened almost immediately to admit the plump figure of Mrs.
Coppersley, carrying a tray. "Here's some dry toast and a cup of tea,"
said the widow severely; "your father says you are not to come to
supper."

"I shouldn't come if he wanted me to," retorted Bella, as Mrs.
Coppersley set down her burden; "and if he thinks to punish me in this
way, he is very much mistaken. Does he think that I am a child, to
submit to his tyranny?"

"He thinks that you are a disobedient daughter," said Mrs. Coppersley,
drily.

"And what do you think, aunt?"

The older woman coughed. She thought that her niece was much too pretty,
and much too independent, but had no ill-feeling toward her, save a
natural petty feminine jealousy. "I don't know what to think," she said,
sitting down to gossip. "Of course, your father is impossible, and
always wants his own way. I don't see why folks should not be allowed to
choose husbands for themselves. Jabez"--this was Huxham's Christian
name--"objects to my marrying Henry, and to your becoming the wife of
this Lister person."

"Don't speak of Cyril in that way," said Bella, with some impatience;
"he is a gentleman, and the man I love. By the way, aunt, you might have
brought up the teapot. I dislike anyone else to pour out my tea."

"Your father poured it out himself while I went to the kitchen for the
toast," snapped Mrs. Coppersley; "he said you were to have only this one
cup."

"What a petty tyrant he is," sighed Bella, pushing the cup away. "Aunt,
what do you think of Cyril?"

"He is very handsome," rejoined Mrs. Coppersley cautiously, "but I don't
know anything about his position or disposition."

"I know he is the dearest fellow in the world, aunt; but, like yourself,
his position is unknown to me."

Mrs. Coppersley rose aghast. "Do you mean to say that you would marry a
man about whom you know nothing?" she demanded.

"I know sufficient to choose him for my husband," retorted Bella,
spiritedly; "and I intend to marry him, in spite of my father's
bullying."

"Then your father will not give you a single penny," cried Mrs.
Coppersley. "I approve of his doing so. You can't marry this man."

"Oh!" said Bella, bitterly. "I thought you agreed that a woman should
choose her own husband."

"A woman like myself, who knows life, Bella--not a chit of a girl like
you."

"I am twenty years of age," flashed out her niece.

"And have the sense of a babe of three," scoffed Mrs. Coppersley, moving
towards the door. "Perhaps a night of loneliness will bring you to your
senses, my dear." She passed through the door and closed it. "I am
locking you in, by your father's wish," said Mrs. Coppersley from the
other side.

Bella, white with rage at this indignity, sprang to wrench open the
door, but almost before she reached it, the key clicked in the lock, and
she knew that she was a prisoner. And the door was so stout and strong
that there was no chance of a frail girl, such as she was, breaking it
down. But Bella was in a royal rage, and it was in her mind to scramble
out of the window and escape.

"But what's the use!" she thought, her eyes filling with impotent tears.
"I have no money, and no friends, and no other home. What a shame it is
for me to be at the mercy of my father in this way! I shall have to
submit to this insult. There is nothing else I can do. But oh, oh!"--she
clenched her hands as she again returned to the window and looked out
into the rapidly darkening night. "I shall insist upon Cyril marrying me
at once. If he loves me he surely will not stand by idly, when I am
treated in this way."

Trying to calm herself, she walked up and down the room. The one slice
of toast and the one cup of tea were on the table, but anger had taken
her appetite. Inexperienced in the troubles of life, she was like a
newly-captured bird dashing itself against the wires of its hateful
cage. To and fro the girl walked, revolving plans of escape from her
father's tyranny, but in every direction the want of money proved an
obstacle impossible to surmount. Nothing remained but for her to wait
patiently until she could see Cyril the next day. Then an exhaustive
talk might lead to the formation of some plan whereby her future could
be arranged for.

Faint and far, she heard the clock in Marshely church-tower strike the
hour of eight, and began to think of retiring to bed. The night was hot,
so she flung up the window, and permitted the fresh air to circulate in
the close room. The atmosphere was luminous with starlight, although
there was no moon visible. A gentle wind bent the rustling stalks of the
vast corn-fields, and their shimmering green was agitated like the waves
of the sea. White mists rose ghost-like on the verge of the farm, and
into them the ocean of grain melted faintly. What with the mists and the
luminous night and the spreading wheat-fields phantom-like in the
obscurity, Bella felt as though she were in a world of vague dreams.

Looking down the narrow path, which showed a mere thread in the
semi-gloom, she beheld a tall, dark figure advancing towards the house.
It was that of a man, and by the way in which he walked, Bella felt sure
that he was her lover. Her heart beat wildly. Perhaps Cyril had come,
or, rather, was coming, to see the captain, and to plead his suit once
more. Greatly agitated by this unforeseen visit, she leaned out of the
window as the man came almost directly under it. He was Cyril, she felt
certain, both from his carriage and from the fact that she vaguely saw
the grey suit he wore. During the afternoon, Lister had been thus
dressed.

"Cyril! Cyril!" she called out cautiously.

The man looked up, and in the faint light she saw that he was indeed
Cyril, for the eyes of love were keen enough to pierce the obscurity,
and also her window was no great height from the ground. But the man
looked up, making no sign of recognition, and stepped into the house
without knocking at the door. Bella started back in surprise. She knew
that the front door was always unlocked until ten, when her father
usually retired to bed. But it seemed strange that Cyril, who had
quarrelled with the captain that very day, should choose to risk his
further wrath by entering the house uninvited. Also, it was stranger
still that Cyril should have looked up without making some sign. He must
have known who she was, for, failing sight, he had his hearing to
recognise her voice. It was all very strange.

Bella twisted up her hair, which she had let down, and walked to the
table to take up the now cold cup of tea. Her throat was parched with
thirst by reason of her nerves, and she wished to refresh herself so
that she might think of what was best to be done. Cyril and her father
had quarrelled, and again she remembered the ominous threats they had
used to one another. It was inconceivable madness for Lister to to beard
the captain in his den, knowing what a vile temper the old man
possessed. It was not at all impossible, or even improbable, but what
the afternoon quarrel might be renewed, and then heaven only knew what
might happen.

Drinking the cup of tea hastily, Bella thought over these things and
resolved, if she could not escape by the door, to scramble out of the
window. Then she could enter the house, and appear in the captain's den,
to be present at what would probably be a stormy interview. Already she
was straining her ears to catch the faintest sound of quarrelling, but
as yet she could hear nothing. Certainly Cyril had closed the front
door, for immediately he had entered she had heard him do so. And again,
the walls of the old mansion were so thick, that it was impossible she
could hear, when shut up in her bedroom, what was taking place below.

Anxiously she tried the door, but in spite of all her efforts, she
failed to open it. Wild with alarm as to what might be happening, she
crossed to her bed, intending to twist the sheets into a rope for
descent from the window. But as she caught at the linen, she felt a
drumming in her ears, and sparks seemed to dance before her eyes.
Apparently the strain on her nerves was making her ill. Also she felt
unaccountably drowsy, and in spite of every effort to keep awake, she
sank beside the bed, with the sheets still grasped in her hands. In two
or three minutes she was fast asleep.

The window was still open, and a bat swept into the room. He flitted
round the motionless figure, uttering a thin cry, and again passed out
into the starry night. The silvery voices of the nightingales in the
copses round Marshely village came faintly across the meadows mingled
with the cry of a mouse-hunting screech-owl. Still Bella slept on.

Hour after hour passed, and the night grew darker. The wind died away,
the corn-fields ceased to rustle, the nightingales to sing. It became
colder, too, as though the breath of winter was freezing the now moist
air. The stars yet glittered faintly, and the high-pitched whistle of a
steamer could be heard from the distant river, but on the whole, the
earth was silent and weirdly gloomy for summer-time. During the small
hours there came an ominous hush of expectant dread, which lasted until
the twittering birds brought in the dawn.

Bella opened her eyes, to find her room radiant with royal red light.
She felt sick and dizzy, for over her stood Mrs. Coppersley, shaking her
vigorously by the shoulder. "Bella, Bella! Your father is dead. Murder,
murder! Oh, come to the study and see the murder!"



CHAPTER V

A MYSTERIOUS CRIME


"Murder!" The ominous word struck at Bella's heart, in spite of the fact
that her dazed brain could scarcely grasp its significance. With
unseeing eyes she stared at her terrified aunt. Mrs. Coppersley, in her
usual morning dress, simply made, for domestic purposes, fell back from
the motionless girl, and gripped the table in the centre of the room.
Her face was white, her figure limp; and almost crazy with alarm, she
looked twice her age. Nor did the sight of her niece's bewildered gaze
reassure her. With a quick indrawn breath of fear, she lurched forward
and again shook the girl.

"Bella! Bella! what's come to you? Don't you hear me? Don't you
understand, Bella? Jabez is dead! your father has been murdered. He's
lying a corpse in his study. And oh--oh--oh!"--Mrs. Coppersley reeled
against the table again, and showed signs of violent hysteria.

This spectacle brought back Bella with a rush to the necessities of the
moment. She sprang to her feet, with every sense alert and ready to be
used. Seizing the ewer from the wash-stand, she dashed the water over
the sobbing, terrified woman, then braced herself to consider the
situation.

Bella's thoughts reverted to the events of the previous night.
She remembered that Cyril had come to the house and, without a
sign of recognition had entered. She had not seen him depart,
because--because--oh, yes, she had fallen unaccountably asleep. Slumber
had overtaken her at the very moment when she was preparing to descend
from the window, in order to--to--to----. Bella uttered a wild cry, and
the ebbing blood left her face pearly white. The interview between her
father and Cyril had taken place; she had not been there, and now--and
now----. "What do you say?" she asked her aunt, in a hard, unemotional
voice.

Mrs. Coppersley, quite unnerved, and drying her scared face with the
towel, gasped and stared. "Didn't you hear? What's come to you, Bella?
Your father has been murdered. I got up this morning as usual, and went
into the study. He's lying there, covered with blood. Oh, who can have
killed him?"

"How should I know?" cried Bella, harshly. "I was locked up in this room
by you, Aunt Rosamund. I fell asleep after--after----" she stopped,
aware that she might say something dangerous.

"After what?" asked Mrs. Coppersley, curiously.

"After you left--after I drank the tea. Oh, how could I fall asleep,
when--when--ah!" Bella made a bound for the table, and took up the empty
cup. Some dregs of tea remained, which she tasted. They had a bitter
flavour, and a thought flashed into her mind. "You drugged this tea!"
she cried.

Mrs. Coppersley flapped her plump hands feebly, and gasped again. Never
a very strong-minded woman, she was now reduced to a markedly idiotic
condition under the strain of the tragic circumstances. "I drug your
tea? Save us, Bella, what do you mean?"

"I drank this tea and fell asleep," said the girl sharply; "although
before drinking it, I did not feel at all sleepy. Now I have a
disagreeable taste in my mouth, and my head aches. There is a queer
flavour about what is left in the cup. I am sure this tea was drugged.
By you?"

"Good Lord!" cried Mrs. Coppersley indignantly. "Why should I drug your
tea, Bella? Your father poured it out himself in the study, when I was
getting you toast in the kitchen. I told you so last night."

"Yes, yes. I remember." Bella passed her hand across her forehead. "My
father evidently drugged the tea to keep me quiet. And so he has met
with his death by violence."

"Bella," Mrs. Coppersley screamed, and made for the door, "what do you
mean?"

Again the girl felt that she was talking too freely. If Cyril was
implicated in the crime reported by Mrs. Coppersley, she must save
Cyril. Or at least, she must hold her peace until she heard from her
lover what had taken place during that fatal interview. It was just
possible that Cyril had slain the captain in self-defence, and knowing
her father's violent character, the girl could scarcely blame the young
man. She expected that this would happen, and so had been anxious to
intervene as a peacemaker. But the drugged tea--she felt certain that it
had been drugged by her father--had prevented her doing what she wished.
Now Huxham was dead, and Lister, whether in self-defence or not, was his
murderer. The thought was agony. Yet in the midst of the terror
engendered by her surmise, Bella found herself blaming her father. If he
had not drugged the tea in order to keep her in her room, this tragedy
would not have happened. Captain Huxham had paved the way to his own
death.

But, after all, there might be extenuating circumstances, and perhaps
Cyril would be able to explain. Meantime she would hold her tongue as to
having seen him enter the house. But if anyone else had seen him? She
turned to Mrs. Coppersley. "Where were you last night?" she demanded,
suspiciously.

"I was with Henry Vand from seven until after ten," said the woman
meekly, and evidently unaware why the leading question had been put. "I
left your father in his study, and when I returned I let myself in by
the back door and went to bed quietly. You know, Jabez always objected
to my seeing Henry, so I wished to avoid trouble. This morning, when I
went into the--ugh! ugh! come and see for yourself!" and Mrs. Coppersley
gripped Bella's wrist to draw her towards the door--"It's murder and
robbery!"

Bella released her wrist with a sudden jerk, but followed the elder
woman down the stairs. "Robbery! What do you mean?"

"Come and see!" said Mrs. Coppersley hysterically. "We must send for the
police, I suppose. Oh, my poor nerves! Never, never shall I get over
this shock, disagreeable as Jabez always was to me. And he wasn't ready
for heaven, either; though perhaps he did send for Mr. Pence to talk
religion to him."

"Did my father send for Mr. Pence?"

"Yes. He asked me to go to the village with a note for Mr. Pence. I
could not find Mr. Pence at home, so left the note for him. Then I met
Henry, and returned, as I told you, after ten o'clock."

"Did Mr. Pence come to see my father?" asked Bella anxiously. She was
wondering if the preacher had by any chance seen Cyril enter the house.

"I don't know--I can't say--oh, dear me, how dreadful it all is!"
maundered Mrs. Coppersley, opening the door of the study. "Just look for
yourself, Bella. Your father lies dead in his blood. Oh, how I hope that
the villain who killed and robbed him will be hanged and drawn and
quartered! That I do, the wretch, the viper, the beast! I must get some
rum. I can't stay in this room without some rum. I shall faint, I know I
shall. What's the time? Seven o'clock. Oh, dear me, so late! I must send
Tunks for the police. He has to be here to see your father, and oh, dear
me, he can't see your father unless he goes to heaven, where I'm sure I
hope Jabez has gone. But one never knows, and he certainly was most
disagreeable to me. Oh, how ill I am! oh, how very, very bad I feel!"
and thus lamenting Mrs. Coppersley drifted out of the room, towards the
back part of the premises, leaving Bella alone with the dead man.

And Captain Huxham was dead, stone dead. His body lay on the floor
between the desk and the chair he had been sitting on. From the position
of the corpse, Bella judged that her father had suddenly risen to meet
the descending weapon, which had pierced his heart. But not being able
to defend himself, he had fallen dead at his murderer's feet. With a
cautious remembrance that she must not remove anything until the police
came, Bella knelt and examined the body carefully, but without laying a
finger on the same. The clothes over the heart had been pierced by some
extremely sharp instrument, which had penetrated even through the thick
pea-jacket worn by the dead man. There was blood on the cloth and on the
floor, and although ignorant of medical knowledge, Bella judged that
death must have been almost instantaneous. Otherwise there would have
been signs of a struggle, as Captain Huxham would not have submitted
tamely to death. But the casement was fast closed, the furniture was
quite orderly. At least, Bella judged so when she first looked round,
for no chairs were upset; but on a second glance she became aware that
the drawers of the desk were open, that the flexible lid of the desk was
up, and that the pigeon-holes had been emptied of their papers.
Also--and it was this which startled her most--the green-painted safe
was unlocked, and through the door, which stood ajar, she could see that
the papers therein were likewise in disorder. In fact, some of them were
lying on the floor.

Strongly agitated, Bella constructed a theory of the murder, and saw, as
in a vision--perhaps wrongfully--what had taken place. The captain had
come to his desk for some purpose, but hearing a noise, or perhaps
suspecting that there was danger, had unexpectedly turned, only to be
stabbed. When he fell dead, the criminal took the keys of the safe from
the dead man's pocket, and committed the robbery. Then he examined the
pigeon-holes of the desk, and afterwards departed--probably by the front
door, since the casement was closed. Robbery, undoubtedly, was the
motive for the commission of the crime.

The girl rose to her feet, drawing a long breath of relief. Cyril
certainly could not have slain her father, since Cyril would not have
robbed. The young man assuredly had come to the house--she could swear
to that herself--and if he had quarrelled with Huxham, he might have
struck him in a moment of anger. But there was no reason to believe that
Cyril would rob the safe. Hence there must be another person, who had
committed both the murder and the robbery. Who was that person?

Mrs. Coppersley had stated plainly that Huxham had sent a message to
Pence, asking him to call. Perhaps he had obeyed the summons, after
Cyril left, and then had murdered the captain. But there was no motive
for so timid and good-living a man as the preacher to slay and rob. So
far as Bella knew, Pence did not want money, and--since he wished to
make her his wife--it was imperative that Huxham should live in order to
forward his aims. And it was at this point that the girl recalled, with
a shudder, the fact that Cyril had confessed his need for one thousand
pounds. Could Lister be the culprit, after all?

"No," cried Bella aloud, and in an agony of shame; "the man I love could
not be guilty of so vile an act." So she tried to comfort herself, but
the fact of Cyril's visit to the house still lingered in her mind.

Shortly Mrs. Coppersley returned with Tunks at her heels. The handy-man
of Bleacres was a medium-sized individual, with a swarthy skin and beady
black eyes peering from under tangled black hair. Lean and lithe, and
quick in his movements, he betrayed his gypsy blood immediately, to the
most unobservant, for there was something Oriental in his appearance.
Just now he looked considerably scared, and came no further than the
door of the room.

"There's your master," said Mrs. Coppersley, pointing to the dead, "so
just you go to the village and tell the policeman to come here. Bella,
you have not touched anything, have you?"

Bella shook her head. "I have not even touched the body," she confessed
with a shudder. "Tunks, were you about the house last night?"

"No, miss," said the man, looking more scared than ever. "I went home
nigh on seven o'clock, and was with my granny all the evening. I know
nothing about this, miss."

"I don't suppose you do," rejoined the girl tartly, "but I thought you
might have seen my father later than Mrs. Coppersley here."

"I left the house last night at the same time as you, ma'am," said
Tunks, addressing himself to the housekeeper. "You locked the back door
after me."

"Yes," acknowledged Mrs. Coppersley promptly, "so you did. That would be
at seven, as I came up and saw you, Bella, a few minutes before, with
the tea and toast. You didn't come back, Tunks?"

"No, I didn't," retorted the gypsy sullenly. "You went on to Marshely,
and I got back home. I never came near this house again until this
morning. You can ask my granny if I wasn't in bed early last night."

"When did you see your master last?" questioned Bella.

Tunks removed his dingy cap to scratch his untidy locks. "It would be
about six, just before I had my tea. He wanted to reduce my wages, too,
and I said I'd give him notice if he did. But I suppose," growled Tunks,
with his eyes on the remains, "it's notice in any case now."

"Never you mind bothering about yourself," cried Mrs. Coppersley
sharply. "Go to Marshely, and tell the policeman to come here. Bella,"
she moved to the door, "let us leave the room and lock the door. Nothing
must be touched until the truth is known."

"Will the truth ever be known?" asked the girl drearily, as she went
into the hall, and watched her aunt lock the door of the death-room.

"Of course," retorted the elder woman, "one person cannot murder another
person without being seen."

"I don't know so much about that, Aunt Rosamund. You and Tunks were
away, and I was locked in my room, so anyone could enter, and----" she
glanced towards the study door and shuddered.

"Did _you_ see anyone?" asked Mrs. Coppersley quickly.

Bella started. "No," she replied, with unnecessary loudness; "how could
I see anyone when I was drugged?"

"Drugged, miss?" cried Tunks, pricking up his ears.

Mrs. Coppersley turned on the handy-man, and stamped. "How dare you
linger here?" she cried. "You should be half way to the village by this
time. Miss Bella was having wakeful nights, and her father gave her a
sleeping draught. Off with you," and she drove Tunks out of the front
door.

"Why did you tell such a lie?" asked Bella when the man was hurrying
down the path, eager, like all his tribe, to carry bad news.

"A lie! a lie!" Mrs. Coppersley placed her arms akimbo and looked
defiant. "Why do you call it a lie? You _did_ complain of sleepless
nights, and you did say that the tea, poured out by Jabez, was drugged."

"That is true enough," admitted the girl quietly, "but I merely slept
badly because of the hot weather, and never asked my father for a
sleeping----"

"Oh!" interrupted Mrs. Coppersley, tossing her head. "What does it
matter. I can't even say if the tea was drugged."

"I'll learn that soon," replied Bella drily, "for I have locked up the
cup containing the dregs of tea. My father no doubt feared lest I should
run away with Cyril, and so drugged it."

"The least said the soonest mended, Bella. Say nothing of the drugging
at the inquest, as there is no need to blacken your father's character."

"I don't see that anything I could say would blacken my father's
character, Aunt Rosamund. Of course, he had no business to drug me, but
if I am asked at the inquest I shall tell the truth."

"And so your connection with that Lister person will come out."

Bella turned on her aunt in a fury. "What do I care?" she cried,
stamping. "I have a right to marry him if I choose, and I don't care if
all the world knows how I love him. In fact, the whole world soon will
know."

"Well," said Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of washing her hands of the
entire affair, "say what you like; but don't blame me if you find
yourself in an unpleasant position."

Bella, who was ascending the stairs, turned to answer this last remark
promptly. "Why should I find myself in an unpleasant position?" she
demanded. "Do you accuse me of murdering father?"

"God forbid! God forbid!" cried Mrs. Coppersley piously and with a
shudder, "but you cannot deny that you were alone in the house."

"And locked in my bedroom, as you can testify."

"Oh, I'll say that willingly. But you'd better wash out that cup of
dregs, and say nothing more."

"I have already mentioned the matter in Tunks' hearing, so I must
explain further if necessary. But I'll say why I believe my father acted
so. Your story of sleepless nights will not do for me."

"You'll blacken the memory of the dead," groaned Mrs. Coppersley
dismally. "Ah, you never loved your poor father."

"Did you?" asked Bella suddenly.

"In a way I did, and in a way I didn't," said her aunt evasively. "Jabez
never was the brother he should have been to me. But a daughter's nearer
than a sister, and you should have loved him to distraction."

"In spite of the way he behaved to me."

"He had to keep a firm hand over your high spirit."

"Aunt Rosamund," burst out Bella at white heat. "Why do you talk in this
silly way? You know that both to you and to me my father acted like a
cruel tyrant, and that while he was alive we could do nothing to please
him. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but you know what I say is
true."

"We are none of us perfect," snuffled Mrs. Coppersley, wiping her eyes,
"and I daresay Jabez was worse than many others. But I was a good sister
to him, in spite of his horrid ways. I'm sure my life's been spent in
looking after other people: first my mother, then my husband, and
afterwards Jabez. Now I'll marry Henry Vand, and be happy."

"Don't talk of happiness with that"--Bella pointed downward to the
study--"in the house. Go and make yourself tidy, aunt, and I'll do the
same. We have a very trying day before us."

"So like Jabez, so very like Jabez," wailed Mrs. Coppersley, while Bella
fled up the stairs. "He always brought trouble on everyone. Even as a
little boy, he behaved like the pirate he was. Oh, dear me, how ill I
feel. Bella! Bella! come down and see me faint. Bella! Bella!"

But the girl did not answer, as she knew that Mrs. Coppersley only
wished to gossip. Going to her own room, she again examined the cup with
the dregs, which she had not locked up, in spite of her saying so to
Mrs. Coppersley. Undoubtedly, the tea tasted bitter, and she resolved to
have it analysed so as to prove to herself the fact of the drugging. She
knew perfectly well that her father had attended to the tea himself,
evidently to render her helpless in case she meditated flight with
Cyril. And in dong so, he had indirectly brought about his own death,
for had she been awake she could have descended from the window to be
present at the interview which had ended so fatally. And at this
point--while she was locking up the cup in a convenient cupboard--Bella
became aware that she was thinking as though her lover were actually
guilty of the deed.

Of course he could not be, she decided desperately, even though things
looked black against him. Lister, honest and frank, would not murder an
old man in so treacherous a manner, however he might be goaded into
doing so. And yet she had assuredly seen him enter the house. If she
could only have seen him depart; but the drug had prevented that welcome
sight. Pence might have struck the blow, but Pence had no reason to do
so, and in fact had every inducement to keep Huxham alive. Bella could
not read the riddle of the murder. All she knew was that it would be
necessary for her to hold her tongue about Lister's unexpected visit to
the Solitary Farm.

"But I shall never be able to marry him after this," she wailed.



CHAPTER VI

THE INQUEST


Tunks lost no time in delivering his gruesome message and in spreading
the news of the death. While the village policeman telegraphed to his
superior officer at Pierside, the handy-man of the late Captain Huxham
adopted the public-house as a kind of St. Paul's Cross, whence to
promulgate the grim intelligence. Here he passed a happy and exciting
hour detailing all that had happened, to an awe-stricken crowd, members
of which supplied him with free drinks. The marsh-folk were a dull,
peaceful, law-abiding people, and it was rarely that crimes were
committed in the district. Hence the news of the murder caused a
tremendous sensation.

Captain Jabez Huxham was well known, and his eccentricity in the matter
of planting Bleacres with yearly corn had been much commented upon. In
Napoleonic times the fertile marsh farms had been golden with grain, but
of late years, owing to Russian and American competition, little had
been sown. Huxham, as the rustics argued, could not have got even
moderate prices for its crops, so it puzzled one and all why he
persisted in his unprofitable venture. But there would be no more sowing
at Bleacres now, for the captain himself was about to be put under the
earth. "And a grand funeral he'll have," said the rustics, morbidly
alive to the importance of the grim event. For thirty years no crime of
this magnitude had been committed in the neighbourhood, and the violent
death of Huxham provided these bovine creatures with a new thrill.

Meanwhile the policeman, Dutton by name, had proceeded to Bleacres,
followed--when the news became more widely known--by a large and curious
throng. For that day and for the following days, until Huxham's body was
buried, Bleacres could no longer be called the solitary farm, in one
sense of the word. But the inherent respect of the agriculturist for
growing crops kept the individual members of the crowd, male and female,
to the narrow path which led from the boundary channel to the front door
of the Manor-house. When Inspector Inglis arrived with three or four
policemen from Pierside, he excluded the public from the grounds, but
the curious still hovered in the distance--beyond Jordan as it
were--with inquisitive eyes fastened on the quaint old mansion. To them,
one and all, it now assumed portentous proportions as the abode of
terror.

Inspector Inglis was a very quiet man, who said little, but who kept his
eyes on the alert. He inspected the body of the dead man, and then sent
for a doctor, who delivered his report in due course. The study was
examined thoroughly, and the entire house was searched from cellar to
garret. Then Bella and her aunt were questioned, and Tunks was also put
in the witness box. But in spite of all official curiosity, backed by
official power on the part of Inglis, he convened the jury of the
inquest, as ignorant of the truth as when he had begun his search. He
certainly found a blood-stained dagger behind the massive mahogany desk,
with which undoubtedly the crime had been committed; but he could
discover no trace of the assassin, and three or four days later, when
the inquest took place in the Manor-house, the mystery of the murder was
still unsolved. Nor, on the evidence procurable, did there seem to be
any chance of solution.

During the early part of the inquiry, Mrs. Coppersley had told Inglis
how her late brother had sent her with a note to Marshely asking Silas
Pence to call. When questioned, the preacher, not without agitation and
dismay, stated that he had been absent from his lodgings until eleven
o'clock on the fatal evening, and had not obeyed the summons of the
deceased. Certainly on his return he had found and read the note asking
him to call, but as the hour was late, he had deferred the visit until
the next morning. Then, of course, the news of the murder had been made
public, and Pence had said nothing until questioned by the Inspector.
But he was quite frank and open in his replies, and Inglis was satisfied
that the young preacher knew nothing about the matter.

From the moment when informed by Mrs. Coppersley of the crime until the
inquest, Bella suffered greatly. At her request, Dr. Ward--the medical
man who had reported on the time and manner of Huxham's death--had
examined the dregs of the tea-cup. Beyond doubt, as he discovered,
laudanum had been poured into the tea, and so largely, that it was
little wonder she had slept so soundly. Even had there been a struggle,
as Ward assured her, she would not have heard the commotion. And, as the
state of the study showed that the murderer had taken his victim
unawares, it was little to be wondered at that Bella woke in ignorance
of what had taken place during the night. She was thankful to have the
testimony of the young physician as to the drugging, since thereby she
was entirely exonerated from complicity in the crime. For, dreadful as
it may seem, there were those evil-seekers who hinted that Huxham's
daughter, having been alone in the house, must be aware of the truth, if
not actually guilty herself. But Bella knew that the evidence of Dr.
Ward and Mrs. Coppersley as to the drugging and the locking of the
bedroom door would clear her character.

It was therefore not on this account that she suffered, but because of
the inexplicable absence of Cyril Lister. Since she had seen him enter
the house shortly after eight o'clock on the fatal night she had not set
eyes on him, nor had she received any communication. At a time when she
needed him so greatly, it seemed strange that her lover should be
absent, since the fact of the murder, now being known all over England,
it appeared incredible that he alone should be ignorant. In spite of her
desire to believe him guiltless, this conduct looked decidedly
suspicious. If nothing serious had taken place between Cyril and her
father on the night in question, why had Lister gone away? At least she
surmised that he had gone away, as he did not appear to be in the
village, and she heard no mention of his name from the many people who
haunted the house. Try as she might, Bella, dearly as she loved the
young man, could not rid herself of the frightful belief that he had
struck the blow. Considering the circumstances, which she alone knew
fully, he had every reason to commit the crime. Yet in the face of the
strongest circumstantial evidence, Bella could not bring herself to
credit Cyril's guilt. Day after day, like sister Anne, she climbed to
the quarter-deck to see if he was coming. But the day of the inquest
came in due course, and even then he had not put in an appearance.

The Coroner was a grim, snappy old doctor, who set forth the object of
the inquest gruffly and tersely. The jury under his direction inspected
the body and then gathered in the large and stately dining-room of the
Manor-house to consider the evidence. Inspector Inglis confessed that he
had few witnesses, and that there was nothing in the evidence likely to
lead to the arrest of the murderer. Robbery, said the officer, was
undoubtedly the cause of the crime, since the desk had been rifled, and
the safe had been forced open. Mrs. Coppersley, the sister of the
deceased, he went on to say, could state that she knew her brother kept
at least one hundred pounds in gold in the safe. This was missing, so
probably----

"We'll take things in order, if you please," snapped the gruff Coroner
at this point of the Inspector's speech. "Call your witnesses."

Inglis was only too willing, and Dr. Ward gave his evidence, which
proved that in his opinion, after an examination of the body, the
deceased had been stabbed to the heart between the hours of eight and
eleven on the night in question. Witness could not be more precise, he
said, a confession which brought a grunt from the Coroner. The old
doctor lifted his eye-brows to intimate that the young doctor did not
know his business over well, else he would have been more explicit. But
Dr. Ward avoided an argument by hurriedly stating that, according to his
opinion--another grunt from the snappy Coroner--the wound had been
inflicted with the dagger found behind the mahogany desk.

This remark led to the production of the dagger, a foot-long steel,
broad towards the hilt and tapering to a sharp point. This was set in a
handle of jet-black wood, carved into the semblance of an ugly negro.
And the odd part about the blade was that the middle portion of the
steel was perforated with queer letters of the cuneiform type, and
filled in with copper. The Coroner frowned when he examined this strange
weapon, and he looked inquiringly at Mrs. Coppersley.

"Does this belong to your late brother?" he asked jerkily.

Mrs. Coppersley looked at the knife. "Jabez, being a sailor, had all
manner of queer things," she said hesitatingly, "but I never set my eyes
on that. He wasn't one to show what he had, sir."

"Was your brother ever in Africa on the West Coast?"

"He was all over the world, but I can't rightly say where, sir. Why?"

"This," the gruff Coroner shook the weapon, "is an African sacrificial
knife in use on the West Coast. From the way in which the copper is
welded into the steel, I fancy some Nigerian tribe possessed it. The
members of tribes thereabouts are clever metal-workers. The handle and
the lettering also remind me of something," mused the doctor, "for I was
a long time out in Senegal and Sierra Leone and saw--and saw--but that's
no matter. How comes an African sacrificial knife here?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said Mrs. Coppersley promptly. "Jabez, as
I say, had all manner of queer things which he didn't show me."

"You can't say if this knife belonged to him?"

"No, sir, I can't. The murderer may have brought it."

"You are not here to give opinions," growled the doctor, throwing the
ugly-looking weapon on the table. "Are you sure," he added to Ward,
"that the wound was made with this knife?"

"Yes, I'm sure," replied the young practitioner, tartly, for the
Coroner's attitude annoyed him. "The weapon is sharp pointed and fits
the wound. Also the deceased wore a thick pea-jacket and only such a
knife could have penetrated the cloth."

"If the blow were struck with sufficient force," snapped the Coroner.

"It was," rejoined the witness. "Have you any more questions to ask me?"

The Coroner nodded, and Ward gave surgical details to prove that death
must have taken place almost instantaneously, since Huxham had been
stabbed to the heart. "Apparently deceased heard a noise, and rose
suddenly from his chair at the desk to face round in self-defence. But
the assassin was too quick for him, and struck the knife to deceased's
heart with great force as is apparent from----"

"That's all supposition," contradicted the Coroner rudely. "Stick to
facts."

Boiling with rage, the young doctor confined himself forthwith to a bald
statement of what he had discovered and then was curtly dismissed to
give place to Mrs. Coppersley.

That lady was voluble and sharp-tongued, so that the Coroner quite met
with his match, much to the delight of Dr. Ward, smarting under much
discourtesy. Mrs. Coppersley deposed that she had left the house at
seven o'clock, by the back door, with a note for Mr. Silas Pence from
her brother, asking him to call at the Manor-house. She left the note at
Mr. Pence's lodgings and then went on to the grocery shop to make some
purchases and to see Mrs. Vand and her son Henry. There she remained
until a quarter to ten o'clock and afterwards returned to the
Manor-house. Mr. Vand saw her as far as the boundary channel and then
went home.

"What time was that?" asked the Coroner, making notes.

"Just at ten," replied witness, flushing at the smile on the faces of
those who knew of the love romance. "The clock struck ten while I was
speaking to Henry--I mean to Mr. Vand--and not knowing that it was so
late I feared lest my brother should be angry. Jabez was always very
particular as to the house being locked up, so I thought he might shut
me out. I went in by the back door, having the key, and retired at once
to bed."

"Did you not see your brother?" asked the Coroner.

"No, sir. Knowing Jabez's violent temper I had no wish to see him, lest
there should be trouble. I went on tip-toe to bed, after locking the
back door."

"Did you hear Mr. Huxham moving about," questioned a juryman, timidly.

"No, Mr. Tatters, I didn't. Everything was quiet as I passed the door of
the study, and it was closed."

"Did you see a light in the window of the study when at the boundary
channel with Mr. Vand?" asked the Coroner.

"No; I looked too," said the witness, "for if Jabez had been up, there
would have been trouble owing to my being late. But there was no light
in the window, so I fancied Jabez might have gone to bed and have locked
me out. But he hadn't guessed I was absent, and so----"

"Did you see a light under the study door when passing through the
hall?"

"No, and that made me believe that Jabez had gone to bed. But I didn't
think of looking into the study; if I had," witness shuddered, "oh dear
me, how very dreadful it all is. Well, then I went to bed, and next
morning came down early to clean the study. When I entered I saw my
brother dead in his gore, whereupon I ran up stairs and got Bella to
come down. Then we sent for the police, and that's all I know."

The Coroner looked towards Ward. "This evidence takes an hour off your
time of death, doctor," he said sourly. "You say that the man was
murdered after eight and before eleven. Well then, as this witness
reached the house just after ten and saw no light in the study the
deceased must have been dead when she passed through the hall on her way
to bed."

"Oh," groaned Mrs. Coppersley, with her handkerchief to her lips. "How
dreadful if I'd looked in to see Jabez weltering in his gore."

"It's a pity you didn't," rejoined the Coroner sharply, "for then you
could have given the alarm and the assassin might have been arrested."

"Yes," cried Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and the assassin might have
been in the house at the moment, with only two women, mind, and one of
them drugged. I should have been killed myself had I given the alarm, so
I'm glad I didn't."

"Drugged! Drugged! What do you mean by drugged?"

"Ask Bella," retorted Mrs. Coppersley. "I've told all I'm going to
tell."

"Not all," said the Coroner, "was the front door locked?"

"I didn't notice at the time, being anxious to escape Jabez and get to
bed."

"Did you notice if it was locked in the morning?"

"Yes, when I opened it for Tunks to go for the police."

"It _was_ locked," said Bella, rising at this juncture, "but Tunks
opened it while I was talking with my aunt in the hall."

"You can give your evidence when I ask you," snapped the Coroner rudely.
"Humph! So the front door was locked and the back door also. How did the
assassin escape? He couldn't have gone by the front door after
committing the crime, since the key was in the inside, and you locked
the back door coming and going, Mrs. Coppersley."

"The murdering beast," said the witness melodramatically, "might have
got out of the study window."

"Then he must be a very small man," retorted the Coroner, "for only a
small man could scramble through the window. I examined it an hour ago."

"Please yourself," said Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of indifference,
"all I know is, that I'm glad I didn't discover Jabez in his gore on
that night and at that hour. If I had, you'd be holding an inquest on
me."

"Possibly. If the assassin was in the study when you passed through the
hall, Mrs. Coppersley."

"Ugh," shivered the witness, "and that's just where he was, depend upon
it, sir, getting through the window, when he'd dropped the knife behind
the desk. Oh, what an escape I've had," wept Mrs. Coppersley.

"There, there, don't bellow," said the Coroner, testily, "get down and
let the witness, Luke Tunks, be called."

The Bleacres handy-man had very little to say, but gave his evidence in
a straightforward manner. He had left the house with Mrs. Coppersley at
seven and had gone straight home to bed, as he was tired. His
grandmother could depose to the fact that he was in bed until the
morning. Then he came as usual to the Manor-house, and found that his
master was dead. He admitted that he had quarrelled with his master over
a possible curtailment of wages, and they had not parted in a very
friendly spirit. "But you can't say as I did for him," ended the witness
defiantly.

"No one suggests such a thing," snapped the Coroner. "Had you any reason
to believe that deceased expected to be murdered?"

Tunks scratched his head, "I have and I haven't," he said at length;
"master did seem afraid of someone, as he was always looking over his
shoulder. He said that he planted the corn so that there should be only
one path up to the house. Then he rigged up that out-look round the
chimney there," witness jerked his head towards the ceiling, "and he's
got a search-light there also, which he turned on at times."

The Coroner nodded. The late Captain's search-light was well-known, but
it was only put down as another freak on the part of a freakish man. But
the remark of the witness about the corn was new. "Do you mean to say
that the deceased planted the corn as a protection against some one
coming on him unawares?"

"Yes, I do," said Tunks, sturdily, "corn don't pay, and there was always
only one pathway left. Now my idea is----"

"We don't want to hear your ideas," said the Coroner; "get down. Silas
Pence."

The young preacher's examination occupied only a few minutes. He said
that he was absent from his lodgings until eleven, and then returned to
find the note. As it was late he did not call, and went to bed, as his
landlady could prove. He had no reason to believe that Captain Huxham
expected to be murdered, and considered that the old sailor was more
than capable of looking after himself. Witness was very friendly with
the Captain and wished to marry Miss Huxham, an arrangement to which the
Captain was quite agreeable. Witness presumed that Huxham wished to see
him about the projected marriage when he wrote the note asking witness
to call. Next morning when about to pay the visit, witness heard of the
murder.

Bella was the final witness, and stepped before the Coroner and the
inquisitive jurymen, looking pale, but composed. She gave her evidence
carefully, as she made up her mind to say nothing about Cyril's visit on
the fatal night. Also she was grateful that in his statement Pence had
said nothing of Lister's rivalry. She noted also that Pence had kept
quiet about the offer of her hand as a reward for the death of Cyril
made by her father to the preacher. More than ever she believed this
wild declaration to be due to imagination on the young man's part.

"What have you to say about this matter, Miss Huxham?" asked the coroner
in his usual gruff way.

"Nothing at all," she replied.

"Nothing at all," he echoed, and the jurymen looked at one another.

"No. I had quarrelled with my father on the afternoon of the night when
he met with his terrible death. He refused to let me come to supper, so
I retired to my room. Mrs. Coppersley brought me up tea and toast and
then locked me in my room."

"By her father's orders," cried Mrs. Coppersley, rising.

"Silence," said the Coroner scowling; "but surely, Miss Huxham, you
could have heard if----"

"I heard nothing," interrupted Bella, straightening her slim figure,
"for I was drugged."

"H'm!" The Coroner looked at her shrewdly. "Mrs. Coppersley said
something of that. Why were you drugged? Who drugged you?"

"My father drugged the cup of tea, brought by my aunt, with laudanum,"
said Bella bravely, determined to speak out, yet conscious of the
curious faces.

"Yes, he did," cried Mrs. Coppersley. "I brought the tea to the study
and then went to get the toast. Jabez had poured out the tea when I came
back, and giving me a cup told me to take it to Bella. I never knew
myself that it was drugged."

"But I can state that it was," said Dr. Ward, rising. "Miss Huxham gave
me the dregs to examine. I can prove----"

The Coroner intervened testily. "All this is very much out of order," he
said. "Let us proceed with caution. Miss Huxham, tell your story, and
then we can hear Dr. Ward and Mrs. Coppersley."

"I have scarcely any story to tell," said Bella, still apprehensive, yet
still brave and discreet. "I am engaged to be married, but my father did
not approve of my choice. He interrupted my meeting with my future
husband----"

"Who is he, if I may ask?"

"Mr. Lister. He is a gentleman who has been stopping here----"

"Yes, yes, I know;" and the Coroner did know, for his wife was a great
gossip and collected all the scandal for miles around. In fact he had
heard something of the philandering of Lister after Miss Huxham. "Go
on."

Bella proceeded. "My father would not allow me to come to supper, and
sent up my aunt with tea and toast to lock me in my room. She did so. I
did not eat the toast, but I drank the tea, and then fell asleep half on
the floor and half on my bed. My aunt awoke me in the morning with the
news of what had happened."

"And you heard nothing?"

"How could she," growled Ward, "when she was drugged."

"Silence there," said the Coroner sharply. "What time did you fall under
the influence of the opiate, Miss Huxham?"

"Shortly after eight, so far as I can recollect."

"Did you know that the tea was drugged?"

"If I had I should not have drunk it," retorted the witness. "It was
only next morning that I guessed the truth, and then I kept the dregs
for Dr. Ward to examine. He says----"

"He can give his evidence himself," interrupted the Coroner. "Why did
your father drug you?"

"I can't say, sir, unless he feared lest I should elope with Mr.
Lister."

"Had you any such intention?"

"No, I had not."

The Coroner looked at her earnestly and pinched his lip, apparently
nonplussed. The whole affair struck him as strange, and he
cross-examined the girl carefully. When he examined Mrs. Coppersley and
Ward, both of them bore out the improbable story--in the Coroner's
opinion--told by the girl. Finally the old doctor accepted the testimony
and dismissed the witnesses.

"I can't compliment you on the conduct of this case, Inspector Inglis,"
he said, when informed that no more witnesses were forthcoming. "You
have collected nothing likely to solve the mystery."

"I cannot manufacture evidence, sir," said Inglis stiffly.

The Coroner grunted and made an acid speech in which he pointed out that
the evidence laid before him and the jury amounted to absolutely
nothing. Only one verdict could be brought in--"Wilful murder against
some person or persons unknown." This was accordingly done, and the
assembly dispersed. Only the Coroner remained to state sourly to Inglis
that he considered the police in general to be fools, and the Pierside
inspector to be the king of them.



CHAPTER VII

CYRIL AND BELLA


Captain Huxham's death having been legally relegated to the list of
undiscovered crimes, his gnarled old body was committed to a damp grave
in Marshely cemetery. There was a vast concourse of people from far and
near to assist at the funeral of one who had been so mysteriously
murdered. So greatly had the strangeness of the deed appealed to the
imagination of metropolitan readers, that many London reporters came
down to see the last of the case, and if possible to begin it again by
making enquiries. But ask as they might, they could learn nothing. They
were therefore compelled to content themselves with picturesque
descriptions of the ancient Manor-house amidst its corn-fields, and with
inaccurately lurid accounts of the late owner's career as a sailor.

Mrs. Coppersley went to the funeral as chief mourner, as Bella
resolutely declined to do so. She was sorry for her tyrannical father's
violent death, but being very human, found it difficult to forgive him
for the way in which he had behaved. He had bullied her and shut her in
her room, and finally had drugged her by stealth. But as it turned out
it was just as well that he had done so, as thereby she was able to
prove that she knew nothing of the crime, even though she was alone in
the house. Then again, there was the other side of the question to
take--that if Huxham had not administered the laudanum he might have
been alive and well at the moment. It seemed to Bella, overstrung with
nerves, that some higher powers had dealt out a punishment to the
Captain for crimes committed but undiscovered. Certainly she agreed with
Tunks that her father had some dark secret in his mind, which led him to
isolate himself in the midst of the corn.

However, he was dead and buried, so all debts were paid, and Bella
sitting in the vast drawing-room of the Manor-house with a
church-service open on her lap, tried hard to forget Huxham's bad traits
of character, and to remember his good ones. This was somewhat
difficult, as the captain had few engaging qualities. But Bella recalled
that he had been kind in a gruff sort of way and had never grudged her
the best of food and the gaudiest of frocks. Huxham had been one of
those so-called good people, who are amiable so long as everything is
done according to their liking; but who display the tyrant when crossed.
But on the whole he might have been worse, and after all, as she
anxiously kept in mind, he was her father.

The room wherein she sat, with the blinds down, was opposite the study
and was a large apartment sparsely furnished. Huxham did not care for a
drawing-room, as he preferred his den, but Mrs. Coppersley had bothered
him incessantly until he provided her with furniture for the place. She
selected the furniture herself, and what with her brother's stinginess
and her own bad taste, the result was woefully bad. The room, spacious,
lofty and stately, was decorated as beautifully as was the study, and
required the most exquisite furniture to enhance its faded splendours.
But Mrs. Coppersley had bought a magenta-hued sofa and many
magenta-covered chairs, together with a cheap sideboard, so sticky as to
look like a fly catcher, and two arm chairs of emerald green. The inlaid
floor she had covered with lineoleum, diapered white and black, and her
artistic taste had led her to paint the mellow oak panelling with pink
Aspinall's enamel. As the curtains of the many windows were yellow, and
the blinds blue, the effect was disastrous, and suggestive of a
paint-box. An artist would have died of the confusion of tints, and the
barbarism of destroying the oak panels, but Mrs. Coppersley was more
than satisfied with the result, and when seated in the drawing-room on
Sunday felt herself to be quite the lady.

At the present moment Bella's nerves were less troubled than usual; the
blinds were down in sympathy with the funeral, and a dim twilight
pervaded the room, hiding more or less the atrocious grandeur. She sat
in one of the green arm-chairs near the fire-place, reading the burial
service and listening to the solemn tolling of the bell. But after a
time she dropped the book on her lap and leaned back to close her eyes
and reflect on her grave position. If only she had not seen Cyril on
that night she could have married in ignorance that he had anything to
do with the death of her father; but, enlightened as she was, it
appeared impossible that she should become his wife. She had said
nothing of his visit at the inquest, but the hideous doubt remained in
her mind, although she strove to banish it by assuring herself over and
over again that Lister could have had no hand in the matter. But how
could she prove his innocence?

She was alone in that sinister house, and although it was bright
sunshine out of doors she felt scared. The cool dim room, the dreary
booming of the distant bell, the impressive words of the burial service
which she had just been reading--all these things united in a weird
appeal to her psychic instincts, to those mysterious senses which deal
with the unseen. In the arm-chair she sat with closed eyes strung up to
breaking-point, and felt that if the psychic influence which seemed to
control her became more insistent, she would scream. A thought flashed
across her mind that her father was walking that dim, chill apartment,
trying to communicate the truth; and in her nervous excitement she could
almost have sworn that she heard the heavy tread of his feet.

Thus, when she really did hear a light footstep in the entrance hall
without, she uttered a piercing scream, and staggered to her feet. The
hall door, she knew, had been left open since the coffin had been
carried down the path between the standing corn, so that anyone could
enter. Perhaps the assassin had come back to review the scene of his
crime, or to commit another.

White-faced and panic-stricken by the power of her own emotions
engendered by the circumstances, she clung to the back of the arm-chair,
straining her eyes towards the door. At the sound of her thin
high-pitched scream the footsteps had ceased for a moment, as though the
intruder was listening. Now they recommenced and drew near the outside
of the door. Unable to utter a sound Bella stared through the dim lights
and saw the door open cautiously. A face looked in and the eyes set in
the face blinked in the semi-gloom. Then the door opened widely and
Cyril Lister stepped in.

"Oh, my darling!" With a sudden rush of relief Bella ran rapidly towards
the door to throw herself into her lover's arms. Then a gruesome memory
of that sinister visit made her falter and pause half way. Cyril closed
the door and stood where he was, holding out his hungry arms.

"Dearest," he said softly. "Oh, my poor girl."

But Bella did not move; she stood looking at him as though fascinated.
He wore a white drill suit made, tropic-fashion, high at the neck, with
white shoes, and a panama hat. His white-clothed figure accentuated the
twilight of the room, which now looked brown and grim. Considering that
her father was dead and even now was being laid in an untimely grave,
Cyril might have come to her dressed in mourning, unless--ah, unless.
"Oh!"--she stretched out an arm as he advanced slowly--"don't come near
me--don't come near me."

"Bella!" He stopped in sheer surprise. "Bella, darling, don't you know
me?"

"Ah, yes, I know you," she gasped, retreating towards the chair.
"Perhaps I know you too well."

"Because I have not been to see you before?" he asked, surprised.
"Bella, dearest, I would have come but that I have been abroad during
the week. I had to go to Paris to see a--a friend of mine."

She noted the hesitation and shivered. "When did you go?"

Cyril came near, and again she shrank away. "On the afternoon when your
father found us in the corn-field."

"It's not true; it's not true. How can you lie to me?"

"Bella!" Cyril stopped short again, and in the faint light she could see
that he looked thoroughly puzzled and amazed. "What do you mean?"

The girl's legs refused to support her any longer, and she sank into the
chair. "My father is being buried," she gasped.

"I know, I know," he replied sympathetically. "I went to the funeral,
but finding you were not present, I came here to comfort you."

"You--you--you went to the funeral?" her eyes dilated.

"Why should I not go. After all, even though we quarrelled, he was your
father, and a last tribute of respect----"

"Oh, stop, stop. You can say this to me--to me, of all people?"

Lister frowned and pinched his lip. "This lonely house and this cold,
dull room have unnerved you," he said after a pause. "I make every
allowance for what you have gone through, but----"

"But you know, you understand."

"Know what? understand what?" he inquired sharply.

"I said nothing at the inquest. I held my tongue. I never----"

"Bella!" Cyril, now thoroughly roused, advanced and seized her wrists in
no gentle grasp, "are you crazy, talking in this way?"

"I have had enough to make me crazy," she said bitterly, "let me go."

"Not till you explain your mysterious behaviour. No"--he grasped her
wrists tighter as she strove to release herself--"not till you explain."

"Ah!" she cried out shrilly, "will you murder me also?"

Lister suddenly released her wrists and fell back a pace. "Murder you
also?" he repeated. "Am I then in the habit of murdering people?"

"My father. You--you----"

"Well, go on," said he, as the word stuck in her throat.

"Oh"--she wrung her hands helplessly--"I saw you; I saw you."

"Saw me what?" His voice became impatient and almost fierce.

"I saw you enter the house--this house."

"Saw me--enter this house? When?"

"On the night my father was murdered--at eight o'clock."

"What the devil are you talking about?" cried Cyril roughly. "I was in
London at eight o'clock on that night, and went to Paris the next
morning. I never heard of the murder, as I saw no newspapers. When I
returned last night I read the account of the inquest in the evening
papers, and I came down this morning to comfort you. I really think
trouble has turned your head, Bella."

The girl stared at him in astonishment. Even though she had spoken so
very plainly, Cyril did not seem to comprehend that she was accusing him
of having committed a dastardly crime. Her heart suddenly grew light.
Perhaps, after all, she was mistaken, and--and--"You can prove your
innocence?"

"My innocence of what, in heaven's name?" he cried angrily.

"Of--of--the--the--murder," she faltered.

Lister stared, and scarcely could believe his ears. "You are not
serious?"

"Oh, my dear:" she sobbed, "I wish I were not."

"And you accuse me of murdering your father?"

"No, no! Really, I don't accuse you of actually--that is, of really--but
I saw you enter this house at eight o'clock, or a little after, on that
night. I intended to come down, thinking you and my father might
quarrel, but I drank the tea--you must have seen about the tea at the
inquest--that is, in the report given in the papers. Then I fell asleep,
and woke to hear that my father was dead. But I never betrayed you,
Cyril. God is my witness that I have held my tongue."

Lister passed his hand across his forehead, and fell helplessly into a
near chair. "You accuse me of murdering your father?" he said again.

"No, no;" she repeated feverishly, "but I saw you--you looked up--you
wore the grey clothes, as you had done in the afternoon when father
interrupted us."

"Bella! Bella! You must have been dreaming, or the drug----"

"I was not dreaming," she interrupted vehemently, "and I saw you before
I drank the drugged tea. I called to you, and you looked up; but you
entered the house without making any sign of recognition. Then I fell
asleep, and--and--oh,--my dear"--she flung herself down at his feet and
seized his hand. "What took place between my father and you? I'm sure
you did not kill him. I am quite sure of that, and, remember, I held my
tongue. Yes, I held----"

"Oh," groaned the young man, looking down into her agitated face. "I am
losing my reason. You will shortly persuade me that I killed----"

"But you did not--you did not. Ah, never say that you did."

"No," said Lister shortly, and rose so suddenly as to let her fall, "and
if you believe me to be a murderer, we had better part."

"I don't! I don't!" she wailed, stretching out her hands, as he strode
towards the door. "Oh, Cyril, don't leave me. You are all I have."

Lister was in a white heat with rage, and stood fumbling at the door.
But a backward glance at her pale face cooled him somewhat. He
recognised that he was in the presence of some mystery, and that it was
necessary for his own peace of mind, as for Bella's, to probe the
mystery to the bottom. On the impulse of the moment he walked back, and
lifting her, placed her again in the arm-chair. Then he knelt beside
her, and took her hands. "Darling," he said, softly and firmly, "I swear
to you, what I would not swear to any living creature, that I am
innocent. If anyone but you had accused me, I should have----"

"Cyril! Cyril!" She wreathed her arms round his neck, "I only fancied,
but I really did not think that----"

He removed her arms. "You should believe in my innocence in the face of
all evidence," he said sternly.

"But my own eyes," she faltered.

He frowned. "That certainly is puzzling; still, the drug----"

"I saw you enter the house before I drunk the tea," she protested. "I
told you that before."

"Your senses were quite clear?"

"Perfectly clear. And I thought that you had come to try and induce my
father to consent to our marriage."

"Strange," muttered the young man. "I was not near the house."

"Are you sure? are you sure?"

"Oh!" Lister's tone was highly exasperated. "You will drive me mad,
talking in this way. Hearken," he added, speaking calmer, "when I left
you and Captain Huxham in the corn-field, I went straight back to my
lodgings. There I found a letter referring to the thousand pounds I
wished to borrow. I had to see the friend who was willing to lend it to
me on that night. I therefore went to London by the six o'clock train.
My landlady can prove that I left the house; the flyman can prove that I
drove to the local station; the ticket office there that I bought a
ticket, and the guard of the train shut me himself in a first-class
compartment. That is evidence enough, I fancy."

"Yes. Yes, for me, but----"

"But I might have sneaked back, I suppose you mean?" he said bitterly,
and rising to walk the floor. "I can prove an _alibi_ easily. At eight
o'clock I was at my friend's rooms in Duke Street, St. James's, as his
man can swear. He had gone to Paris, and I arranged to follow. I went to
the theatre, and to dinner with two friends of mine, and did not leave
them until one in the morning, when I returned to my hotel. The murder
took place at eleven, or between eight and eleven, so I can easily prove
that I was not here. Next morning I went to Paris, and got the money
from my friend. I lingered there with him, and only returned yesterday,
to learn that your father was dead. Then I came down here this morning
to--meet with this reception."

"Cyril! Cyril! Don't be hard on me."

"Are you not hard yourself?" he retorted. "How can I love a woman who
doubts me? Besides, robbery was the motive for the commission of the
crime. Am I likely to stab an old man, and then rob him?"

"No, I never believed, and yet----"

"And yet what?" he asked curtly.

"You--you--wanted a thousand pounds."

"Oh"--his lip curled--"and you believed that I robbed your father's safe
to get it. Unfortunately, I understood, from your aunt's evidence at the
inquest, that only one hundred pounds in gold were in the safe, so I
must have committed a brutal murder needlessly."

"I never said that you murdered my father," cried Bella despairingly.

"You inferred as much," he retorted cuttingly; "also that I robbed----"

"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, now thoroughly believing him to be
completely innocent, and trying woman-like to recover her position.
"But, Cyril, listen to me, and you will see that as things look I was
justified----"

"Nothing can justify your believing me to be guilty of a double crime."

Bella bowed her proud head. "I can see that now," she said humbly.

"You should have seen it before," he replied harshly.

She raised her head, and looked at him indignantly, bringing into play
the powerful weapon of sex. "You give me no opportunity of defending
myself," she said, in the offended tone of a woman wronged.

"I ask your pardon, and give you the opportunity now," he replied
coldly.

"I saw you enter the house," she repeated somewhat weakly.

"That is impossible," he rejoined briefly.

"Oh!" She clasped her hands together. "What is the use of saying that?
It was not you, since I firmly believe what you tell me; all the
same----"

Cyril sprang forward, seized her hands, and looked deep into her eyes
"You believe me, then?"

"Yes, I do. But if the man was not you, he must have been your double."

"Was he so like me, then?"

"Exactly like you. Don't I tell you, Cyril, that I leaned out of the
window and spoke to the man. I called him by your name."

"What did he do?"

"He looked up, but making no sign of recognition stepped into the house,
as the door was not locked. I never believed for one moment that it was
not you, and resolved to clamber out of the window to be present at the
interview. Then I drank the drugged tea, and----" she made a gesture of
despair--"you know the rest."

"How was the man dressed?"

"In a grey suit, just as you wore in the afternoon."

"You saw the face?"

"I saw it very plainly, although the twilight was growing darker at the
time. But I could have sworn it was your face. Would I have spoken to
the man had I not believed him to be you?"

"No, and yet"--Cyril stopped, and tugged at his moustache. His face had
grown pale, and he looked decidedly worried. "The man was of my height?"

"He was like you in every respect. Perhaps if I had seen him in broad
daylight I might have recognised my mistake unless--oh, Cyril, could it
have been your ghost?"

"No," said Lister, in a strangled voice, "don't be absurd. I have an
idea that----" he made for the door. "There's nothing more to say."

"Cyril, will you leave me? Won't you kiss----"

"There's nothing more to say," said Lister, now deadly pale, and walked
abruptly out of the dim room. Bella fell back in the chair and wept. All
was over.



CHAPTER VIII

THE WITCH-WIFE


The interview between the engaged lovers had been a strange one, and not
the least strange part was the termination. Apparently, after hearing
the description of the mysterious double given by Bella, her lover could
have explained much--at least, she gathered this from the hints his
broken conversation gave. After his departure, she sat weeping, until it
struck her sensible nature how very foolish she was to waste time in
idle regrets. Whether Cyril felt so mortally offended by her doubts as
to regard the engagement at an end, she could not say. But after some
thought she believed that her remarks had given him a clue which he had
left thus abruptly to follow up. Sooner or later he would return to
explain, and then all would be well between them.

And in spite of his odd behaviour, she had one great consolation in
knowing that he was innocent. His denial of guilt had been so strong;
the _alibi_ he set forth was so easy of proof, and so impossible of
invention, that she blamed herself sincerely for ever having doubted the
young man. Nevertheless, considering the weird circumstances, and the
fact of the likeness of the double--whomsoever he might be--to her
lover, she could scarcely regard herself as having been foolish. Nine
people out of ten would have made the same mistake, and would have
harboured similar doubts. Certainly, seeing that she loved Cyril
devotedly, she should have been the tenth; but in the hour of trial her
faith had proved very weak. She tried to remind herself that she had
never really believed him to be guilty. All the same, recalling the late
conversation, she had to recognise that her words could have left very
little doubt in Lister's mind as to the fact that she believed him to be
a robber and an assassin. Well, if she had, surely she had been severely
punished, as was only fair.

Mrs. Coppersley returned from the funeral in a very chastened frame of
mind, and in the company of Henry Vand, whom she had bidden to tea. The
table was furnished forth with funeral baked meats, after the fashion of
Hamlet's mother's wedding, and Mr. Vand did full justice to
them--wonderful justice, considering his apparently delicate
constitution. He was not very tall, and remarkably handsome, with his
young, clean-shaven face, his large, blue eyes, and his curly, golden
hair. His body was well-shaped all save the right foot, which was
twisted and the leg of which was shorter than the other. Like Talleyrand
and Lord Byron, the young man was club-footed, but otherwise had a very
attractive personality. From his delicate fingers, it could be seen that
he was a musician, and he had an air of refinement astonishing in one of
his breeding and birth. Bella did not like him much. Not that she had
any fault to find with him; but his eyes were shallow, like those of a
bird, and his conversation was dull, to say the least of it. The sole
way in which he could converse was through his violin, and as he had not
that with him on this occasion, Bella preferred to remain absent from
the lavish tea-table. Mrs. Coppersley did not object, as she wanted her
darling all to herself.

However, Mrs. Coppersley was very severe on her niece for not attending
the funeral, and had many sweet things to say regarding virtues of the
deceased which she had just discovered after his death. "He meant well,
did poor, dear Jabez," sighed Mrs. Coppersley, over a cup of tea; "and
if he did swear it was his calling that made him profane. Bella!"--her
niece was standing at the door as she spoke--"to-morrow I'm going up to
see the lawyer about the property."

"Oh, don't trouble about that," said Bella wearily; "no, thank you, Mr.
Vand, I don't care to eat. I feel too miserable."

"Not trouble about the property!" cried Mrs. Coppersley, paying no
attention to the latter part of this speech; "but I do care. Things must
be settled somehow. I must arrange my future life," and she cast a
tender glance on the handsome musician. "Your future must be settled
also."

"I shall look after that," said Bella, not liking her aunt's tone.

"You had better be sharp, then," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a dictatorial
manner, "for the sooner things are settled the better. I'm not young,
and"--she cast a second tender glance on her swain, who was eating
largely--"ah, well, its useless to talk of weddings when funerals are in
the air. To-morrow evening, Bella, after I have seen the lawyer--and he
lives in Cade Lane, London--I'll tell you what I have arranged."

Bella looked in astonishment at her aunt, who suddenly seemed to have
acquired the late captain's tyrannical manner. Apparently Mrs.
Coppersley forgot--as Bella thought--that she would not inherit the
solitary farm, and needed to be reminded of the fact that her niece was
the mistress of Bleacres. In fact, Bella was on the point of saying as
much, when she remembered that Vand was present. Not being anxious to
discuss family matters in his presence--even though he was about to
enter the family as Mrs. Coppersley's husband--she abruptly left the
room. Mrs. Coppersley poured herself out a second cup of tea, and
remarked in a high tone of satisfaction, that some people's noses were
about to be brought to the grindstone.

Bella heard the remark as she put on her hat and walked out of the front
door. It accentuated her lonely feeling, for she saw plainly now what
she had long guessed,--that Aunt Rosamund had very little affection for
her. The late captain also had never cared much for his daughter, and
now that Cyril had vanished in an enigmatic manner, the poor girl felt
more wretched than ever. Listlessly she walked down the narrow path as
far as the boundary channel, and wondered how it would all end. Had she
been a religious girl she might have sought comfort in prayer, but she
knew very little about true religion, and did not care for the sort
preached by Mr. Silas Pence in the Little Bethel at Marshely. As his
name flashed into her mind, she looked up and saw him standing on the
opposite side of the channel, so it was apparent--although she knew
nothing about such things--that some telepathic communication had made
her think of him. The preacher was in his usual dismal garb, and had
accentuated the same by wearing black gloves and a black tie in place of
his usual white one. Patience on a monument might have been taken as a
type of Mr. Pence on this occasion, but he was not smiling on grief in
the person of Miss Huxham. In fact he did not smile at all, being
shocked to see her out of doors.

"Why are you not weeping in your chamber?" reproved Silas, in his most
clerical manner; "the loss of so good a father----"

"You have doubtless said all you had to say on that subject at the
funeral, Mr. Pence," retorted Bella, whose nerves were worn thin with
worry; "spare me a repetition of such stale remarks."

It was a horribly rude speech, as she well knew. But Pence had a way of
irritating her beyond all endurance, and the mere sight of him was
sufficient to set her teeth on edge for the day. It was intolerable that
he should intrude on her privacy now, when she particularly wished to be
alone. She intimated as much by turning away with a displeased air, and
walked for a short distance along the bank path leading to Mrs. Tunks'
hut. But Silas, absolutely ignorant of the feminine nature, and entirely
devoid of diplomacy, persisted in thrusting his company upon her. Bella
turned sharply, when she heard Silas breathing hard behind her, and
spoke with marked indignation.

"I wish to be alone, if you please," she declared, flushing.

"Ah, no; ah, no," remonstrated Pence, stupidly. "Allow me to comfort
you."

"You cannot," she retorted, marvelling at his density.

"Allow me to try. I was on the point of calling at the house to----"

Bella interrupted him cruelly. "You can call there still, Mr. Pence, and
my aunt will be glad to see you. She has Mr. Vand to tea, so you will
find yourself in congenial company."

"Your company is congenial enough for me."

"That is very flattering, but I prefer to be alone."

Silas, however, declined to be shaken off, and his reproachful looks so
exasperated Bella that she felt inclined to thrust him into the water.
And his speech was even more irritating than his manner. "Let me soothe
you, my dear, broken-hearted sister," he pleaded in a sheep-like bleat.

"I don't want soothing. I am not broken-hearted, and I am not your
sister."

Pence sighed. "This is very, very painful."

"It is," Bella admitted readily, "to me. Surely you are man enough, Mr.
Pence, to take a plain telling if you won't accept a hint. I want you to
leave me at once, as I am not disposed to talk."

"If I had my way I would never, never leave you again."

"Perhaps; but, so far as I am concerned, you will not get your way."

"Why do you dislike me, Miss Huxham?"

"I neither like nor dislike you," she retorted, suppressing a violent
inclination to scream, so annoying was this persecution. "You are
nothing to me."

"I want to be something. I wish you to be my sealed fountain. Your late
lamented father desired you to be my spouse."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Pence. But perhaps you will remember that I
refused to marry you, the other day."

"You broke my heart then."

"Go and mend it then," cried Bella, furiously angry, and only too
anxious to drive him away by behaving with aggressive rudeness.

"You alone can mend it." Pence dropped on his knees. "Oh, I implore you
to mend it, my Hephzibah! You are to me a Rose of Sharon, a Lily of the
Vale."

"Get up, sir, and don't make a fool of yourself."

"Oh, angel of my life, listen to me. Lately I was poor in this world's
goods, but now I have gold. Marry me, and let us fly to far lands,
and----"

"I thought you were desperately poor," said Bella, suspiciously; "where
did you get the money?"

"An aged and God-fearing Christian aunt left it to me," said Pence,
dropping his eyes. "It is a small sum, but----"

"One hundred pounds in gold, perhaps?"

Pence rose, as though moved by springs, and his thin white cheeks
flushed a deep scarlet. "What do you mean?"

Bella could not have told herself what she meant at the moment. But it
had suddenly occurred to her to try and rid herself of this burr by
hinting that he had something to do with the robbery, if not with the
murder. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have ventured to do
this, being a kind-hearted girl; but Pence exasperated her so greatly
that she was, on the impulse of the moment, prepared to go to any length
to see the last of him. "I mean," she said, in reply to his last
question, "that my father had one hundred pounds in gold in his safe."

"You accuse me of----"

"I accuse you of nothing," cried Bella, cutting him short and flaming up
into a royal rage. "I am tired of your company and of your silly talk. I
only wish that Mr. Lister would come along and throw you into the
channel."

The red faded from Pence's face, and he looked wickedly white. His eyes
flashed with sinister lights. "I dare say you do," he said venomously,
"but Mr. Lister had better keep out of my way, and out of the way of the
police."

The girl felt her heart almost stop beating. "Now it is my turn to ask
you what you mean?" she said slowly and preserving her coolness.

But the preacher saw that she was shaken, and followed up his advantage.
"I think you had better make terms with me. Accept me as your husband,
or----"

"Or what?"

"I shall tell the police what I saw," he finished spitefully.

"What did you see?" she asked in a shaking voice.

"On the evening of the murder I came here at a quarter to eight," said
Silas slowly, his glittering eyes on her pale face. "I wished to adore
the shrine wherein was my jewel; that is, I desired to gaze on the
house, beneath whose roof you slept."

"Oh, stop talking like this, and speak plainly," she interrupted
wearily.

"I shall speak plainly enough now," said the young man calmly. "While
watching by the entrance through the bushes, on the other side of the
channel, I was suddenly brushed aside by that Lister person. It was
growing dark, but I recognised his figure, his insolent face, his lordly
air of prosperity. He walked up to the house and I turned away, sick at
heart, knowing that he had gone to see you. When I looked again, on my
way back to Marshely, he had disappeared. So you see----" He paused.

"I see what?" she questioned nervously.

"That the Lister person must know somewhat of this crime, if, indeed, he
did not strike the blow himself."

"How can you say that, when you lately intimated that Mr. Lister--if it
_was_ Mr. Lister, which I doubt--had come to see me?"

"I remember the evidence given by yourself and your aunt at the
inquest," retorted Pence sharply. "You were locked in your room, and were
in a drugged sleep. Mrs. Coppersley had gone to my lodgings to deliver
the note from your late father, which I found on my return. That Lister
person must have seen your father, and, as they were not on good
terms--"

"How do you know that they were not?"

"Because your late father hated the very name of Lister, and said that
he would rather see you dead than married to him. Also in the note left
at my lodgings, your father said that he had quarrelled seriously with
this Lister person, and had locked you in your room. Now, if I showed
that note to the police, and related how the Lister person had brushed
me aside so that he could cross the channel, he would be arrested."

"No, he would not," said Bella doggedly, but her heart sank.

"Yes, he would. He hated your late father; he was alone in the house
with him, and I believe that he killed him so that he might marry you."

"As if I would marry any man who murdered my father," said Bella
angrily. "You are talking a lot of nonsense, Mr. Pence. Mr. Lister was
in London on that evening, and afterwards went to Paris."

"I don't believe it. Who told you?"

"He told me so himself."

"Naturally he has to make the best of things. But I know the Lister
person well by sight, and I am prepared to take my oath that he entered
the Manor-house about eight o'clock on the night of the murder."

"Mr. Lister has a good _alibi_," said Bella, with a carelessness which
she was far from feeling, and gathering up her skirts to go. "You can
tell the police what you like, Mr. Pence. I am not afraid for Mr.
Lister's good name."

"You will make no terms?" demanded Pence, annoyed by her feigned
coolness.

"No," she said abruptly; "do what you like."

"I'll give you three days to think over the matter," cried Pence as she
turned away; "if by that time you do not agree to become my wife, I
shall denounce that Lister person to the police."

Bella took no notice of the threat, but walked swiftly away in the
direction of Mrs. Tunks' hut. Hearing no footsteps she concluded that
Mr. Pence had not followed, and a cautious look round revealed him
crossing the planks on his way home. Bella felt sick with apprehension,
and when she reached the hut had to lean against the door for support.
But she had no time to consider matters, for unexpectedly the door
opened and she fell into the bony arms of Mrs. Tunks.

"I knew you were coming, dearie," croaked the old creature; "the crystal
told me."

"A glance along the path told you," retorted Bella, recovering her
balance and entering the hut. "Why do you talk to me of the crystal,
Mrs. Tunks? You know I don't believe in such things."

"Well I know your blind eyes and stubborn heart, lovey. Only trouble
will make you see truths, and you ain't had enough yet. There's more
coming."

"How do you know?" asked Bella, sitting down on a broken-backed chair
with a sudden sinking of the heart.

"I know, I know," mumbled Mrs. Tunks, squatting on a stool near the
fire. "Who should know but I, who am of the gentle Romany? Hold your
peace, dearie and let me think," and she lighted a dingy black clay
pipe. "Luke ain't here," added Mrs. Tunks, blowing a cloud of smoke, "so
we've the whole place to ourselves, lovey, and the crystal's ready."

She nodded towards a bright spark of light, and Bella saw a round
crystal the size of an apple, standing in a cheap china egg-cup. There
was no light in the bare room, but the ruddy flare of the smouldering
fire, and what with the semi-darkness, the fumes of Mrs. Tunks' pipe,
and that bright unwinking spot, Bella felt as though she were being
hypnotised.

The hut, built of turf, was square, and was divided by a wooden
partition into two equal parts. One of these parts was again sub-divided
into two sleeping dens--they could not be called bedrooms--for Mrs.
Tunks and her grandson. The day apartment, which did for sitting-room,
dining-room, drawing-room, and general living-room, was small, and
dirty, and dingy. The ceiling of rough thatch, black with smoke, could
almost be touched by Bella without rising. The floor was of beaten
earth, the chimney a wide gaping hollow of turf, and there was one small
window, usually tightly closed, beside the crazy door. The furniture
consisted of a deal table, of home manufacture, with its legs sunken in
the earthen floor, and a few stools together with the broken-backed
chair on which the visitor sat. There also was a rough wooden dresser,
on which were ranged a few platters of wood and some china. The whole
abode was miserable in the extreme, and in wet weather must have been
extremely uncomfortable. Granny Tunks, as she was usually called, housed
like an Early Briton or a Saxon serf; but she seemed to be happy enough
in her den, perhaps because it was better than the rough life of the
road, which had been her lot in life before she had married a Gorgio.

She was a lean, grim old creature with very bright black eyes and
plentiful white hair escaping from under a red handkerchief. Her dress
was of a brown colour, but tagged with bright patches of yellow and blue
and crimson, and she wore also various coins and beads and charms, which
kept up a continuous jingle. On the whole Granny Tunks was a picturesque
figure of the Oriental type, and this, added to her sinister reputation
as one acquainted with the unseen world, gained her considerable
respect. The marsh folk, still superstitious in spite of steam and
electricity, called her "The Wise Woman," but Granny dubbed herself "A
Witch-Wife," quite like a Norse warrior would have done.

Bella stared at the crystal until she felt quite dreamy, while Granny
watched her with a bright and cunning eye. Suddenly she rose and took
the gleaming globe in her skinny hand. "You've put your life-power into
it," mumbled the witch-wife; "now I'll read what's coming."

"No, no!" cried Bella, suddenly startled into wakefulness. "I don't want
to know anything, Mrs. Tunks."

Granny took no notice, but peered into the crystal by the red light of
the fire. "You've trouble yet, before you, dearie," she said in a
sing-song voice, "but peace in the end. You'll marry the gentleman you
love, when a black man comes to aid your fortunes."

"A black man! What do you mean?"

"There's no more," said Mrs. Tunks; "the vision has faded. A black man,
remember."



CHAPTER IX

THE COMING OF DURGO


The fortnight which followed the funeral of Captain Huxham passed
quietly enough at the Solitary Farm. Mrs. Coppersley went several times
to London for the purpose of interviewing her late brother's lawyer, who
had his office in Cade Lane. She said very little to Bella when she
returned, and on her part Bella did not ask questions. Had she been more
versed in worldly wisdom she would have accompanied her aunt to see the
solicitor for herself, so that she might learn what disposition had been
made of the property. But Bella was an unsophisticated girl, and
moreover was so anxiously lamenting the continued absence of Cyril that
she neglected needful things.

Lister had disappeared from the neighbourhood, and Bella had neither
seen him again nor had she heard from him. Considering what had taken
place at their last interview, she was inclined to think that Cyril had
passed out of her life for ever. But something told her that in spite of
her unjust accusations he still loved her, and would return. Meantime,
there was nothing for it but to wait in patience, and to busy herself
with her ordinary pursuits. These, however, had lost their savour for
the girl, since the whole of her mind was filled with the image of the
man she loved.

Pence did not fulfil his threat of informing the police at the end of
three days. Bella waited in dread for the arrival of Inspector Inglis to
ask her questions concerning Lister, but the officer never appeared, and
as the days glided by she began to think that Silas would say nothing.
With her aunt she went on Sunday to the Little Bethel, and heard him
preach, but he did not seek a private interview with her. Even when he
delivered his sermons he sedulously avoided her eye, so she deemed that
he was ashamed of the wild way in which he had talked. What struck her
most about the young man was his wan looks. He seemed to be thinner than
ever, and his cheeks had a more hectic flush, while his eyes glittered
feverishly, as though he were consumed with an inward fire. But his
discourses became more and more powerful and were greatly admired by his
congregation, who liked melodramatic religion. Mrs. Coppersley was
especially loud in her expression of approval.

"What a gift," she said to Bella, when they returned home on the second
Sunday through the rapidly-yellowing corn-fields. "He spares no one."

"And that is just what I like least about his sermons," retorted the
girl. "As a Christian he should be more merciful."

"You don't know anything about it," said Mrs. Coppersley tartly.

"I know what Christ preached," replied Bella quietly; "and Mr. Pence has
not the spirit of His preaching."

"In what way, pray?"

"Mr. Pence does not do as he would be done by. I wonder how he would
like to suffer the condemnation which he measures out so freely to other
people."

"Silas Pence is a good man, and no condemnation is possible where he is
concerned," cried Mrs. Coppersley fervently, and bounced into the house.

"In that case he should make allowance for those who are not good."

"Not at all," said the elder woman, stating her views uncompromisingly.
"The good shall go to heaven, and the wicked to hell: that's Scripture."

"As translated by man," finished Bella neatly; "but the Sermon on the
Mount, Aunt Rosamund----"

"Bella, you are irreligious," interrupted the lady, removing her hat and
placing it on the kitchen-table. "I won't have freethinkers in my
house."

Bella raised her finely-marked eye-brows. "Your house?"

"Yes," almost shouted Mrs. Coppersley violently, for she felt somewhat
nervous as to what she was about to say, "my house. I didn't tell you
before, as I have a kind heart, but it is time we understood one
another. To-night I shall explain myself, so that you may understand
your position."

"You shall explain yourself now," said Bella, pale but determined.

"I have no time," said her aunt brusquely; "Henry is coming to dinner."

"I don't care if Mr. Vand is coming to dinner twenty times over," said
Bella, her eyes growing hard with anger. "You have said so much that you
must say all, Aunt Rosamund."

"Don't bully and bounce me, miss."

"I shall act exactly as I please, and it is my pleasure that you would
explain what you mean."

"I have to lay the cloth and see to the dinner. You know that Jane never
can cook to Henry's liking. I daresay the meat is burnt and the----"
Mrs. Coppersley was about to pass into the scullery where the one small
servant, over whom she tyrannised, slaved at the mid-day meal, when
Bella caught her by the wrist. "How dare you, Bella?" cried the stout
woman.

"Come into the drawing-room, out of Jane's hearing," whispered Bella
fiercely. "I shall not wait another minute for an explanation. This
house is either mine or yours."

"Very well," cried Mrs. Coppersley, bouncing towards the kitchen door,
"If you will have it, you shall have it. I have tried to spare you,
but----"

"Go on to the drawing-room, please," interrupted Bella imperiously, as
she saw the small servant peeping round the corner; "there is no need
for us to discuss private matters in public."

"The whole parish shall soon know what I am about to say," snapped Mrs.
Coppersley, and rolled towards the drawing-room.

"Rolled" is precisely the word to use in connection with Mrs.
Coppersley's way of walking, for she was an extremely stout, well-fed
woman, large-limbed and clumsy. Her round, chubby face was rosy and her
eyes were as black as her hair. She did not look uncomely, but there was
something coarse and plebeian in her appearance. Although she was in
mourning for her late brother she could not altogether restrain her
flamboyant taste, and therefore wore a red feather in the hat she had
left in the kitchen, and yellow gloves, which she was now impatiently
removing.

Outside it was extremely warm and brilliant with sunshine, but in the
vast drawing-room the air was pleasantly cool and agreeable. The blinds
being blue, only a faint light came through them since they were down,
and the cerulean atmosphere was almost religious in its feeling. Bella,
ever sensitive to the unseen, in spite of her ignorance of psychic
phenomenon felt the grave influence, but her aunt, being of a coarser
fibre, bounced red-faced and hot into the room, openly cross at having
been summoned to what was likely to prove a disagreeable interview.

"Henry will be here shortly," she said pettishly, "and he doesn't like
to be kept waiting for his meals."

"On this occasion he must wait," said Bella dryly, "it will do him
good."

"Don't speak of Henry in that tone, miss; you know he is the most
amiable man in the world."

"Your speech about his impatience for dinner sounds like it. However, we
need converse only for a few minutes. I understood you to say that this
house is yours, Aunt Rosamund."

Mrs. Coppersley flopped down into one of the emerald arm-chairs and
placed her pudgy hands on her stout knees. "It is," she said, glancing
round the vari-coloured room with great pride. "The house is mine and
the farm is mine, and Jabez's income of five hundred a year, well
invested, is mine."

Bella grew pale. Mrs. Coppersley spoke with such conviction that she
believed her to be telling the truth. "And what is left to me?" she
demanded in a low tone, for the shock took away her breath.

"Your aunt's love," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a matter-of-fact way.
"Jabez asked me to look after you; and so long as you behave yourself I
shall do so."

Bella passed over this petty speech. "Do you mean to say that my father
has left everything to you?" she asked pointedly.

"Everything," assented Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of triumph. "Jabez
wasn't so rich as folk thought him, and although he had enough invested
to give him five hundred a year, he had little ready cash. When my late
husband died he left me a good sum. Jabez borrowed this and added it to
his own, so that he might buy Bleacres. I agreed, but only on condition
that Jabez should leave me the whole property when he died. I saw that
the will was made, and Mr. Timson, the Cade Lane lawyer, is now proving
it. When probate is obtained, my dear," ended Mrs. Coppersley amiably,
"I shall marry Henry and will be happy for evermore."

"What about me?" gasped Bella, utterly overwhelmed.

"You can stay here until you marry," said Mrs. Coppersley coldly, "as I
am a Christian woman, and wish to obey Jabez's request. He left you to
me as a legacy, so I will look after you; only behave yourself."

"Do I ever do anything else?" asked Bella bitterly.

"Oh, dear me, yes," returned her aunt complacently. "You run after men."

Bella rose with a flushed cheek. "That is a lie."

Mrs. Coppersley rose, also in a violent rage and quite glad to vent her
petty spite on one who could not retaliate. "Oh, I'm a liar, am I?" she
said shrilly. "You call me a liar when I am only keeping you out of
charity----"

"Stop!" Bella flung up her hand and spoke firmly. "You are not doing
that, Aunt Rosamund. In one way or another you have persuaded my father
into leaving you what is rightfully mine. But I shall see Mr. Timson,
and read the will; you shall not have it your own way altogether."

Mrs. Coppersley snapped her large finger and thumb. "Go and see the
will, by all means," she scoffed in a coarse voice; "you won't find any
flaw in it, as I was careful that it should be properly drawn up. I have
a perfect right to the farm, as my money helped to buy it."

"So be it. Keep the farm, but give me the income. That, at least, you
have no right to retain."

"I have the right of possession, which is nine points of the law, miss,"
said Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and the will is plain enough. Jabez did
right to leave the money to me, and not to a chit of a girl like you,
who would waste your father's hard-earned money on that wastrel from
London."

"Of whom are you talking?"

"Don't pretend ignorance, miss, for I won't have it. I mean Mr. Lister,
as he calls himself, though I daresay he is no better than he should
be."

"You have no right to say that."

"I'll say what I like and do what I like. Remember I am mistress; and as
you depend entirely on me, miss, I order you to give up all idea of this
Lister scamp and marry Silas Pence, who is----"

"I shall certainly not marry Silas Pence, or anyone but Cyril," said
Bella in icy tones. "You have no right to interfere in----"

Mrs. Coppersley stamped and interrupted in her turn. "No right! no
right!" she bellowed furiously. "I have every right. This house is mine,
and the food you eat is mine. If I turned you out you would have to
starve, for I am certain that your fine lover would have nothing to do
with you. He's a bad man; your father said so."

"My father knew nothing of Mr. Lister."

"He knew that he was bad; he said as much. Why"--Mrs. Coppersley
pointed a fat finger towards the round table in the centre of the
room--"there's a photograph of him, and in a silver frame, too. What
extravagance. How dare you spend my money on silver frames?"

She dashed forward to seize the photograph of Cyril, which Bella had
brought down from her bedroom and had left unthinkingly on the table.
Doubtless Mrs. Coppersley would have destroyed the portrait, but that
Bella secured it before the good lady could reach the table. "Mr. Lister
gave me this," said Bella, putting it behind her back; "frame and all;
it is mine."

"And you dare to bring into the house the picture of a wicked profligate
whom your father hated," roared Mrs. Coppersley, her red face shining
with perspiration and her little eyes flashing with wrath.

"My father being so good himself," said Bella ironically, and feeling
quite cool. "Mr. Lister is not a profligate, Aunt Rosamund, and you are
a bad woman!"

Mrs. Coppersley gasped like a dying dolphin. "Me a bad woman!" she
cried, puffing out her cheeks ludicrously; "me, when Henry says that I
am the best woman in the world. And I'd have you know, Bella, that I'm a
lady and no woman, miss--so there."

The girl, in spite of her grief and dismay, laughed right out. "Even a
lady must be a woman," she observed sarcastically.

"Leave my house! leave my house," panted Mrs. Coppersley.

"No. I shall remain here until I know if the will is correct. I shall
stay here, as I say, and shall receive polite treatment. If I do not, I
shall dispute the will, and make things unpleasant."

Mrs. Coppersley snapped her fingers. "That for all the harm you can do,"
she said coarsely. "The will stands good in law. I have made sure of
that by consulting Mr. Timson, who drew it up. You can stay here for a
week; at the end of that time you pack up and go."

"Where to, Aunt Rosamund?"

"That's your look out, miss. But you don't stay here to spoil my
honeymoon with my darling Henry."

Bella shrugged her shoulders. It really was not worth while losing her
temper with a person whose methods were so crude. The more enraged Mrs.
Coppersley became, the cooler Bella felt. "Do you know what you are,
Aunt Rosamund?" she remarked coolly. "You are a bully, and a petty
tyrant. While my father was alive you cringed to him because you were
afraid. Now that you think you have the whip hand of me, you vent your
spite on one whom you think cannot retaliate. If I had the money, you
would cringe to me; as you have it, you take every advantage of your
position. But it won't do, Aunt Rosamund, for I am not the girl to
submit to your insults. I shall stop here so long as it pleases me to
stop, and if you make yourself disagreeable I shall know what to do."

Mrs. Coppersley's face grew slowly white, and her mouth opened and shut
like a cod-fish. Had Bella wept, she would have gone on bullying
triumphantly, but this cool, calm, scornful demeanour frightened her. At
heart, like all bullies, she was a coward, and knew well that if it were
known how she had ousted Bella from her rightful inheritance, that she
would be unpopular. As Mrs. Coppersley liked to be popular, and hoped,
by means of her marriage with Vand, her wrongfully obtained income, and
her possession of Bleacres, to be the great lady of the neighbourhood,
she did not wish to drive Bella to extremes. She therefore wiped her
face, and hedged.

"You mustn't be angry with me Bella," she said in quieter tones, "I wish
you well, my girl."

"You wish me just as much as suits yourself," retorted Bella coolly; "so
far you have had everything your own way. Now I mean to look into things
for myself. You can go now, and entertain your darling Henry. I shall
not come to dinner. Send up Jane with some food to my bedroom."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," protested Mrs. Coppersley feebly, for
her late rage had exhausted her, and she did not feel equal to fighting
this pale, steady-eyed girl.

"I have told you what to do; so go and do it!" said Bella, without
raising her voice, and looked Mrs. Coppersley squarely in the eyes.

The mistress of Bleacres tried to face down the gaze, but failed, and
thoroughly cowed and beaten, in spite of her better position, she slowly
retreated, muttering to herself a vengeance which she was unable to
fulfil.

Left alone, Bella gave way. Pride had kept her up during the quarrel
with her aunt, but now, secure from observation, she broke down and
wept. Never before had she felt so lonely or so helpless. Cyril was
away, and she could not confide in him, for even if he had been present
the terms on which they had parted forbade confidences. There was Dora
Ankers, the school-mistress certainly--a good friend, but a bad adviser,
as she knew very little of the world. And there was no one else who
could help her in the dilemma in which she was placed. She had no home,
no friends, and--on the face of it--no lover. It was a terrible position
for a girl who hitherto had never met with serious trouble.

In spite of the drawn-down blinds and the cool atmosphere of the room,
Bella could scarcely breathe, so she moved to a side window, drew up the
blind, and lifted the lower sash. Outside, the brilliance of the
sunshine was almost blinding, and through the quivering heads, across
the still, stiff stalks of the corn, for there was no wind, she could
see the gaudy red of the scarecrow coat. The mere glint of the violent
hue made her head ache, and she returned to the middle of the room to
walk up and down wearily thinking of what was best to be done in the
circumstances in which she found herself. The photograph of Cyril in its
silver frame she replaced on the table. The much-loved face smiled
encouragingly on her. At least, in her over-wrought state she thought
so, and the thought aided her to beat down the many fears which assailed
her.

While musingly walking the room, she became aware of a slight noise, and
turned abruptly towards the window to see a black face grinning at her,
with very white teeth. At once her thoughts reverted to the prophecy of
Granny Tunks, and she felt a sudden thrill of dread as she saw that a
black man actually had come to the Manor-house. For one moment, the
negro and the fair, young girl looked steadfastly at one another, she
filled with nervous fear, and he, curiously observant. After an almost
imperceptible pause--which seemed hours to Bella--the man leaped through
the window, before she could regain her voice to forbid his entrance.

"Where is my master?" he asked, in guttural tones, but in fairly good
English.

Bella did not immediately reply, as her nerves fairly thrilled with the
weird realisation of what the witch-wife had seen in the crystal, and
even now she had not her voice under command. The negro was tall, bulky,
and powerfully framed, coal-black from head to foot, with tightly curled
hair and sharp, white teeth like those of a dog. Bella had never seen so
huge and strong a man, but in spite of his formidable appearance, his
dark eyes had a kindly look in their depths, and his movements were
extremely gentle. Apparently his bark was worse than his bite, though
his uncivilised looks were enough to awe the boldest. Plainly but
roughly dressed in an old tweed suit, with brown shoes and a bowler hat,
he was not noticeable, save for his stature and enormous virility. The
sensation he produced on the girl was overpowering, yet it was not
entirely one of fear. In spite of his cannibal looks and unexpected
entrance, and imperious demand, she felt perfectly safe.

"I am Durgo!" explained the negro, annoyed by her silence, as was
apparent from the frown which wrinkled his eye-brows. "Where is my
master?"

"I don't know where your master is," she replied, finding her tongue
with some difficulty. "I do not know who your master is."

"My master," said the negro, "is my master. He came here two weeks and
some days ago, more or less. I have come to find him. Where is he?"

"How can I tell you when I do not even know his name?" asked Bella
sharply.

"His name is----" Durgo was about to satisfy her curiosity, when he
caught sight of the photograph in the silver frame, which still stood on
the table. With a guttural cry of delight, he caught this up in his huge
hands. "Oh, my master! my master!" he gurgled, in an ecstasy of delight.

Bella stepped back a pace with a scared look. "Mr. Lister your master?"

Durgo nodded, and coolly slipped the photograph, frame and all, into the
breast pocket of his tweed coat. "He is here! I shall find him," he
remarked. "Did my master see Captain Huxham?"

"Yes," she replied mechanically.

"Did my master and Captain Huxham quarrel?"

"Yes," she replied again, and still mechanically.

"And did my master get what he wanted?" demanded the negro, rolling his
eyes.

"I don't know what Mr. Lister wanted," said Bella faintly; "you must
explain yourself, and----"

"I explain nothing until I see my master," was Durgo's reply. "Perhaps
Captain Huxham knows where my master is?"

"Captain Huxham is dead," she gasped.

Durgo shut his strong white teeth with a click. "Dead!" he repeated.
"Ah--aha--aha; Captain Huxham is dead. Then my master----"

"No," cried Bella, covering her eyes. "I don't believe that Cyril killed
my father--I don't believe it."

"Cyril! father!" repeated Durgo, looking at her curiously. "I must learn
if----" He broke off suddenly and moved noiselessly to the window. Bella
stretched a helpless hand to stay him, but, lightly vaulting out of
doors, he disappeared in a moment. She rushed to the window and saw him
running down the path towards the boundary channel. There was no chance
of catching him up, as she saw well, and therefore drew back.

"The crystal! the crystal!" she muttered to herself, shivering. "Granny
must know what it all means. I must see Granny, and ask about the
crystal."



CHAPTER X

A LOVERS' MEETING


Having made up her mind to seek an explanation from Mrs. Tunks regarding
the vision of the negro in the crystal--that is, if the old woman really
had beheld the same--Bella lost no time in executing her purpose. In two
or three minutes she hastily reassumed her hat, cloak, and gloves, which
she had removed while conversing with Mrs. Coppersley. Then taking her
sunshade, she left the Manor-house by the front door. In the dining-room
she could hear the refined tones of Vand and the coarse voice of Mrs.
Coppersley, as they laughed and chattered in the most amiable manner.
Evidently the pair had quite forgotten the recent tragedy, which had
invested Bleacres with so sinister a reputation. With a nervous
shiver--for the merriment seemed to be singularly ill-timed--Bella
closed the door softly, and walked down the corn-path. Glancing right
and left, and straight ahead, she could see nothing of the black man,
who had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously. Like the witches in
"Macbeth," he had made himself into thin air, and had vanished.

Bella felt remarkably uneasy, and on the face of it had great cause to
be so. Apparently, and she had not the least doubt of this, Durgo was
Cyril's servant, who came in search of him. She rather wondered that her
lover should have so uncivilised an attendant, and resolved that if they
married she would endeavour to get him to dispense with the services of
the man. But what struck her most, were the questions of Durgo. He
evidently expected Cyril to meet Huxham and to have a quarrel. Also the
stated time--of two weeks and some days--corresponded with the midnight
visit of Cyril to the Manor-house. She recollected then that the visit
was paid, not at midnight, but about eight o'clock, and saw in the
mistake she had made the perplexity of her bewildered brain. With a
groan she tried to clear her understanding by swift movement, for she
felt unable to follow any regular train of thought.

Nevertheless, Durgo's innocent speech re-awakened her old suspicions,
though she dreaded to recall them. What if, after all, Cyril had been
the visitor of a fortnight since? In that case, since Huxham had been
found dead, Cyril must have struck the blow. The horror of the mere
idea, which placed a barrier between them, made her turn cold, and she
resolutely put it from her. Cyril was the man she loved; the man in whom
she had every reason to believe. He had solemnly sworn that he was
innocent of her father's blood, and if she entertained a grain of
affection for him she was bound to believe his word, even in the face of
strong evidence to the contrary. He must be guiltless; he _was_
guiltless, as she assured herself; his looks and words and bearing
convinced her of his guiltlessness. In one way or another, the promised
explanation would solve the difficult problem. But when would that
explanation be made?

Then, again, Mrs. Tunks must know somewhat of the truth, since she had
so truly foretold the coming of the negro. Bella, entirely lacking the
mystical sense, had no belief in visions, and assumed that the old
woman, for her own ends, had played a comedy, based upon actual fact.
Taking this view, the girl walked towards the hut of the witch-wife,
resolute to learn how much Mrs. Tunks knew concerning Cyril's past life.
Something she must know, else she could not have hinted at the
appearance of the negro. Bella herself was ignorant that her lover had
so sinister a servant, but it seemed that Mrs. Tunks was better
informed. And since the old hag knew so much, she must know more. A few
questions would doubtless bring forth the information, and then Bella
felt that she would know how to act. But the position was extremely
difficult, and the skein of life very tangled.

Thinking in this desultory way, she reached the end of the corn-field,
and was about to turn along the pathway leading to the hut, when she
heard her name called anxiously. Looking up, she saw Dora Ankers on the
hither side of the boundary channel.

"Oh, Bella! I am so glad to see you," sang out the Marshely
school-mistress volubly. "I really didn't want to go to the Manor and
meet that horrid aunt of yours. Come with me, dear; he is waiting at my
cottage."

"Who is waiting?" demanded Bella, greatly surprised by this address.

"Oh, my dear, as if to a girl in love there is any he but the one he in
the world," said Dora, who was sentimental and impatient.

"Do you mean to say that Mr. Lister----"

"Mr. Lister? Oh, you cruel-hearted girl: do you call him that?"

"I mean Cyril," said Bella hurriedly; "is he----"

"Yes, he is. He won't come to the Manor, and can't very well see you in
his own rooms, as that nasty-minded Mrs. Block might say things. She is
such a gossip you know. In despair he came to me, poor dear, so I asked
him to wait in my sitting-room while I came for you."

Bella drew herself up stiffly. She did not desire to appear too willing
to obey the summons of her lover. Womanlike, she wished him to say that
he was in the wrong, so that her pride might be saved. "I am going to
Mrs. Tunks'."

"What for?" asked Dora, bluntly.

"Never mind," replied Miss Huxham, unwilling to confess that she was
dealing with uncanny things beyond the veil. "I must go."

Dora tripped lightly across the narrow planks, and slipped her arm
within that of her friend. "You shall do nothing of the sort, you cold
thing," she declared. "Poor Mr. Lister is quite broken-hearted by the
way in which you have treated him."

"Oh!" Bella became stiffer than ever. "Has he said----"

"He has said nothing! he is too much a man to say anything. But I saw
his poor, pale, peaked face, and----"

"Does he look ill?" Bella was seized with a sudden qualm.

"Ill?" Miss Ankers' gestures and looks became eloquent. "Dear, he is
dying."

"Oh, Dora!" Miss Huxham kilted up her skirts and fairly ran across the
planks. "Why didn't you come for me before?"

"You don't seem to be in a hurry to come now," laughed Dora, crossing in
her turn; "yet the poor, dear fellow is dying--to see you."

"Where has he been all this time?"

"I'm sure I don't know, dear. He came straight from London last night,
and went to my cottage this morning to see me. I was in church, so he
came again in the afternoon, and asked me to help him. Oh, my dear, he
is handsome, and I felt that I could do anything for him. I wish he had
made love to me," sighed the romantic school-mistress; "but all he did,
was to ask me to bring you to my cottage for an interview. So come,
dear, come, and save the poor darling from an early grave."

Bella needed no urging, for she was genuinely concerned over the news,
and sped towards Marshely like a fawn, with Miss Ankers at her heels.
Dora had no difficulty in keeping up, as she was a slim, small, dainty
woman, more like a fairy than mere flesh and blood. In spite of her age,
and she confessed to thirty-five, she had a pink-and-white skin, golden
hair, and clear blue eyes. Dressed as she was, in pale blue, with many
ribbons and ornaments, she looked like a well-arrayed doll, just out of
a satin-lined box. But for all her innocent looks, Miss Ankers was a
stern school-mistress, and during business hours behaved with great
severity. Out of them, however, she presented herself to the village
world in her true colours, as a sentimental, airy, sweet-tempered little
creature, who was everybody's friend and nobody's enemy. Bella was
always fond of her, but at this moment felt more attached to her than
ever--as she had every reason to be, seeing that Miss Ankers had given
up her snug sitting-room for a lovers' meeting, and had actually brought
that meeting about.

"You're my good angel, Dora," said Bella, kissing her friend, as they
drew near the cottage, on the outskirts of Marshely.

"Oh, what waste!" remonstrated Dora, opening her china-blue eyes to
their widest. "What will Mr. Lister say to your throwing away kisses on
me?"

Bella laughed, for her heart had grown unexpectedly light. She had a
firm belief that all misunderstandings were about to be cleared up
between her lover and herself. Also she acknowledged to herself, with
great and thankful joy, that Cyril, in spite of her misgivings, had
returned to her. Seeing how she had doubted and accused him, he might
have departed for ever, and with every reason for such a course. But
apparently he loved her so devotedly that he was willing to remain and
explain himself. It was no wonder that Bella's heart leaped for joy,
since the cloud, which had for so long overshadowed the sunshine of
love, was about to be dissipated. She almost danced into Ankers' small
garden.

"Mr. Lister is in the sitting-room dear," said that arch-plotter,
pushing her companion into the cottage. "You'll find him there. I have
to go to the church to run over the evening hymns."

Miss Huxham knew that this was a mere excuse, but loved Dora all the
more for making it. Miss Ankers was much too romantic to mar the meeting
by presenting herself as an inconvenient third. Therefore she turned
away laughing, and Bella, anxious to lose no moment of joy, entered the
small sitting-room with a bright, expectant smile. It died away at the
sight of Lister's sombre face.

The young man was seated in an arm-chair, with a newspaper lying on his
knees. But he was not reading, as his eyes were fixed darkly on the door
through which Bella had just entered. For the instant, he did not appear
to be aware of her presence; then he rose gravely and bowed. Even in the
midst of her dismay at this reception, Bella was woman enough to note
how spruce, and trim, and singularly handsome he looked. Certainly his
face was grave and pale, but beyond this she could not see the dying
looks which Dora had so eloquently described. When they came face to
face an embarrassing silence ensued. Bella was the first to speak.

"Are you not pleased to see me, Cyril?" she faltered.

"I am very pleased," he returned gravely, and pushed forward a chair.
"Will you not be seated?"

"Not until you explain why you receive me in this way," she declared
indignantly. "You send for me, and I come at once only to find
displeased looks."

"Our last interview explains my looks, Bella."

"No, it doesn't," she cried, up in arms at once; "I admitted my fault in
suspecting you then, and asked your pardon. You left me without a kiss,
and--and----" She stopped with an angry gesture. "It seems to me that I
am the one who has the right to be displeased."

"No," said Lister, decidedly. "I love you very dearly, as you know;
but----"

"How can I tell that you love me dearly?"

"My desire to meet you again shows that I do. Many a man would have left
you for ever on learning, as I did, your cruel suspicions. You have no
right to be displeased, as you said a moment since. I am the wronged
person, for if you really loved me you would believe nothing against
me."

"I do not; I do not."

"But you did."

"Only for a single moment. Oh!"--Bella uttered a cry of despair--"I am
only a human being, and I saw you--as I thought--entering the house. I
knew that on my account you had quarrelled with my father, so what could
I think but that you had killed him? I don't pretend to be an angel."
She broke off and sat down, pressing her hands hard together, then
looked up with feigned self-control. "We discussed all this before," she
said coldly, "did you invite me here to ask me to defend myself again?"

"No. I asked you here to learn from your own lips that you believe me to
be guiltless."

"I do. I swear I do." Bella rose in her excitement. "And I ask your
pardon for my wicked suspicions."

"Bella!" He sprang forward and caught her hands within his own. "Then
you really and truly love me?"

"If you had gone away," she breathed faintly in his ear, "I should have
died."

Cyril drew her closely to his breast. "My darling," he whispered,
smoothing her hair, "I love you too dearly to leave you. I ask your
pardon for my harsh words. On the face of it, I don't see what you could
do but suspect me. It was unreasonable for me to ask you to do
otherwise. That you believe my mere word, in spite of the strong
evidence against me, shows that you love me as dearly and strongly as I
love you. So far, all that is right. We trust one another."

"Wholly. Entirely. To the death we trust one another."

"That is well." Cyril sat down in the arm-chair, and drew Bella on to
his knees. "Unity is strength. With you by my side I am not afraid."

"Then you have been afraid?" she asked softly.

"Of losing your love--yes. But now I am satisfied on that point, there
is another thing that makes me afraid."

"What is it?"

"I may be accused of this murder. Other people may have seen me, as you
saw me, dear."

"Then it _was_ you?" she gasped.

"No, no! I have explained myself. If necessary, I can put forward an
_alibi_."

"Who was the man then?"

"I can't tell you that." Cyril pushed her away, and rose much agitated.

"Then you know?" Bella stood back from him doubtfully.

"I can't be sure. I think--that is, I fancy--Bella, don't ask me
anything just now. Later I may be able to explain."

"And you will explain?"

"If it be possible. Remember, I said that I _might_ be able to explain,
but of this I cannot be certain."

"I do not understand," sighed the girl, seating herself again. "Cyril,
has this matter anything to do with you?"

"The matter of the murder?"

"Yes. I don't mean to ask if you are guilty, as I know you are not. But
are you connected in any way with the matter?"

"No," he rejoined promptly, "if I were, I should be an accomplice after
the fact. All the same----" He paused, looking paler than ever, and his
face became peaked and haggard. "Don't ask me anything yet," he
murmured.

"I am willing to trust you, dear," said Bella quietly, "but, as you
remarked yourself some time ago, other people----"

He interrupted her. "Other people?"

"Yes. Some one else did see you on that evening."

"The person saw my double," corrected Cyril. "I was in London, as I told
you, and as I can prove. Who is this person?"

"Silas Pence."

"Ah!" Lister's hands clenched. "He hates me because you are to be my
wife. He will go to the police."

"I don't think so," said Bella slowly. "He threatened to go, but as yet
he has held his tongue."

"Why, when he hates me so?"

"I think--I think," said Bella slowly, "that Mr. Pence knows more about
this matter than he chooses to admit."

Cyril uttered an exclamation. "Do you suspect him?"

"Not of the murder," she replied promptly; "he is too weak and timid a
creature to commit a crime. But I know that he was poor; now he is
unexpectedly rich, and we are aware," she added with emphasis, "that one
hundred pounds was stolen from my father's safe on the night of the
murder."

"But surely you do not connect a harmless man, like Pence, with the
crime?"

"I say nothing, because I know nothing, Cyril. But if Mr. Pence is
entirely innocent, why does he not accuse you, whom he hates."

"He has no grounds to go upon, dear."

Bella shook her head. "He thinks that he has," she answered, "as he
believed it was you he saw when he met your double at the boundary
channel. Since he would like to see you in trouble, the very fact that
he delays telling the police shows that his own conscience is not easy."

"It is strange," assented Lister. "However, if he does accuse me, I can
prove an _alibi_."

"But what about your double?"

The young man turned away abruptly to the window. "I can say nothing on
that point at present."

"When will you explain?"

"I can't say; sooner or later." Lister, with his hands in his pockets,
looked out of the window as though to avoid further questioning. This
behaviour puzzled Bella, as she felt sure that Cyril could tell her much
if inclined to do so. But it was odd that he should so decline. She
abruptly reverted to an earlier thought in her mind. "You did not tell
me that you had a negro servant called Durgo."

Lister wheeled sharply. "I have no servant, negro or otherwise," he said
in a decisive tone. "Why do you say that?"

Bella, wondering still more, gave him details, which Cyril heard with a
perplexed frown. He made no comment until she had finished. "You say
that this man recognised my portrait. In that case I can guess"--he did
not finish his sentence, but became paler than ever.



CHAPTER XI

A RECOGNITION


Bella found the interviews with Cyril eminently unsatisfactory. It was
perfectly plain that he entertained strong suspicions regarding the
unknown person whom she termed his double. But even when questioned
point-blank he declined to explain himself. Yet if Lister knew of
someone who resembled him more or less closely he surely could place his
hand on that someone. When he did so the assassin of Captain Huxham
would speedily be found. This being the case it was strange that Cyril
should hesitate, and again and again Bella questioned him bluntly, only
to find him more determined than ever to keep his own counsel. Under
these circumstances it was useless to prolong the conversation, and the
girl left the cottage feeling extremely despondent. It seemed to her
that the problem would never be solved, in spite of the certainty she
entertained that Cyril could solve it if he so wished.

Nor did Bella feel any brighter when she returned to the Manor, for Mrs.
Coppersley chose to take umbrage at her niece's absence. Bella declined
to say where she had been, and dismissed the matter in a few cold words.
Not feeling sure of her ground, Mrs. Coppersley retreated for the time
being, but next day returned to the attack with the evident object of
making the Manor-house too hot for the girl. Bella was strong enough to
quell open mutiny on the part of her aunt, but she could not defend
herself against incessant nagging. Since the death of her brother, Mrs.
Coppersley had become as bold as hitherto she had been meek, and in many
skilful ways contrived to make her niece feel thoroughly uncomfortable.
As Bella had quite enough to bear without being taxed further with these
petty worries she became restive, and on the third day of hostilities
demanded what her aunt meant by behaving so aggressively. Mrs.
Coppersley, better at ambushes than in open warfare, would have shirked
the battle, but Bella forced the quarrel since it was absolutely
necessary to bring matters to a head.

"You never leave me alone, Aunt Rosamund," she complained wearily.

"Because you are a drone," retorted Mrs. Coppersley. "You eat, yet you
do not work. And as St. Paul says----"

"I don't wish to hear what St. Paul says, thank you."

"It would be better if you did. I have your good at heart."

"Nothing of the sort; you merely wish to get rid of me."

Mrs. Coppersley grew vividly red, but did not make any denial. "Why
should I not?" she cried loudly. "You treat me as though I were dirt
under your feet, miss. Who are you to behave like this, I should like to
know?"

"I am my father's daughter," said Bella, very distinctly, "who have been
cheated out of my inheritance."

"I'll make you prove those words," said Mrs. Coppersley, turning from
scarlet to white. "Go and see Mr. Timson in Cade Lane, and you will find
everything has been done to make the will legal."

"I am quite sure of that, Aunt Rosamund, as you are too clever a woman
to risk losing your spoil. But you have cheated me by inducing my father
to disinherit me in your favour."

"I did not! I did not!" Mrs. Coppersley stamped wrathfully. "Your father
borrowed money from me to pay for the farm ten years ago. I lent it on
condition that I inherited Bleacres. I told you this before, and----"

"That will do," interrupted Bella imperiously. "I shall see Mr. Timson,
and learn for certain if what you have told me is correct. Meantime, as
it is quite impossible for me to remain in the house with you, I shall
go and stay with Dora Ankers."

"She won't have you," taunted Mrs. Coppersley.

"I have already arranged to live with her until I am married."

"Then you are going to marry that wastrel?"

"I don't know who you mean."

"Mr. Lister, the man who was so hated by your father."

"Whether I marry Mr. Lister or not is my business," said Bella, drily;
"and so far as I can learn, my father had no reason to hate him. Do you
know why he did so, Aunt Rosamund?"

"No," said Mrs. Coppersley reluctantly, for she would have dearly liked
to put a spoke in Bella's wheel, as the saying is. "Jabez's life before
he came here was not known to me. But I am quite sure that it was shady,
and----"

Bella interrupted again. "Leave the dead alone. You are benefiting by my
father's work, whatever it might have been, and have no call to abuse
him."

"I only got my own money back," said Mrs. Coppersley defiantly; "but if
you leave my house you leave it for ever. I wash my hands of you."

"I am quite content that it should be so," said Bella icily; "but I
can't leave my home penniless. Give me fifty pounds until such time as I
can see Mr. Timson and learn how I stand."

"What?" Mrs. Coppersley became shrill in her anger. "Give you money to
bring lawsuits against me?"

Bella looked at her very directly. "If everything is fair and square, as
you say," she observed severely, "there is no danger of lawsuits. Come,
Aunt Rosamund, I wish to leave Bleacres this afternoon. Give me the
money."

"No!" shouted the older woman, and sat down with folded arms and a
dogged expression. "You get no money from me."

Bella was perplexed. She could not use violence, and her aunt seemed
very determined. For the moment she was nonplussed, and scarcely knew
what to say. But at this moment Henry Vand entered. The conversation had
taken place in the study, and Vand came into the room from the hall.
Apparently he had just entered the house. In fact, he explained as much,
and also confessed calmly that he had listened.

"I heard your voices raised," he said quietly, "and knowing Rosamund's
violent temper I waited, so that I might interfere on your behalf, Miss
Huxham."

"I want no interference," said Mrs. Coppersley jealousy. "I can manage
my own business."

"That may be," said the young man drily, "but you seem to forget that I
am your husband."

"Husband!" echoed Bella amazed.

"Yes," said Vand; while Mrs. Coppersley--or rather Mrs. Vand--looked
sullenly at the floor. "We have been married for three months,
secretly."

"Why secretly?" asked Bella, still wondering at the news.

"That's our business," said her aunt insolently.

"Pardon me, Rosamund," said Vand, who was as polite as his wife was
rude. "It is only fair that Miss Huxham should understand the position."

"Have it your own way, then," muttered Mrs. Vand, tossing her head,
"only make her understand that I have had enough of her airs and graces.
She can clear out of our house as soon as she likes, and leave us to
ourselves."

"She is willing to do that for fifty pounds," said Vand politely.

"I shan't give her that amount."

"You are quite right, Rosamund; you will give Miss Huxham a cheque for
one hundred pounds."

"Are you out of your senses?" raged his wife, starting to her feet.

"I don't want so much as that, Mr. Vand," said Bella, pleased to think
that her new uncle by marriage was taking her part.

"It is a mere question of justice, Miss Huxham. My wife has inherited
the Solitary Farm, so it is only right that she should recompense you."

"Mind," said Bella, suddenly, and thinking that this might be a bribe,
"if I find anything wrong when I see Mr. Timson I shall bring an
action."

"I told you so, Henry," remarked Mrs. Vand triumphantly.

"I have seen the will and the lawyer," said the man quietly, "and
everything is correct. There is no flaw. With regard to my marriage,
Miss Huxham, I agreed to a secret ceremony since your late father was
opposed to my courtship of your aunt. But the time has now come to
proclaim the marriage, so I have brought my luggage here to-day."

"And that is why my aunt wishes me to leave the house," said Bella, with
a curling lip.

Vand, who was much the most self-controlled of the trio, looked at her
very straightly. "You can come or stay as you please," he said gently.
"I am quite willing that you should remain."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Vand furiously, "so you want her to remain. Perhaps you
are in love with her; perhaps you would like to----"

"Aunt," interrupted Bella, blushing with annoyance, "how can you talk so
foolishly. Mr. Vand loves you, or he would not have married you. As for
me, I am going away to Dora's as soon as you give me the money."

"Not one penny."

Vand gazed steadily at the furious woman. In spite of his club foot he
was certainly handsome, and looked as refined as his wife looked coarse.
He must have had good blood in his veins in spite of his lowly birth,
and, without appearing to do so, managed, on this occasion at least, to
dominate the more animal nature. Bella neither liked nor disliked the
cripple, but she could not help admiring the skilful way in which he
mastered her aunt. Perhaps he magnetised her with his large blue eyes or
the calmness of his manner may have had a soothing effect. But, whatever
was the cause, Mrs. Vand winced under his silent gaze and lowered her
voice, as she consented unexpectedly to do what he suggested. "I shall
give Bella a cheque for one hundred pounds on condition that she does
not trouble me again," she grumbled, going to the desk with an
affectation of generosity.

"You seem to hate me so much that there is no need for me to see you any
more," said Bella bitterly.

"But I warn you that if the will is not right I shall take steps to
recover the farm, which I look upon as my property."

"It is not your property, it is mine; and Jabez's income also," said
Mrs. Vand, looking up from the cheque she was writing, "and if you don't
promise to leave things alone you shan't have the money."

"I refuse to sell my heritage for a mess of potage," cried Bella,
impetuously.

"There is no need that you should," interposed Vand gently. "Rosamund,
sign the cheque."

Mrs. Vand scowled, hesitated, but finally did as she was ordered,
throwing it on the floor afterwards in silent fury. Her husband picked
it up and handed it, with a bow, to Bella.

"There you are, Miss Huxham," he said with marked courtesy. "I hope you
will be happy at Miss Ankers'. So far as I am aware, everything has been
left to my wife, but later I shall endeavour to make some arrangement
with Rosamund by which you will be benefited. And I beg of you not to
leave this house in anger."

"I shall make no arrangement, now or hereafter," cried Mrs. Vand. "Bella
has received all that she will receive. For my part, I'm glad to see the
back of her," and with a red face and a scornful look she flounced out
of the room, much to the girl's relief.

"I wonder why my aunt hates me so?" she asked Vand with a piteous look.
"I have never done her any harm."

"She only gives way to her temper, Miss Huxham," said the cripple
soothingly, "and doesn't mean half she says. Don't trouble any more
about Rosamund. I am your friend. You will shake hands, will you not?"

Bella did not hesitate to take the hand extended to her, as she admitted
silently that if Vand had not interposed she would not have received the
money. Besides, her new relative throughout had proved himself to be so
courteous and thoughtful that she had no reason to mistrust him.
Howsoever Mrs. Vand had become possessed of the farm and income of the
late Captain Huxham, her husband was at least innocent. "But I do not
bind myself to take no steps if necessary to recover Bleacres," Bella
warned the young man, as she shook his hand. "You understand that?"

"Perfectly; and indeed, if Rosamund has come wrongfully by the estate
she must surrender it. Still, Miss Huxham, you cannot expect me to doubt
my own wife, especially as Rosamund has been good enough to marry a
cripple such as I am."

"I think, without flattery to you," said Bella, walking towards the
door, "that my aunt has got the best of the bargain," and the last thing
she saw when throwing a glance over her shoulder was Vand blushing
crimson at the unusual compliment. But Bella meant what she said, as
even ease and wealth were hardly purchased by marriage with a furious,
coarse-natured woman such as Rosamund Vand. The girl wondered how she
had ever come to have such an aunt; she might have wondered also how she
ever came to have a parent so common and ruffianly as her late father
had been.

That same afternoon Bella packed all her belongings and had them carried
by Tunks to the hither side of the boundary channel. There they were
placed on a hand-cart and wheeled to Miss Ankers' cottage. Mrs. Vand
discreetly kept out of the way when Bella departed, or perhaps her
husband insisted that she should not drive forth the girl with insults,
as she certainly would have done. At all events she remained invisible,
and it was Vand alone who said good-bye to the homeless girl. Bella felt
a pang when she looked back along the narrow path of the corn-fields to
see a stranger standing in the doorway. She was certain of one
thing--that Mrs. Vand had found a master, and that for all his quietness
and polite ways her husband would not allow her to have her own way as
she had hitherto done. Doubtless her aunt had deemed Vand would be as
harmless and innocuous as the scarlet-coated scarecrow, of which Bella
caught a last glimpse; but there was no doubt in the girl's mind as to
which of the happy pair would rule the house. Mrs. Vand's coarse
bullying could do very little against the quiet persistence of a polite
man, who was determined to govern. So far as Bella knew from Huxham, her
aunt had ruled her first husband with a rod of iron; now she was about
to be governed in her turn. "And much good may it do her," thought
Bella, who was much too human to be forgiving.

Dora was delighted that her best friend should board with her, and
received Miss Huxham with open arms. After tea, the two arranged Bella's
bedroom to their satisfaction and unpacked her boxes. Then they had a
talk as to the advisability of going to Cade Lane for the purpose of
questioning Mr. Timson regarding the will. "You should attend to the
matter at once, my dear," said Dora, who was extremely practical for all
her doll-like looks. "Lose no time, for I am certain that your aunt has
employed some trickery in getting possession of the property."

"I shall consult Cyril first," said Bella wearily, and little more was
said on that night, as the girl was quite worn out with the events of
the day.

Next morning Miss Ankers had to teach in school as usual, and Bella was
left to her own devices. She assisted Dora's small servant to tidy the
rooms and make the beds, after which she put on her hat and walked into
the village to make some small purchases. Also--and this was by Dora's
advice--she saw the manager of the small local bank, and opened an
account with him by paying in her aunt's cheque for one hundred pounds.
The manager courteously promised to send the cheque to London, and to
notify Bella when it was honoured. Miss Huxham was somewhat relieved at
this promise, as she did not trust her aunt, and knew that she was quite
capable of stopping the cheque, especially when she had not given it
with a good grace. But Bella need not have troubled her head; the cheque
was duly honoured, as Mr. Henry Vand saw to that.

Having dispatched her business, Bella strolled out of the village, and
found herself on the common. This was a vast expanse overgrown with
gorse and broom, and with a miniature forest of saplings springing from
an undergrowth of fern and bracken. Through this fairy wood, as some
people called it, narrow paths were cut, so that one could wander for
hours in and out of a kind of natural labyrinth. The saplings were
scarcely six feet in height, so that an extra tall man could look over
the green sea of vegetation. Bella loved this place, as she had often
sauntered therein with Dora, and indeed with Cyril also. The wonderful
tangle of fern and bracken and many-hued grasses, the brilliant
colouring of flowers, and the fecund blossoming of the golden broom,
made the common a home of delight. Bella walked meditatively through the
cool green paths, and emerged at intervals on to wide, waste spaces
where the purple heather grew thickly. Butterflies floated through the
still air, bumble-bees visited the flowers, and the birds sang as in an
enchanted garden. Bella stopped to hear the silvery carol of an
invisible lark, for the bird, raining its music lavishly from the sky,
was quite hidden by the dazzle of sunshine. As she paused, she felt a
light hand touch her shoulder, and turned with a glad cry.

"Oh, Cyril, how you startled me!" she said, pleased with the unexpected
encounter. "I am so glad to see you, dear. Have you heard----"

Lister threw himself contentedly on the fragrant heather, and drew Bella
down by his side. "I have heard, and I am very angry," he said hotly.
"Dear, what does your aunt mean by treating you in this way?"

Bella shrugged her shoulders. "I expect she wants the Manor to herself
now that she is married. Who told you?"

"Miss Ankers. I met her coming out of school. She told me that you were
returning to dinner, so I came to fetch you. I guessed that I should
find you here, and so----" he waved his hand lazily.

"I am glad to see you," said Bella again, "but you look ill, dear."

Cyril shrugged his shoulders. "I am worried about this mysterious double
of mine," he muttered, and lying full length on the burnt grass he
tilted his hat over his eyes. He did indeed look ill, for his face was
very pale and lines appeared on his forehead which should not have been
there at his age. In some extraordinary way he seemed to have aged, as
it were, in a moment. "I am very much worried," he sighed; "everything
is going wrong. Now this abominable treatment to which your aunt has
subjected you to makes things doubly difficult for me."

"In what way?" asked Bella, sitting up and hugging her knees.

"I don't know how to move," explained the young man. "While you were
safe at Bleacres with your aunt I could wait. But now that you have no
home, I should like to marry you at once." He sighed again. "But that is
impossible, dear, owing to circumstances."

"You need not trouble about me," said Bella promptly. "I have got one
hundred pounds, and I am quite glad to be away from Aunt Rosamund's
incessant nagging. I can live with Dora and pay my way until such time
as you can marry me."

"Heaven only knows when I can marry you!" groaned Cyril dismally.

"I can tell you," said Bella, removing the hat from his anxious face in
order to look into his eyes; "as soon as you are frank with me."

"I have come to be frank with you," said Lister reluctantly.

"It sounds like it."

"My dear"--he sat up to speak more forcibly--"when I am frank you will
be as unhappy as I am."

"What do you mean?"

"Mean? I scarcely know what I mean--that is, I scarcely dare put my
thoughts into words. Of course, I may be wrong. I sincerely trust that I
am wrong. All the same, there is no denying that I have grave grounds
for my belief."

"What belief?" Bella asked the question in scared tones, as Cyril looked
so wretched.

He did not reply at once, but moved restlessly about, evidently bracing
himself to speak plainly. Even when he did open his mouth he was
evasive. "I have an idea that my double--that is, the man who was
mistaken by you and Pence for me on that night--might be--oh!"--he
rested his head between his hands with a groan--"I dare not tell you who
he might be."

"You have some idea?"

"Yes; I wish I hadn't."

"Is it anyone I know?"

"No."

"Is it----"

"Oh, my dear! don't ask questions which I dare not answer."

"You must answer," said Bella firmly. "I must share your griefs as well
as sorrows. Tell me everything. Go on, Cyril, tell me quickly!"

"Hush!" Lister started to his feet with an alarmed look. "What's that? I
swear that I heard a rustling in the underwood. Someone is listening."
He glanced around anxiously, looking pale and nervous. Bella rose at the
same time and caught his hand to give him courage, although she could
not understand what he meant by his words and looks.

But the two had not to wait long. A distant crackling was heard, and in
a moment or so a tall bulky man stepped from out the underwood.

"Durgo!" breathed Bella, recognising the negro.

He ran towards Cyril and dropped on his knees. "My master!" he cried;
then leaped up. "You are not Edwin Lister," he growled with widely open
eyes.

"My father! my father!" groaned Cyril in despair. "I knew it; I was
certain of it. Now I know the worst," and he sat down to hide his face.



CHAPTER XII

CYRIL'S STORY


Bella looked from the astonished Durgo to the despairing Lister, and
wondered what the scene meant. That the matter at issue was serious
Cyril's demeanour gave her fully to understand. But what the matter
might be she could not guess, save that it had something to do with this
mysterious double who had caused all the commotion. The negro appeared
to be as puzzled as herself, and stared at the seated figure with an
open mouth, scratching his woolly head meanwhile.

"Not my master, but like my master," he muttered, staring hard, and
speaking in his usual guttural manner but not in the usual negro
dialect, so rude and clipped. "If you're not my master, Edwin Lister,"
he added, addressing himself to the young man, "who are you, sir?"

"Answer him, Cyril," said Bella, seeing that her lover did not speak.
"Did you ever see this man before?"

Lister looked up, pale and hollow-eyed. "Never," he said briefly.

"Did you ever meet Mr. Lister before?" Bella asked the negro.

"Lister! Lister!" gasped Durgo, retreating a step. "Is this young
gentleman called Lister?"

"Cyril Lister," said that young man.

"But my master had no son."

"I am his son. Edwin Lister is my father."

"Oh!" A sudden light broke over Bella's face, and she clapped her hands.
"And your double?"

"Yes," said Cyril in low tones; "now you can guess how afraid I was to
lay my suspicions before you."

"No," she said boldly. "Why you should be afraid I cannot guess."

Cyril rose slowly, laid two heavy hands on her shoulders and looked
directly into her eyes. "My dear," he said in a hard voice, "can you not
understand that this double was my father, who resembled me so closely
that this man"--he jerked back his head towards the still staring
negro--"mistook me for him."

"Well," said Bella, inquiringly.

"Well," repeated Lister, impatiently, "You thought that I had committed
the murder, but now that you know the truth----"

Bella shook herself free and grew pale. "It was your father who struck
the blow!" she said in a low, horrified tone.

"Yes. And if my father killed your father, how can we marry?"

There was a dead silence, and the unfortunate lovers looked at one
another with white faces. If Cyril's surmise was true, a barrier had
indeed been placed between them, and for the moment they saw no chance
of over-leaping it. Quite oblivious of Durgo, they stared until the
black man grew impatient of the silence.

"What does this mean?" he growled, looking from one to the other. "I
come to find my master, Edwin Lister, and he is not here. But I find one
who calls himself the son of my master, Edwin Lister." He peered into
Cyril's face. "My master never told me that he had a son, and yet"--he
looked again--"I believe that you are my master's son."

"Am I so like my father, then?" asked Cyril smiling faintly.

Durgo struck his huge hands together. "The same in every way," he said
firmly; "figure and face and colour and walk. Even the clothes"--he ran
his eyes over Cyril's grey suit--"yes, even the clothes."

"Oh!" It was Bella who spoke. "Cyril, do you remember that the grey
clothes worn by your father on that night aided me to make a mistake?"

Lister nodded. "That was a suit of mine," he said, "made for me. When my
father came home from Nigeria he had no ready-made clothes, so he
borrowed that suit until he could get fitted out in civilised garments.
Well?"

Cyril addressed this last question to Durgo, who had started violently
when Nigeria was mentioned.

"I am a Nigerian," he said in reply to the inquiry. "I was with your
father at Ogrude, on the Cross River, for years. I came with him to
London three months ago; but my master never said that he had a son."

"He had his reasons for keeping silence, no doubt," said Cyril quietly;
"but I never saw you, Durgo, nor did I hear my father mention you."

"Yet you know my name," said the man suspiciously.

"Only because Miss Huxham mentioned it when you appeared just now."

"And I mentioned it to you before," Bella reminded him. "I told you how
Durgo entered the Bleacres drawing-room and took your photograph, frame
and all, from his pocket, and handed it to the girl."

"I thought that it was one of my master, Edwin Lister, taken when he was
younger," he said simply, "but I see----"

"Yes! yes!" broke in Cyril impatiently. "I know what you see. I am a
younger edition of my father."

"Yes! yes! yes!" cried Durgo, staring again. "Never did I see two so
alike."

Bella glanced at the photograph and slipped it into her pocket. Her face
was pearly white, and she dreaded the full explanation of what was to
come. "We are still perplexed," she said quietly, and controlling
herself with great difficulty. "You know nothing of Durgo, and he knows
nothing of you. I think it will be best for us to sit down and discuss
the matter quietly."

"I agree with you," said Cyril, dropping down promptly. "Durgo, tell
your story and then I shall tell mine. When we each know what the other
knows, we may be able to arrive at some conclusion."

"Regarding the murder," said Bella. "Perhaps," she added hopefully,
"perhaps your father did not kill mine after all."

"I fear he did," said Cyril heavily. "Remember what was said at the
inquest about the West African knife with which the crime was committed.
Nigeria is in West Africa."

"My master had no knife of that sort," said Durgo bluntly.

"Have you a description of the knife," asked Bella.

"I read it in the newspapers," said the negro. "When you told me of your
father's death, I read the papers."

"You can read."

"I can read and write and do many things," said Durgo quietly. "I have a
black skin, but my education has not been neglected."

"So I should think from the way in which you speak English."

"The missionaries taught me much, and Edwin Lister taught me the rest."

Cyril frowned. "I notice that you do not say 'Mister' when you speak of
my father," he said pointedly.

"I am a chief and the son of a chief," said Durgo proudly. "And for love
of your father, who saved my life, I left my tribe and came with him. I
called him master as a title of honour because I loved him, so why
should I not say Edwin Lister?"

Cyril, with the white man's inborn superiority, objected to this
familiarity, and, but that Durgo's services were necessary to the
unravelling of the mystery, would have pointed this out. As it was, he
simply nodded and asked the black man to be more explicit. Durgo sat
down and complied without any argument. His manners for a negro were
singularly good.

"There is not much to tell," he said in his guttural tones. "Edwin
Lister was my friend and a trader in Nigeria, my country. He saved my
life from a lion and won my gratitude. I helped him with his trading and
left my tribe to do so. We heard of a treasure in the wilds of my
country, and wished to fit out an expedition to find that treasure.
Edwin Lister did, that is, and I was glad to do as he desired. But we
required money, and it could not be had. Edwin Lister then thought of an
old friend of his, Captain Huxham, who had also been in Nigeria----"

"My father!" cried Bella, startled.

"Yes, missy," said Durgo, bending his head towards her with grave
respect. "He was well known in Nigeria many years ago, as he had a river
steamer there. Edwin Lister then came to London with me, and afterwards
came to see Captain Huxham here. That was some weeks ago, and he
promised me to return. As he did not, I came down and then heard of the
murder of Captain Huxham. But where is my master, Edwin Lister?" and
Durgo looked from one to the other.

"Have you not seen him since?" asked Cyril anxiously.

"No." Durgo shook his head profoundly.

"What do you think has become of him?" asked Cyril, still white.

Durgo reflected. "I think," he said gravely, "that Edwin Lister killed
Captain Huxham and ran away. Soon he will write to me and I can join
him. Then we can return to Nigeria and hunt for the treasure."

"But why should Mr. Lister kill my father?" asked Bella.

"He wanted money," said Durgo simply. "If Captain Huxham would not give
the money, Edwin Lister would kill him. It is quite simple. But I wish,"
added the negro wisely, "that my master had let me kill Captain Huxham."

"Would you have done so?" cried Bella, horrified.

Durgo looked up in surprise. "Oh, yes, if Edwin Lister had wished it."

Cyril and the girl looked at one another. Durgo was still a savage, in
spite of the veneer of education and civilisation, which the
missionaries had given him. He would have killed Huxham as easily as he
would have killed a fly. Perhaps also Edwin Lister had become
de-civilised, and had acted in the same way.

"But what has become of my father?" asked Cyril.

"You do not know?" inquired Durgo politely.

Cyril shook his head. "I do not know," he said gloomily, "unless, as you
say, he murdered Huxham to get money, and then ran away into hiding. He
may be on the Continent--in Paris."

"In that case, I shall hear from him soon," said Durgo, rising. "When I
do, I shall let you know."

"Come back," said Cyril, in an even tone, as Durgo was about to stalk
away, "it is necessary for me to have your assistance."

"In what?" asked Durgo, looking over his huge shoulder.

"In finding my father."

"But if he is in Paris, I can go there."

"Have you the money?"

"I have plenty of money," said the negro with gravity. "I have my own
money, so it is easy for me to search for my master."

"He may not be in Paris," said Cyril hastily; "that is only a guess on
my part. Before searching for him over there, it will be best for you to
assist me in looking for him in this district. He may be in hiding."

Durgo pondered, then returned to lie full-length on the grass. "I think
that my master would have run further away after killing Captain
Huxham," he said reflectively; "he is very cunning, is Edwin Lister.
And, of course, he would have the money."

"What money?" asked Bella impatiently.

"The money for which he killed Captain Huxham."

"The sum stolen was only worth a trifle: one hundred pounds is the
amount."

"Oh!" Durgo opened his eyes. "And my master wanted five thousand. It is
a very difficult expedition right into the centre of Nigeria, and one
hundred pounds is of no use. I could have lent that amount to Edwin
Lister myself. Hai!"--he nursed his chin in his hand--"what you say,
missy, makes me think that my master is waiting here to get the money
for which he killed Captain Huxham."

"My aunt, Mrs. Rosamund Vand, has both the money and the estate."

"Then Edwin Lister will wait and see her," said Durgo gravely. "I must
learn where he is hiding," and he half rose again.

Cyril put out one slim hand to prevent him. "Wait for one moment," he
said quietly, "you must hear what I have to say, and then we can arrange
what to do. Durgo, you loved my father?"

The negro nodded. "I would rather lose my life than see him dead."

Cyril looked at him curiously. "Strange! I did not think that my father
was a man to inspire such devotion."

"He saved my life," said Durgo impressively.

"Humph!" murmured Cyril under his breath. "I'll be bound if he did so,
that he took back the full value of his heroic act."

Bella looked pained. "Cyril, why do you speak in that tone of your
father?"

"Because I know him better than Durgo," he retorted. "My father is
a--but that is neither here nor there"--he waved his hand impatiently.
"Durgo, I am about to speak plainly. I see that you love my father, so I
don't wish to hurt your feelings. All the same, I must tell you
something about my father which you will not like."

"Let me hear," said Durgo frowning, "and I can judge. But you are his
son----"

"And therefore should speak well of him," ended Cyril bitterly. "I wish
I could, but I have suffered too much at my father's hands to have any
love for him. However, I shall be as brief as possible."

"And as kind," said Durgo meaningly.

"And as kind as I can be," retorted the young man cynically; "although my
father will be the first to laugh at the idea of my talking kindly of
him."

"He loves you," said the negro rebukingly.

"Did he ever tell you that?"

"No. He never mentioned your existence."

"Judge then how he loves me," said Cyril coolly.

"However, in spite of all, Edwin Lister is my father, so I shall speak
as respectfully of him as I possibly can." He threw away a blade of
grass he was chewing, and laughed ironically. Bella looked pained.

"Cyril! Cyril! your own father!"

"Quite so, dear. He is my father. I can say no more, and no less. As to
what I know relative to this mystery, you shall hear."

The sky had clouded over, and the sun no longer shone. The lark was
silent, and a chill wind seemed to breathe over the golden broom and the
yellow blossoms of the gorze. Bella shivered, as the change of
temperature seemed to suit with cruel exactitude the cynical tones of
her lover. She had never heard him talk in this way before, but then she
knew very little about him, and absolutely nothing of his past life. Now
she was about to hear it, and, from the hard expression of his face, she
judged that the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one. As for
Durgo, he waited silently, and nothing could be read of his feelings
from the dark mask of his face. Edwin Lister had saved his life, and no
matter what was said, Durgo did not intend to change his opinion of his
master, as the finest man in the wide world.

"My mother died when I was young," said Cyril, after a pause, "and I was
brought up by a maiden aunt. My father I rarely saw, as he was always
travelling round the world in search of a fortune which he never seemed
to find. Sometimes he returned to England, and treated me with careless
affection, but I saw very little of him. But for my aunt I should have
been utterly neglected. Bless her! she is dead," and he raised his hat.

"Poor Cyril!" murmured Bella affected by this picture of a dull
childhood.

"Thank you, dear!" he said, taking her hand. "My aunt did everything for
me out of her small income, and I don't think my father gave one penny
towards my education."

"But surely----"

"No, dear!" said Cyril, interrupting her; "my aunt told me, on her
death-bed, that she had done everything, so you can see that my father
was only one to me in name."

"He was working to make your fortune in Nigeria," said Durgo quickly.

"So he said when he came home, but I have not seen that fortune yet.
Well, to continue; my aunt sent me to a public school, and afterwards to
Oxford. I then became a journalist, and my aunt died, leaving me a
trifle of money on which to live. My father came to London and borrowed
that money--the principal of my small income--for one of his wild
schemes, and I was left without one penny."

"It was your duty to assist your father," said Durgo uneasily.

"'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,'" quoted Cyril, with a side
glance--"the missionaries have taught you well, Durgo."

"I am a Christian," said the negro proudly.

"So am I, in a way. However, I must get on with my confession. I saw my
father at various intervals, and meanwhile earned my bread by reporting
and writing articles, and all the rest of it. My father appeared at
intervals, like the rolling stone which gathers no moss, and always
borrowed. I did not grudge him the money, and he always said that he was
about to make his fortune, which he never did."

"He will make it this time," said Durgo vigorously; "the treasure is
certainly hidden in the Hinterland of Nigeria, and when we reach it----"

"Yes, when!" scoffed Cyril. "I don't believe in my father's schemes, I
tell you. The last time he came home was five months ago."

"With me," said Durgo gravely; "but I remained near the docks, and my
master, Edwin Lister, went to the grand part of the town, coming down to
see me when he required my services."

Cyril nodded. "That sounds like my father," he said, with a shrug;
"however, on this occasion he told me that he intended to hunt for
buried treasure in Nigeria, and wanted money. He did not mention Captain
Huxham, so I expect that he intended to keep that part of his business
secret. But"--Cyril hesitated--"well, my father--that is, he--he--never
mind," he broke off abruptly, "I can't tell you just now. But he wanted
the sum of one thousand pounds, which I tried to get for him."

"Oh, Cyril! was that the money you mentioned?" asked Bella in dismay.

"Yes. The sum for which you thought I had killed your father," said
Cyril, nodding; then seeing that she looked pained, he hastily added,
"Never mind, dear, that is all over, and we understand one another
thoroughly. I went to Paris, as you know, to get the money. When I
returned I heard of the murder, and when I called at my father's
lodgings in the West End could learn nothing of his whereabouts. When
you mentioned the double, Bella, it was forced on my mind that my father
must have been that person. But, as I could see no connection between my
father and Captain Huxham, I refused to believe this. However, from what
Durgo says, there seems to be no doubt but that my father did come by
stealth to the Manor on that night, with the idea of getting the loan of
money. Perhaps he and Captain Huxham quarreled, but it seems clear that
my father did commit the murder with that sacrificial knife, since it
came, as he did, from Nigeria."

"I never saw that knife," said Durgo abruptly.

"You did not see many things," said Cyril, rising, for he felt somewhat
cramped. "My father was probably as secretive with you as he was with
me. You are well educated, Durgo, and have your wits about you. Ask
yourself if it is possible for two men to have come, on this particular
occasion, from Nigeria, and----"

"Two did come," interrupted the negro--"myself and my master."

"Quite so; but if you are innocent, my father must be guilty."

Durgo shrugged his great shoulders. "For myself I think very little of
killing anyone," said he gruffly, "but you white men think differently,
so you should not believe your father guilty, unless----"

"Oh!" Cyril clenched his hand and grew pale. "Do you not think that I
would give the world to believe him innocent? I love Miss Huxham, and
this murder by my father places a barrier between us. If you knew
all"--here Cyril broke off hastily, as he remembered that he was
speaking to a black man. Already he regretted that he had said so much,
but he had been carried away by the tide of his emotion. "The matter
stands like this," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "My father
has killed Captain Huxham, and has disappeared with one hundred pounds."

"But I thought that Mr. Pence----" began Bella, only to be interrupted.

"He is innocent," said Cyril hastily. "On the face of it, he is
innocent. I go by the evidence of the knife from Nigeria, where Pence
has never been, and by the fact that you saw my father, whom you mistook
for me, enter the Manor about the time the crime was committed."

"I dare say you are right," said Bella vaguely, and regretted that she
had so hastily condemned the preacher. After all, the truth of the
legacy left by his aunt was not a fiction. "But what will you do now?"

"I ask the same question," remarked Durgo, sharply. "We are no nearer
the truth than we have been."

Cyril looked in astonishment at the negro who spoke such excellent
English, and so much to the point. Durgo, undoubtedly, in intellect was
equal to, if not superior to, many Englishmen, and Lister saw in him a
helpful coadjutor in solving the mystery. "We must work together to
learn the whereabouts of my father," he said wearily, passing his hand
across his forehead. "It will be necessary to get him out of the
country, if what we believe is correct. But it may be, that my father
has crossed the Channel."

"If that is so, he will write to me," commented the negro; he paused,
and then asked abruptly, "If you learn that your father is guilty?"

"I shall do my best to get him away from England. Why do you ask?"

Durgo turned away, after a piercing glance. "I thought, from what you
hinted, that you would not be sorry to see your father hanged."

"Don't talk rubbish, man," said Lister sharply. "My father is my father,
when all is said and done. I only trust that we are mistaken, and that
he is not guilty of this brutal crime."

Durgo shrugged his massive shoulders. "As to that, I care very little.
From what I have heard of Captain Huxham in my own country, he was not a
good man. He is better out of the world than in it."

Bella grew crimson. "You speak of my father," she said angrily.

The man bowed politely. "I ask your pardon, missy!" Then he turned to
Cyril ceremoniously. "I am stopping at 'The Chequers Inn,' at Marshely,"
he informed him; "so if you will call there we can speak about this
matter. Women should have nothing to do with such affairs. They are for
men."

Lister frowned, as he did not approve of the superior way in which the
negro talked. However, Durgo gave him no chance of making a remark, but
swung off with a noiseless jungle step. Cyril watched him pass out of
sight, and confessed that the man puzzled him. In spite of his barbaric
origin and black skin and rough dress, Durgo spoke and acted like a
gentleman, though he certainly had been somewhat rude regarding the
feminine sex. "Yet I like him," commented Cyril half to himself; "he
seems to be a square chap, and to have brains. He is not the usual
Christy minstrel of Africa. Humph! After all, I dare say that if you
scratched him you would find the savage. His devotion to my father does
him credit. I wonder"--here he was interrupted by a low sob at his
elbow, and turned to find Bella in tears. "My dearest, what is the
matter?" he asked in dismay.

"Can you ask?" she moaned despairingly. "If what you think is true, we
must part for ever."

"Don't look at the worst, but hope for the best," he entreated; "we
can't be sure that my father is guilty!"

"You contradict yourself," she said, wiping her eyes.

"I wish I could; I am trying to think that my father is innocent. But I
do not know. My father has been my evil genius all my life."

A thought occurred to Bella. "Why did your father require one thousand
pounds?"

Cyril looked at her sideways. "I did not like to speak out before
Durgo," he said hesitatingly, "but the fact is, my father forged a
cheque for that sum."



CHAPTER XIII

MRS. TUNKS' DISCOVERY


So far it appeared extremely probable that Edwin Lister was the assassin
of Captain Huxham. From the evidence of her own eyes, Bella knew that
Cyril's father had called to see the old sailor, and that she had not
seen him depart was owing to the fact of the drugging. By putting
laudanum in the girl's tea Huxham had precipitated his own death, since
Bella, with her wits about her, might have made a third at the
interview, and so the blow would not have been struck. Neither Bella nor
Cyril thought that Edwin Lister had come to the Manor intending to
murder Huxham, although it certainly seemed strange that the former
should have carried with him the Nigerian knife with which the crime had
been committed. But howsoever this particular point might be explained,
it was probable that the tragedy was the outcome of a sudden quarrel.

Edwin Lister had profited but little by his crime, since the sum of one
hundred pounds was all that he had been able to find in the safe.
Certainly many papers had been carried away, but there was nothing to
show that these were of value, save the fact that they had been thieved.
If Edwin Lister could only be found, an explanation might be
forthcoming; but he seemed to have vanished completely. It was not
improbable that he had walked to Tarhaven, some miles away, to escape on
a steamer to the Continent; but if this was the case it was strange that
he had not communicated with his savage friend. Durgo was a man upon
whom Edwin Lister could rely entirely, setting aside the fact that Durgo
was needed to guide the expedition into the Hinterland of Nigeria, where
the treasure was concealed. It was now some weeks since the death and
burial of the skipper, but as yet Edwin Lister had given no sign of his
existence. And until he did so, there was no chance of solving the
mystery.

True to his promise, Cyril called at "The Chequers Inn" to see Durgo,
and found that the negro was looked upon as a royal guest. The lean
landlady believed him to be an African prince, on a secret mission to
England concerning the missionary question. She was right in one way,
for Durgo undoubtedly was a chief, and the son of a chief; but it was
questionable if he was the friend of the missionaries. However--as Cyril
found--he made this excuse for his presence in Marshely, and Mrs. Giles,
the landlady, a red-hot fanatic, was delighted that her house should be
so honoured. Also Durgo paid largely for the sitting-room and bedroom
which he occupied.

Cyril was amazed when he called one evening, to see this same
sitting-room, as he saw evidence of great luxury in the articles brought
by the negro to decorate the somewhat bare apartment. The furniture of
the parlour--as Mrs. Giles called it--was plain and cheap, but there
were evidences that it was occupied by a wealthy guest. Indian
coverlets, gorgeously embroidered, adorned the chairs; there were
splendid wild-beast skins on the floor, and on the side-tables appeared
several silver vases rudely but skilfully wrought. Cyril noted a bronze
incense-burner in which pastilles smouldered, several small golden
images of ugly tribal gods, some beautifully-made spears and war-clubs,
brightly-hued feathers, curious shells, and photographs of native towns
and their inhabitants. Why Durgo should travel with such a collection of
rubbish was not clear; but probably he did so, that he might be
surrounded by memorials of his sunny country in the land of fogs and
greyness.

Durgo himself was a surprise, as he received Cyril in a well-made
smoking suit, and, quite in the conventional manner, offered him
cigarettes of a good brand and the orthodox whiskey and soda. "Or
champagne if you prefer it," said Durgo, laying his black hand on the
old-fashioned bell-rope.

"Coffee for me," said Lister, throwing himself into a comfortable
arm-chair, and accepting a cigarette. "Do you know, Durgo, that you are
something of a puzzle to me?"

The negro rang the bell, gave an order for coffee to Mrs. Giles, who
entered, and when she had retired turned to his guest. "How so?" he
asked.

"Your very good English, the adornments of this room, your present
dress--I did not look for such things in a--a----" Cyril hesitated.

"In an African negro," finished Durgo, sitting down, with a grave smile.

"Well, yes. People of your colour," added Cyril, with the covert
insolence of the white towards the black, "don't usually----"

Durgo raised one large hand. "I know: don't proceed," he said with
suppressed anger; "you think we are barbarians."

"Well, you are, as a rule."

"I am the exception to this rule." Durgo paused, and his eyes wandered
to some photographs over the mantel-piece. "I told you that the
missionaries educated me," he continued, "but if you look at those
photographs, you might learn who was my real Alma Mater."

"Alma Mater," repeated Cyril, rising to approach the mantel-piece; "why,
these are University photographs."

"Oxford. I was at Oxford some years ago."

"You?" Cyril looked at the groups of boating-men, cricketers, football
players, and wondered. He wondered still more at a portrait of Durgo in
a Master of Arts gown. "You!" said Cyril, completely surprised.

"Yes. Why not? My father was a great chief--a king, as you might say.
But it was Edwin Lister who first fired my ambition to learn the lore of
the white men, so that I might civilise my tribe. He induced my father
to give me much money, and took me to England himself many years ago. I
was at school, and at Oxford until I took my degree. Then I returned to
my tribe in Nigeria--in Southern Nigeria--and as my father was dead I
attempted to teach my countrymen and subjects what I had learned. Your
father helped me, and it was then that he saved my life when a lion
attacked me. I could do nothing, however," continued the negro bitterly,
"as my countrymen were too much under the sway of the fetish priests.
These raised an outcry against me, and nominating a cousin of mine as
chief, drove me and your father away. We only escaped death by an
accident, but I managed to bring some treasure with me, and came with
your father to England."

"And now I suppose you want to find this treasure you spoke of, and
regain your chiefdom," said Cyril, interested in this strange story.

Durgo fingered a cigarette carefully, and lighted the same. "There is no
treasure," he remarked quietly.

"But you said----"

"I know I did, when Miss Huxham was present. Women, as I say, should
know nothing or hear nothing of these things. To you I speak plainly, as
you are the son of my master, and so are entitled to my regard and
trust. I came here with your father," added Durgo slowly, "to get money
from Huxham, so that we both might buy guns and swords and rifles, to
re-conquer my tribe."

"But the British Government?"

"Quite so. The Government would not approve, so for that reason I
remained in rough clothes, in rough lodgings, near the docks; while
Edwin Lister went to live in the West End. He interested several
adventurous spirits in our proposed expedition, but money was sadly
needed, and I had not enough. Thus your father came down to see Captain
Huxham, and get that which was required. Captain Huxham, whom your
father had met in Nigeria, owed my father a lot of money, which he did
not pay. I was only employing Edwin Lister to get back my own."

"I see. But how did my father learn the whereabouts of Captain Huxham?"

"_You_ told him," was the negro's unexpected reply.

"I told him! I don't recollect----"

"Perhaps not, as you spoke hurriedly. But don't you remember that when
your father one day asked you for money, you said that you wished to
save all you could, as you desired to marry Miss Huxham. Your father
questioned you, and learned that she was the daughter of an old sailor.
It was therefore easy for him to guess that he had found the man for
whom he was seeking."

"But I did not tell my father where Captain Huxham lived."

Durgo waved his hand, as Mrs. Giles brought in the coffee. "That was
easy," he remarked, when she left the room, "you were followed here by
your father. But now that you understand the position, will you work
with me?"

"I will work with you to learn the truth about this murder."

"I understand," said Durgo shrewdly, "so that you may prove Edwin
Lister's innocence."

"Yes," said Cyril, accepting the cup of black coffee which his host
passed to him. "I am hoping to see my father and to learn that he did
not kill Captain Huxham. If he did, there is no chance of happiness for
me, as I cannot then marry Miss Huxham."

Durgo stirred his coffee calmly. "No, that is true. I am sorry for you.
But if such is the case, and your marriage is an impossibility, why not
come with us on our expedition to the Hinterland of Nigeria? If I win
back my chiefdom, I can do much for you."

"I don't want to go with my father," said Cyril, turning pale,
"especially if he has--as I suspect--spoiled my life's happiness. If he
is innocent, I can then marry Miss Huxham, and will stay at home."

"Quite so. I understand. But my offer is always open to you, if you
choose to take it. Meanwhile, the first thing to do is to learn what
Edwin Lister took away with him."

"One hundred pounds."

"Yes, and some papers. I wish to learn what those papers are, as Captain
Huxham may have made a memorandum of the property he possessed. There
may be other papers which may cast light on those which were stolen."

"But I don't understand," said Cyril perplexed. "Whatever property
Captain Huxham possessed went to his sister, now Mrs. Henry Vand."

"The English property," said Durgo with emphasis; then seeing that his
guest was still puzzled, he laughed in his guttural way. "Never mind. I
have an idea which may or may not turn out to be correct. I shall know
when Mrs. Tunks comes here this evening, and then I can explain myself
fully."

"Mrs. Tunks--Granny Tunks! What has she to do with the matter?"

Durgo smiled in his slow way. "My friend, I have not been idle while in
Marshley looking for my master Edwin Lister. I wished to search the
Manor-house for possible papers to reveal that which I desire to know."

"What is that?"

"I shall tell you when I am sure," said the negro doggedly, "and not
until then. But it was impossible for me to enter the Manor-house and
search, as this man Vand is very clever and cunning, and more of a
watch-dog than his stupid wife. I could have managed her had she been
unmarried, by posing as a wealthy prince--in fact, I could have cajoled
her as I have done Mrs. Giles--but her husband is suspicious and sharp.
I could do nothing. Then I learned that this gipsy woman, Mrs. Tunks, is
in the habit of charing at the Manor-house. I therefore offered to pay
her a large sum if she would bring to me certain papers which are hidden
in a sandal-wood chest, carved with the figures of the gods of my
tribe."

"How do you know that such a chest exists or is in the Manor-house?"

"After I see Mrs. Tunks I can tell you," said Durgo softly.

"How will Mrs. Tunks know the chest?"

"I have described it to her. The figures of the gods are carved on soft
white wood, and the lines are filled in with red and blue and yellow
pigment. The design and the decoration are very noticeable. The work is,
what you call in English, skrimshanking."

"I thought the word was a military slang one, meaning to shirk work,"
said Cyril, after a pause.

"Quite so, but I think the word is a nautical one. Sailors carve and
colour their carvings in the way I mention, and call such work
skrimshanking. I expect that when a sailor was not at his post the
excuse made was that he was skrimshanking; hence the slang meaning of
the word."

"Very interesting from a philological point of view," yawned Lister,
taking another cigarette; "but had we not better get back to our talk of
my father's whereabouts?"

"We can do nothing until I know what Edwin Lister took away with him,"
said Durgo again, "and that I can only learn if Mrs. Tunks brings the
papers I mentioned this evening." He glanced at the travelling clock on
the mantel-piece. "Nearly nine; she should be here soon."

"But will she have the papers?"

"Yes. Yesterday she told me that she saw the chest in an attic under a
pile of rubbish, but had no chance of opening it. To-day she is charing
at the Manor-house, and will be able to get what I want."

"But if Mrs. Vand catches her?"

"Mrs. Vand won't," was the confident reply. "Granny Tunks is too clever
to be caught and moreover wants to earn the fifty pounds I promised
her."

"Great Scott! are you so wealthy as to----"

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Durgo impatiently. "I have much money, but not
enough for my expedition. Unless indeed Edwin Lister has carried these
papers, which will show us how to get the money."

"Then my father knew about this chest also?"

"Yes. I expect he looked for it in Captain Huxham's study after the
crime was committed. Unfortunately it happened, according to Granny
Tunks, to be in the attic, so he missed it. But Huxham may have had the
papers in his study."

"And that was why the room was so upset?" asked Lister thoughtfully.

"That was why. After the crime was committed----"

"Great heavens! man," burst out the other irritably, "don't talk as if
it was certain that my father killed the man."

"If he did not, who did?" demanded Durgo coolly; then, as Cyril was
markedly silent, he continued, "I think very little of the killing
myself. If what I believe about the papers I require is correct, Captain
Huxham deserved his death as a thief and a false friend."

"You speak in riddles," said Lister bewildered.

"Granny Tunks can solve them," replied the negro significantly. "Have
some more coffee and try these cigars. They are superfine."

Cyril silently accepted this further hospitality, and stared furtively
at the calm black face of his host. The nose was aquiline and the lips
extraordinarily thin, so it was apparent that Durgo had Arab blood in
his veins. Perhaps he was a descendant of those conquering Mohammedans
who came down like a storm on Central Africa, in the Middle Ages. What
with Durgo's looks, his educated speech and his air of command, Cyril
wondered that he had ever taken the negro for an ordinary black. All the
same he believed that, given the necessary environment, the savagery
would break out from under the thin veneer of civilisation which the man
had acquired at Oxford. Scratch a Russian and you find a Tartar; scratch
a modern man, semi-civilised or wholly civilised, and you find the
prehistoric animal.

While Cyril was thinking in this manner and watching the black man's
face through the smoke, he saw Durgo suddenly listen intently, with the
air of an animal scenting danger. Shortly footsteps were heard in the
passage without, and the door opened to admit Granny Tunks, who was
shown in by Mrs. Giles. The toss of the lean landlady's head, and her
air of disdain, showed that she was by no means pleased with the ragged
visitor. But a glance from the glossy Romany eye of Mrs. Tunks sent her
shuddering out of the room. In spite of the religion taught by Silas
Pence at the Little Bethel chapel, Mrs. Giles was primitive enough to
believe in the power of the evil eye. And she had some reason to, for
people who offended Mrs. Tunks invariably underwent a spell of bad luck.

"Here I am, master," said Mrs. Tunks with a cringing air, and Cyril
started to hear her so address the negro. He was further surprised when
he saw how commanding were the looks of Durgo.

"Have you got those papers?" asked the negro, extending his large hand.

Granny Tunks had them and said so, but it took her some time to find
them, so ragged were her garments and so hidden her pocket. She still
wore the brown dress tagged with parti-coloured ribbons, and her
plentiful white hair still hung like seaweed from under the dingy red
handkerchief. Also as usual she jingled with the multiplicity of coins
which dangled from her neck, her wrists, and from various parts of her
picturesque dress. In sixty or seventy seconds she managed to find a
bundle of dusty papers tied up with faded red tape, and passed them to
Durgo with ingratiating smiles. "There you are, deary----"

"Master!" snapped the negro, with sudden ferocity.

"Yes, master," stammered the woman, turning slightly pale under her
brown skin. "I found them in the chest you spoke of. The cat"--she meant
Mrs. Vand--"didn't see me, master, so no one knows but this gentleman;
but he won't say a word; no, no, I'll be bound he won't."

"How do you know?" asked Cyril sharply.

Mrs. Tunks replied without taking her beady black eyes from Durgo. "I
saw the coming of the master in the crystal, lovey, and told your dear
sweetheart of the same. The master brings good luck to you both, so if
you tell, it will part you and your deary for ever."

"We are parted as it is," said Cyril bitterly.

"Perhaps not," replied the old woman.

Lister rose from his chair and stared. "What do you mean?" he cried
imperiously.

Durgo, who had been examining the papers, looked up on hearing this
question, and shot forth a long arm in the direction of the door. "Go!"
he said to Mrs. Tunks. "Go at once."

"And the money, master?"

"You shall have it to-morrow, as soon as I have examined these. Go, I
say; I am not used to speak twice."

"But Durgo," cried Cyril, annoyed by the interruption, "I want to
know----"

"You shall know what Mrs. Tunks has to say to-morrow," said Durgo,
settling down into the chair and still examining the papers.

The witch-wife, who had moved slowly towards the door, had not looked at
Lister once during her stay in the room. All the time her gaze was fixed
almost reverentially upon the negro. In spite of Durgo's prohibition
Cyril crossed the room to catch Mrs. Tunks by the arm. But the moment he
touched her she seemed to wake up as from a magnetic spell, and opening
the door slipped through like a snake. When the door was closed again
Cyril, in some anger, faced Durgo.

"Why didn't you let me question her?"

"She would have said nothing," returned the man dryly, "because she
knows nothing."

"She hinted that Bella--Miss Huxham, I mean--and myself would not be
parted."

Durgo shrugged his shoulders. "Hai! The woman is a witch and knows
doings of the unseen. She may have been told----"

"Oh, rubbish! I don't believe in such things."

"Possibly you don't; I do. I have been taught things which would open
your eyes if I explained them. In Africa we know much that you don't
know."

A sudden light flashed into Cyril's brain. "Is that why Mrs. Tunks
addressed you as master?"

Durgo nodded absently, still reading the papers. But he did not reply in
words, as his eyes were travelling over some faded writing and his lips
were moving. Before Cyril could ask another question, as he was desirous
of doing, the negro started to his feet with a fierce shout, which
sounded like a warcry.

"As I believed; as I thought!" he shouted. "Hai! the good news."

"What is it?" asked Lister, surprised by the savage exultation.

Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket and began to tell a story
without any preamble. "When my father was chief, there were two traders
in his town whom he trusted. One traded inland, and the other commanded
the river steamer. Maxwell Faith was the inland trader's name, and the
steamer commander was Jabez Huxham. For services rendered, my father,
the chief Kawal, gave Mr. Faith jewels to the value of forty thousand
pounds. Huxham became jealous, and having murdered Faith ran away with
the jewels. He brought them to England, to Bleacres, and feared night
and day lest he should be assaulted and killed for the sake of the
treasure. That is why Huxham planted the fields with corn, leaving only
one path whereby to reach the Manor-house. He did not wish to be
surprised. Huxham took Faith's papers also regarding the value and
number of these jewels. The papers were in the chest I told you of, and
I have these papers here"--he tapped his breast--"but the jewels no
doubt have been taken by your father, who doubtless killed Huxham to get
them." Durgo nodded. "Good, very good. When my master Edwin Lister
writes to me to join him, we can sell the jewels for forty thousand
pounds and then can fit out our expedition to recover my chiefdom.
Good-night, Lister. I have work to do; good night!" and before Cyril
could recover from his amazement he found himself gently led into the
passage and heard the door locked.

"What does it all mean?" he asked himself, but could not answer the
question.



CHAPTER XIV

WHAT SILAS PENCE KNEW


On that same evening, when Cyril was interviewing the strange negro,
there was a concert in the Marshely school-house in aid of the prize
fund. Dora had arranged the programme, and had asked Bella to be
present. The girl would much rather have remained absent owing to the
recent death of her father; besides, she did not feel able to enjoy
music and frivolity and laughter. But to please her friend, who had been
so kind to her, she came dressed in black and deeply veiled to the
festival. For obvious reasons she took a seat at the lower end of the
room, and near the door, so that she could easily slip out when the end
came.

But Mrs. Vand was less retiring. In spite of her brother's tragic death
she appeared dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, posing more as a
bride than as a mourner. In fact, she displayed very little grief for
the death of Jabez, and those who knew the late Captain Huxham were not
surprised, as he had never been a man to inspire affection. Moreover,
the secret marriage of Mrs. Coppersley to Henry Vand had created quite a
sensation, and bride and bridegroom were much talked about and pointed
at. Vand himself was one of the performers, as he played two violin
solos. Some folk thought that both he and his wife would have displayed
better taste by remaining away, but Mrs. Vand laughed at this opinion
and flaunted her newly-found happiness in the face of all her
acquaintances.

Luckily few people noticed Bella in her obscure corner, so she was not
troubled with questions. Those who guessed who she was, felt that she
had been very badly treated since the money had been left to Mrs. Vand,
and indeed the sympathies of the entire neighbourhood were with the
disinherited girl. Mrs. Vand, as everyone said, should have been ashamed
of herself; but in spite of the indecent way in which she thrust her
good fortune on everyone's notice, no one was bold enough to tell her
what was the general opinion of her conduct. As for Bella, she sat in
her corner feeling ill and miserable. She had every right to be so
considering the position in which she and her lover were placed. It was
to ween her thoughts from this dismal state of affairs that the
kind-hearted school-mistress had induced her to come to the concert.
Hitherto the cure had not worked.

The programme was the usual village one. There were several sentimental
ballads of the purely English drawing-room type; two or three
recitations, the violin solos of Henry Vand, who really played with rare
skill, and a reading by Silas Pence, who was the chairman. Pence looked
leaner and more delicate than ever, and read the "Dream of Eugene Aram"
as a cheerful contribution to the evening's entertainment. His
sepulchral tones and dismal appearance cast quite a gloom over the close
of the evening, which was only dispelled by the singing of a glee by the
Marshely Choral Society. But some time before this point was reached
Bella had slipped out of the room and had taken her way back to the
cottage. She went early, as her aunt had noticed her, and it was just
possible that Mrs. Vand, who dearly loved to make trouble, might start a
quarrel if it came to a conversation between the two. Mrs. Vand had not
forgiven her enforced payment of one hundred pounds.

Bella did not enter the cottage, as it was very hot within, and the
night was simply glorious. She took off her hat and veil and seated
herself in the tiny garden to enjoy the soft breeze. There was not a
cloud in the darkly-blue sky, and a serene moon moved majestically
across the starry heavens. The cottage, with the lamp light shining
behind the pink blinds, looked pretty and picturesque, so Bella resolved
to wait for Dora's return in the open air. She had ample to think about,
for the concert had failed to inspire her with cheerful thoughts. How
could it when the clouds which environed her were so densely black? Poor
Bella was not religious, and had small faith in the goodness of God.
This was natural as God's name had rarely been mentioned by Captain
Huxham and his sister, who were perfect heathens of the animal sort. So
Bella, having no hope to cling to and seeing no ray of light piercing
the darkness around her, began to conceive a cheerless future in which
the figure of Cyril did not appear. The fact that his father had
murdered hers ended the chance of marriage once and for all. He would
doubtless go abroad and try to forget her, while she, bereft of love,
home, money, and father, would seek some humble situation as a nursery
governess: and it must be confessed that, as things were, Bella Huxham
had good reason to despair. Any chance of happiness seemed to be as far
removed from her as was the moon in the heaven above her.

The seat upon which she was resting stood close to the white palings of
the garden, and under a leafy chestnut, now in the full glory of its
summer foliage. Occasionally a person would pass, or a child singing
would run home, but for the most part the road was deserted. Nearly all
the village people were at the concert, and it would not end for at
least another half hour. Only then would the roadway be full, but in the
meantime, save for occasional interruptions, Bella had solitude and
peace. She was therefore extremely ill-pleased when a dark figure halted
at the palings and, leaning over, removed its hat to reveal the delicate
features of Silas Pence.

"I give you good-evening, Miss Huxham," said the preacher, in his
refined but somewhat shrill voice.

"Good evening," said Bella coldly. "Had you not better return to the
concert, Mr. Pence? As the chairman you cannot leave the platform."

"I have presided most of the evening and have recited my piece," said
Pence eagerly. "Now, on the plea of feeling faint I have left that hot
room, and I am here to commune with you in the glory of the night. Is it
not beautiful, Miss Huxham?" and he recited the well-known lines of
Addison:--

    _Soon as the shades of night prevail_,
    _The moon takes up the wondrous tale_,
    _And nightly to the listening earth_
    _Repeats the story of her birth._

"Did you come here to recite, Mr. Pence?" said Bella disagreeably. "If
so I must go indoors. I have been entertained enough this evening."

"You should not have been at the concert at all," said the preacher
rebukingly, "seeing that your dear father is scarcely cold in his
grave."

"That is my business, Mr. Pence," said Bella in icy tones. "If you
rebuke any one it should be my aunt, who is flaunting the property of
which she robbed me in the face of everyone."

"I shall rebuke Sister Vand at a proper time," said Silas
authoritatively. "In the meantime----"

"You rebuke me," said Bella, who had risen to her feet, weary of the
conversation. "I decline to permit your interference."

"I don't want to rebuke you," cried Pence eagerly. "I wish to make you
smile on me. Become my spouse, or fair lily of the valley, and you will
have me always at your feet."

"I have told you before, Mr. Pence, that I cannot marry you."

"Then you still intend to wed that son of Belial, overflowing with
insolence and wine?" questioned the preacher bitterly; "your father's
murderer."

"Mr. Lister is perfectly innocent, as I happen to know."

"Can you prove his innocence?"

"Can you prove his guilt?" retorted the girl spiritedly.

"I saw him enter the Manor on that night."

"You saw a man who resembled him. Mr. Lister was in London and can prove
that he was there. It is useless your using threats, Mr. Pence, for had
you been able to carry them out you would long since have seen the
police."

Pence frowned. "Who is this other man?" he asked.

"You can find out!" said Bella impatiently, "and I am going indoors."

"There is no other man," cried Pence angrily. "Why, I saw Mr. Lister
quite clearly. I could not mistake him."

"You did, however."

"The police shall decide that."

"Go to the police. You threatened to do so before. Why don't you do what
you say instead of trying to frighten me with stage thunder?"

Silas stamped and raged. "You will find the thunder real enough before I
have done with you. This Lister man is guilty, and shall hang. You shall
become my wife, my----"

"Never! never! never!" and Bella stamped in her turn.

"You will. As you have no name of your own you should be glad to take
that of an honest man."

The girl started and stared. "My name is Huxham," she said angrily.

"It is nothing of the sort. When I wished to marry you, Captain Huxham,
your supposed father, told me that you were a nameless waif whom he had
adopted out of charity."

"It is wholly false."

"It is true! it is true!" Pence leaped the fence before she knew what
was his intention, and caught her in his arms, "and you must become my
wife."

"You beast! you villain!" cried the girl, struggling. "How dare----"

She got no further. Even while the words were on her lips a pair of very
strong hands caught Pence by the shoulders, and wrenching him from the
girl flung him over the fence. The next moment Cyril held Bella in his
arms.

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she sobbed, utterly broken down, "how glad I am
that you arrived to punish him."

"I shall punish him more!" cried Cyril, striding towards the gate.

"No, no!" said Bella, stopping him. "Think of my good name. It is
useless making a scandal. But ask him if what he says is true."

"What does he say?" questioned Cyril, with a note of savagery in his
voice.

"Oh hush! hush!" implored Bella, clinging to him. "Speak lower. I don't
wish everyone to hear what Mr. Pence declares."

"But what is it? what is it?"

"Ask him. After all, he may be wrong, and--"

Still holding the girl, Lister, mindful of her wish, spoke in a loud
whisper to the dusty figure on the other side of the fence. Pence had
just risen, sorely bruised, but, unable to leave his rival with the girl
he loved, yet lingered in the roadway.

"Here, you," said Lister sharply, "what have you been saying to Miss
Huxham? Speak out, you dog, or I'll thrash you thoroughly. Let me go,
Bella; let me go, I say."

"No, no! We must avoid all scandal. Think of what might be--be--" she
gasped, and without ending her sentence fell half fainting into Cyril's
arms.

Then came Pence's chance to discharge the vials of his wrath, for he saw
that Lister, hampered by the fainting girl, could not touch him.
Stepping up to the palings with his face distorted with anger, he spoke
in low tones of hate. "I say now to you what I shall soon say to all.
Captain Huxham adopted the girl, whom you falsely say that you love. She
has no position and no name and no money, so if you marry her----"

"Stop," said Cyril imperiously. "Can you swear to the truth of this wild
statement? Miss Huxham always passed as the captain's daughter."

"She is not Miss Huxham," said Silas, insistently. "She is Miss--I don't
know what. I can prove what I say, if necessary. And I shall,
unless----"

"Unless what?"

"Unless you renounce her so that she can become my wife."

Bella heard the words and stood unexpectedly erect with fresh energy,
wrathful at Pence's persistency. "Nothing will ever induce me to become
your wife. And if what you say is true my aunt would have told me."

"Mrs. Vand is not your aunt and Captain Huxham was not your father,"
said the preacher sullenly. "If needs be I can prove it."

"Then do so," cried Cyril quickly, "for by doing so you will remove the
sole barrier to our marriage."

"What do you mean?" asked Silas, recoiling in sheer surprise.

"Let me speak," said Bella, guessing what her lover meant. "We mean that
had you held your tongue Cyril and I might have been forced to part. Now
that I know I am not Captain Huxham's daughter I can marry him."

Pence looked from one face to the other in the chill moonlight and drew
his own conclusions with swift intuition, sharpened by hate. "Then this
Lister man is the murderer of Huxham?"

"You have to prove that," said Cyril cheerfully. "I am not bound to
incriminate myself, you know."

Silas raised his hands to the heavens in mute appeal, for he saw that in
some way, not entirely clear to him, he had brought about the very thing
he had been trying to avert. Enraged at his blunder and despairing of
gaining his ends, the man, timid as he usually was, would have sprung
over the fence to renew the struggle with his rival, but that many dark
figures were seen coming along the road. Apparently the concert was
over.

In spite of his anger, Pence retained sufficient sense to decide
immediately on a sensible course. He mechanically brushed his clothes,
and bent over the palings to speak with Cyril. "To-morrow," he said, in
a tense whisper, "you will be arrested, on my evidence, and she"--he
pointed a trembling finger at Bella--"will be known as a nameless
outcast."

The girl uttered a faint cry at the insult, and Cyril would have struck
the man who spoke. But Pence was prepared, and swerved away from the
fence with a taunting laugh, to retreat rapidly down the road towards
the advancing throng.

"Come inside; come inside," said Bella, plucking at Cyril's sleeve; "you
must not be seen here with me at this hour. Mr. Pence will say nothing
for his own sake. Come inside until Dora returns."

This was wise counsel, so the pair hastily retreated and closed the
door, before they could be seen by the sharp eyes of the village
gossips. Bella ran into the dining-room, where supper was laid, and
sinking into a chair, mutely pointed to the water jug. Lister, seeing
how pale she was, poured out a glass, and held it to her lips. Shortly
she was more her old self, as the colour returned to her cheeks and the
brightness to her eyes. It was then that she asked a leading question:

"Do you think that what Mr. Pence says is true?"

"I hope so. I fervently hope so," replied Cyril, sitting down to discuss
the matter, "for then we can marry, and----" he started and stopped. It
occurred to him that Pence's statement might be the cause of Granny
Tunks' queer remark, an explanation of which had been prevented by
Durgo. Then again, from the negro's action, and from the facts that Mrs.
Tunks had seen--so she said--his coming in the crystal, and obeyed him
so implicitly, it might be that Durgo knew much that he would only
disclose at the proper time. Of one thing Cyril was certain--namely,
that Durgo was his friend, and would do his best to put things right, if
Lister assisted him to recover traces of his father and the jewels,
which Edwin Lister was supposed to possess.

"I shouldn't wonder if Pence's statement was true," said Cyril,
musingly, as he reflected on the present position of affairs. "It did
seem strange to me that such a rough sea-dog as Huxham undoubtedly was,
should have so refined a daughter as you."

"I thought it was my education, and----"

"No," said Cyril, looking at her searchingly in the light of the small
lamp. "Your feet and hands are too delicate, and your features too
clearly cut, and your whole bearing too well bred, to be the child of
such a man. Huxham and his sister are plebeians: you are an aristocrat.
I am quite sure."

Bella coloured at his praise of her beauty. "Perhaps what Mr. Pence says
may explain why the money was not left to me."

Cyril nodded. "If you are not Huxham's daughter, of course he would not
leave you the money. But it was strange that he should tell Pence--why,
what is the matter?"

Bella had started to her feet, and was looking at him strangely. "I am
unwilling to suspect Mr. Pence, seeing that it seems almost certain your
father is guilty, but I don't believe that my father--I mean that
Captain Huxham told him."

"Why not?"

"It was not Captain Huxham's way to confide in anyone, and if he had
kept silent for so long he certainly would not have told anyone later,
especially Silas Pence. If anyone knew the truth it would be my aunt--I
mean Mrs. Vand--and she hated me quite sufficiently to tell me that I
was no kith or kin of hers. This she did not do."

"Well, and what do you make of the business?"

"This," said Bella, slowly. "I believe that Mr. Pence _does_ know
something of the murder, although he may not have struck the blow. Your
father may have been disturbed by Mr. Pence, and may have taken the
hundred pounds. But I am certain that Mr. Pence found some papers
telling that I was not Captain Huxham's daughter, and has them in his
possession now."

Cyril shook his head. "You have no proofs of this wild charge."

"No, I have not. All the same, I believe----"

"Belief is one thing, and certainty another," said Lister, decisively,
"and, again, I must tell you that my father--if indeed he is guilty--got
much more than one hundred pounds"; and he related all that had taken
place in Durgo's rooms. Bella listened in silence, and was particularly
struck with the use made by the negro of Mrs. Tunks.

"I believe that Granny and this black man are in league," she declared;
"you know she foretold his coming by the crystal. And that is all
rubbish."

"In this instance she foretold truly," said Cyril drily.

"Because she knew beforehand, and simply made use of the crystal to
impress me," retorted the girl. "Do you think Durgo himself is guilty?"

"No, I do not," replied Cyril very decidedly. "He bewailed the fact that
my father had not asked him to get Huxham out of the way. No, Bella, in
some way, my father managed the matter himself. He might have killed the
old sailor during a quarrel, and have secured the jewels and have gone
into hiding either here or on the Continent. We can only wait until we
hear from him. Then the mystery may be solved."

"I am not so sure that your father got the jewels," said Bella, after a
pause. "After all, they were in the chest in the attic by Durgo's
showing."

"The papers were, but Durgo was not certain if Huxham left the jewels
there, my dear. You see, the old skipper might, and probably did, keep
the jewels in his study for safety. But the jewels were in the house I
am sure, for Huxham feared lest they should be stolen, and so planted
the corn and used the search-light. By the way, I saw that used the
other night."

"Henry Vand knows how to use it," said Bella indifferently; "my father
showed him how to work it on one occasion. But what is to be done?"

"I must wait and see what Durgo intends to do. He knows much that we are
ignorant of, and for my father's sake I think he will help us both."

"And Mr. Pence's statement?"

Cyril took her in his arms. "I believe it," he said, kissing her fondly,
"so the barrier between us is removed."

"Thank God for that," said Bella reverently, and being unstrung wept
bitterly.



CHAPTER XV

DURGO, THE DETECTIVE


As has been seen, Durgo was no ordinary man, and even had he been white
instead of black, would have passed for a clever member of the Aryan
race. Undoubtedly the strain of Arab blood in him sharpened his
intellectual faculties, and made him ambitious to play a leading part in
the history of his tribe. That the members of it were savages mattered
very little, since he had been educated in the lore of the ruling race,
and could raise them sooner or later almost to his own level. Almost,
that is, but not quite, for Durgo had no notion that any individual of
his tribe should be as clever as himself. He wished to be a despot, and
rule from an autocratic throne.

The one weak point in his character--if gratitude can be called
weakness--was his adoration of Edwin Lister. That gentleman had
undoubtedly saved his life, and assuredly had aided him to attain to his
present position of culture by inducing the old chief to send his clever
son to England. But Cyril knew, what Durgo in his blind idolatry did
not--that Edwin Lister was not a man to work for nothing, and wanted
much more than he ever gave. There was every chance that he would abuse
the gratitude of Durgo, when the negro's ambition was achieved, and if
his protégé revolted from complying with the exorbitant demands which
would surely be made on his generosity, he would speedily be reminded of
what had been done for him. With an ordinary man this would have
mattered little as such a one would decline unreasonable exactions. But
Durgo's strongest trait was gratitude, and it was probable that in spite
of his clever brain and European education, he would become the mere
puppet of his benefactor. Thus the very nobility of Durgo's nature would
reduce him to slavery, and he would be ruined because he possessed the
rarest of all virtues.

Little as Cyril had seen of his father, he knew his character
thoroughly, being able to read by intuition, as well as by observation.
Edwin had only one god to worship, and that was himself--a deity so
congenial that the egotist was most devout in his religion. Of course,
Durgo's enslavement and Edwin Lister's tyranny had nothing to do with
Cyril, as father and son had long since gone on their several ways. But
Cyril liked the negro, and swore to himself that if Durgo aided him to
marry Bella, he would stand by him when Edwin Lister played the tyrant.
As yet--so much Cyril gathered--the trader had not shown the cloven
foot, but he would do so sooner or later, and then Cyril hoped to open
Durgo's eyes to the fact that his gratitude was being abused.

But there was much to be done before affairs arrived at this point, and
the first necessary step to take was to discover the whereabouts of
Edwin Lister. Durgo had learned much from Cyril, and something from
Granny Tunks; now it was necessary that he should be informed by Bella
of the accusation of Pence, and of her doubts about the preacher. She
resolved to see Durgo for herself, and when Dora was at school, she
watched at the window of the cottage for the coming of the negro. She
did not even tell Cyril of her intention, as he disbelieved her
statement that Pence had stolen certain papers and was connected in some
way with the murder. That she had absolutely no grounds for such a
belief troubled Bella very little, since she was very much the woman.
All she knew was, that Pence could not have heard the truth about her
not being Huxham's daughter from Huxham himself and it was necessary to
find out how he came to know, let alone the necessity of making certain
of its truth. Cyril would have scruples in assaulting Pence, and
learning the truth at the sword's point, as it were. Durgo, being
uncivilised, for all his education would have no such scruples, and
therefore was the best person to apply to. He would undoubtedly twist
Pence's slender neck as he would that of a rabbit, if he could force
from him any information likely to forward his aims. And unless some
such brutal course was taken Bella felt sure that Pence would hold his
tongue. In her exasperation against the troublesome preacher, all the
girl's worst traits came uppermost.

Durgo did not pass along the road in the morning, and Bella almost
despaired of seeing him. She nearly decided to go to "The Chequers Inn,"
but a memory of Mrs. Giles' gossiping tongue prevented her risking so
much. In the afternoon, however, Durgo lounged along the road, in his
lazy, heavy, massive fashion, arrayed in his rough tweed clothes, and
looking very much like a burly prize-fighter. Luckily there was no one
in sight, as Miss Ankers' cottage was in a solitary corner on the
outskirts of Marshely, so Bella ran hatless into the garden to beckon
the negro into the cottage.

"Come in! come in! I wish to speak to you," she said hurriedly, when he
stepped up to the white palings; and she glanced right and left, to be
sure that no curious eyes were on her.

Durgo stared and frowned, as education in a world-famous University had
not quite eradicated his contempt for women. However, when Bella ran
inside again, and stood beckoning him in the passage, he resolved to
enter, if only to learn why she acted in this bold way. So tall was
Durgo, and so low the door, that he had to stoop considerably to enter,
and when in the little drawing-room he bulked hugely as Gulliver in the
Lilliputian temple.

"What is it, missy?" asked Durgo roughly, for he was not inclined to
waste his time in saying pretty nothings to this Englishwoman, when so
much was at stake. "I cannot stay here; I am busy."

"I wish to help you," said Bella, going straight to the point.

"In what way?" Durgo stared at her peremptory tone.

"I wish to help you on condition that you help me."

"In what way?" he asked again, and sat down on a chair, which creaked
under his mighty weight.

"Listen," said Bella, speaking very slowly, and with her eyes on his
strong, black face. "You are not of my colour or race, yet I am going to
trust you, as Cyril told me all about you. Besides, we are both working
for the same end--that is, we both wish to find Edwin Lister. Cyril told
me what Mrs. Tunks discovered."

"He had no right," frowned Durgo; "I want no women----"

"Don't despise women," said Bella drily, "for you may need the help of
one woman, and she is my own self. You know that I am supposed to be
Captain Huxham's daughter?"

"Supposed to be?" Durgo noted the way she placed her words at once,
which said much for his powers of observation, and the quick working of
his brain.

"Yes, Silas Pence, the preacher----"

"I know him, missy. Go on."

"Loves me," continued Bella, with a blush; "and to marry me he would
stop at nothing. Last night he declared that I was not the daughter of
Captain Huxham, and that Captain Huxham had told him as much."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yes. That is, I believe I am not Captain Huxham's daughter, since the
money was not left to me. But I do not believe that Captain Huxham told
this to Silas Pence. I believe," Bella bent forward, "that Mr. Pence is
concerned in this murder, and stole certain papers, which revealed the
truth."

Durgo's eyes flashed. He saw at once the value of such information. "Can
you prove this?" he asked in his throaty tones.

"That's just where it is," she answered quickly. "I wish _you_ to prove
it."

"How can I do that?"

"Question Mr. Pence, and make him answer. Force him, in whatever way you
like, to show how he actually obtained the information. If he stole the
papers stating the fact--and this I believe--he must have been in the
room where the murder was committed some hour during that night. If so,
he must have seen Edwin Lister, and must know where he is."

"Hai!" Durgo leaped to his feet. "That is true: that is probable.
Perhaps he can say if my master got the jewels."

"Perhaps he can, but I am certain that he will not."

"Oh, I think he will! I think he will," said Durgo significantly.

"Don't hurt him," cried Bella, alarmed, for much as she disliked the
preacher she did not wish him to come to harm at the hands of this
African semi-savage. As a matter of fact, she was sorry to enlist
Durgo's services at all; but, under the circumstances, there seemed to
be no help for it.

"I shall not hurt him more than is necessary," said Durgo, catching up
his bowler hat and placing it on his woolly head; "if he speaks plainly
I won't hurt him at all. You have helped me, missy, and you will find
that I am not ungrateful. When you marry the son of my master, you will
be rich. I, Durgo, the king, will make you rich," he ended arrogantly.

"One moment," said Bella, detaining him; "these jewels belong to Captain
Huxham. Have you any right to take them?"

"Every right, since they never belonged to Captain Huxham," said the
negro decisively. "My father, the great chief Kawal, gave them to
Maxwell Faith, and from Maxwell Faith they were stolen by Huxham. If
Faith were alive I would return the jewels to him, and ask him to help
me with my expedition. But he is dead; Huxham murdered him, and stole
the jewels. Edwin Lister came to get back what belongs to me, and I
think he has them."

"Supposing you find Mr. Lister, and learn that he has not the jewels?"

Durgo rolled his eyes ferociously. "I shall then enter the Manor-house
by force, and learn where they are hidden."

"You would only be handed over to the police by Mrs. Vand and her
husband, Henry. It will be better for me to search."

"How can you, since you are not friendly with Mrs. Vand?"

Bella laughed. "I know much more about the Manor-house than Mrs. Vand
does, I assure you," she said significantly. "There are all manner of
secret passages and unknown chambers in that ancient mansion. If I
desired to enter, I could do so in the night-time by a secret door
hidden behind the ivy at the back of the house."

"Then do so," said Durgo eagerly, "and search for the jewels."

"Not yet. Wait until you see Edwin Lister, and learn if he procured the
jewels. By the way, where did your father get them?"

Durgo reflected for a few minutes. "I have heard much talk of my
father's treasure, of which these jewels were part. You know how rich
the Northern part of Africa was in the time of the Romans?"

"Yes. Cyril made me read Gibbons' History."

"Well, when the Arabs swept across Northern Africa, they looted the
Roman cities, then possessed more or less by the Goths and Vandals. Many
of the Arabs came South to Nigeria, and brought their plunder with them.
I think that these jewels, which my father gave to Maxwell Faith, came
into his possession from some remote ancestor, who so brought them. But
I cannot say. Still, that is my opinion."

"It is a feasible idea, certainly," said Bella musingly, and astonished
at the knowledge of the negro, quite forgetting that he had been
educated at Oxford; "but where the jewels came from, matters little.
What we have to find out, is where they are, and Mr. Pence----"

"I shall see this man," interrupted Durgo quietly; "he may lie to
others: he will tell the truth to me."

"No violence," warned Bella anxiously.

Durgo nodded. "I fear your police too much," said he, with an ironical
grin, and strode out of the house, looking more burly and defiant than
ever. Bella had regretted her employment of his services, but what else
could she do when so much was at stake? Bella wished to marry Cyril,
and, to do so, desired to be certain that she was not Captain Huxham's
daughter. The papers--if her wild surmise was correct--would prove if
what Pence said was true. Then, since Cyril's father had not murdered
her father--she put it in this confused way--she would be able to marry
her lover with a clear conscience. That he might be the son of an
assassin troubled her very little. To get her way after the manner of a
woman deeply in love, she would have set the world on fire, or would
have wrecked the solar system. And in placing the safety of Pence in the
hands of a semi-civilised negro, she undoubtedly was risking his life.
But she did not care, so long as she attained to the knowledge which she
was confident he possessed.

It will be seen that Bella Huxham was no Sunday-school angel, or even
the amiable heroine of a _Family Herald_ novelette, who never by any
chance does wrong. She was simply an average girl, with good instincts,
brought up so far as school-training was concerned in a conventional
way. At home no one had taught her to discern right from wrong, and,
like the ordinary healthy young animal of the human race, she had not
passed through sufficient sorrow to make her inquire into the truths of
religion. Bella needed trouble to train her into a good, brave woman,
and she was certainly getting the training now. But she made mistakes,
as was natural, considering her inexperience.

That same evening, Mr. Silas Pence was seated in his shabby
sitting-room, making notes for his next Sunday sermon. He occupied
lodgings in a lonely cottage on the verge of the common, and did so
because his landlady was a member of the Little Bethel congregation, who
boarded and lodged him cheaply in order to have the glory of
entertaining the minister. The landlady was a heavy-footed, heavy-faced
woman, with two great hulking sons, and occupied the back part of the
premises. Silas inhabited the best sitting-room and the most comfortable
bedroom. There was no fence round the front of the cottage, although
there was a garden of vegetables at the back, so the sitting-room window
looked straight out on to the purple heather and golden gorse of the
waste land. An artist would have delighted in the view, but Silas had no
eye for anything beautiful in nature, and paid very little attention to
the changing glories of the year. The lodging was cheap, and the
situation healthy, so he was perfectly satisfied.

On this especial evening, the young preacher sat at the red-repp covered
table, reading his Bible and making his notes. It was after ten o'clock,
and his landlady was asleep, as were her two sons, both agricultural
labourers worn out with the heavy toils of the day. The sitting-room
window was wide open, and the blind was up, so that the cool night
breeze was wafted faintly into the somewhat stuffy room, which was
crowded with unnecessary furniture. Silas made a few notes, then threw
down his pencil and sighed, resting his weary head on his hand.

Pence was by no means a bad man, but he was weak and excitable. The
pursuit of Bella aroused the worst part of his nature, and made him
think, say, and do much which he condemned. The better part of him
objected to a great deal which he did, but the tide of his passion
hurried him away and could not be checked by the dykes of common-sense.
At times--and this was one of them--he bitterly blamed himself for
giving way to the desire for Hepzibah, as he called Bella Huxham, in his
own weak mind. But, sane in all other ways, he was insane on this one
point, and felt that he would jeopardise his chance of salvation to call
her wife. Nevertheless he was sane enough to know his insanity, and
would have given much to root out the fierce love which was destroying
his life.

But the insane passion which he cherished for a woman who would have
nothing to do with him led him deeper and deeper into the mire of sin,
and in spite of his prayers and cries for help, the Unseen would do
nothing to extricate him from the morass of difficulties into which he
had plunged himself. At times Silas even doubted if God existed, so
futile were his attempts to gain comfort and guidance. Much as he loved
Bella, he desired to win clear of the unwilling influence which she
exercised on his nature, and vainly prayed for light whereby to know the
necessary means to get rid of the tormenting demon. But no answer came,
and he relapsed into despair, wondering what his congregation would say
if any member knew the unmastered temptations of his inner life. The
struggle made him weak and ill and thin and nervous, and but that deep
in his heart he knew vaguely that God was watching over him, and would
aid at the proper time, he would have taken his own miserable life.

With his head buried in his hands, Silas thought thus, with many groans
and with many bitter tears, the shedding of which made his eyes burn.
Occupied with his misery, he did not see a dark, massive form glide
towards the open window, nor did he hear a sound, for Durgo stepped as
light-footed as a cat. The sill of the window was no great distance from
the ground, and the big negro flung his leg over the sill and into the
room. But in getting hastily through, he was so large and the window so
small, that he made a sliding noise as the window slipped still further
up. Silas started to his feet, but only to see Durgo completely in the
room, facing him with a grim smile.

"I have come to speak with you, sir," said the negro.

Silas turned white, being haunted by a fear known only to himself. But
he read in the eyes of this black burglar--or, rather, he guessed by
some wonderful intuition, that his fear and the cause of his fear were
known to this man. Durgo saw the look in the preacher's eyes, and read
his thoughts in his turn. The negro was not boasting when he hinted that
he possessed certain psychic power. "Yes," he said, keeping his burning
gaze directly on the miserable white man; "you stole papers from Captain
Huxham's room, and I----"

"I did not," interrupted Pence wildly, and making a clutch at his breast
coat-pocket. "How dare you--"

"The papers are in your pocket," interrupted Durgo, advancing, as he
noted the unconscious action and guessed its significance. "Give me
those papers."

"I have no papers. I will alarm the house----"

"Do so, and you shall be arrested."

"What do you mean?"

"You saw my master, Edwin Lister, enter the Manor-house, and thought
that he was his son. Cyril Lister told me as much. From what you said to
Miss Huxham about her not being the daughter of the sailor, I believe
that you followed my master into the house. What took place?"

"Nothing! nothing! I swear that I did not----"

"Those papers," said Durgo, pointing to the white hand which still
clutched feebly at the breast-pocket, "say that the girl is not Captain
Huxham's daughter. I want to know whose daughter she is."

"You are talking rubbish. I have no papers."

"I am making a guess, and I believe my guess is a true one. Will you
give up those papers, or must I wring your neck?"

With widely-open eyes, the preacher flung himself against the
mantel-piece and clutched at a handbell. Just as he managed to ring this
feebly, for his hands were shaking, and he was utterly unnerved, Durgo,
seeing that there was no time to be lost, sprang forward and laid a
heavy grasp on the miserable man's throat, ripping open his jacket with
the other hand. In less than a minute he had the papers in his hand.

"No! no! no!" shouted Silas, and made a clutch at them.

Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket, and raising Pence up shoulder
high, dashed him down furiously. His head struck the edge of the fender,
and he lay unconscious. But Durgo did not wait to see further. He glided
out of the window like a snake--swift, silent, stealthy, and dangerous.



CHAPTER XVI

THE PAPERS


Next morning the news was all over the village, that Silas Pence had
been seized with epilepsy, and in falling had cut his head open against
the old-fashioned fender. He had just time--said the gossips--to ring
the bell before the catastrophe, and the landlady being, fortunately,
awake, had rushed into the room to his assistance. In an hour he had
become conscious, and had been put to bed, after giving the explanation
of how he came by the wound in his head. As Silas was fairly popular,
everyone was more or less sorry, and many were the callers at the
cottage on the common.

Dora heard the news from one of her scholars, and retailed it to her
friend when she came home to luncheon. Bella turned pale when she heard
of the affair. She guessed that this was the work of Durgo, and
reproached herself for having enlisted his services. But then, she
argued, that if Durgo really was responsible for the preacher's
sickness, he would have appeared in Miss Ankers' cottage in the morning,
to explain what had taken place, and possibly--supposing he had been
successful--to show the papers. Then again, if this was Durgo's work,
Bella wondered why the preacher had not denounced him. It seemed to her,
on this assumption, that Pence feared to say too much, lest he should be
questioned too closely. Dora certainly had no more suspicions than had
anyone else, but what the story of the young man was absolutely true.

"He never _did_ look healthy," said Dora, when the meal was ended, "so I
am not surprised to hear that he has these epileptic fits."

"Perhaps he'll get over them," hinted Bella feebly, and not looking at
her friend, lest she should betray herself.

"My dear, people with epilepsy never recover," rebuked Dora seriously,
"and I wonder that the man dared to ask you to marry him, seeing what he
suffered from. What a terrible thing to have a husband with fits."

"Are you sure that it was a fit?" asked Bella, trying to salve her
conscience with the idea that Durgo had nothing to do with the matter--a
vain attempt.

"My dear, am I sure that the hair grows on my head? Of course, I am
sure. The man himself explained how he fell, just as he clutched at the
bell. He hit his poor head against the iron fender--you know, dear, one
of those old-fashioned kitchen fenders, now out of date. It's a mercy
there was no fire in the grate, or he would have been burnt to death.
Why, a cousin of mine once"--and Dora went off into a long and wearisome
tale of a member of her family who had suffered in the same way.

When the little old school-mistress returned to her duties, Bella sat
down to consider things. On the face of it, Durgo had done nothing, and
Silas really might suffer from fits. But as he had never fallen before,
and as Bella knew that Durgo would stop at nothing to get the papers,
which she believed existed, she began to believe that the fall was by
design and not by accident. This belief taking full possession of her,
she longed feverishly to see the negro, and to ask questions. But,
although she watched for quite two hours at the window, he never
appeared. Then--as her nerves were strung up nearly to snapping
pitch--she determined to call round at Cyril's lodgings and tell him of
her interview with the black man. For the moment, she was unwilling to
do this, as she guessed that Cyril would be angry. Still, as it was more
or less certain that Durgo himself would tell her lover--always
supposing the papers existed and had been obtained--Bella thought it
would be wiser to be first in the field with her story. Besides, in any
case, she would have to confess to Cyril, so why not now? The only
chance of getting at the truth of the matter of the murder lay in
herself and Durgo and Cyril working amicably together, and in keeping
nothing back from one another.

There was a certain amount of risk in going to Cyril's lodgings, as his
landlady, Mrs. Block, was one of the most notorious gossips in the
village. She would be certain to talk of the visit, and to make unkind
comments on the fact of a young lady choosing to visit a bachelor
without a chaperon. And a chaperon Bella could not have, since she
wished no one else to be present during her conversation with Cyril. A
third party would mean that she would be unable to speak plainly and all
knowledge of the case--inner knowledge that is--must be confined to
herself, her lover, and to the negro. It would never do to let the
outside world know of the means they were taking to arrive at the truth,
and a chaperon might easily play the part of a she-Judas.

And after all--as Bella reflected, when hurrying along the road--she had
no one to consider but herself, since it mattered very little what was
said about her, so long as Cyril was true. She was at war with her
aunt--if, indeed, Mrs. Vand was her aunt--she had no friend but Dora,
and there was really no person whom she desired to conciliate. Under
these circumstances, she took her courage in both hands and with a calm
face, but with her heart in her mouth, she rapped at the door of
Lister's lodgings. Luckily he had observed her from the window, and
opened the door himself.

"I am so glad to see you Bella," he said, shaking hands in a
conventional manner, as the stout form of Mrs. Block appeared at the end
of the passage, "for I was just coming round to propose a walk on the
common."

"It is a beautiful day," said Bella, likewise conventional.

"Very. Wait until I get my hat and stick. Mrs. Block, if anyone calls, I
am going to the common with Miss Huxham."

"And a very lovely sweet walk it is," said Mrs. Block, coming nearer to
see if Bella was dressed in sufficiently deep mourning for her presumed
father, "as I said to Block, if he'd only make the money a man like him
ought to make, I'd be strolling on that there common, dressed up as fine
as nine-pence. But there, you never get what you want in this world, and
ain't it dreadful, Miss Huxham, about poor Mr. Pence?"

"Very dreadful!" assented Bella politely, then as Cyril was ready, she
went with him out of the gate, leaving Mrs. Block looking after them.
Luckily for the couple, Mrs. Block had nothing to say against the visit.
Indeed it was in her heavy mind that Cyril, having failed to take Bella
out as promised, had been called upon by a young lady weary of waiting.

"So like a man," soliloquised Mrs. Block, standing on her door-step,
broom in hand, "they never thinks, never, never! And if this Mr. Lister
commences neglect afore marriage, what will it be when the honeymoon's
over. Ah, poor Miss Huxham! what with her pa dying, and her aunt
robbing, and him as should love her neglecting--it's a miserable life
she'll have. Ah, well, there's always the grave to look forward to," and
ending her soliloquy thus cheerfully, Mrs. Block entered the house and
shut the door with a bang.

Meanwhile the lovers, quite ignorant of Mrs. Block's opinion, walked
along the village street, and soon emerged on to the common. They passed
the cottage wherein Silas Pence lodged, and this recalled the episode of
the so-called fit to Cyril, as he had heard all particulars from his
garrulous landlady. "I'm sorry for Pence," said Cyril, glancing at the
cottage.

"Why?" asked Bella nervously.

"It's such an awful thing for a person to have fits. If I'd known that I
should not have pitched him over the fence last night. Of course, he's a
rotter, and a blighter, and a nuisance; but he's weak, and I shouldn't
have treated him so roughly. I only hope," said Cyril gloomily, "that it
wasn't the fall I gave him which brought about this beastly fit."

"You can be quite sure of that," said Bella sharply; "in fact," she
hesitated, then spoke out boldly, "I don't believe he had a fit."

"My dearest girl, he said so himself, according to Mrs. Block."

"I know he did, as Dora told me. And that makes me the more certain of
his connection with the murder of my father. I suppose I must call
Captain Huxham my father until I am certain of the truth of what Mr.
Pence said."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Cyril, stopping to stare
at the down-cast, flushed face under the black hat. "Why should Pence
tell a lie about his fall?"

"Because he didn't want anyone to know that Durgo had thrown him down."

Cyril stared harder. "Would you mind explaining?" he said politely, "I
still cannot understand your meaning."

"I don't know that I understand myself," she replied nervously. "The
fact is, Cyril, I believe that Durgo threw Mr. Pence down when he
refused to give up those papers."

"What papers?" asked Lister, still bewildered.

"The papers which tell the truth about me."

"But, my dear girl, that is all supposition. We don't know if any papers
exist, after all. Pence may have spoken at random."

"You believed that he spoke the truth."

"I did. I want to believe, as only by learning that you are not Captain
Huxham's daughter can we marry," said Cyril dismally; "but the wish is
father to the thought, in my case."

"Well," said Bella, plunging into her confession, "you had better ask
Durgo if he assaulted Mr. Pence last night."

"Why should he?"

"I asked him to."

Cyril, who had walked on, stopped once more and stared. "You asked him
to?"

"Yes." Bella was less nervous now. "I told him all that Mr. Pence said,
and suggested that he should get the papers."

Cyril's face grew stern, as she knew it would. "Tell me everything that
passed between you and that nigger."

"I have not said that I saw him," said Bella evasively.

"You could scarcely have asked him to assault Pence, unless you had seen
him," retorted Cyril, who looked displeased, "come, be frank. Tell me
all."

Bella did so, omitting nothing, although she every now and then stole a
glance at Cyril's compressed lips and corrugated brow. At the end of her
explanation he looked up, and his eyes were hard. "You have acted very
wrongly," he said sternly.

"I know I have: I admit as much," said the girl penitently, "but, after
all, I only asked him to get the papers. I did not tell him to hurt Mr.
Pence."

Cyril shook his head impatiently. "You should not have seen this
infernal nigger. I don't like any white woman to talk to niggers."

"I don't like them myself," said Bella quietly, "and you may be sure,
had I not been anxious to learn the truth, I should not have spoken to
Durgo."

"You could have asked me to speak."

"Would you have done so, seeing that you did not believe that the papers
existed?"

"Nor do I believe now," replied Cyril, walking on quickly. "It is all
guess work on your part."

"No, no, no!" insisted the girl, as they arrived at their favourite spot
under a giant gorse bush; "the mere fact that Mr. Pence told a lie about
his injury shows me that I am right."

"We don't know for certain that he met with his injury at Durgo's
hands."

"Then I have done no wrong," said Bella promptly.

"Indeed you have," said Cyril in vexed tones, as they sat down. "You
spurred on that infernal nigger to do what was wrong."

"I understood that you liked Durgo, and thought him a well-educated
man."

"So I do like him; so I do consider him wonderfully well educated. He is
an Oxford M.A., you know. But I daresay if you scratched him you would
find that he is a common nigger after all."

"The son of a king?"

"An African king. Pooh! what's that? You must promise me, Bella, not to
have anything more to do with him."

"But I have promised to seek for the jewels in the Manor-house," and
Bella went on to state how she could enter Bleacres by the secret door.
Cyril nodded and approved of the idea.

"But you must come to me and tell me what you find out. I don't want you
to speak to Durgo more than you can help."

"That is racial instinct and injustice."

"Racial instinct is never unjust. I don't care if Durgo was a black
Homer and Bismark and Napoleon rolled into one. He is a man of colour,
and I detest the breed. Promise not to have anything to do with him--at
all events unless I am present."

"I promise if you will not scold so much," said Bella wilfully.

"I am not scolding. If I did you would cry."

The girl slipped her arm within that of her lover's, pleased to have
escaped so easily. "I begin to think that I am marrying a tyrant."

"You are marrying a man who loves you, and who wants to protect you from
all dangers. Oh, Bella, Bella! I wish we could go away to London and get
married quietly. Then we could go to Australia and leave this bad past
behind. Will you come? I have money enough for a year, and by that time
I'll be able to get something to do in Melbourne or Sydney."

Bella shook her head. "Dear, I love you dearly, but I can't marry you
until I am quite sure that I am not Captain Huxham's daughter."

"In any case," said Cyril bitterly. "You will marry the son of a man who
has committed a murder."

"I am not so sure of that. Now that Mr. Pence has told a lie I think
that he may have something to do with the matter. He may be guilty."

Cyril groaned. "I have no ill-will towards Pence, in spite of his
insolence to you, but for the sake of my name I wish I could think so."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Bella, who was looking
along the path, spoke to her lover in a frightened whisper. "Here is
Durgo!"

And indeed it was. The negro swung along bluff, heavy and ponderous. He
was in dark clothes, and these, with his black face, made him look like
a blot on the sunshiny beauty of the summer world. At once, with his
keen eyesight, he caught a glimpse of the lovers and strode towards
them, smiling and bland. Cyril nodded coldly. He could not forgive the
black man's impertinence in speaking to Bella, quite forgetting that
Bella was to blame and had sought the interview. Bella herself,
remembering Cyril's warning and her own promise, did not dare to welcome
the man.

"I went to see you," said Durgo, addressing Cyril, "and your landlady
told me that you had gone to the common with Miss Huxham. I followed. I
am glad to find you both together. I have much to say."

Bella could not contain her curiosity. "Did you----"

"Yes," said Durgo coolly, "I did. He would have made a noise, so I had
to dash him to the ground. He hit his head against the fender. Mrs.
Giles," he added with a grim laugh, "tells me that he accounts for the
knock on his head by saying that he had a fit."

"What do you make out of that?" asked Cyril, casting a glance at Bella
warning her to hold her tongue.

"Oh"--Durgo glanced from one to the other--"so Miss Huxham has told
you?"

"About her interview? Yes! I am sorry you took her advice and saw Pence,
for I knew that ill would come of it."

Durgo leisurely took a bundle of papers from his pocket. "Much good has
come of it, as I am here to explain," said he quietly. "You were right,
Miss Huxham. Pence had certain papers stolen from Captain Huxham's
safe."

"Then he is guilty of the----"

"I can't be certain of that," interrupted the negro sharply. "I had no
time to question Pence. As soon as I got the papers which he carried in
his breast-coat pocket I slipped through the window. Lucky that I did
so, for his landlady came in almost immediately in answer to the ring of
the handbell. If he hadn't sounded it I should not have rendered him
insensible, but I had to do so for my own safety."

"Well, well, well!" said Cyril impatiently, and looking at the papers,
"we can talk of this later. You say that Miss Huxham's guess is
correct?"

"It is. And I congratulate Miss Huxham on her clever brain. Pence was
certainly a fool to say as much as he did, and especially to so talented
a lady who guessed----"

"There! there! No more compliments. Tell us both at once. Did he speak
truly when he stated that Miss Huxham was not the captain's daughter?"

"He spoke absolutely truly, as you will find when you read this," and
Durgo placed a bulky roll of paper in Bella's hands.

"Oh!" she said, flushing a bright pink, "how glad I am. But whose
daughter am I?" and she made to open the paper.

Cyril laid his hand on the bundle. "We haven't time to read all that
now," he said gruffly. "Tell us shortly what you have discovered,
Durgo?"

The negro nodded, and addressed himself to the girl. "Your name is
Isabella Faith," he stated, "and you are the daughter of Maxwell Faith,
who was my father Kawal's firm friend."

The lovers looked at one another. "But how did I come to pass as Captain
Huxham's daughter?" she asked breathlessly.

Durgo shrugged his shoulders. "So far as I can read the story, which
Captain Huxham has set down in that bundle you hold, he was smitten with
compunction for having murdered your father and so adopted you."

Bella shuddered. "How terrible to have lived with such a wicked old
man," she said. "I never liked Captain Huxham, but thinking him my
father I tried my best to do my duty. No wonder he would not leave the
property to me!"

"I think he intended to leave you the jewels, though," said Durgo,
thoughtfully. "He mentions in those papers that he intended to make a
will leaving them to you, since his sister, Mrs. Vand, claimed Bleacres
and his income. It's my opinion that Mrs. Vand learned how her brother
had murdered Maxwell Faith, and so forced him to make that will."

"Then the jewels really belong to you, Bella?"

"Yes," said Durgo, rising and making a courteous bow. "And when we find
Edwin Lister, my master, he shall restore the jewels."

"But your expedition?" asked Bella in surprise.

The negro looked at the lovers humorously. "I fear that there will be no
expedition," he said seriously. "I cannot rob you of your fortune, Miss
Faith. Marry our friend here and be happy."

"But what will you do?" asked Cyril, touched by this self-abnegation.

Durgo shrugged his shoulders again. "I shall search out Edwin Lister and
return to Africa. In one way or another I daresay we can manage to get
back to my tribe. Then I shall measure my strength and education against
my cousin, who is wrongfully chief. For the rest, there is no more to be
said. The papers you have, Miss Faith, will prove your birth and reveal
all the doings of Huxham. There is no more for me to do, so I shall bid
you both good-day and wish you all good luck."

The lovers stared to one another and then at the retreating form of
Durgo, who had so delicately left them together. It was Cyril who spoke
first.

"He is a good fellow, after all," he said. "That black skin covers a
white heart. Oh! Bella, how strange it all is."

"Take me home," said the girl faintly, and with white cheeks. "I can
bear no more at present. Isabella Faith is my name now----"

"Until you change it to that of Isabella Lister," said Cyril, kissing
her.

But she only wept the more, broken down by the unexpected revelation.



CHAPTER XVII

A CONFESSION


On the way home from the common, Cyril and Bella agreed that it would be
wise to say nothing about her true parentage. In the first place, it
would benefit no one to be thus candid, and in the second, such a
statement would lead to questions being asked which might get Durgo into
trouble. After all, the lovers argued, since Pence, as the chief party,
did not move in the matter, it was useless for them to fight his
battles. The more particularly when Durgo had acted so generously in
surrendering the jewels. The black man had behaved in a way for which
Cyril would not have given him credit. Few members of the boasting white
race would have done as much.

According to the arrangement which the lovers came to, Bella was to
remain Miss Huxham to the world until such time as Edwin Lister could be
found, and the truth of Huxham's death became known. Of course, with
jewels valued at forty thousand pounds, the girl was quite an heiress,
and she proceeded to build castles in the air for the advancement of
Cyril, when he became her husband. The young man did not say much, as he
did not wish to damp her ardour, but he privately thought that if his
father were in possession of the jewels he would not surrender them
easily. If Durgo was generous, Edwin Lister, as his son knew, was not,
and since he had risked his neck to get the treasure he would certainly
not hand it over to a girl whom he did not know, for a mere sentimental
whim. That the girl was to be his son's wife, and that the son would
benefit by the sale of the jewels, would make no difference.

On the way back to the cottage, Bella recovered her self-control and her
spirits. It was a wonderful relief to her to learn that she was not the
daughter of the gruff old mariner, whom she had never liked. Looking
back on her life at Bleacres, Bella no longer wondered that her supposed
father had never shown her any affection, and she shuddered when she
recalled the terrible fact that his hands were red with blood. On
consideration, however, she gave Huxham full credit for the way in which
he had acted towards her. He had come to England a thief and a murderer,
it is true, but he could easily have left her in the care of the people
who looked after her in a little Croydon house. Bella could scarcely
remember that house or the woman who stood to her in the place of a
mother, her own being dead.

Almost her earliest recollection was being taken from Croydon by Captain
Huxham and placed with some friends of his at Shepherd's Bush until she
was nine years old. Then she lived with Huxham for a few years, and
ultimately was sent to the Hampstead boarding-school, whence she
returned to Bleacres at the age of twenty. Thus the captain had educated
her and had looked after her, and in his own coarse way had proved
himself to be generous to a certain extent. Badly as he had acted in
robbing her of her heritage, he might have behaved infinitely worse. And
by her heritage Bella meant the jewels. With the property and the income
left to Mrs. Coppersley, now Mrs. Vand, she had nothing to do, and she
no longer grudged the woman what she had schemed to get. But it was
probable that had Mrs. Vand not so schemed, Huxham, for very shame,
might have given his adopted daughter his nefarious earnings.

"I must not be hard on Captain Huxham," said Bella, when Cyril brought
her to the gate, "for, in his own strange way, he acted kindly. But I am
glad that he did not leave me anything, as I am certain he earned his
money in some shady manner."

"A kind of Captain Kidd," assented Lister gravely. "I agree with you.
But the old ruffian had a soft spot in his heart for you, my dear."

"No," said Bella, shaking her head, "I would not say that exactly. He
suffered from remorse and therefore looked me out when he came to
England. I did not find him an affectionate father by any means. But he
was just, in a grim way, and even generous. He grudged me nothing save
ready money. I wonder if Mrs. Vand knows the truth."

"You said yourself that she did not," replied Lister quietly, "and I am
inclined to think so too. A tyrant like Mrs. Vand would have been only
too glad to tell you the unpleasant truth."

"Unpleasant? Why, it is a delightful truth!"

"Unpleasant from Mrs. Vand's point of view, since, had she known that
you were not her brother's daughter, in no way could you claim the
money."

Bella shrugged her shoulders. "I am very, very glad that she has got the
money, and much good may it do her. But I am thankful that Captain
Huxham did not reveal the truth about me to her. Now she need never
know."

"It matters very little whether she knows or not," retorted Cyril. "She
cannot gain possession of the jewels. Those are clearly yours."

"How are we going to gain possession of them?" asked Bella lingering.

Cyril looked hopelessly up to the blue sky. "Heaven only knows! The
first thing to be done is to find my father and see if they are in his
possession. And now that we are parting, Bella, and you feel better, I
don't mind telling you that I don't think my father will give them
up--if indeed he has them."

"But to me, his son's future wife----"

"My father is quite unbiassed by sentimental considerations," said Cyril
very dryly. "What he holds, he keeps. However, there is plenty of time
to talk of this matter when we meet my father. Meanwhile, what will you
do?"

Bella shook the bundle of papers which she carried. "I am going to my
bedroom to read these," she said seriously. "I wish to learn everything
that concerns my true parentage. I may have relatives, you know."

"If you have," said Lister emphatically, "I only trust that you will
leave them severely alone. I don't care for relatives; they ask
everything and give nothing."

"Well," said Bella smiling, for she had quite recovered her spirits, "so
long as I have you, I need no sisters or cousins or aunts. Good-bye,
dear. No, don't kiss me; someone may be looking on."

"What of that? Everyone knows that we are engaged."

"It doesn't do to emphasise the engagement in public," said the girl
seriously, and ran into the cottage. At the door she turned. "I shall
tell you all that I read in these papers," she called out, and vanished,
while Cyril returned home to think over the strange turn which events
had taken. And things were strange, for in striving to solve one mystery
they had solved another. In seeking for Huxham's assassin they had found
the true father of Bella.

Dora had not yet returned, so Bella, in the seclusion of her bedroom,
felt relieved. She did not wish, as yet, to share her secret even with
the little school-mistress, good friend as that amiable woman had proved
to be. Locking her door she sat down and unrolled the bundle. It
consisted of many sheets of foolscap, and appeared to be a kind of rough
diary kept by Jabez Huxham, when he was in Africa. The script was in his
crooked painful writing, but was legible enough, and after some practice
Bella managed to read it fairly easily. Seated on her bed, she perused
what was set down, and found the reading extremely interesting.

The sheets seemed to have been torn from a manuscript book, for the
diary both commenced and ended abruptly and dealt entirely with Maxwell
Faith and his doings. The old pirate had evidently ripped the pages from
the diary which he kept and had placed them in the carved chest, which
Mrs. Tunks had found in the attic. There also, according to Durgo's
story, the jewels had been stored, so apparently Huxham had used the
chest--which had belonged to Faith--as a repository for all that
concerned the dead trader. But Edwin Lister could scarcely have gone to
the garret to seek the chest and get the jewels, since he did not know
his way about the old mansion. It was, therefore, evident that Huxham
had kept the jewels in his study safe, and had removed the chest
containing the torn-out leaves to the attic. Afterwards he had
apparently placed the papers in the safe also, where Pence had probably
found them. But Bella did not pause to think out these matters. She was
to much interested in the story which was set down.

Huxham stated abruptly that he met Maxwell Faith at Calabar, and had
been engaged by him to transport certain goods up the Cross River,
Nigeria, as far as Ogrude, when they were to be taken in canoes up to
Yahe on the stream of that name. The goods were for Kawal, Durgo's
father, with whom Faith appeared to have had many dealings. Faith and
Huxham--so the writer said--got on very well, and the former told the
latter much about himself and his past. The trader declared that he was
the son of a wealthy Huntingdon Quaker, but had been disowned by his
family and by the Society of Friends, because he had married a lady who
was a Roman Catholic. There was one daughter, who had been born in
London and had cost the mother her life. Faith said that he had placed
his daughter Isabella with some friends of his at Croydon, and had come
to Nigeria to make money for her. From what Bella could gather, her
father appeared to have been desperately fond of her.

Afterwards Huxham and Faith parted, but met again in the Hinterland at
the chief town of Kawal and again became friendly. Then the trader told
Huxham that because he had supplied the chief with guns and ammunition,
and had proved his friendship in many ways, he had received ancient
jewels to the amount of forty thousand pounds. He was going home to his
daughter with the money. At this part of the diary a portion of the
manuscript was torn away, apparently that which dealt with the murder of
Faith by Huxham.

The story commenced abruptly again with the statement that the writer
was going to England with his earnings and with the jewels; and
intending to seek out Faith's little daughter and adopt her. Huxham gave
no reason for doing so in his diary; but Bella, reading between the
lines, guessed that the man was overcome with remorse--a strange thing
for so hardened a sinner as Huxham undoubtedly was. Then came hasty
notes of Huxham's fears lest he should be robbed for the sake of the
jewels, and reference to an unknown man who was dogging his steps.
Ogrude, Afikpa, Obubra and Calabar were towns mentioned as having been
the scene of adventures with this man, whose name was not given.
Afterwards the hasty notes detailed the finding of Faith's little
daughter at Croydon, her adoption by the writer and her removal to
Shepherd's Bush. A few remarks were made relative to the fears of
Huxham, and of his determination to find some place in the country where
he would be safe from pursuit. The final page was torn off in the
middle, and Bella could read no more.

Putting away the bundle in her box, she reflected on what she had read.
It was easy for her to find her Quaker relatives, as the name and
address of the family were given. Evidently these same relatives were
rich, but very stiff-necked in Quaker traditions. Bella, however,
thought very little of this at the moment. Her brain was employed in
wondering if Huxham had met with his death at the hands of the unknown
man who had dogged his footsteps in Nigeria. Without doubt this man knew
of the existence of the jewels, and that Huxham had murdered Faith to
get them. It might be that he determined to get the jewels, and, having
traced Huxham to England after long years, had killed him and so gained
his end. And this man--Bella asked herself the question earnestly--was
this man Edwin Lister? She resolved to tell Cyril and to give him the
papers to read. He could decide better than she, and probably Durgo
could throw much light on the subject.

But there was no doubt that Huxham had bought the Solitary Farm, and had
planted the corn thickly, and had mounted the search-light on the roof
of Bleacres, so that he might defend himself from robbery and possibly
from death. But all his precautions had been in vain, and he had been
struck down at last in his very fortress. And by Edwin Lister! Bella
felt certain that, as Edwin Lister had been many years in Nigeria and
had been a close friend of Kawal's, he must be the unknown man to whom
Huxham had so often referred. Lister was the assassin; there could be no
doubt on that point.

Very thoughtfully the girl locked up the papers, and descended to the
drawing-room to wait for the return of Dora. She greatly wished to speak
to her friend about what she had discovered, but such a confidence was
not to be thought of, as many things had to be done first. Until Edwin
Lister was discovered, Bella felt that she would have to be silent. But
her thoughts on this subject were brought to an abrupt conclusion when
she opened the drawing-room door, for she unexpectedly beheld Silas
Pence.

"I came to see you, Miss Faith," he said, using her true name, "and I
told the servant not to announce me. I waited here till you came."

Speaking in this jerky, nervous manner, the young man did not attempt to
rise, as he appeared to be ill and exhausted. His face was haggard and
his head was bound up in a white cloth. Anything more weird than his
looks Bella had never seen, and she recoiled on the threshold of the
room, only anxious to escape from his unwelcome presence.

"Have you come to persecute me again?" she asked.

"No! no! no!" said Pence weakly, and yet with great relief in his tone.
"I have come to ask your pardon for the way in which I have behaved. I
was mad to trouble you as I did, but now I have recovered my reason."

"What do you mean exactly?"

Pence smiled in a ghastly manner. "Can you not guess," said he, touching
the linen rag round his head. "The blow I received when I fell on the
fender has changed my feelings towards you."

"But how can a blow do that?" asked Bella, relieved but puzzled.

"I cannot say," faltered Pence, resting his aching head on one thin
hand. "I really cannot say; my brain won't think just now."

"Then don't think and don't talk," said Bella, kindly placing a plump
cushion at his back. "Rest quietly and I'll make you a cup of tea."

"You give me good for evil," said the preacher, flushing painfully.

"No, no!" replied the girl hastily, and remembering her share in his
trouble. "You did me great honour in asking me to be your wife, though
you were a trifle difficult in some ways. But now----"

"It is all gone; it is all gone. I assure you it is all gone!"

"What is all gone?"

"All my love for you; all my desire; all my mad infatuation. I like you
as a friend, Miss Faith--I shall always like you as a friend--but I can
never, never worship you again in the way I did."

"Thank heaven for that!" said Bella fervently. She knew no more than did
Silas how the change had come about. But it was evident that the blow on
his head had suddenly rearranged his ideas.

"Up to ten o'clock last night I loved you madly, despairingly, and would
have risked my soul to gain your hand. But since I fell"--he passed his
hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner--"everything has
changed."

"And for the better," Bella assured him. "Come, don't think anything
more about the matter. I have rung the bell for tea."

"I rung the bell also last night. It brought in Mrs. Queen, very
fortunately, or I might have bled to death, Miss Faith."

"Why do you call me Miss Faith?" asked Bella abruptly.

"Because you are Miss Faith," said the preacher, lifting his haggard
face to her own in some surprise. "Did not the black man tell you?"

"How do you know that I have anything to do with the black man?"

"I have seen Mr. Lister with him. I saw you all three talking on the
common. Oh, Miss Faith, you don't know how I have followed and spied on
you!" and the man flushed with shame and dismay.

"Did you listen?" asked Bella abruptly.

"No; I did not fall so low as that, but I followed and watched."

"Why?"

"Because I loved you. That is all over now; I shall never follow or
watch you again. I am glad that the black man threw me down last night.
When I found this morning that my prayers had been answered and that I
no longer suffered from this mad passion, I resolved to say nothing
about what had taken place."

"And so invented the story of the epileptic fit?"

"Yes; but the truth is----"

"I know the truth: Durgo told everything to me and to Mr. Lister this
morning, or rather this afternoon; also Durgo gave me the papers. I have
read them, and know that I am not Captain Huxham's daughter. By the
way"--Bella looked sharply at the preacher--"are we friends?"

"Yes, if you will have me for a friend," said Pence meekly.

"By all means, now that you love me no longer. Be my friend,"--she held
out her hand, which Pence grasped feebly--"and tell me how you got those
papers."

"From your father's--I mean from Captain Huxham's safe."

"Then you were in the room on that night?"

"Yes. I saw the body."

"And you said nothing."

"No. Had I done so, I should have incriminated myself. When I entered
the study Captain Huxham was lying dead under the desk."

"Did you see anyone about?"

"I saw no one, not even Mr. Lister, whom I had followed into the house."

"Just explain precisely what you did see," said Bella, anxiously.

Pence thought for a few moments. "I was watching the house as usual on
that night because I loved you," he said, in a slow, feeble way, for he
was still weak from loss of blood. "I beheld Mr. Lister coming towards
me. He brushed past me, and entered the Manor by the front door. I
watched for his return, intending to speak to him. But he never came
out."

Bella sat up alertly. "He never came out?"

"No. I don't know how long I watched; but finally I grew tired, and
stole up to the house. The front door was ajar. I saw that the study
door was also open, so I went in. Then I saw Captain Huxham lying dead
and bleeding, with the safe open and the papers in disorder. In the
safe, or, rather, tumbled on the floor before the safe was a bundle of
bank-notes. The Accuser of the Brethren tempted me," said Silas, with
the perspiration beading his high forehead, "and I snatched up the
notes, for I thought that if I had money I could marry you. I then saw
that bundle which the black man took from me, and thinking there might
be more notes in the bundle, I snatched that up also and fled."

"Why did you fly?" asked Bella, following this story with great
interest.

"I thought I heard a noise, and feared lest I should be accused of
killing Captain Huxham. I ran out of the study, and out of the house,
and down the path between the standing corn, as though the devil was
after me. But he was not after me," wailed Pence, standing up, "he was
in my heart. Here is the money for which I sold my precious soul," and
he threw a packet of bank-notes on the table with feverish eagerness.
"It was all for your sake!"

Bella took up the notes. "The man you mistook for Mr. Lister was his
father," she said quietly; "did you not see him in the room?"

"I saw no one. Did Lister's father kill Captain Huxham?"

"Can't you tell?" asked the girl, looking at him straightly.

"I have told everything," said Pence, with an air of fatigue; "now I
die," and before she could help him he fell full length on the floor
quite insensible. The interview had proved too much for him in his weak
state.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE GHOST


The corn on Bleacres was rapidly ripening under the beams of the
powerful sun. The Manor-house was islanded amidst a golden sea of grain,
the waves of which rolled up even to its ancient walls. The winding path
to the boundary channel was still the sole means of approach, but few
people came up this to the house, as the Vands were not popular. Henry
certainly was approved of, on account of his manners, his affliction,
and his violin-playing; but the neighbours, ignorant of the truth, could
not forgive his wife for robbing Bella of her inheritance. Now that she
was rich and re-married, it was Mrs. Vand's intention to become the
great lady of the district, but hitherto she had not met with much
success in her bid for popularity.

But, in spite of cold looks and significant speeches, Mrs. Vand went
from house to house, talking of a Harvest Home fete, which she proposed
to give as soon as the grain was reaped. Her husband would not accompany
her on these social visits, as he was shrewd enough to see that only
time would ameliorate the bad impression which Mrs. Vand's callous
conduct had created. In vain he tried to show his wife that it would be
wise to retire for a short period. Mrs. Vand scorned such Fabian
tactics, and did her best to take by storm the position she felt that
her wealth and personality deserved. The more she was snubbed, the more
she persisted, and there was no doubt but what, in the end, she would
gain what she wanted, by wearing down those who resented her conduct.

Mrs. Vand paid a visit even to Dora Ankers, choosing a Saturday
afternoon, when she knew that Bella was walking on the common with her
lover. The little school-mistress received her coldly, as she had never
liked the woman from the first day she had set eyes on her. But Mrs.
Vand, in the most flamboyant of costumes, was all smiles and small talk,
refusing to see for one moment the chilly reception she was receiving.

"You really must come to our Harvest Home, Miss Ankers," she babbled;
"what with Henry's taste and my money, it will be wonderfully gay and
bright and artistic. Everyone will help to reap the corn, and in the
evening we will have a ball, at which Henry will play old English tunes,
to which we shall dance. You must come. I shall take no refusal."

"How can I?" asked Dora tartly, "seeing that your niece whom you have
treated so badly, is stopping with me."

Mrs. Vand drew up her stout figure with great dignity. "That Bella
Huxham left her home and my guardianship is purely her own fault," she
replied. "I promised to look after her, at poor Jabez's request. But she
chose to behave in a way of which I did not approve, and to engage
herself to a man, who is not the husband I should have picked for her."

"Bella has every right to choose a husband for herself," retorted Miss
Ankers.

"Girls are not clever enough to choose the right man. And Mr.
Lister----"

"You know nothing about him, Mrs. Vand."

"That is exactly what I complain of," said the other woman triumphantly,
"he may be a rogue and a scamp."

"He may be, but he is not. Mr. Lister is a gentleman."

"That doesn't prevent his being a bad character."

"Well," said Dora, rising to terminate the visit, "I don't care about
discussing my friends."

Mrs. Vand rose also. "Let us shelve the subject," she said grandly, "and
you can tell Bella that I am willing to forgive and forget. If she likes
to come to our Harvest Home, she can do so. I am not the one to bear
malice. It is the last Harvest Home we shall have," prattled Mrs. Vand,
as her hostess skilfully edged her towards the door. "Henry does not
intend to sow wheat again, and the grounds of Bleacres will be thrown
open to the public."

"People are not fond of wandering in marshes," said Dora dryly. "If you
want to please us, throw open the Manor-house. That is interesting, if
you like."

"And haunted," said the visitor in a thrilling whisper; "do you know of
any sad legend connected with the Manor-house, Miss Ankers?"

"No!" snapped Dora, tartly; then her curiosity got the better of her
dislike for Mrs. Vand. "Is it really haunted?"

"There are footsteps, and whisperings, and rappings in the twilight. I
told Henry that if this sort of thing continued, I should leave the
place."

Privately, Dora wished that she would, and thus rid the neighbourhood of
a most undesirable presence, but aloud she merely remarked that the
noises might be due to rats, a suggestion which Mrs. Vand scouted.

"It's a ghost, a ghost!" she insisted--"all old families have a ghost.
But do not let us talk of it," she continued, looking round with a
shudder; "already the thing has got on my nerves. To go to a more
pleasant subject: let me invite you for a row on the water."

"A row on the water?" echoed Dora, who knew of no lake in the
neighbourhood.

"On the channel at the end of my grounds," explained Mrs. Vand. "Henry
has bought a rowing-boat, and takes me far into the country. You can
almost reach the railway line before you get to the swamps. Do come."

"I'll think about it," said Miss Ankers, only anxious to get her visitor
out of the house before Bella came back.

"Do, dear, and come to our Harvest Home. It will be quite artistic: you
have no idea of Henry's perfect taste, and if Bella comes I shall be
glad to see her, in spite of her nasty behaviour, and--and----" Mrs.
Vand could think of nothing more to say, so took herself off, with a
gracious smile, quite sure that she had played the part of a great lady
to perfection.

"Ugh!" said Dora, looking after the stout, gaudily-clothed figure,
"you're a spiteful cat, if ever there was one. I shouldn't be surprised
to hear that you had killed your brother yourself, in order to get the
money."

Unaware of this amiable speech, Mrs. Vand sailed grandly through the
village, dispensing smiles and patronage. Fortunately for herself, she
was not a thought-reader, or her self-satisfaction might have received a
severe reproof. She was considered to be considerably worse than
Jezebel, and in her stoutness was compared to the late Mrs. Manning, a
notable murderess. To her face many were agreeable, but usually she was
not received with the best grace. Finally, towards the evening, she
returned to the Manor-house to report on her triumphs.

Crossing the boundary-channel, she saw the boat which her husband had
lately bought. It was a narrow but comfortable craft of a light build,
and the water-way was quite broad enough to permit if its being rowed
very comfortably, even though the oars occasionally touched the banks.
Mrs. Vand looked at this boat with a singular expression, and then,
stepping across the planks, walked up to her lordly abode. She found
that her husband was absent, and had left word with the servant that he
would not be back to dinner. Mrs. Vand was annoyed, as she did not like
eating alone; but in her heart of hearts she was afraid of her quiet
husband, even though he was considerably her junior, and made no
comment. However, the servant who brought in the seven o'clock tea had
much to say, and Mrs. Vand permitted her to talk, for, as usual, the
sinister influence of the Manor was getting on her healthy nerves.

"Master's gone to the village, to see his ma," said the servant, who was
small and elfish and somewhat brazen. "Then he's going to see Tunks."

"What's the matter with Tunks?" asked Mrs. Vand, pouring out the tea.

"He's ill. He's been drinking hard for weeks, ever since that horrid
murder, mum, and now the doctor says he's got delirious trimmings."

Mrs. Vand looked up sharply, and frowned. "He is raving?"

"Raving hard, mum. But master will see that he is looked after."

"Your master is very good," said Mrs. Vand, taking a piece of bread.
"You can go, Sarah."

The servant departed somewhat unwillingly, as she did not like the big,
bare kitchen, and felt the influence of the unseen as did her mistress.
But as yet, ghostly doings had not been sufficiently scaring to make her
throw up a good situation. Nevertheless, she shivered in the kitchen,
and wished that Tunks was present to keep her company, as he often did,
at the evening meal. But Tunks was raving at the present moment in the
hut on the marshes, and there was no chance of anyone else coming to
Bleacres.

Mrs. Vand sat and shivered in the dining-room also. She lighted three
lamps, and although the evening was warm, she set fire to the coals and
wood in the large, old-fashioned grate. It seemed to her that she could
not have enough light or warmth to ward off the cold, malicious
influence, which seemed to spread a sinister atmosphere throughout the
vast room. Shivering at the head of the table, Mrs. Vand kept casting
furtive looks here and there, as though she expected to see the
blood-stained figure of her murdered brother appear like Banquo's
spectre. Outside the twilight gradually deepened to luminous darkness,
and although she had finished her tea, she did not feel inclined to move
about the gloomy passages. Again and again, she wished that Henry would
return.

At nine o'clock her nerves were still shaky, and she felt that she could
not stand the dining-room any longer. Ringing the bell, she took a lamp
in each hand, and told Sarah--who entered speedily--to take the other.
The two women proceeded to the drawing-room, and Mrs. Vand, having
pulled down the blinds, ordered Sarah to bring her work and sit beside
her. The servant was only too pleased to obey, and for the next
half-hour the two sat in pleasant gossiping confabulation, Mrs. Vand
knitting a silk tie for her husband, and Sarah trimming a wonderful hat
with aggressively brilliant flowers. There was no noise, as the wind had
dropped, and everything was intensely still. Mrs. Vand and Sarah
chattered incessantly to keep up their courage in the ghostly
atmosphere. Suddenly--

"Listen!" said Mrs. Vand, raising her hand. "Do you hear?"

Sarah turned white through her dingy skin, and held her breath. There
came distinctly the sound of three knocks from somewhere near the
fire-place; then a long, dreary sigh. The servant shrieked, and sprang
for the door. But Mrs. Vand was after her in one moment, and seized her.
"Hold your tongue, you fool! It's only rats."

As if to give the lie to her statement, there came the swish, swish of
silken skirts, and then the sigh again. This was too much for Mrs. Vand.
She scuttled panic-stricken into the hall, followed by the shrieking
Sarah. At the same moment, as though it had been prearranged, the front
door opened and Vand appeared.

"Oh, Henry! Henry!" gasped his wife, and clung to him.

The young man shook her off. "What is the matter?" he asked in calm
tones. But Mrs. Vand being too terrified to answer, Sarah did so for
her. "The ghost! the ghost! the ghost!"

"What rubbish!" said Vand, easily; "there is no ghost, you silly girl,
and if there is, here is one who can lay it."

He stepped aside, and Granny Tunks, lean and weird-looking, appeared at
the door. She had a white cloak over her fantastic dress, and looked
more witch-like than ever. Mrs. Vand stared at the woman in surprise.
"Why have you left your grandson?" she asked, and glancing at Henry.

"He's sound asleep, deary, the fit having passed. A gal o' mine, of the
true Romany breed, looking after him. Your sweet husband here"--she
waved a skinny hand towards Vand--"asked me to come and see what I could
do to lay this unquiet spirit who walks."

"Rubbish! rubbish!" said Mrs. Vand, now feeling more confident in
company.

"It's not rubbish, deary," said Mrs. Tunks, mysteriously; "the dead
walk."

"The dead?"

"Your poor brother, as is uneasy at having been pitched out of life so
cruel. He's walking," and she nodded weirdly.

On hearing this statement, Sarah whimpered and clutched at Mrs. Vand's
dress, whereupon that lady who was extremely pale herself--shook her
off. "Go to bed, Sarah," she commanded.

"Me!" screeched the girl, "and when there's ghosts walking! I'd scream
myself into fits if I went up-stairs."

Mrs. Vand appealed to her husband. "Henry, make her go."

The young man took the girl by the shoulders, and propelled her towards
the foot of the stairs, but Sarah resisted wildly, and finally made a
bolt for the still open front door. "I'll go home to mother," she cried
hysterically, and disappeared into the darkness.

"There," said Mrs. Vand, angrily, to Granny Tunks. "See what you've
done. The house will get a bad name. I'll give that minx warning in the
morning."

Vand, seeing that it was useless to run after the terrified Sarah, who
by this time was half-way to Marshely, closed the door, and shrugged his
shoulders. "Come into the drawing-room," he said to Mrs. Tunks.

"No, no!" cried his wife, shaking; "the ghost is there. I heard the
rapping and the sighing and the----"

"Yes, yes, yes!" interrupted Vand, with less than his usual coolness;
"that is why I have brought Granny. There is an evil influence in this
house, and I want her to find out what it is."

"Do you believe in such rubbish?"

"You seemed to believe in it just now," said the cripple drily. "Yes, I
do believe in the unseen, as I have had too much proof not to believe."

"Then get a priest, get a priest!" cried Mrs. Vand wildly, and looking
twice her age. "What is the use of this old fool?"

Granny Tunks laughed in an elfish manner when she heard herself spoken
of thus, and seemed very little put out. "A fool can do what a wise
woman can't," she croaked; "your husband's wiser nor you, deary. He
knows."

"Knows what?" asked Mrs. Vand, turning on the ancient gipsy fiercely.

"That there's danger coming to you and him."

Mrs. Vand cast one scared and indignant look on the withered face, and
ran into the drawing-room. Henry had preceded her here, and was standing
by the table looking round the room in an inquiring manner, evidently on
the alert for the mysterious sounds. Mrs. Vand caught his arm. "Do you
hear what this woman says?" she asked, shaking him.

"As the door was open I did hear," he replied coolly; "don't be a fool,
Rosamund. I brought her here to see what she can tell us."

"About?--" Mrs. Vand faltered and broke down.

"Hold your tongue!" said Henry with an angry hiss like that of a
serpent.

Usually the young man wore a mild and gentle expression, but on this
night his face was haggard and his eyes were wild. He had all his wits
about him, however, and forced his wife into a chair, where she sat
trembling violently. "I've had enough of these ghostly pranks," he said
in a fierce undertone, "and as Granny undoubtedly possesses clairvoyant
powers, I wish her to learn all she can. Come in, Mrs. Tunks!" he added,
raising his voice, and the old witch-wife entered the room, looking
singularly weird in her white cloak.

"Is that the only reason that you have asked Granny here?" demanded Mrs.
Vand, in a low voice. "Sarah told me that her grandson had been raving."

"You fool!" snarled the cripple. "Will you hold your tongue? I have
another purpose, which you will find out shortly. Granny," he pointed to
a chair, "sit down and tell us what influences are about."

Mrs. Tunks sat in the indicated chair, and lay back with closed eyes.
Vand and his wife remained perfectly still, the latter gazing at the old
witch in a terrified manner, as though dreading what she would say and
do. The room was filled with shadows, even though three lamps were
lighted, and the silence became quite oppressive. Mrs. Vand was a
healthy animal, and not in the least imaginative, but after a time she
felt that some evil influence was in the room, and tightly gripped her
husband's hand. The perspiration broke out on her forehead. Henry gave
her no comfort, not even by pressing her hand. His eyes were fixed on
the perfectly expressionless and still face of Granny Tunks. The séance
had all the elements of terror about it.

The gipsy lay as still as though carved out of stone, and the watchers
could scarcely see the rise and fall of her breath. Deeper and deeper
grew the stillness, so that even the fall of a pin could have been
heard, had one been dropped. Apparently the body of Granny lay supine in
the chair, but her spirit was far away--roaming the house, maybe. After
a long pause, the woman began to speak in a low, expressionless voice,
and almost without moving her withered lips.

"Gems," she said softly, "rare gems, blue and red and green; jewels of
price and pearls of the ocean. They are in an ivory box. Long ago the
woman who is standing near me"--Mrs. Vand started, looked, but could see
nothing, yet the monotonous voice went on, as though the speaker really
saw the form described--"wore those jewels. She has the face of a Roman
empress. In Africa, many centuries ago--yes, in Africa, and she sinned
to get those jewels. Now she laments that she has lost them."

"How did she lose them?" asked Vand almost in a whisper, as though
fearful of breaking the charm. Apparently--as Mrs. Vand guessed--this
was not the first time he had assisted at so weird a ceremony.

"Fierce warriors in green turbans took them--warriors of Arabia. The
jewels travel south, still with the warriors. There are many fights. The
jewels pass from one hand to another, still in the ivory box. Now a
savage has them--a savage, in a wild forest. They are buried in the
earth at the place where victims are sacrificed to the gods. Long years
pass: centuries glide by. The box of jewels is found: it is in the hands
of another savage, who wears European clothes. He gives the jewels to a
white man for services rendered."

Mrs. Vand interrupted with a strangled cry of terror. "Jabez--is he
Jabez?"

"He is not Jabez Huxham, but a man called Maxwell Faith. But see"--the
dull voice of the gipsy suddenly became emotional and loud--"they pass
into the hands of Jabez Huxham, and the hands that bear away the jewels
are stained with blood. The jewels pass with him across the sea to this
land. In London first; then in this house. They are placed in a carved
chest; it is in the attic. Now they are in the safe in the study, and
now----"

Vand interrupted. "How did they pass out of Huxham's possession?"

Granny Tunks did not reply for a few minutes, during which Mrs. Vand
clutched her husband's hand still tighter, and passed her tongue over
her dry lips. "They pass from Jabez Huxham, as they came to him--by
murder," went on the clairvoyant. "I see the study. Huxham is at the
desk, and the ivory box of jewels is before him. There is a knife on the
floor by the door, and the knife is bloody."

"But Huxham is not dead," said Vand, quickly and softly.

"There is blood on the knife," said Mrs. Tunks, without taking any
notice of the question. "Huxham is so engaged in looking at the jewels
that he does not see the door softly open. A man enters. He sees the
knife and picks it up. He glided behind Huxham, who suddenly turns.
Now--now the blow has fallen, and the jewels, the jewels----" She
paused.

"What more?" gasped Mrs. Vand. "What more, in God's name?"

"There is no God here, but only evil," came the reply. "I can see no
more. I see, however, that the man who struck the blow is a cripple,
and----"

There came a cry, apparently from behind the wall. Vand and his wife
turned astonished and terror-struck. On the left of the fire-place a
sliding panel was pushed back, and they beheld Bella, pale but
triumphant.

"So you murdered Captain Huxham!" she cried, "you and your wife. O
God----"

"There is no God here," breathed Mrs. Tunks again, "only evil."



CHAPTER XIX

AN AWKWARD POSITION


The appearance and accusation of Bella were so unexpected that Mrs. Vand
and her husband became perfectly white, and obvious fear robbed them of
all powers of movement. Granny Tunks sat up, rubbed her eyes, and stared
at Bella with the open panel behind her in great surprise.

"Where have you come from, deary?" she asked, rising unsteadily.

"Never mind," said Bella, with her eyes on the guilty faces of the
married couple. "It is enough that I am here to accuse these two of
murder."

Mrs. Tunks uttered a screech. "What are you talking about, lovey? This
good gentleman and kind lady have murdered no one."

Bella glanced at her in a puzzled way. "You declared that Henry Vand
murdered my father," she remarked quietly, and keeping up the fiction of
her being Huxham's daughter; "you said that a cripple----"

"Me!" screeched Granny again. "I never said such a thing."

"Of course not," chimed in Vand, who was the first to recover his powers
of speech. "It's all nonsense."

"Your face showed that it was the truth just now," said Bella sharply,
"when Mrs. Tunks talked in her sleep."

"Sleep? No lovey, no sleep. I sent my spirit away to learn things. What
did I say? Tell me, my good gentleman, what did I say?"

"I don't remember. I forgot," said Vand striving to appear cool.

"I don't forget," cried Bella indignantly, "she spoke of the jewels and
of my father's murder. How did you find out?" she asked Granny Tunks,
who dropped into her chair and seemed to shrink. "How did you learn
about the jewels and Maxwell Faith?"

"I never heard the name. I never knew there were any jewels," murmured
the witch-wife. "I never said anything about murder. When I came back to
my body I never remember anything. No, no, no! The spirit is stronger
than the flesh and jealous of its secrets," and she went on murmuring
and maundering like one in her dotage. Yet Bella knew well, that in
spite of her age, Granny Tunks was very far from being intellectually
weak.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vand, who had sunk into a chair, had gradually recovered
her colour and wits. "You are the ghost!" she said suddenly to Bella.

In spite of the strained situation, the girl laughed, though not very
mirthfully. "Yes, I am the ghost!" she acknowledged. "It was I who
sighed and rapped and rustled my skirts so as to drive you and Sarah out
of the room."

"How dare you! how dare you!" shouted Mrs. Vand, rising wrathfully.
"What do you mean by entering my house, and how did you get in."

"I got in by a way of which you know nothing," said Bella coolly, "and I
am not going to reveal my secret. But I know this house better than you,
Aunt Rosamund"--she gave her the old familiar name--"and I know of many
secret passages. This,"--she touched the panel at her back--"is the
entrance to one of them. In the old days many a conspirator concealed
himself here. I have used the hiding-place to learn your secret."

"How dare you! how dare you!" blustered Mrs. Vand, and would have gone
on abusing Bella wrathfully but that her crafty husband interposed.

"Miss Huxham, you have behaved wrongly in entering the house in this
secret manner, seeing that I told you how welcome you were to come
openly. Both Rosamund and myself would have been glad to see you."

"Not me! not me!" vociferated Mrs. Vand, with a bright spot of angry red
on each cheek. "I always hated her, and I hate her more than ever."

"Hold your tongue," muttered her husband, and gave her plump arm such a
pinch that she leaped aside with a cry of pain. Taking no notice of her
distress he turned to Bella. "You should have come openly," he repeated.
"May I ask why you made use of the secret passages?"

"You may, and I am quite willing to answer. I came to find the
whereabouts of the jewels which belonged to my father."

"I know of no jewels," said Vand steadily; "do you, Rosamund?"

"No, I don't," returned Mrs. Vand aggressively. "There was the property
and the income, both of which Jabez left to me by arrangement. But
jewels? I never saw any; if I had I should have got hold of them, since
they are mine--if they exist, that is."

"Granny here said when she spoke that they existed," insisted Bella
quietly.

Mrs. Vand shrugged her fat shoulders. "I don't believe in hocus-pocus
and hanky-panky. Henry thought that the house was haunted, as I did
myself, and he brought Granny here to lay the ghost. She has done so,
since she brought you out to talk in a silly manner. You are the ghost,
Bella, so I don't believe that there are any such things as spirits."

"I don't believe in spirits either," said Bella promptly, "and so I wish
to know, Mrs. Tunks, how you learned all you said."

"All what?" mumbled the witch-wife vacantly.

"All about the jewels and the murder and the----"

"I don't remember saying a word," interrupted Granny, rising slowly and
with a lack-lustre look in her beady eyes. "When I go into a trance I
don't recall what I say. But let me go into a trance again and I'll tell
you where the jewels are if you will give me a share," and her eyes
began to glitter in an avaricious manner.

"No," said Vand, in his most peremptory tones, "we have had enough of
this rubbish."

"Oh," sneered his wife, "you admit then that it is rubbish?"

"Yes, now that I know Miss Huxham played the ghost. Granny"--he turned
to the old woman--"all your teachings of the unseen have proved false,
so you can take yourself out of this house, and never come near it
again."

Bella, quite believing that the old woman was a fraud, and knew the
truth of what she had spoken when in her so-called trance, expected to
see her defy the man she had accused. But in place of doing so Granny
Tunks flung the tail of her white cloak over her head and moved towards
the door. Seeing her retreat, Mrs. Vand, after the manner of bullies and
cowards, became suddenly brave. Leaping towards the old creature, and
before her husband could restrain her, she struck her hard once or twice
between the shoulders. "Get out of this, you lying cat! Go to the devil,
your master, you vile animal!"

Vand caught back his infuriated wife with a fierce oath, but Granny
still continued on her way out of the room. As she passed into the dark
hall she turned and sent a glance at Mrs. Vand which made that
triumphant tyrant shiver in her shoes. But she did not defend herself in
any way, and shortly the three in the vast drawing-room heard the front
door open and shut. Granny Tunks was gone, and with her seemed to
disappear the malignant influence which had hung over the house for so
long. Bella did not believe in witchcraft, but she could not help
thinking that the old woman must have exercised some evil spell, and now
had departed taking her familiar with her. At all events, the air seemed
to be clearer for her absence.

"Now then," said Vand, addressing Bella in his usual courteous way, "as
you are satisfied, Miss Huxham, perhaps you will go also."

"No," said Bella determinedly. "I believe that Granny spoke truly, and
that you and my aunt have something to do with the murder."

"It's a lie!" shouted Mrs. Vand furiously, and would have struck her
niece, as she had struck Granny, but that Vand kept her back. "Why
should I murder my own dear brother?"

"To get the heritage you now enjoy," said Bella firmly. "I don't say you
actually murdered him, but----"

"I should think you didn't, indeed," raved Mrs. Vand, stamping in
impotent wrath. "You heard what I said at the inquest. What I said then
is true. I left this house at seven o'clock with Tunks, as he can prove.
I was all the evening with Henry, as he can swear to, and he left me on
the other side of the boundary channel. I came in quietly at ten and
went to bed. I never knew that Jabez was dead until the next morning,
and then I woke you. And as I was out of the house from seven until ten,
how could I have murdered my brother--your poor dead father--when the
doctor declared that he was struck down shortly after eight? How
dare----"

"You forget," interrupted Bella quickly, "that Dr. Ward said the murder
was committed between eight and eleven, so that gave you an hour to----"

"Grant me patience, heaven!" cried Mrs. Vand, casting up her eyes. "Why,
the coroner himself said that the poor dear must have been murdered
shortly after eight o'clock, since I came in at ten and saw no light in
the study."

"Ah," said Bella significantly, "he declared that on your evidence and
because he hated Dr. Ward, and wished to put him in the wrong."

"Then you accuse me of murder?"

"No; I accuse you of nothing."

"You say that I am guilty?" asked Vand, suddenly but quietly.

"I do not say so, but Granny Tunks did."

"If so, would she not have accused me to my face when I turned her out
of the house?" said Vand earnestly. "I assure you, Miss Huxham, that I
had no motive to kill your father. I was quite content to wait, even
though Rosamund and I were secretly married. Besides, on that night I
left Rosamund on the further side of the boundary channel, as she can
prove. Also my mother can show that I returned to my home at fifteen
minutes past ten, and that I was in bed by half-past. There is not a
shred of evidence to support this unfounded charge you have made."

"I did not make it Granny said----"

"I know what she said," interrupted Vand imperiously. "Hold your tongue,
Rosamund, and let me speak. Granny said what she did say in a trance. At
one time I really believed in such things; now, and especially since our
ghost has proved to be you, I have ceased to believe. You heard merely
the raving of an old beldame. I dare say she wished to blackmail myself
and Rosamund by bringing this unfounded charge, and chose this so-called
trance to bring the charge. If she really has any grounds to go
upon--and I swear that she has not--she will doubtless go to the police
to-morrow."

"And I hope she will go!" cried Mrs. Vand angrily, "for then Henry and I
can have her up for libel. No wonder everyone is so disagreeable!
Granny, no doubt, has been spreading all manner of reports against us. I
daresay we are regarded as a couple of criminal, gory, murdering
assassins," ended Mrs. Vand, with a fine choice of words.

Bella was puzzled. Like the Vands themselves, she did not believe in the
occult arts with which Granny Tunks was supposed to be familiar, and it
was not unlikely that the clever old woman intended to risk blackmail.
Certainly, if Mrs. Tunks could really prove the guilt of Vand, she would
not have retreated so easily when he ordered her out of the house, much
less would she have condoned the blow of Mrs. Vand. If Granny honestly
could prove her case, she was mistress of the situation; but as she had
slunk away so quietly, it seemed that she had merely spoken from
conjecture. Bella began to think she had been too precipitate in
revealing herself, as the Vands decidedly had right on their side.

"Yet, after all," she said reluctantly, "how did Granny come to know
about the jewels?"

"Jewels! Had Jabez really jewels?" asked Mrs. Vand avariciously.

"Yes," said Bella coldly. "I read some papers which proved that he had
jewels valued at forty thousand pounds."

"Where did you get those papers?"

"I refuse to tell you that," retorted the girl, anxious not to
incriminate Mrs. Tunks until she had interviewed her.

"You must tell!" yelled Mrs. Vand, her face on fire with rage and
expectation. "You've come in sneaking by these secret passages to steal.
Jabez never gave you any of his papers. They are mine, and if they tell
where the jewels are, you minx----"

"They don't tell where the jewels are," interrupted Bella, "but they
state how Captain Huxham murdered Maxwell Faith in Nigeria to get them."

"You talk of your dead father as Captain Huxham," said Mrs. Vand
sniffing.

Her husband made a gesture of silence. "Maxwell Faith was the name
mentioned by Granny in her trance, and she also spoke of this murder.
Did she see the papers?"

"Ah!" Bella was suddenly enlightened. Perhaps Granny had learned about
the jewels from the papers which had been taken from the carved chest in
the attic. But then in that first set of papers, as she thought, the
name of Maxwell Faith had not been mentioned. "Granny saw one set of
papers, but not the set I mean."

"Then there are other papers you have stolen," cried Mrs. Vand
furiously. "Upon my word, Bella, you are a fine thief and no mistake.
Give up those papers, so that we may learn where my jewels are."

"They are not your jewels, but mine," said Bella, stepping back into the
hollow left by the open panel, "and you shall not have them."

"Where are they? where are they?" cried Vand, becoming excited in his
turn.

"I wish I knew, but I don't. Captain Huxham had them, before he
died----"

"Then the assassin must have them."

"Yes. Perhaps you can tell me who is the assassin?"

"I can't say; you know as much as we do," said Vand coldly. "If I had
murdered the old man, as you were so ready to think, on Granny Tunk's
ravings, I should have the jewels and long since would have cleared out
with them. But the fact that I am still here with Rosamund proves that I
am innocent."

"We must go and see the police to-morrow, Henry," said Mrs. Vand, "and
have this wicked girl arrested. She must be made to give up the papers
she has stolen. Oh!"--Mrs. Vand plunged forward--"I could scratch her
eyes out!"

Undoubtedly the furious woman would have made the attempt, but that
Bella was on her guard. Already in the secret passage, she had only to
touch a spring and the panel sprang back into its place with a click. In
the darkness Bella heard her so-called aunt hurl herself against the
hard wood, using very bad language. Then came the beating of fists
against the panel in the vain attempt to break it down. Bella knew that
the panel was too strong to break, but thought it was best to leave the
house as speedily as possible. Cyril was waiting for her near the
boundary channel, and the sooner she joined him the better. As she
turned to go she heard the high, screaming voice of Mrs. Vand raging
wildly.

"Go up on the roof and use the search-light, Henry!" shouted Mrs. Vand.
"The minx will get out of the house by some way we don't know of, and
must get down the corn-path. I'll catch her there, and you show the
light so that I can seize her. I'll tear her hair out! I'll scratch her
eyes out! I'll make her ill, and----" what else Mrs. Vand was about to
do to her, Bella did not hear, as there was no time to be lost in
getting away from the dangerous neighborhood of the infuriated woman.

Bella sped along the narrow passage fearlessly, as long experience had
made her acquainted with its intricacies. It was contrived in the thick
dividing walls of the old house on the ground floor. At one part there
was a shaft leading to another passage on the first floor, and up this
it was possible to scramble by notches cut in the walls. Bella had half
a mind to ascend to the upper story, and linger for a chance of escape.
But as Cyril waited her at the boundary channel, it was possible that he
might come into contact with Mrs. Vand, who would be furiously hunting.
Therefore, she judged it best to leave the house and gain the corn-path
before Mrs. Vand could intercept her. With this scheme in her mind Bella
ran along the passage until she came to a door, which turned on a
central pivot. This she twisted, and slipped like an eel through the
opening to find herself in a kind of tiny chamber. Groping round this
she soon discovered the hasp of a closed door, which she skilfully
manipulated. The door--a narrow one and somewhat high--swung open, and
the girl was outside in a quiet corner at the back of the house, and
hidden fairly well by a projecting buttress. A screen of ivy clothed the
Manor wall at this point, and the door was concealed behind the screen,
so that its existence had never been suspected. Bella had discovered the
exit from the inside, and had cut round the ivy that masked the door so
that she could get it open. Of course, the cut ivy had more or less
withered, but even so, no one guessed that there was a door behind the
brownish oblong.

The night was dark and warm and silent. Bella stole along the footpath,
which ran between the house and the tall, rustling stalks of the corn.
Several times she paused, thinking she heard a noise, but everything was
still, and she speedily turned the corner of the mansion. Apparently
Mrs. Vand was not on the hunt yet, or perhaps she was busy with the
search-light which she had asked her husband to use. However this might
be, Bella saw that the course was clear, and stealing round to the front
door, which she found to be closed, she sped like an antelope down the
winding corn-path which led to the boundary channel. Just as she reached
the top of this and was prepared to start down it, the beam of the
electric light struck into the dark sky.

Huxham had rigged up the light on the flat roof, between the sloping
tiles, but Vand had transferred it to the quarter deck, which was slung
round the chimney. Thus he was enabled to sweep the whole horizon
without being interrupted by the tall roofs of the Manor. The beam swung
round here and there, pointing like a great finger, and finally settled
on the corn-path and on Bella's dark figure running for dear life from
the mansion. The girl heard Vand's shout as he espied her, heard also
the front door opening, as Mrs. Vand rushed in pursuit.

But Mrs. Vand, like Hamlet, was stout and scant of breath, and with all
the will in the world urged by a venomous hatred, could not gain on her
detested niece, who ran like Atlanta. The search-beam revealed the path
plainly, and showing the flying figure of Bella, with Mrs. Vand panting
in vindictive pursuit. Towards the end of the path near the boundary
channel Bella called softly and breathlessly, "Cyril! Cyril! Mrs. Vand
is following. Hide! hide!"

At that moment the beam struck the boundary channel, and revealed the
white-clothed figure of young Lister. It rested for a moment there, and
then dropped back to aid the steps of Mrs. Vand. Cyril seized the chance
of the friendly darkness, and as Bella ran into his arms he dragged her
into the standing corn. In less than a moment they were lying some
distance from the path amongst the crushed stalks, while Mrs. Vand
blundered past, running unsteadily. If Vand had kept the beam on Bella,
she and her lover would not have been able to hide, but having been
forced to give light to his stout wife, the two were enabled to escape.
They could hear Mrs. Vand puffing and panting like a grampus, as she
searched round and round. In Cyril's arms, on Cyril's breast, Bella felt
perfectly safe, and in spite of the position and of the near presence of
her enemy, was bubbling over with laughter.

Mrs. Vand crossed the boundary channel, and finding no one on the hither
side, concluded that Bella had escaped. She returned slowly, and, as
Vand had now shut off the beam--for he also had seen that the search was
vain--she stumbled up the path in a very bad temper. As her sighs and
groans died away and the darkness gathered around, Cyril and Bella rose,
and gliding back to the verge of the boundary channel, crossed rapidly.
In a few minutes they were on their way to Marshely.

"What does it all mean, dear?" asked Cyril, when they were quite safe.

Bella told him all about her adventure.



CHAPTER XX

THE MASTER MAGICIAN


Next morning, Dora being at school as usual, Bella received Cyril and
Durgo in Miss Ankers' tiny drawing-room to discuss the position of
affairs with regard to the Huxham mystery. In the negro's opinion it was
no longer a mystery, for after hearing Bella's account of Granny Tunks'
utterances while in the trance he unhesitatingly pronounced Henry Vand
guilty.

"But on what evidence?" asked Cyril, who, like Bella, had small belief
in the manifestation of the unseen.

"The evidence that Granny said that she did say," returned Durgo
quietly.

"That evidence would not be accepted in a court of law," remarked Bella.

"I am aware of that. I have not been to Oxford for nothing, missy. But
it gives me a clue, which I shall follow up. This afternoon I shall see
Mrs. Tunks and question her."

"But if she really knows anything," said Cyril, after a pause, "it will
prove that her trance statements were by design and from practical
knowledge."

"I am sure they were," said Bella emphatically. "I fancied that as
Granny did not see the second set of papers, which Durgo got from Mr.
Pence, that she did not know the name of Maxwell Faith, my father. But
now I remember that in the first set, which she found and delivered to
you, Durgo, my father's name was also mentioned; also the number and the
value of the jewels. All her talk was of the jewels."

"And of the murder of your real father by Huxham," said Durgo drily;
"that was not in the first set of papers, and was only lightly referred
to in the second set."

"That is strange," said Cyril reflectively.

"You no doubt think so," said the negro calmly, "as you disbelieve all
that you can't see or prove. I know otherwise."

"But, Durgo," argued Cyril, surprised at this assumption, "you have been
to Oxford, and surely must have rid yourself of these barbarous African
superstitions."

"You call them superstitions because you don't know their esoteric
meaning. But there is such a thing as magic, white and black."

"Magic! Pshaw!"

Durgo shrugged his shoulders. "Of course I never argue with an
unbeliever, Cyril Lister," he said indifferently, "but the Wise Men came
from the East, remember, and Europe is indebted to the East for most of
her civilisation."

"But not to Africa."

"Africa has had her ancient civilisations also. In the time of the
Atlanteans--but it's useless talking of such matters. All I say is, that
there are certain natural laws which, when known, can enable anyone to
part what you call the spirit from the body. When the spiritual eyes are
open, much can be seen that it is difficult to prove on the physical
plane."

"I don't understand what you mean by these planes," grumbled Lister.

"Quite so, and it would be useless for me to explain. But facts beyond
your imagining exist, and had I the time I could prove much to you. Mrs.
Tunks is what we call clairvoyant, and when in a trance state can
see--well, you heard her say what she saw, Miss Huxham."

Bella was also sceptical. "She must have read the first set of papers?"

"Probably she did, since woman is an animal filled with curiosity," said
Durgo good-humouredly. "I don't mean to say that Granny Tunks is
entirely genuine. There is a good deal of humbug about her, as there is
about all the Romany tribes. She may have known about the jewels, and
even your real father's name, but she did not know about his murder.
Mrs. Tunks has a small portion of clairvoyant power, which does not act
at all times. When that fails her she resorts to trickery."

"Like spiritualists?" suggested Cyril.

"Exactly," assented the negro with decision. "In all phenomena connected
with the unseen there is a great measure of truth, but charlatans spoil
the whole business by resorting to trickery when their powers fail. And
I may say that the spiritual powers do not act always, since in a great
measure we are ignorant of the laws which govern them. But enough of
this discussion. I do not seek to convince you. I shall see Mrs. Tunks
this afternoon and gain from her actual proof of Vand's guilt."

"But I fancied that you believed my father to be guilty," said Cyril.

"So I did, and if he were I would not mind, since Huxham was a rogue.
But from what Miss Faith--"

"Miss Huxham," interposed Bella hastily, "until this mystery is cleared
up."

"Very good. Well, from what Miss Huxham overheard I am inclined to think
that Vand murdered the old sailor, aided by his wife."

"For what reason?"

"You supplied it yourself, Miss Huxham; so that they might get his
money."

"But what about Pence's confession?" said Cyril. "He might have
committed the deed himself."

"No; he had no reason to kill the old man, who was on his side in the
matter of the marriage with Miss Huxham here. Besides, if Pence was
guilty he certainly would not have composed what he did, and assuredly
would not have produced the one hundred pounds he stole. Now that his
madness for Miss Huxham is past, Pence has behaved like a rational
being, and will do his best to assist us in solving this mystery." Durgo
paused, then turned to the white man. "Cyril Lister, you put an
advertisement into several London papers a week ago?"

"Yes; I did so without telling you, as I hoped to surprise you with a
letter from my father telling us of his whereabouts. How do you know?"

"I saw the _Telegraph_ yesterday and also the _Daily Mail_," said Durgo,
nodding approvingly; "you did well. Have you had any answer?"

"If I had you should have seen it," said Cyril, wrinkling his brows as
he always did when he was perplexed. "What can have become of him?"

Durgo struck his large hands together in despair. "I fear my master
Edwin Lister is dead," he said mournfully.

"Why?" asked Bella and her lover simultaneously.

"Miss Huxham, you repeated to me that Granny Tunks in her trance said
that the knife lying on the floor when the cripple entered to kill
Huxham, was already bloody. Can't you see?"

"See what?"

"That if the knife were already bloody, Huxham must have killed my master
Edwin Lister, and then was killed in turn by Vand the cripple."

Cyril looked impatient. "That is all the black magic rubbish you talk
of."

"Well, then, if my master, your father, is alive and has the jewels, why
does he not write to me or to you? He knows he can trust us both. Even
the advertisements have failed. No"--Durgo looked gloomy--"my heart
misgives me sadly!" He arose abruptly. "Meet me at the 'Chequers,' Cyril
Lister, and I shall tell you what I learn from Mrs. Tunks."

"Can't I come also to see her?"

"Yes, if you like. Perhaps I shall be able to dispel your disbelief
regarding these occult powers which she and I possess."

"Is that why Mrs. Tunks calls you master?"

"Yes. She recognised that I had higher powers than she, when we first
met, and so I was enabled to make her get those papers. Do you think she
would have done so unless I had controlled her? No. Not even for the
fifty pounds which I am taking to her to-day. She can make a better
market out of Vand and his wife. She knows their guilt."

"But cannot prove their guilt."

"Perhaps," said the negro indifferently. "Good-day", and he departed in
his usual abrupt style, after bidding Cyril meet him at three o'clock at
the hut of the so-called witch. The lovers looked at one another.

"What do you think of it all, Cyril?" asked Bella timidly.

"I really don't know. We seem to be involved in a web through which we
cannot break? Durgo certainly seems to be a very strange being, and in
spite of my disbelief in the existence of occult powers I am inclined to
think that he knows some strange things. He looks like a negro, and
talks and acts like a white man. Indeed, no white man would be so
unselfish as to surrender those jewels to you as Durgo has done."

"He puzzles me," said Bella thoughtfully.

"And me also. However, the best thing to be done will be to leave
matters in his hands. In one way or another he will learn the truth, and
then we can get back the jewels and marry."

"Do you think your father has the jewels, Cyril?"

"My dear," he said frowning, "I can't be sure now that my father is
alive. I begin to believe that there may be something in Granny's
trances, after all, since she hinted at my father's death at Huxham's
hands. And terrible as it may seem," added Lister, turning slightly pale
with emotion, "I would rather think that he was dead than live to be
called the murderer of Jabez Huxham. I would like to come to you," he
said, folding Bella in his strong young arms, "as the son of a man whose
hands are free from blood. Better for my father to be dead than a
criminal."

The two talked on this matter for some time, until their confidences
were ended by the entrance of Dora, hungry for her dinner. Then Cyril
took his leave, promising to return and tell Bella all that took place
in Mrs. Tunks' hut. Being anxious, the girl made a very poor meal, and
was scolded by Dora, who little knew what was at stake. But Dora
supplied one unconscious piece of information which surprised her
friend.

"I think Mr. and Mrs. Vand are going away for a trip," she said
carelessly.

"What do you mean?" asked Bella, starting so violently that she upset
the water-jug.

Dora looked surprised. "My dear, you are not so fond of your aunt as to
display such emotion. I merely say that the Vands are going away."

"When? Where? How do you know?"

"Very soon, I believe, as they are packing, but where they are going I
don't know. Sarah Jope, the servant, whose sister is at the school, came
flying home last night to her mother with a cock and bull story about a
ghost at the Manor. This morning she went to get her belongings, as she
insists upon leaving the house. She found Mrs. Vand and her husband
packing for immediate departure and was bundled out by her indignant
mistress, boxes and all, with a flea in her ear. Sarah Jope's sister told
me this just before I came home to dinner."

"The Vands going away!" said Bella in dismay. This seemed to prove that
they were guilty, and wished to escape. "I thought they were going to
wait for the harvest home."

"I daresay they will be back in a month, and the Bleacres corn won't be
reaped until then. I only wish they would remain away altogether. Your
aunt is a horrid woman, Bella, though her husband is a dear."

Bella did not echo the compliment, for, after what she had seen on the
previous night, she was inclined to think that Henry Vand was the worse
of the two, evil as his wife might be. At all events, he was the
stronger, and Rosamund Vand was a mere tool in his hands. She was on the
point of going to Cyril's lodgings to warn him and Durgo of this
projected departure of the Manor-house inhabitants, but on reflection
she concluded to wait until he returned from Mrs. Tunks' hut. After all,
the Vands could not leave Marshely before night-fall, and would have to
pass through the village on their way to the far-distant railway
station. If necessary they could thus be intercepted at the eleventh
hour.

Mrs. Tunks was seated by the fire in her dingy hut, absorbed in her own
thoughts, which she assisted by smoking a dirty black pipe. In the next
room her grandson still turned and tossed, watched by a bright-eyed
gipsy girl, whom the old woman had engaged from a passing family of her
kinsfolk. But the man no longer raved, as the worst of the delirium had
passed. He was sensible enough, but weak, and looked the mere shadow of
his former stalwart self. Mrs. Tunks feared lest he should die, and was
much disturbed in consequence, as he was her sole support. Without her
grandson's earnings she could not hope to keep a roof above her head, as
her fees for consultations as a wise woman were woefully small. She did
not dare to make them larger in case her visitors should warn the police
of her doings. And Mrs. Tunks, for obvious reasons, did not wish for an
interview with Dutton, the village constable.

Smoking her pipe, crouching over the smouldering fire, and wondering how
she could obtain money, the old woman did not hear the door open and
shut. Not until a black hand was laid on her shoulder did she turn, to
see that Durgo was in the hut with Cyril behind him. Paying no attention
to the white man, she rose and fawned like a dog on the black.

"He's ill, master," she whimpered, clawing Durgo's rough tweed sleeve,
"and if he goes there's no one to help me. Give him something to make
him well; set him on his legs again."

"Do you think I can do so?" asked Durgo, with a grave smile.

Mrs. Tunks peered at him with her bleared eyes and struck her skinny
hands together. "I can swear to it, master. You know much I don't know,
and I know heaps as the Gorgios--my curse on them!--would give their
ears to learn. Come, lovey--I mean master--help me in this and I'll help
you in other ways."

"Such as by telling us who murdered Huxham," put in Cyril injudiciously.

"Me, deary! Lor', I don't know who killed the poor gentleman," and Mrs.
Tunk's face became perfectly vacant of all expression.

Durgo turned frowning on the white man. "I said that I would let you
come if you did not speak," he remarked in a firm whisper; "you have
broken your promise already."

Cyril apologised in low tones. "I won't say another word," he said, and
took a seat on a broken chair near the window.

Mrs. Tunks cringed and bent before Durgo, evidently regarding him with
awe, as might her sister-witches the Evil One, when he appeared at
festivals. The negro glanced towards the closed door of the other room.
"Who is watching your grandson?" he asked sharply.

"A Romany gal, as I found----"

"That will do. I want no listeners. Call her out and turn her out."

The old woman entered the other room, and soon returned driving before
her a black-eyed slip of a child about thirteen years of age. This brat
protested that Tunks was restless and could not be left.

"I shall quieten him," said the negro quickly; "get out, you!" and he
fixed so fierce a glance on the small girl that she fled rapidly. And
Cyril saw that the girl was not one easily frightened.

"Now to put your grandson to sleep," said Durgo, passing into the next
room, and Cyril saw his great hands hover over the restless man on the
bed. He made strange passes and spoke strange words, while Mrs. Tunks
looked on, shaking and trembling. In two minutes the sick man lay
perfectly still, and to all appearances was sound asleep. Durgo returned
to the outer room.

"You'll cure him, master, won't you?" coaxed Mrs. Tunks.

"Yes. I'll cure him if you tell me what you know of this murder."

"I don't know anything, master."

Mrs. Tunks looked obstinate yet terrified. Durgo stared at her in a
mesmeric sort of way, and threw out his hand. The woman crouched and
writhed in evident agony. "Oh, deary me, I'm all burnt up and aching,
and shrivelled cruel. Don't--oh, don't! I'll be good. I'll be good;" and
she wriggled.

"Will you speak?" said the negro sternly.

"Yes, yes! only take the spell off me, deary--master, I mean."

"You feel no pain now," said Durgo quickly, and at once an air of relief
passed over Mrs. Tunks' withered face. She sat down on a stool and
folded her claw-like hands on her lap. Durgo leaned against the
fire-place. "What do you know of this murder?" he asked.

"I don't know much, save what he"--she nodded towards the room wherein
lay her sleeping grandson--"what he said when he was mad with the drink.
Get him to speak, master, and you'll learn everything."

"In good time I'll make him speak," said Durgo with impressive
quietness. "Now I ask your questions. Answer! Do you hear?"

"Yes, master; yes, I hear. I answer," said the trembling old creature.

"Did you tell the truth in your trance last night?"

Mrs. Tunks looked up with awe. "He knows everything, does the master,"
she breathed softly, then replied with haste, "Yes. I spoke of what I
saw."

"Did you see all you spoke of, or did you make up some?"

"I spoke of what I saw," said Mrs. Tunks decidedly, "and you know,
master, how I saw it. I loosened the spirit, and it went to look. But I
don't say but what I didn't know much from what Luke raved about."

"So you knew before Vand took you to the Manor-house for this trance,
that he had murdered Huxham?"

"Yes, master, I did know, but I wasn't sure till I saw with the Sight."

"Luke"--Durgo nodded towards the inner room in his turn--"Luke knows
that Vand murdered Huxham?"

"Yes, master. I believe," said Granny, sinking her voice, "that he saw
the doings through the window of the study. He never said naught to me,
though I wondered where he got so much money to get drunk every day. But
when he was mad with the drink, he talked and talked all the night. Then
I knew that he had got money from Mr. Vand for holding his tongue."

"Tell me what he said?" commanded Durgo.

"He raved disjointed like," said Mrs. Tunks with great humility; "but he
talked of Mr. Vand coming in when Captain Huxham was looking at a box of
jewels. There was a knife on the floor, and Mr. Vand stabbed Captain
Huxham with that knife, and then dropped it behind the desk."

"Was his wife with him?"

"No. She was in the kitchen."

"Was there another man with Huxham before Vand came?"

"Luke said nothing of that. But he did say," added Mrs. Tunks quickly,
"that he was going to America with Mr. and Mrs. Vand, and raved of the
good time he would have with them."

"When are they going?"

"I don't know, master. Luke didn't say."

Cyril would have interrupted to ask a question about his missing father,
as he could not understand why Durgo had not threshed out that important
point. But at the first sound of his voice the negro frowned him unto
immediate silence. When all was quiet, Durgo looked directly at Granny,
and made passes. "Sleep, sleep, sleep!" he said, and Cyril could see by
the working of his face that he was putting out his will to induce a
hypnotic condition. "Sleep, I say."

The old woman must have been a marvellously sensitive subject, for she
leaned against the wall--her stool had no back--and closed her eyes in
apparent deep slumber almost immediately. Her face was perfectly
expressionless, and her limbs were absolutely still. She looked--as
Cyril thought, with a shudder--like a corpse. Durgo spoke softly in her
ear: "Are you free?" he asked gently.

"Yes," said Mrs. Tunks, in a far-away, faint voice.

"Go to the Manor-house."

"I am there."

"Enter!"

"The door is fast closed," said Mrs. Tunks, still faintly.

"Doors are no bars to you now; you can pass through the door."

There came a short pause. "I have passed. I am inside."

"Seek out Vand and his wife," commanded the negro softly.

"I have found them."

"What are they doing?" demanded Durgo, sharply.

"Packing boxes," came the response, without hesitation; "they talk of
going away to-night."

"Where to?"

"I can't say: they don't mention the place. But they leave the
Manor-house under cover of darkness to-night."

"Look for the jewels."

"I have looked."

"Where are they?"

"In a small portmanteau, marked with two initials."

"What are the initials?"

"M. F. Oh!" Mrs. Tunks' voice became very weary. "The mist has come on.
I can see no more. It is not permitted to know more."

Durgo looked disappointed, and seemed inclined to force his will. But
after a frowning pause, he waved his hands rapidly, and spoke with great
sharpness.

"Come back," he said briefly, and after a moment or so, the old woman
opened her eyes quietly. Her gaze met the angry one of Durgo, and she
winced.

"Have I not pleased you, master?" she asked, timidly.

"Yes. You have pleased me. But I wish you could have learned more."

"What did I say?" asked Granny, wonderingly.

"Never mind. Here"--Durgo produced a small canvas bag from his
pocket--"this is the money you have earned."

Mrs. Tunks hastily untied the mouth of the bag, and poured a glittering
stream of gold into her lap. "Fifty sovereigns, lovey," she mumbled, her
eyes glowing with avaricious delight. "Thank you, master; oh, thank
you."

"In an hour," said Durgo, indifferent to her thanks, "I shall send you a
small bottle containing a draught, which you can give to your grandson.
It will put him right; but of course a few days will elapse before he
can get quite strong again. This place"--he glanced disparagingly round
the dingy hut--"is not healthy."

"So I thought, master. And to-night Luke is going to my sister's
caravan. It's on the road outside Marshely, and the gel can take him
there. If Luke has a month or two of the open road, he'll soon be
himself again. Anything more I can tell you, master?"

"No. But to-night I am coming here, shortly after moonrise. Get rid of
your grandson beforehand, if you can."

"What is to be done, master?"

"Never mind. Do as you're told. Good-day," and Durgo, beckoning to
Cyril, went out of the hut. The white man followed, in a state of great
amazement.

"How did you manage all that?" he asked wonderingly.

"Hypnotism," said Durgo shortly. "You heard that Mr. and Mrs. Vand
intend to fly to-night?"

"I have heard: yet I cannot believe in that hanky-panky."

Durgo shrugged his shoulders and argued no more. But when Cyril came to
his lodgings, and found a note from Bella stating that she had heard of
the Vands' intention of leaving the Manor-house, he disbelieved no
longer. Nay, more, for on the authority of Mrs. Tunks' hypnotic
confessions, he believed that the Vands also possessed the
long-sought-for jewels.



CHAPTER XXI

A DESPERATE ATTEMPT


"When the darkness came on, and just as the moon was rising, Lister and
Bella proceeded to the plank bridge of the boundary channel. Before
leaving Cyril on that afternoon, Durgo had intimated that he wished Miss
Huxham to meet him at that hour and at that place, and of course Cyril
came also. He had every trust in the negro, who had proved himself in
every way to be a man of sterling worth. All the same, he did not intend
to let Durgo meet Bella without being present. The black man was far too
intimate with unseen forces, to please the white man, and it was
necessary to protect Bella, if necessary.

"He might put you into a hypnotic trance," explained Cyril, who had
described all that had taken place.

"I should not let him do that," said the girl decidedly.

Cyril shrugged his shoulders. "Durgo might not care if you liked it or
not. He would hypnotize you, if he wished."

"No, Cyril, he could not do that unless I consented. My will is my own,
and it is a strong one. I suppose," said Bella, after a pause, "that he
made Granny feel those aches and pains by controlling her subjective
mind."

Lister glanced sideways at her in surprise. "You seem to know all about
it," he declared. "Where did you learn those terms?"

"At my school at Hampstead there was a girl who could hypnotise people.
She read all manner of books about hypnotism, and talked about the
subjective mind, although I don't know what it is. I can understand so
much of Durgo's power over Granny. But that sending her spirit to the
Manor is strange. I don't believe that he did."

"He must have done so," insisted Cyril, "as Durgo did not know that the
Vands were leaving, and Granny distinctly stated that they were, in my
hearing. Also, if we find that the jewels are in the small portmanteau,
marked with the initials M. F., we can be certain that her spirit really
did travel."

"'M. F.,'" repeated Bella, dreamily: "those are my father's initials."

"Maxwell Faith. So they are. Humph! There is something in this business
after all, Bella."

"But do you really think anyone can separate the spirit from the body?"

Lister reflected. "I don't see why not. After all, as St. Paul says, we
are composed of spirit, soul and body, so in certain cases the one may
become detached from the other. I remember"--he looked thoughtfully up
to the cloudy sky--"I remember reading in some magazine of a boat-load
of people being saved, owing to one of them transferring his spirit to a
passing ship, and leaving written instructions in the cabin where the
ship was to steer to."

"Oh, Cyril, that's impossible."

"My dear," he said drily, "you can see the log of that very ship,
containing an account of the incident, at Somerset House. However, we
have no time to discuss these matters further. Yonder is Durgo by the
bridge. I want to know why he asked you to meet him here. Such a night,
too"--Cyril shivered--"quite a change. I feel cold."

"So do I. It will rain, Cyril. Look at that heavy bank of clouds behind
which the moon is hiding. And oh, how dark it is!"

It certainly was dark, and the two came very near Durgo before they saw
him. The sky was heavy with gloomy clouds, and undoubtedly there
promised to be rain before midnight. Durgo, wrapped in a heavy military
cloak, stood sentinel by the plank bridge. When the lovers came up he
led them across to the other side, and when they stood on Bleacres he
used his great strength to rip up a couple of planks.

"There!" said the negro, flinging these into the standing corn, "they
will not be able to get their boxes across, even if they can cross
themselves."

"Are you talking of the Vands?" asked Bella quickly.

"Yes; they are still at the Manor-house. Look!"

He pointed through the gloom, and they saw two or three windows of the
old house lighted up brilliantly. Across other windows occasionally
flitted more lights. Apparently Mrs. Vand was anxiously trying to
impress the neighbours at least, such as might be abroad on this
night--that she and her husband were ostentatiously at home. Durgo
laughed grimly.

"They have quite an eye for dramatic effect," he said in his guttural
voice, and very contemptuously. "Well, they shall have all the drama
they want to-night, and more."

"Durgo," Bella spoke in an alarmed tone, "you won't hurt them?"

"Not if I can help it."

Cyril interposed imperiously. "I shall not be a party to the breaking of
the law," he said with sharpness, "nor will I allow Bella to----"

"Cyril Lister," interrupted the negro, turning on him and addressing him
by his full name, as was his odd way; "if I could bring the police on
the scene I would do so. But you know, as I do, that we have no proofs
save those of the unseen, which would not be accepted in a court of law,
to prove that the two are guilty of murder--of a double murder for all I
know."

"A double murder!" echoed Bella, drawing closer to her lover.

"Yes. Edwin Lister, my master, has disappeared, and Huxham is dead. The
old sailor, certainly, may have killed my master, but on the other hand,
as I believe, Vand murdered Huxham, and probably murdered Edwin Lister
also. Howsoever this may be, we can prove neither murder, so it is not
advisable to bring the police into the matter.

"It would be safer," said Cyril uneasily. He feared lest Durgo's
barbaric instincts should be aroused against the couple at the
Manor-house.

"It would not be safer," retorted the negro. "While the police were
debating and searching, the Vands would be getting out of the kingdom,
and we could not stop them. Besides, they have the jewels. I am certain
of that from what Granny Tunks saw when I loosened her spirit. Once the
Vands got news of the police being on their track they would hide those
jewels, and we should never find them. I want those jewels for you, Miss
Huxham, as, before I leave England, I wish to see you happily married to
Cyril Lister here. It is the least that I can do for his father's son."

"But if my father is alive and has the jewels?" asked Cyril doubtfully.

"That will make a difference," assented Durgo, "although I daresay that
Edwin Lister will not mind returning the jewels. We can arrange our
funds for the expedition in another way. But I fear," he added in gloomy
tones, "that my master is dead. If so, I can only avenge him."

"But with your occult powers, can't you learn if my father is dead or
alive?"

"No," said Durgo very decidedly. "You forget that on the side of the
unseen are mighty powers who have to be obeyed. I can do much, but not
all, and for some reason I am not permitted to know the truth about my
master. Sooner or later I shall understand about this. What we have to
do at the present time is to prevent the Vands from escaping. Will you
both help?"

"Yes," said Bella, anticipating Cyril; "that is if you don't intend
violence."

"Be comforted," said Durgo ironically; "be comforted, missy. I have no
wish to put a rope round my neck. I simply mean to force these devils to
give up the jewels, and to solve so much of this mystery as they know.
When I regain the jewels and know what has become of my master, I shall
let them go, or if you like I shall hand them over to the police. But
time presses," added Durgo impatiently, "and at any time the two may
come along on their way to freedom. Will you help?"

"Yes," said Cyril simply. "What do you want us to do?"

"Missy"--Durgo turned to the girl--"can you work that search-light?"

Bella nodded. "For an evening's amusement my father--I mean Captain
Huxham--once showed me how to manipulate it."

"Well it is in good order, as we know that Vand used it last night. You
can get into the house by the secret passage and watch for the going out
of our two friends. Then turn on the search-light and use it as a
pointer."

"I can use the search-light, and I daresay it is in order since Henry
Vand used it last night," said Bella quickly; "also I can get to the
upper part of the house and on to the roof, through a kind of well which
runs from the lower to the higher secret passage. But what do you mean
by my using the light as a pointer?"

"Direct the ray on to Vand and his wife; they may come down this path,
or they may try and escape in another way. But if you bend the ray of
the search-light to where they are, I'll be able to catch them. Use the
ray as a finger, as it were."

Bella nodded. "I see, and where will you be?"

"I shall hide in the corn somewhere or another," explained Durgo. "I
don't know where, as I can't be sure how Vand and his wife intend to
escape."

"They may take the boat," suggested Cyril, "and that is tied up some
distance yonder. I believe they will use the boat."

"No;" said Durgo shaking his head; "there is no place where they can row
to, as this channel ends in mere swamps. All I can do is to walk here
and there, and watch for the finger of the search-light."

"What am I to do?" asked Cyril anxiously; "go with Bella?"

"No you wait in Mrs. Tunk's hut. I daresay she is alone, as I asked her
to send her grandson away to his gipsy caravan before I came. I shall
walk down with you, while Miss Huxham goes to the Manor-house."

"I would rather go with Bella," objected the young man uneasily.

"I am quite safe," said Bella determinedly, "and if you came, Cyril,
there would be no room for us both in that narrow secret passage. I
shall go by myself. Have no fear for me, dearest."

"One moment," said Durgo, as she was moving away. "Since you think that
I may use violence, I may tell you, to quieten your minds, that the
police are coming, after all."

"When did you tell the police to come? I thought you said----"

"Yes, yes!" interrupted the negro impatiently. "I know what I said. But
I saw Inspector Inglis the other day when I went to Pierside, and
informed him of my suspicions. I wired him to-day asking him to be with
three or four men on the bank of the boundary channel opposite to Granny
Tunks' hut."

"At what time?"

"About eleven, as I don't suppose that the Vands will try and escape
until everyone in Marshely is asleep."

"Did you tell Inglis about the jewels?" asked Cyril.

"No, there is no need to tell more than is necessary. Besides, the
police might take possession of the jewels, and I want them for Miss
Huxham. All Inglis knows is that I suspect the Vands of a double murder,
and that they intend to fly. He will come with his constables to arrest
them if there is sufficient evidence."

"But I say, Durgo. I wanted you to do as you say, some time ago, and you
talked of it not being advisable to bring the police into the matter. It
seems that you have done so."

"It is a fact," said Durgo drily. "I didn't wish to tell you all my
plans at once, as you and Miss Huxham here seemed to be so certain that
I intended blue murder. If you had not been ready to trust me, I should
not have changed my mind or have told you about the presence of the
police. You look on me as a barbarous black man."

"We look on you as a very good friend," said Bella quickly, for the
negro seemed hurt by their suspicions.

"There! there!" said Durgo gruffly, but bowing to the compliment. "Go to
the Manor-house, Miss Huxham, and do what you can."

"Good-bye, Cyril," said Bella.

The young man ran after her as she moved up the corn path. "Don't go
without a kiss, Bella," he said, catching her in his arms. "God keep
you, my darling, and bring us safely through this dark business!"

"I'm not afraid, now that I know Inspector Inglis and his men will be on
the spot," whispered Bella. "Good-bye! and good-bye! and good-bye!" and
she kissed him between each word. In a few minutes she was swallowed up
in the gloom, which was growing denser every minute.

"There will be a storm," prophesied Durgo, as the two men proceeded side
by side to Mrs. Tunks' hut. "Hark!"

Just as he spoke there came a deep, hoarse roll of thunder, as though
the artillery of heaven was being prepared to bombard the guilty pair in
the old Manor-house. Durgo, with the instinct of a wild animal, raised
his nose and sniffed. "I smell the rain. Glory! look at the lightning."

A vivid flash of forked lightning zig-zagged across the violent-hued
sky, and again came the crash of thunder. Already the wind was rising,
and the vast fields of corn were rustling and sighing and bending under
its chill breath. "It is going to be a fierce night," said Durgo,
dilating his nostrils to breathe the freshness of the air. "Do you
remember in Macbeth, Cyril Lister, of the night of Duncan's murder?" and
he quoted in his deep voice--

      "_--but this sore night,
    Hath trifled former knowings._"

Cyril looked at the strong black face, which showed clearly in the
frequent flashes of lightning. "You are a strange man, Durgo. One would
think that you were almost--" he hesitated.

"A white man," finished Durgo coolly. "No, my friend. I am an educated
black man, and an ingrained savage." He spoke mockingly, then flung back
his military cloak. "Look! Would a man be like this in your sober
England?"

Cyril uttered an ejaculation, and had every reason to. In the bluish
flare of the lightning he saw that Durgo had stripped himself to a
loin-cloth, and that his powerful body was glistening with oil. The sole
civilised things about him were canvas running-shoes which he wore, and
the cloak. "Why have you stripped to the buff?" asked Cyril astonished.

"I may have hard work to catch those two this night," said Durgo,
replacing his cloak, which made him look quite respectable, "so I wish
to run as easily as possible."

"But there was no need to strip. The police won't be stripped."

"It's my way, and was the way of my fathers before me."

"In Africa, but not in England."

"Pooh!" was all that Durgo answered, and the two trudged along, bowing
their heads against the now furiously driving wind. Shortly they came to
Mrs. Tunks' hut, and the door was opened by the old woman herself.

"I felt that you were coming, master," she said, nodding. "Enter."

"No," said Durgo, pausing on the threshold of the ill-smelling room. "I
have to go back to my post and watch for the coming of the Vands. Mr.
Lister will remain here. Has your grandson gone?"

"No, lovey--I mean master," said Granny coaxingly. "He's ever so much
better for the medicine you gave him, and is quite his own self. But
I've sent the gel to get a boat to take him to the caravan. They've
moved it down the channel to a meadow near the high road. The gel will
bring the boat up here in an hour or so, and take Luke back with her;
then he'll go on the merry road with her and my sister."

"You should have sent Luke away before," said Durgo frowning, "for he
knew all about the murder, and has blackmailed the Vands. Inglis and his
constables will be on the opposite bank to this place soon, and they may
arrest him. I shan't say more than I can help, but get him away as soon
as you can."

"Yes, master; yes, deary; yes, lovey!" croaked the old woman; and Durgo,
with a significant glance at her and a nod to Cyril, turned away into
the gloom.

"Won't you come in, lovey?" asked Mrs. Tunks coaxingly.

"No," said Cyril, who did not relish the malodorous hut; "I'll stay here
and watch for the signal."

"What signal?" demanded the witch wife.

"Never mind. Go in!" commanded Lister, and settled himself under the
eaves of the hut to keep guard.

Granny scowled at him as she obeyed. She did not mind cringing to Durgo,
who was her master in the black art, but she objected to Cyril ordering
her about. Had Granny really possessed the powers she laid claim to she
would have blighted his fresh youth on the spot. As it was, she simply
muttered a curse on what she regarded as his impertinence, and went
indoors.

Cyril lighted his pipe and kept his eyes on the distant mass of the
Manor-house, which was revealed blackly when the lightning flashed.
Across the ocean of grain tore the furious wind, making it rock like an
unquiet sea. Flash after flash darted across the livid sky, and every
now and then came the sudden boom of the thunder. Hour upon hour passed
until the watcher almost lost count of time. Within the cottage all was
quiet, although at intervals he could hear the querulous voice of Mrs.
Tunks shrilly scolding the Romany girl. Lister began to grow impatient,
as he dreaded lest Bella should have fallen into the clutches of the
Vands, who would certainly show her no mercy. It was in his mind to
leave his post and see for himself what had occurred. Suddenly a long
clear beam smote through the darkness of the night, and he sprang to his
feet.

"They have left the house," muttered Cyril, thrusting his pipe into his
pocket; "what's to be done now?"

The lightning was not quite so frequent, so the vivid beam of the
search-light had full and fair play. But as the lightning ceased and the
thunder became silent, a deluge of rain descended on the thirsty earth.
On its strong wings the wind brought the rain, and a tropical down-pour
almost blotted out the haggard moon, which now showed herself between
driving clouds. But through the steady beam of the search-light could be
seen the straight arrows of the rain, and the vast corn-fields hissed as
the heavy drops descended. Here and there swung the ray of light,
evidently looking for the fugitives, but as it did not come to rest,
Cyril guessed that Bella had not yet descried the flying couple. But the
rain was so incessant, and the wind so strong, that he was angered to
think how Bella, on the high altitude of the quarter deck, was exposed
to its fury.

Suddenly, as sometimes happens in furious storms, there came a lull both
in the wind and the rain. A perfect silence ensued, and Cyril straining
his ears, heard the soft dip of oars. As he peered towards the black
gulf of the water-way running past the hut, the ray from the Manor-house
became steady, and the finger of light pointed straight to the boundary
channel. Cyril heard a wild shriek and ran down to the bank. Coming
along the stream he saw a light boat, and in it Mrs. Vand huddled up at
the end in her shawl. Vand himself was rowing with great care: but when
the beam revealed their doings he lost all caution and rowed with
desperation. Again came a drench of rain, almost blotting out the
landscape, but the ray of light still picked out the guilty couple,
following the course of the boat steadily, like an avenging angel's
sword.

"Row, Henry, row hard!" shrieked Mrs. Vand, crouching in the stern of
the boat and steering down the narrow channel as best she could, "We'll
soon be safe. Row hard, dear! row hard!"

"Stop!" cried Cyril from the bank. "Mrs. Vand, you must wait here until
the police come. Stop!"

"The police!" yelled the terrified woman, and her face was pearly white
in the brilliant search-light. "Row, Henry; don't stop!"

Lister whipped out a revolver, with which he had been careful to provide
himself. "If you don't stop, Vand, I shall shoot," and he levelled it.

But the cripple was too desperate to obey. He bent again to the oars and
brought the shallop sweeping right under Cyril's feet. Then, before the
young man could conjecture what he intended to do, he stood up in the
rocking boat and swung up an oar with the evident intention of striking
the man with the revolver into the water. Lister dodged skilfully as the
oar came crashing viciously past his ear, and fired at random.

Mrs. Vand shrieked, her husband cursed, as the shot rang out. There came
an answering cry from the near distance, and into the glare of the
search-light bounded Durgo, naked save for his loin-cloth, black as the
pit and furious as the devil who lives therein. Showing his white teeth
like those of a wild animal, he raced up to the boat, and without a
moment's hesitation flung himself on the figure of Vand as he stood up.
The next moment the light craft was overturned, and Durgo, with the
Vands, was struggling in the water. At the same moment the beam of the
search-light suddenly vanished, leaving everyone in complete darkness.
And the rain, driven by the triumphant wind, deluged the fields.



CHAPTER XXII

MRS. VAND'S REPENTANCE


Afterwards, Cyril, when questioned, could never clearly recollect what
took place. Vand's oar had missed his head, but had struck his right
shoulder with considerable force, so that his revolver shot had gone
wide of its intended mark. When Bella shut off the beam--and Cyril
wondered at the time why she did so--everything was dark and confused.
What with the gloom, the rain and curses from Vand and Durgo, who were
struggling in the water, and the shrieks of Mrs. Tunks, added to those
of the half-drowned woman, Cyril felt his head whirl; also the blow from
the oar had confused him, and he became sick and faint for the moment.

Granny Tunks with commendable forethought had brought out a bullseye
lantern, which she must have stolen from some policeman. Flashing this
on to the water-way, its light revealed Durgo and the cripple locked in
a deadly embrace, and Mrs. Vand clinging to the bank with one hand while
she clutched her shawl with the other. Cyril thereupon plunged down the
incline and dragged the wretched woman out. Thinking she was about to be
arrested she fought like a wild cat, and would have forced the
half-dazed young man into the water again, but that Mrs. Tunks brought a
chunk of wood with considerable force down on her head.

"What the devil did you do that for?" gasped Cyril furiously; "you've
killed her, you old fool!"

"What do I care, deary?" cried Granny shrilly. "I'd kill them both if I
could, for the master wants them killed, curse them both!" and she
tottered down to the boundary channel, while Cyril carried the inanimate
form of Mrs. Vand into the hut. Here he laid her on the floor, and
hastily bidding the Romany girl attend her, hurried out again.

"They're dead, both of them! Oh, the master's dead!" yelled Granny
Tunks.

With the lantern raised she stood on the bank peering into the water,
but there was scarcely enough light to see what was taking place. All
sounds had ceased, however, and only the drench of the rain could be
heard. But even as Granny spoke, the Romany girl, anxious to see what
was taking place, darted out of the cottage with a kind of torch,
consisting of tow at the end of a stick steeped in kerosene. This flared
redly and flung a crimson glare on the water-ways, and flung also its
scarlet light on the bodies of Durgo and the Cripple. These lay half-in
and half-out of the water, fast locked together in a death grip. There
was no wound apparent on either body, so Cyril conjectured that in the
struggle both had been drowned. Durgo's mighty arms were clasped tightly
around the slender body of the cripple, but Vand's lean hands were
clutching the negro's throat with fierce resolution. Both were quite
dead, and even in death Cyril, although he tried, could not drag them
apart. That so delicate a man as Vand could have contrived to drown the
powerful negro seemed incredible to Cyril: but he soon saw that to kill
Durgo the cripple had been willing to sacrifice himself. Probably he had
dragged Durgo under water, and having a grip on the man's throat had
squeezed the life out of him with a madman's despairing force. The weak
had confounded the strong on this occasion in a most pronounced manner.

Meanwhile, Granny Tunks was bewailing the loss of her master, and the
sharp-featured Romany girl echoed her cries. The screams of both brought
out Luke, who appeared at the fire-lighted door of the hut looking much
better than Cyril expected him to be, seeing how severe had been his
last illness. He had something in his hands, and in the flaring light of
the torch Lister saw that it was a somewhat small black bag. In a moment
the young man guessed that Luke Tunks had been robbing the unconscious
Mrs. Vand, as he remembered that she had kept a close grip of something
under her shawl even while she was struggling with him.

"The jewels!" cried Cyril, too excited to be cautious, and leaped for
the gipsy. "Give me the jewels."

"They're mine, blast you!" growled Luke, trying to evade him. "Missus
gave 'em to me. Leave me alone. Granny, help me!"

Mrs. Tunks ran to the rescue, for the mention of jewels stirred her
avaricious blood like the call of a trumpet. But already Cyril had
plucked the black bag from the still weak gipsy, and Luke was not strong
enough yet to make a fight for it. Aided vigorously by the Romany girl,
the old woman would have closed in, but that a shout from the opposite
bank made all turn. A dozen bullseyes were flashing over the stream.
Cyril, gripping the bag, dashed the woman and the man aside and sprang
to the verge of the channel.

"Is that you, Inspector Inglis?" he shouted.

"Yes; who are you?" came the sharp official tones.

"Cyril Lister. Come over yourself, or send some men. Vand and Durgo, the
negro, are dead."

There was a confused muttering of surprise amongst the constables. Then
came Inglis's clean-cut speech. "We heard a shot. Is----"

"No. Durgo struggled with Vand in the water-way, and they were both
drowned. These gipsies here are making trouble, and Mrs. Vand is
unconscious in the hut. Come across and take charge."

"How the devil can we get across here?" demanded Inglis. "It's twenty
feet of water. Here you men, go round by the bridge."

"It's broken down," yelled Cyril.

"Who broke it?"

"Durgo. Let go, you old devil!" and Cyril swung Granny Tunks aside. The
woman was still trying to clutch the jewels. "Inglis, you'll have to
swim across. There's no other way."

No sooner had Lister suggested this expedient than Inglis obeyed it with
the promptitude of an Englishman. Several heavy bodies were heard
plunging into the water, and the bullseye lanterns were seen approaching
like moving glow-worms as their swimming owners held them above their
several heads. Had Granny Tunks been strong enough she would have
attempted to prevent the landing of this hostile force; but Luke was
useless and the Romany girl still more so. All she could do was to enter
the fortress of her hut and bar the door, which she accordingly did,
while Luke, mindful that he might be arrested for the murders as an
accomplice after the fact, slunk hastily into the standing corn. Shortly
Cyril was shaking hands with a dripping police inspector, and surrounded
by six dripping constables. As the half dozen men and their officer were
already wetted to the bone by incessant rain, the plunge into the
channel did not trouble them in the least; indeed, they looked as though
they rather enjoyed the adventure.

"But we may as well get under shelter to hear your story," suggested
Inglis, and knocked loudly at the door of the hut. As Granny would not
open, he simply turned to his men and gave a sharp order. "Break it
down," said Inglis, and in less than a minute the constables were
marching into the small apartment over the fallen door.

"I'll have the law on you for this!" screeched Mrs. Tunks, shaking her
fist.

"You'll get a stomach-full of law, I have no doubt, before I have done
with you," retorted Inglis. "Who is this?" and he stared at the
inanimate form on the earthen floor amidst pools of water.

"Vand's wife, who was trying to escape with him," said Cyril. "She is
insensible from a blow this old demon gave her."

"She'd have had you in the water else," hissed Mrs. Tunks scornfully.

"It wasn't unlikely, seeing how she fought. Have you any brandy?"

"A trifle for my spasms," admitted Granny sullenly.

"Then bring it out and revive Mrs. Vand," said Inglis impatiently. "It
will be necessary for me to question her. Mr. Lister"--he brought his
mouth very close to the young man's ear and spoke in a whisper--"is what
that nigger told me quite true?"

"About Vand murdering Huxham? I believe it is, but I can't be sure. I
got these, however, from Mrs. Vand. Don't let the old hag come near or
she'll try and loot them."

"Loot what?" demanded Inglis, on seeing Cyril open the black bag, after
he had motioned the constables to surround the table. "Oh, by Jupiter!"

His surprised ejaculations were echoed by his men, for Lister emptied on
the table many glittering stones, cut and uncut. Chiefly they were
diamonds, but also could be seen sapphires, rubies, pearls, and
emeralds, all glowing with rainbow splendour in the fierce radiance of
the bullseye lanterns. Mrs. Tunks whimpered like a beaten dog when she
saw what she had missed, and tried to dart under a policeman's arm. "No
you don't!" said the man gruffly, and gripped her lean wrist as her hand
stretched greedily over the flaming heap of gems.

"Whose are these?" asked the inspector, quite awed by this wealth.

"Miss Huxham's," said Cyril, making a ready excuse until such time as
the matter could be looked into, for he did not wish Inglis to take
possession of Bella's fortune. "Her father left her these and the house
to Mrs. Vand; but the woman withheld the jewels from her niece, and
tried to-night to bolt with them. Then Luke Tunks attempted to steal
them from her, while she lay unconscious here. Luckily I was enabled to
rescue them, and now I can restore them to Miss Huxham."

"Where is Luke Tunks?" asked the inspector, while Cyril packed the gems
in a chamois leather bag which he found in what Granny had called in her
trance the portmanteau.

"Gone where you won't get him," grunted Mrs. Tunks, who was holding a
glass of brandy to Mrs. Vand's white lips.

"You must get him, Inglis," said Cyril insistently. "He knows all about
the murder of Huxham, and has been blackmailing the Vands."

"So that nigger said. By the way, we must see to the bodies." Inglis
turned to the door, then looked back at Lister. "I wish I knew what this
all meant, sir," he remarked, much puzzled.

"You shall know everything in due time, and a very queer story it is."

The inspector might have gone on asking questions, but at that moment
Bella Huxham, breathless and wet, appeared in the doorway. In the
semi-darkness she could scarcely see her lover, and called him. "Cyril!
Cyril! what has happened?" she panted. "I have run all the way, and--who
are these?"

"Inspector Inglis and constables," said that officer. "Where have you
come from, miss?"

"From the Manor-house. I went to see my aunt, and saw her run away with
her husband. Where is she? Where is he?"

"There is Mrs. Vand," said Cyril, pointing to the still insensible
woman, "and her husband is dead in Durgo's arms."

Bella shrieked. "Is Durgo dead?"

"Yes, unfortunately. Vand clutched his throat and dragged him under."

"But so weak a man----"

"He sacrificed his own life to kill Durgo," said Cyril. "What's to be
done now, inspector?"

Inglis acted promptly. "One of my men can stay here to look after the
old woman," he said officially, "and the rest can help me to take the
bodies of Vand and the nigger back to the Manor-house. We must take
possession of that place until everything is made clear at the inquest.
What will you do, Miss Huxham? Better get home. This is no place for a
lady."

"I must stay and revive my aunt," said Bella, who already was bending
over the woman and had the glass of brandy in her hand.

"Good," said Inglis, motioning his men to file out. "I'll come back and
question her when you get her right again. Mr. Lister!"

"With your permission, Mr. Inspector, I'll wait here with Miss Huxham,"
said Cyril significantly. "I don't trust these two women"--he looked at
Granny and the Romany girl--"also Luke Tunks might be lurking about. If
Miss Huxham were left here alone--" his shrug completed the sentence.

"Dutton will keep guard at the door," said Inglis, selecting the village
constable, a fresh-faced, powerful young man, "and if these women try
any games he can take them in charge. Also, Dutton"--he turned to the
man, who had already posted himself as directed--"you can hold Luke
Tunks should he turn up. I want to question him also," after which
orders Inglis with a nod went out. Cyril followed.

The bodies were duly found, and the inspector uttered an exclamation of
surprise when he saw that Durgo was nude. "What does this mean?"

"Mean!" said Cyril, who looked over his shoulder, "simply that Durgo, in
spite of his Oxford training, was a savage at heart. He arranged a trap
to catch the Vands, and stripped so as to be prepared for any
emergency."

"Rum notion," said Inglis, who looked puzzled. "But what had he to do
with all this murder business?"

"He was my father's friend," explained Lister, "and--" he stopped on
seeing the eager faces around him, adding in lower tones, "what I have
to explain is for your own ear in the first instance, inspector."

Inglis looked grave, and even suspicious. "There seems to be much to
explain, Mr. Lister," he said seriously. "However you can stay here. I
shall take the bodies to the Manor-house and thoroughly search the
place. When I return I hope to hear your story and to examine Mrs. Vand.
It seems to me," added the officer, as he turned away, "that the mystery
of the Huxham murder is about to be solved at last."

"I think so myself," assented Lister soberly; and after seeing the six
men take up their burden of the dead, he returned to the hut in silence.

Here he found Mrs. Vand, pale but composed, sitting up on the floor with
her back propped up against the wall. Granny Tunks, looking very sulky,
was on her hunkers before the fire smoking her cutty pipe, and the
Romany girl could be seen lying on Luke's vacated bed in the inner room.
Only Bella was attending to the woman she had called aunt for so long,
and who had so persecuted her. She was urging Mrs. Vand to speak out.

"You must tell the truth now," said Bella, "for the police will arrest
you."

Mrs. Vand could not grow paler, for she was already whiter than any
corpse, but a terrified look came into her eyes. "You'll be glad of
that, Bella?"

"No," said the girl earnestly; "I am not glad to see you suffer. You
have been cruel to me, and I thought that I should like to see you
punished; but now that you have lost your husband and are so miserable,
I am very sorry, and both Cyril and I will do our best to help you. Tell
all you know, Aunt Rosamund, and perhaps you will not be arrested."

"If I tell all I know I am sure to be arrested," said Mrs. Vand
sullenly.

"But surely you did not murder your own brother?"

"No, I didn't. Badly as Jabez treated me I did not kill him, although I
don't deny that I wished for his death. Well, he is dead and I got his
money, and now--" she buried her shameful face in her hands
wailingly--"oh! my poor dear Henry, I have lost him and lost all. As to
you"--she suddenly lifted up her head to glare furiously at Cyril, who
was leaning against the door-post a few yards from the watching
policeman--"you have been the evil genius of us all. Where are my
jewels?"

"They are in this bag," said Lister, holding it up, "and they belong to
Bella."

"Jabez left everything to me," began Mrs. Vand, when Cyril interrupted.

"These jewels were not his to leave. They were the property of Maxwell
Faith, who was a trader and----"

"I know all about that," said Mrs. Vand, cutting him short, "and Bella
is his daughter, you were going to say."

"Yes; therefore the jewels are her property. Who told you of----"

"Luke Tunks told me."

"That's a lie!" snarled Granny from her stool near the fire.

"It's the truth," gasped Mrs. Vand, taking another sip of the brandy
which Bella held to her lips. "Luke was dodging round the house on the
night of the murder and peeped in at the study window. He overheard the
interview between Jabez and Edwin Lister."

"What!" Cyril took a step forward in sheer surprise. "You know my
father's name also?"

"I know much, but not all," said Mrs. Vand in a stronger voice, for the
spirit was taking effect. "For instance, I don't know what became of
Edwin Lister, but Luke does."

"Then Luke shall be arrested and questioned."

"He shan't!" muttered Granny venomously. "Luke's escaped--a clever boy."

Bella put her arm round Mrs. Vand to render her more comfortable. "How
much did Luke tell you?" she asked softly.

"Only so much as cheated us--Henry and I--into paying him money."

"Oh," said Cyril quietly, "so that is why Luke got so drunk."

"He spent his money in drink," said Mrs. Vand indifferently. "We paid
him a good deal. He never would have left us, and intended to go to
America with us to-night, as he knew too much for our safety."

"How did you intend to escape?" asked Cyril sharply.

"We intended to row down the channel to the swamps; that is why Henry
got the boat a few weeks ago. Then we intended to cut across the marshes
to the high road, where a motor-car, hired by Henry, awaited us. It
would have taken us to London, and there we could have concealed
ourselves until a chance came to get to the States. Everything was cut
and dried, but you----"

"No," said Lister seriously; "it was not I who stopped you, but Durgo."

"That negro? Then I am glad he is dead!" cried Mrs. Vand, who was
getting more her old self every minute. "However, it's all done with
now. You have the jewels, Henry is dead, and I don't care what becomes
of me."

"But who murdered my father?" asked Bella earnestly.

"Jabez wasn't your father. Maxwell Faith was your father, for Luke
overheard Edwin Lister say as much to Jabez."

"And what became of Edwin Lister?"

"I don't know; Luke never told me that. All he said was that he saw and
heard the two talking. Then he left the window, and only returned to see
Henry stab my brother."

"Oh!" Cyril and Bella both uttered ejaculations of horror.

"Yes, you may say 'oh' as much as you like, but it's true," said Mrs.
Vand with great doggedness. "Henry came with me to the Manor-house on
that night at ten o'clock. He did not stop at the boundary channel, as
he declared. He only said that to save himself. But he came with me, and
we saw my brother, who was in his study. We confessed that we were
married, and then Jabez grew angry and said he would turn me as a pauper
out of the house next morning. He drove Henry and myself out of the
room. I fainted in the kitchen, and when I came to myself Henry was
bending over me, very pale. He said he had killed Jabez with a knife
which he found on the floor. I had seen the knife before when we were
telling Jabez about our marriage. But in the excitement I didn't pick it
up."

"Was there blood on the knife?" asked Cyril, remembering Granny Tunks'
trance, as reported by Bella.

"I can't say; I don't know. I was too flurried to think about the
matter. All I know is that Henry killed Jabez with that knife which
Jabez brought from Nigeria, and then dropped it behind the desk."

"What took place exactly?" asked Cyril hastily, while Bella closed her
eyes.

"Ask Luke; ask Luke," said Mrs. Vand testily. "He knows all," and she
refused to say another word.



CHAPTER XXIII

WHAT LUKE TUNKS SAW


As Mrs. Vand obstinately refused to speak, there was little use for
Bella to remain in the hut. The girl was sick and faint with all she had
gone through, and wished to get home to rest. Cyril also was anxious to
follow Inglis and his officers to the Manor-house to see what had been
discovered likely to prove the truth of Mrs. Vand's statements. But
before going, Bella made a last attempt to induce her presumed aunt to
confess all in detail. "It's your sole chance of getting out of this
trouble," said Bella, who was now sorry to see her enemy brought so low.

"I don't care if I get out of the trouble, or if I do not," said Mrs.
Vand wearily. "Henry is dead, just as we were on the eve of happiness,
so I don't much care what becomes of me."

"Could you have been happy in America knowing your husband to be a
murderer?" asked Cyril, skeptically.

"Certainly," returned the woman with great composure. "I knew all along
that Henry had struck the blow; but I daresay Jabez goaded him into
doing so, as poor Henry was so good and weak."

"Weak!" echoed Cyril, remembering all. "He was not very weak to kill an
active man like Captain Huxham, and a strong negro such as Durgo was."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Vand exultingly, and contradicting herself in a truly
feminine way, "Henry was a man--none of your weaklings. If we had only
escaped with those"--she stared hard at the black bag which contained
the jewels--"but it's no use fretting now. Everything is at an end, and
Bella is glad."

"No, I am not, Aunt Rosamund----"

"I am not your aunt; I don't wish to be your aunt."

"All the same, I am very sorry for you," said Bella, with the tears in
her eyes, "and if I can do anything to help you let me know. Good-bye,
aunt, and may God watch over you." She bent and kissed the lined
forehead.

"Don't you believe that I killed Jabez?" faltered Mrs. Vand, somewhat
touched.

"No," said Bella quietly. "I believe what you say. Henry killed Captain
Huxham, and like a true wife you held your tongue to save him. I should
have done exactly the same had Cyril been guilty."

"You're a good girl, Bella. I'm sorry I was so hard on you. I don't
suppose there's much happiness left me in this life, now that Henry is
dead. But I shall repay you for those kind words. There! there! Don't
kiss me again. I have been mistaken in you. Good-bye," and Mrs. Vand,
lying down on the floor in an utter state of despair, turned her face to
the wall.

Bella had to leave her in this unsatisfactory condition, as there was no
chance of taking her home to Miss Ankers' cottage. Dutton still watched
by the door, and probably had overheard all that she had confessed, even
though she had not been so explicit as she should have been. But she had
detailed quite sufficient to ensure her arrest as an accomplice after
the fact, so it was not likely that Dutton would permit her to leave the
hut until he received orders from his superior. Under the circumstances
there was nothing to be done, but for the young people to go, which they
accordingly did. Granny Tunks flung a curse after them as they passed
out into the night, and flung also a burning sod to emphasise the curse.

"Old devil!" said Cyril, comforting Bella, who was crying. "Dutton, lend
me your lantern, as the path along the channel is dangerous."

Dutton, having received five shillings, made no objection to this,
provided he got back his bullseye later in the night. Cyril promised to
return it when he came back to the hut with Inglis, and then, taking
Bella's arm he led her carefully along the slippery path. The storm had
passed and the wind had dropped, but the clouds were still thick enough
to envelope the earth in murky darkness. They picked their footsteps
carefully, until they came to the foot of the corn-path. Here they
halted.

"How are we to get across, Cyril?" asked the girl, shivering.

Lister groped in the corn wherein Durgo had flung the planks, and soon
recovered these. With the aid of Bella he fixed them again on the
tressels sunk in the mud, and the two passed dry-shod over the channel.
In walking to Marshely the young man gave Bella the bag. "Take this,
dear," he said. "The jewels are in it. Be careful of them."

"Oh, Cyril," said the girl, awestruck, "did Mrs. Vand steal them?"

"Yes, and in spite of what she says I believe she and Henry murdered
your father--I mean Captain Huxham--for the sake of the jewels. They
were in this bag, marked with the initials 'M. F.'--your father's
initials."

"Just as Granny saw it in her trance."

"Very nearly, only she called the bag--and it is a bag, as you see--a
portmanteau. Either Granny or the unseen are at fault. But it matters
little since the jewels are now in your possession. Keep them
carefully."

"But Cyril," said Bella, as they drew near the cottage, "does it seem
right for us to keep jewels that already have caused two murders? My
father was killed because of these gems by Captain Huxham, and he met
with the same fate for probably the same reason."

"I daresay in ages past, many and many a wicked deed has been committed
for the sake of these jewels. Do you remember what you heard Granny say
in her trance?--that a Roman empress had secured the jewels by crime. My
dear girl, all jewels have a history more or less, and if one feared the
sort of thing you mention, not a woman would wear jewels. No, dear: God
has given you this fortune, and you have every right to make use of it.
Here's the door, and by the light in the window I see that Miss Ankers
is sitting up."

"I promised to tell her why I went out," said Bella, kissing her lover,
"so, as she is our good friend; she must know all."

"Just as you please: tell her everything from the beginning. I have to
tell Inspector Inglis what I know shortly."

"Will you tell him about your father?" asked Bella faintly.

Lister hesitated. "I must," he said at length with a mighty effort, "for
if I do not Luke Tunks may be caught, and he will tell."

"Tell what?"

"I don't know: God only knows what happened when Luke peeped through
that window. From the presence of the bloody knife on the floor, and the
fact that Vand murdered Huxham, I am inclined to believe that Huxham
stabbed my father with that knife."

Bella caught his sleeve. "If so where did Captain, Huxham hide the
body?"

Cyril removed her arm gently, although he shivered. "We have had enough
of these horrors for one night, dear," he said, kissing her. "Go inside
and talk to Miss Ankers. To-morrow I'll come and see you."

"What are you about to do, Cyril?"

"I am returning to the Manor-house, and then shall go to Granny's hut
with Inglis. There must be an end to all this mystery to-night.
Bella"--he turned suddenly--"if it is proved that my father is alive,
will you still marry me? Think of the disgrace he has brought on me."

"Why? In any case your father didn't murder Captain Huxham."

"No; his hands are free from blood in that respect. But this case will
have to be thoroughly inquired into, and much about my father may come
out. His doings were shady. As I told you, I had to borrow one thousand
pounds to buy back a cheque for that amount which he had forged in the
name of an old college friend. Then there's the gun-running in Nigeria,
and all manner of doubtful means by which he made his money. Bella, if
you marry me, you marry a man with a soiled name."

Her arms were round him on the instant. "_You_ have not soiled it," she
whispered, "and that is enough for me."

Cyril's lips met hers in a passionate kiss, and, glowing with happiness,
she ran into Dora's little garden as the door opened. Miss Ankers,
hearing voices at this late hour--for it was nearly midnight--was
looking out to see what was the matter. Cyril watched her admit Bella,
and then turned away with a sigh. He intended to confess much about his
father to Inglis, which he would much rather have kept concealed; but
under the circumstances there was no other way of settling matters.
Since the tragic death of Captain Huxham, these had been in a very bad
way.

Very shortly the young man arrived at the Manor-house, and found a
constable on guard at the door. But he was admitted the moment the man
recognised him. It appeared that Inglis had been expecting him for some
time. Lister walked into the study, wherein the inspector had
established himself, and explained that he had been escorting Miss
Huxham home.

"The poor girl is quite worn out," said Cyril, seating himself with an
air of relief, for he also was extremely tired.

"No wonder," replied the inspector. "Is Dutton on guard?"

"Yes. Mrs. Vand and the old woman and the girl are all safe."

"I have sent along another man," said Inglis nodding, "so that there may
be no chance of the three escaping. The house was locked up when we came
here, Mr. Lister, and only by breaking a window could we enter. Look at
this, sir"--and the inspector pointed to a small lozenge-pane in the
casement, which had been broken.

"Well," said Cyril, after a pause.

"Through that broken pane Luke Tunks saw everything which took place in
this study on the night of the murder."

Cyril felt his hair rise, and he thought of his father's probable
danger, but he calmed down on reflecting that at least Edwin Lister was
not guilty of the frightful crime. "How do you know?" he gasped with
difficulty.

"We have caught Luke, and he will be here in a moment or so to confess."

Cyril looked surprised. "How did you catch him?"

"He ran out of the hut when we crossed the channel, and concealed
himself in the corn. Then, remembering that the Manor-house was deserted
he fetched a circle round the fields and came here. When we got into the
house we found him nearly crazy with fear; he took us for ghosts."

"Where is he now?"

"In the kitchen guarded by a couple of men. He refused to confess, and I
gave him an hour to make up his mind. Meanwhile, we have searched the
house and have found that everything valuable more or less is gone. Some
things left behind have been packed in boxes. I suppose the Vands hoped
to escape and then get their goods later. But they carried off what they
could."

"They intended to go to America," said Cyril, "the woman explained. She
also declared that her husband murdered Captain Huxham."

"I expect she had a hand in it herself."

"She denies that."

"She naturally would," said Inglis very drily. "However, I'll send for
Luke Tunks and see if he is willing to confess," and he gave a sharp
order to one of the constables who was lounging in the hall.

In a few minutes the tall, lean gipsy, who looked extremely ill and
extremely defiant, made his appearance at the door, held by two
policemen.

"Bring him in," said the inspector calmly, and arranging some sheets of
paper, which he took out of his pocket along with a stylograph pen. "Now
then, my man, will you confess all that you saw?"

"If I do what will happen, governor?" asked Tunks hoarsely.

"You may get a lighter sentence."

"Will I be arrested?"

"You are arrested now, and shortly you will be lodged in gaol."

"Then I shan't say anything!" growled Luke defiantly, and folding his
arms he leaned against the panelled wall.

"Very good," said Inglis serenely; "take him away. In the morning he can
be removed to the Pierside goal."

The two constables advanced, and Luke bit his lip. In any case he saw
that things looked black against him.

"You have no right to arrest me," he declared. "On what charge do you
arrest me?"

"On a charge of murdering Captain Jabez Huxham."

"I didn't. I can prove I didn't."

"You can do so in court and to a judge and jury. Take him away."

"No, no! I'll tell you all I know now," said Luke, making the best of a
bad job, and being imaginative enough to both see and feel a visionary
rope encircling his neck. "Let me tell now, governor."

This was exactly what Inglis wanted, as he desired to obtain all
available evidence for the forthcoming inquest on the bodies of the dead
men, black and white. But he pretended to grant the man's wish as a
favour. "As you please," he said with a cool shrug. "You two men can go
outside and remain on guard on the other side of the door."

The constables did as they were ordered and closed the door. Inglis,
Lister, and Luke Tunks were alone, and as the gipsy was still weak from
his late illness the inspector signed that he could take a seat. "Now
tell me all you know, and I shall take it down. You shall affix your
name to your confession, and Mr. Lister and myself will be the
witnesses. Do you agree?"

"Yes," said Luke hoarsely, and drawing his sleeve across his mouth, "for
nothing I can say can hang me. I didn't kill either of the blokes."

"Either of the blokes? What do you mean?"

"I mean that Captain Huxham killed the man who called himself Lister,
and Henry Vand killed Captain Huxham. I saw both murders."

Lister rejoiced, horrified as he was at the idea of his father's violent
death, but thankful from the bottom of his heart that he had gone to his
own place guiltless of blood. Inglis saw the expression on the young
man's face, and asked a leading question.

"Was not this Mr. Lister your father?"

"Yes," answered Cyril promptly. "He came home from Nigeria some months
ago with Durgo, who is the son of a friendly chief. My father, I
understand, came down here to ask Captain Huxham for certain jewels--"

"Those you showed me, sir?"

"Yes, they were robbed from a trader called Maxwell Faith by Huxham, and
my father wished to get them. Durgo came down to seek for my father, but
we have never been able to find him."

"He is dead," said Luke abruptly.

"So you say; but where is the body?"

"I don't know; I can't say." Luke paused, then turned to the inspector.
"Let me tell you what I saw through yonder broken pane."

"Very good." Inglis arranged his papers and prepared his pen. "Mind you
speak the truth, as I shall take down every word you say. Afterwards Mr.
Lister can tell me what he knows."

So it was arranged, and Tunks, as ready to tell now as formerly he was
unwilling, launched out into his story. It appears that after leaving
Mrs. Coppersley--as she was then--he went home to have some food.
Shortly before eight o'clock he strolled along the banks of the river
and saw Pence watching the house. Knowing that the preacher was in love
with the daughter of his master, he took little notice; then, while
lying in the corn by the side of the path smoking, he saw, as he
thought, Cyril Lister pass him, and stealthily followed.

"Why did you do that?" asked Inglis, raising his eyes.

"I knew that this gent"--he nodded towards Cyril--"was in love with Miss
Bella also, and knew that Captain Huxham hated him."

"Why did he hate him?"

"I can tell you," said Cyril quickly; "because of my father. Huxham knew
my father in Nigeria, and as my father wished to get these jewels he
feared lest he should force him to give them up. For this reason Huxham
came down here and planted corn all round his house as a means of
defence, and installed a search-light. He wished to be on his guard."

"Did your father intend murder?" asked the inspector, sharply.

"I really can't say."

"But he did," struck in Luke, who had been listening earnestly. "All
that the young gent says is true, sir. I only followed, as I thought
that there would be a row between Captain Huxham and--as I thought--Mr.
Cyril. I waited outside the house, and then hearing loud voices in the
study--in this place," said Tunks looking round, "I stole to the
casement and peeped through that broken pane. They did not know that I
was there."

"What became of Mr. Pence meanwhile?" asked Inglis suddenly.

"He was watching the house, but I think he went away and then came
back."

Inglis nodded. "That is unsatisfactory. I must examine Mr. Pence later.
You go on, Tunks, and tell us exactly what you saw."

Tunks settled down to his narrative. "I listened and heard all about the
jewels and the death of Maxwell Faith and all about Miss Bella being his
daughter. I saw by this time that Mr. Lister was not Mr. Cyril here, and
I guessed from his likeness that he was Mr. Cyril's father. Mr. Lister
wanted Captain Huxham to give up the jewels for some expedition, but the
captain refused. They began to quarrel, and then the captain pulled out
a big knife from a drawer of his desk and rushed on Mr. Lister. There
was a struggle and Mr. Lister tried to pull out a revolver. At length
Huxham got Mr. Lister down and cut his throat."

"Which would account for the quantity of blood found on the floor here
when Huxham's body was found. I thought there was too much blood for one
man's corpse to supply. Go on."

"Oh, it's terrible--horrible!" said Cyril, covering his face. "What did
you do, Tunks? Why didn't you give the alarm?"

"What, and be run in for being an accomplice!" said Tunks disdainfully,
"not me. But I was frightened, and when I saw that Captain Huxham had
killed Mr. Lister--I knew his name by that time, having heard them
talking--why, I ran away as hard as my legs could carry me."

"Where did you go?"

"Home to Granny, so that I might be able to supply an alibi if
necessary. I didn't tell her anything, but she found out a lot when I
was raving with the drink in me. But I couldn't rest, and when Granny
was a-bed I stole out. It was after ten by this time. I went up to the
Manor and to yonder window. Then I saw Mrs. Coppersley--as she was--and
Mr. Vand, talking to the captain and telling him they were married. The
knife, all bloody, was on the floor near the door, but they were all
three so busy talking that they did not notice it. But I wonder the
captain didn't cover it up.'

"Where was the body of my father?" asked Cyril impatiently.

"I don't know; the body was gone. I've never been able to find out where
the captain put up the body. But, as I say, he turned out Mr. Vand and
his wife, as I knew she was then, and cursed up and down. But he didn't
pick up the knife; in place of doing so, which would have been more
sensible, seeing that he had murdered the Lister cove with it, he went
to his desk and pulled out a black bag. He emptied this of jewels, and
my mouth watered."

"Ah, so you recognised the bag when you tried to steal it from Mrs. Vand
in your mother's cottage?"

"Yes, I did," said Luke sullenly, "and very sorry I am that I didn't get
clear off with it."

"You have quite enough to answer for as it is," said Inglis sharply. "Go
on, as I have got everything down so far."

"Well, then while the captain was sitting at the desk gloating over the
jewels Mr. Vand comes in softly like a cat. He saw the jewels and his
eyes lighted up. Captain Huxham, being busy, didn't hear him, so he
picks up the knife lying near the door, and before I could cry out he
rushed at the old man. Huxham turned to meet him, and got the knife in
his heart. Then Mr. Vand, as cool as you please, dropped the knife
behind the desk, and taking the bag with the jewels, he put 'em
back--went away."

"What did you do?"

"I went home and tried to sleep, but couldn't."

"Why didn't you warn the police?" asked Inglis.

"No, sir. I'm only a gipsy, and they'd have thought I'd something to do
with the business. If I'd accused Mr. Vand him and his wife would have
accused me, and it would be two to one. Besides," said Luke coolly, "I
wasn't sorry to see old Huxham downed after killing the other gent.
Serve him right, say I. So that's all."

"Humph," said Inglis, finishing his writing. "You made capital out of
this?"

"Yes, I did," said Luke defiantly, and taking the pen which Inglis held
out to him. "I told Mr. and Mrs. Vand what I'd seen. They were
frightened--it was the next morning, you see--and paid me heaps of money
to hold my tongue. Then, like a fool, I went on the bend, and talked so
much that Granny got to know heaps, and so set the nigger brute on our
tracks. There"--Luke signed his name--"you can't hang me for what I've
told you."

Inglis and Lister both signed as witnesses, and the inspector put the
paper into his pocket. He was about to ask further questions--to
cross-examine Tunks in fact--when the door opened and a young constable
appeared in a mighty state of excitement.

"Sir," he cried to his superior officer, "Mrs. Vand has escaped!"

"Escaped!" cried the inspector, in a voice of thunder.

"Yes, sir. Dutton is lying drugged in the hut, and the old woman has
been stunned. Mrs. Vand and the gipsy girl are gone."



CHAPTER XXIV

A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY


Next morning there was a great sensation in the village of Marshely, as
in some way the events of the previous night leaked out. Certainly, the
accounts of these were more or less garbled, and no one appeared to know
who was responsible for them. But this much of the truth became public
property, that Vand and the negro prince who had been stopping at "The
Chequers" were dead, that Mrs. Vand had fled to escape arrest, and that
the police were in possession of Bleacres. Later in the afternoon it
became known that Vand had killed Captain Huxham for the sake of certain
jewels.

But the villagers were greatly astonished when they heard--from what
source was not known--that another man had been killed. No one, save
Silas Pence, had seen Edwin Lister enter the Manor, and Pence himself
had presumed, until informed, that the man was Cyril, so no one knew
that any person was missing. Now it appeared that the man who was
murdered by Vand had committed a crime himself previous to his own
death. But what he had done with the body no one knew, and the police
could find no traces of the same in spite of all their efforts.

Inspector Inglis called at Miss Anker's cottage in the morning and
interviewed both Bella and her lover. From them he heard the whole tale,
and was greatly astonished by the recital. Under the circumstances he
was inclined to take the jewels into official custody, but Bella refused
to give them up; and undoubtedly they were her property left to her by
her father, Maxwell Faith. Inglis admitted this, so did not press the
point.

Afterwards the inspector examined Silas Pence, and heard from him much
the same story as he had told Bella. The preacher was lying on a bed of
sickness, as the blow on his head and the many worries he had been
through of late nearly gave him brain fever. Of course--and Inglis told
him as much--he should have reported at once the death of Huxham, as he
had seen the body. But as Pence had not beheld the blow struck, the
police could do nothing but admonish. Silas stated that in one point of
his story when he confessed to Bella he had been wrong, which was after
seeing Edwin Lister enter the Manor--or, as he thought then, Cyril--he
had rushed away in the direction of the common in the vain attempt to
rid himself of troublesome thoughts. When he returned Mr. and Mrs. Vand
were in the kitchen, as Luke proved; and Pence was thus enabled to enter
the house. Undoubtedly the guilty pair had left the front door open, so
that blame might be cast upon some outsider--on a possible burglar, for
instance. When they heard the noise of Pence's flight and found the
money gone, they were quite determined to place the blame on a robber.
Mrs. Vand confessed this later, although at the time of the robbery she
had not dreamed the burglar was the talented young preacher whom she so
greatly admired.

But the guilty woman was missing for some days. On inquiry being made it
appeared that the Romany girl, bribed by Mrs. Vand to assist her flight,
had made a cup of tea for the constable. As Dutton was wet and cold, he
drank the tea only too willingly, never suspecting that it was drugged.
But it turned out to be dosed with laudanum, and he fell into a deep
sleep. Granny Tunks, as she stated on reviving, had attempted to stay
the flight of Mrs. Vand and the Romany girl, but the latter had promptly
knocked her down with the very chunk of wood with which Mrs. Tunks had
struck the half-drowned woman. In this way Granny's sins came home to
her.

Inglis found, on the detail of the motor-car being reported by Cyril,
who had heard it from Mrs. Vand, that use had been made of the same. He
advertised for such a car in such a neighbourhood, and speedily was
called upon by a public chauffeur, who drove for hire. The man confessed
very frankly that Vand had engaged his car to wait for himself and his
wife on the high road to Pierside, and that thinking that nothing was
wrong he had done so. Vand had paid him well, and the driver merely
thought it was the eccentric whim of a rich man. Vand, it appeared, had
engaged the car in London from the stand in Trafalgar Square. When Mrs.
Vand left the hut the Romany girl had rowed her to the swamps in the
boat she had brought for the removal of Luke to the caravan, and the
woman had then crossed the marshy ground to the high road. Making some
excuse for the non-appearance of her husband, she had been driven to
London, and the driver, who had already received his money, dropped her
in Piccadilly. That, as he confessed, was the last he saw of her.

Inspector Inglis was very angry with the man, and pointed out that he
should have suspected that the couple were flying from justice from the
fact of the large sum of money paid, and on account of the strange place
where it was arranged that the car should wait. But the man exonerated
himself completely, and in the end he was permitted to go free, as the
police could not do anything. And after all the chauffeur, who did not
look particularly intelligent, might have acted in all good faith.

However the point was that Mrs. Vand, dropped in Piccadilly, had
vanished entirely. She had ample money, as it was proved that she had
drawn fifty pounds in gold from her bank, and although she had fled from
the hut with only the dripping dress she wore, there would be no
difficulty in her obtaining a fresh disguise. The police advertised in
the papers and with handbills, but nothing could be heard of the woman.
She had vanished as completely as though the earth had opened and
swallowed her.

Strangely enough, it was from Mrs. Vand's solicitor that the first news
came of her doings. Timson was the lawyer's name, and he came down to
Pierside to see Inspector Inglis. On being shown into the inspector's
office he broke out abruptly--

"Sir," said Timson, who was a mild-faced, spectacled, yellow-haired man,
"I have a communication to make to you about my respected client, Mrs.
Rosamund Vand, if you will hear it."

"Respectable, eh?" questioned the officer ironically. "Perhaps you don't
know, Mr.--Mr."--he referred to the card--"Mr. Timson, that your
respectable client is wanted for her complicity in the murder of her
brother?"

"Sir," said Mr. Timson again and firmly, "my client--my respected
client," he added with emphasis "assured me that she had nothing to do
with the commission of that crime. She was in a dead faint in the
kitchen when her husband, in a moment of passion, struck down Captain
Huxham."

"So she says because it is to her benefit to say so, Mr. Timson. But the
man who saw the murder committed swears that it was a most deliberate
affair, and was only done for the sake of certain jewels, which----"

"Deliberate or not, Mr. Inspector," interrupted the meek little man, "my
respected client had nothing to do with it. Afterwards she held her
tongue for the sake of her husband, for his sake also paid blackmail to
the man who saw the crime committed."

"We can argue that point," said Inglis drily, "when we see Mrs. Vand.
You are doubtless aware of her whereabouts?"

"No," said Timson coolly, "I am not."

"But you said you had seen her--after the murder was committed, I fancy
you hinted."

"I saw her," said Timson, quite calmly, "on the day following her flight
from the hut on the marshes. She alighted in Piccadilly and walked about
the streets for the rest of the night. Afterwards she went to a quiet
hotel and had a brush and a wash up. She then called on me--"

"And you did not detain her when you knew----"

"I knew nothing. Had I known that she was flying from justice I
certainly should have urged her to surrender. But the news of these
terrible doings in Marshely had not reached London; it was not in the
papers until the following day. You grant that?"

"Yes, yes! But----"

"No 'buts' at all, Mr. Inspector," said Timson, who seemed firm enough
in spite of his meek aspect. "My client confessed to me that her husband
had been drowned, and that he had murdered her brother in a fit of
passion because Captain Huxham intended to turn his sister out of doors
and alter his will on account of her secret marriage."

"That motive may have had some weight," said Inglis quietly, "but I
fancy the sight of the jewels made Vand murder his brother-in-law. Did
Mrs. Vand call to tell you this?"

"No!" snapped Timson, whose meekness was giving way. "She called to make
her will."

"Make her will--in whose favour?"

"I see no reason why I should not tell you," said the lawyer, "although
I never reveal professional secrets. But I will tell, so that you may
see how you have misjudged my client. She made a will in favour of Miss
Isabella Faith----"

"Faith? Ah! she knew, then, that the girl was not her niece."

"Yes. But she did not tell me that, nor did I inquire. All she did was
to make me, or, rather instruct me, to draw up a will leaving the
Bleacres property and the five hundred a year she inherited from the
late Captain Huxham, to Miss Faith, as some token of repentance for
having misjudged her. And now," cried Timson, rising wrathfully, "my
respected client is misjudged herself. I come to clear her character."

"I don't see how that will clears her character," said Inglis coolly,
"and from the mere fact that she made it I daresay she has committed
suicide."

"Impossible! Impossible!"

"I think it is very probable, indeed, Mr. Timson, Mrs. Vand cannot get
out of England, as all the ports and railway stations are watched, and
there is a full description of her appearance posted everywhere. Unless
she wants to get a long sentence for complicity in this most brutal
murder, she will have to commit suicide."

"I tell you she is innocent."

"Can you tell me that she is not an accomplice after the fact?"

"A wife is not bound to give evidence against her husband."

Inspector Inglis rose with a fatigued air. "I am not here to argue on
points of law with you, Mr. Timson. All I ask is, if you know where your
respected client is?" he laid a sneering emphasis on his last words.

"No, I do not," said Timson, taking up his hat, "and I bid you good
day."

What the lawyer said was evidently correct, for although his office and
himself were watched by the police, it could not be proved that he was
in communication with the missing woman. The whereabouts of Mrs. Vand
became more of a mystery than ever. Inglis told Bella of her good
fortune, but of course until Mrs. Vand was dead she could not benefit.
And there seemed to be no chance of proving the woman's death, even
though the inspector firmly held to the opinion that she had committed
suicide.

Meantime Timson went on to Marshely to look after his client's property,
and seeing that the corn was ripe, he arranged with a number of
labourers, under an overseer whom he could trust, that it should be
reaped immediately. Thus it happened that four days after Mrs. Vand's
disappearance, when Cyril came to tell Bella about the inquest, she was
able to inform him that the Solitary Farm lands were about to be reaped.

"And we might go there in the evening to look," said Bella.

"My dear, I should think that the Manor was hateful to you."

"Well, it is. Even if I do inherit it from Mrs. Vand, I can never live
there, Cyril. But I want you to come with me this evening, as I have a
kind of idea that the body of Mrs. Vand"--she grew pale and
shuddered--"may be found amidst the corn."

Cyril started back, astonished. "My dear girl, you must be mad!"

"No, I am not, Cyril. Think of how she is being hunted, and how her
person is described everywhere, while all the ports and stations are
watched. I believe that she, poor woman! went to see her lawyer, so as
to prove her sorrow for having misjudged me, by making me her heiress,
and that she then returned to die amidst the corn."

"Do you think she is dead there?"

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Granny Tunks is still in the hut, and she is
very avaricious. Mrs. Vand had money. She may have bribed Granny to
bring her food while she lay hid among the corn."

"But such a hiding-place!" said Lister, who nevertheless was much struck
with what Bella was saying.

"A very good one and a place where no one would think of looking. Think
how thick the corn is growing! No one ever enters it, and that scarlet
coated scarecrow stands sentinel over it. Believe me, Cyril, Mrs. Vand
has been hiding there. I wish you to come with me this evening. They
have started to reap the corn by order of Mr. Timson. If Mrs. Vand is
there, she will in the end be discovered. Let us find her, and save her,
and get her out of the kingdom."

"That will bring us within reach of the law."

"I don't care," said Bella, quite recklessly; "after all, she had
nothing to do with the crime, and only kept silent to shield her
husband. I want to help the poor thing, and you must aid me to do so."

"But Bella, she never liked you."

"What has that got to do with it?" cried the girl passionately. "Our
natures did not suit one another, and perhaps I behaved rather harshly
towards her. She meant well. And remember, Cyril, she has made amends by
leaving me all that would have been mine had I really been Captain
Huxham's daughter."

Cyril nodded. "I admit that she has done her best to repent," he said
after a pause, "and we should not judge her too harshly. I'll come."

"And help her to escape?"

"Yes. It won't be easy; but I'll do my best."

"That's my own dear boy," said the girl, kissing him, "and now what
about the inquest?"

"A verdict of death by drowning has been brought in," said Cyril
quickly. "I think if we can get Mrs. Vand away, everything concerning
the Huxham mystery will be at an end."

"They won't put the whole story in the papers, Cyril?"

"No. Inglis will edit all that is to be given to the reporters and
journalists. He will say as little as possible about the matter. It is
known that Huxham was murdered by Vand, and in the absence of my
father's body no cognisance can be taken of that alleged murder."

"Don't you believe that your father has been murdered?"

"I don't know; I can't tell. Tunks says so, and I don't suppose he would
tell such a story against himself unless it were true. But no body has
been found, and until the body of the missing man is found, it is
presumed in law that he is alive. But"--Cyril shrugged his
shoulders--"who can tell the truth?"

"It will be made manifest in time," said Bella firmly; "your father, or
your father's body, will be found. Where are Durgo and Henry to be
buried?"

"In Marshely churchyard to-morrow. I shall go to the funeral. I am sorry
for Durgo. In spite of his skin he was a real white man. And when he is
under the earth, Bella, I think we had better sell the jewels and marry,
and take a trip round the world in order to forget all this terrible
business. I am quite glad it is over."

"It is not over yet," insisted Bella, "your father has to be found, and
Mrs. Vand must be discovered."

"Or their bodies," said Cyril significantly, and turned away.

It must not be thought that young Lister was callous. His father had
never been one to him, and, moreover, his son had seen so little of him,
that he was as strange to the young man as he had been to the boy. Cyril
deeply regretted the gulf that was between them, as he was of a truly
affectionate nature, but his father always had repelled the least sign
of tenderness. He only looked on Cyril as one to be made use of, and
borrowed from him on every occasion. Had he succeeded in getting the
jewels and had aided Durgo to regain his chiefdom, he would have
remained in Nigeria as a kind of savage prime minister, without casting
a thought to his son. And whether his father was dead or alive, Cyril
knew that he would have to repay the one thousand pounds which he had
borrowed to cover his father's delinquency in respect of the forged
cheque. How could such a son as Cyril Lister respect or love such a
parent as Edwin of the same name?

Nevertheless, Cyril, although he said little to Bella, was very anxious
to ascertain the fate of his father. It seemed very certain that Tunks
had seen him murdered by the evil-hearted old sailor, but what that
scoundrel had done with the body could not be discovered. In vain the
police dug in the cellars of the Manor-house, tapped the walls, ripped
up the floors, and dragged the boundary channel. The body of Edwin
Lister could not be found, and as no one had seen him save Tunks, and
Pence, and Bella, who had all mistaken him for Cyril, the police began
to believe that Edwin, the father, was a myth. And Cyril could not make
Inglis see otherwise for all his urging and confession.

"If the man is alive, why doesn't he turn up?" asked Inglis; "and if
dead, why can't we find his body?"

There was no answer to this, and Cyril gave up his father's fate as a
riddle, when he walked in the cool of the evening towards the Solitary
Farm. The immediate object of his visit was to find if Mrs. Vand, dead
or alive, was concealed in the thickly standing corn. Bella strolled by
his side. But the lovers had taken no one into this particular
confidence, not even Dora, and walked towards the well-known house, and
up the corn-path, anxiously looking right and left. Then Cyril uttered
an exclamation of annoyance. "What a bother!" he said, much vexed: "see,
Bella, there are labourers still reaping--yonder, near the scarecrow."

"I suppose Mr. Timson wants the fields reaped quickly," said Bella, also
much vexed. "I thought everyone would have been gone by this time. We
must wait until the labourers depart, Cyril. It will never do to find
Mrs. Vand while they are about. They would tell the police, and she
would be arrested. That would be dangerous!"

"So it will be--if she is alive," said the young man, who was very
doubtful on this point himself.

The setting sun cast a rosy glow over the fields of golden grain. The
old house seemed to be buried in a treasure meadow. All round rolled the
radiant waves, and the scarlet-coated scarecrow's task was nearly done.
The corn was ripe for the harvest, and soon the acres of the Solitary
Farm would consist of nothing but stubble.

As the lovers drew near the house, they saw a labourer approach the
scarecrow. The corn had been reaped for some distance all round it, and
now a man had cut a path direct to it in order to pull it down. Its task
was over, and it was no longer needed to keep off the birds. Suddenly
the man laid his hand on the quaint figure, which had been so familiar
to every one for months, and uttered a loud cry of astonishment. Cyril
saw him beckoning to other labourers, and shortly there was a crowd
round the scarlet coat.

"What is the matter?" asked Bella, and the lovers hurried to join the
group.

One of the labourers heard the question, and turned excitedly. "Master!
Missus!" he said, in horrified tone, "it's a corpse."

He pulled the tattered gray felt hat from the scarecrow, and Cyril
recoiled with a loud cry of surprise. "Bella! Bella!"

"What is it? what is it?" she said, startled by the discovery.

"It is my father. It is Edwin Lister."

All present knew of the tragedy, and of the hunt made for Edwin Lister.
And now the missing man had been discovered. One of the labourers,
mindful of public house gossip, touched the drooping neck of the figure,
and shuddered. "Take missy away," he said softly to Cyril, and with a
grey face, "this ain't no sight for her. His throat has been cut."

But it was not the man who led the girl away. Bella saw the labourer's
face, guessed, with a shudder, what he had said, and, catching Cyril's
arm, dragged him away from that awful spot. The young fellow, with a
blanched face and tottering limbs, stumbled blindly along as she pulled
him forward. In all his expectations, he had never counted upon such a
terrible dramatic discovery as this. His father, the missing man, the
murdered man, who had been hunted for alive and dead for many weeks, had
been used by Captain Huxham as a scarecrow to frighten the birds. No
wonder they had kept away from those sinister fields.

"Oh, great God!" moaned Cyril, sick and faint, "let this be the end."



CHAPTER XXV

RUN TO EARTH


The quiet village of Marshely, in Essex, was getting to be as well-known
through the length and breadth of England as Westminster Abbey. The
murder of Captain Huxham had caused a sensation, the death of Durgo and
Vand had created another one, but the discovery of the ghastly scarecrow
which had warned the birds from the corn-fields of Bleacres, startled
everyone greatly. The news flew like wild fire through the village, and
in less than an hour the inhabitants were surveying the terrible object.

Shortly the constable of the village who had superseded Dutton--in
disgrace for his share in the escape of Mrs. Vand--appeared, and, armed
with the authority of the law and assisted by willing hands, removed the
poor relic of humanity from the pole whereupon it had hung for so long.
The explanation of its being there was easy. Undoubtedly Captain Huxham,
after he had committed the crime, and while Tunks and Pence were away,
the one through horror and the other through sheer worry, had carried
out the dead body to fasten it to the pole. He undressed the
straw-stuffed figure, with which everyone was familiar, and having
destroyed it arrayed the corpse of Edwin Lister in its military clothes.
Then he pulled the tattered grey felt cap well over the face so that it
should not be suspected as being that of a human being, and bound the
dead to the pole. Of course, no one, not even the Vands, suspected that
the figure was other than what it had always been, and it said much for
the cruel ingenuity of Captain Jabez Huxham that he had selected so
clever a mode of disposing of the body. Had he thrown it into the
boundary channel it might have been fished out; had he concealed it in
the house, it would probably have been discovered; and had he buried it
in the garden near the house, it might have been dug up. But no one ever
dreamed that the scarlet-coated scarecrow was the man who was wanted.
Huxham had been struck down almost immediately after he had put his
scheme into execution, and it was doubtful if he had intended to leave
the body there. Probably he did, as it was isolated by the corn, and
when the field was reaped he doubtless intended to get rid of the corpse
in some equally ingenious way. The removal of the scarecrow would have
excited no comment when the fields were reaped, as its career of
usefulness would then be at an end. The dead man's clothes still clothed
his corpse under the scarecrow's ragged garments.

One result of the discovery was that everyone decided not to buy the
corn which had flourished under so terrible a guardian. Far and wide the
newspapers spread the report of the discovery, and Timson became aware
that a prejudice existed against making bread of the wheat grown on the
Bleacres ground. Not wishing to spend more money, since he would have to
account for everything he did to Mrs. Vand, he withdrew the labourers.
The Solitary Farm now became solitary indeed, for no one would go near
it, especially after night-fall. The golden fields of wheat spread round
it like a sea, and the ancient house stood up greyly and lonely like a
thing accursed. And indeed it was looked upon as damned by the
villagers.

An inquest was held, and, going by the evidence of Luke Tunks, it was
decided that Edwin Lister came by his end at the hands of Jabez Huxham.
Cyril was compelled to attend and give evidence, but said as little as
he could, not wishing to make his father's shady career too public. He
simply stated that his father was a trader in Nigeria, and being the
friend of Durgo, the dispossessed chief of a friendly tribe in the far
Hinterland, had come home to see Huxham and get from him certain jewels.
Of course he could not suppress the fact that these jewels had been
given by Kawal to Maxwell Faith, and had been stolen from the dead body
of the man by his murderer, Captain Huxham: nor could he fail to state
that Bella was the daughter of Maxwell Faith, since had he not done so
the jewels might have been taken from her. But Cyril spoke as clearly
and carefully as he could, quite aware of the delicate position he
occupied. There was no doubt that Huxham, dreading lest the murder of
Faith should be brought home to him, and anxious to retain the jewels
which were the price of blood, had murdered Lister; afterwards he had
disposed of the body in the ingenious manner explained. But Lister was
dead; Huxham was dead; Vand and Durgo were dead, so the papers suggested
that there should be an end to the succession of terrible events which
made Marshely so notorious.

"And I think this is the last," said Cyril, when he returned to Miss
Ankers' cottage from his father's funeral. "Bella, we can't stay here."

"I'm sure I don't want to," replied the harassed girl, who looked worn
and thin. "The place is getting on my nerves. I'll marry you as soon as
you like, dear, and then we can go away. But this morning"--she
hesitated--"I received a letter from my father's relatives. They ask me
to come to them."

"What will you do?" asked Cyril gravely.

"Write and say that I am marrying you and intend to go abroad."

"But, Bella, if you reside with your relatives you may be able to make a
much better match."

"Yes," said Bella with a grimace. "I might marry a Quaker. No, dear, I
intend to stay with you and marry you. I have done without my relatives
for all this time, and I hope to continue doing without them."

"Bella! Bella! I have nothing to offer you."

"Yourself, dear. That is all I want."

"A stupid gift on my part," said Cyril, looking ruefully in a near
mirror at his face, which was now lean and haggard. "You have the money,
and also the sympathy of the public. I can offer you nothing but a
dishonoured name."

"Oh, nonsense!" she said vigorously. "I won't have you talk in that way.
Why, one of the newspapers referred to your father as a pioneer of
Empire."

Sad as he was Cyril could not help smiling. "That is just like my
father's good luck," he exclaimed; "alive or dead, everything comes to
him. I expect his shady doings will be overlooked, and----"

"No one knows of his shady doings, dear."

"Well, then, he will be looked upon as a hero. It's just as well he is
buried in Marshely churchyard, for some fanatic might propose to bury
him in Westminster Abbey."

"You will be congratulated on having such a father."

"No!" cried Cyril violently. "I won't stand that, Bella. We shall go to
London next week and get married in a registry office. Miss Ankers can
come with you to play propriety."

Bella laughed. "I rather think Dora is so busy nursing poor Mr. Pence
back to health that she has no time."

"Why, you don't mean to say that she loves Pence?"

"Yes and no. I won't say what may happen. She pities him for his
weakness, and pity, as you know, is akin to love. Besides, only
ourselves and Inspector Inglis know of the temptation to which Mr. Pence
was submitted."

"Why, Bella, everyone knows he saw the corpse of Huxham and held his
tongue."

"Yes, but everyone doesn't know that he took the one hundred pounds
which he restored to me. He is looked upon as somewhat weak for not
having informed the police of the crime, but on the whole people are
sorry for him."

"I shall be sorry, too, if a nice little woman like Miss Ankers marries
such a backboneless creature."

"Cyril! Cyril! have not our late troubles shown you that we must judge
no one? After what we have undergone I shall never, never give an
opinion about anyone again. I am sorry now that I did not behave better
to poor Mrs. Vand. When my supposed father was alive I did treat her
haughtily. No wonder she disliked me."

"My dear," said Lister, taking her hand, "don't be too hard on yourself.
You and your so-called aunt would never have got on well together."

"But I might have been kinder," said Bella, almost crying; "now that she
is dead and gone I feel that I might have been kinder."

"How do you know that she is dead and gone?" asked Cyril, in so strange
a tone that Bella, dashing the tears from her eyes, looked at him
inquiringly. "She is alive," he replied to that mute interrogation.

"Oh, Cyril, I am so glad! Tell me all about it."

"I don't know that I am glad, poor soul," said Lister sadly. "The police
are on her track. I didn't want to tell you, Bella, but for the last two
days the papers have been full of the hunt after Mrs. Vand."

"Why didn't Dora tell me?"

"I asked her not to. You have had quite enough to bear."

"Well, now that you have told me some, tell me all."

"There isn't much to tell. Some too clever landlady in Bloomsbury
suspected a quiet lady lodger. It certainly was Mrs. Vand, but she
became suspicious of her landlady and cleared out. Then she was seen at
Putney, and afterwards someone noticed her in Hampstead. The papers
having been taunting the police about the matter, they'll catch her in
the end."

"Poor Mrs. Vand! poor Mrs. Vand!" The girl's eyes again filled with
tears.

"We can't help her, Bella. I wish Timson could get hold of her and
induce her to stand her trial. I don't think either judge or jury would
be hard on her; more, I fancy that her brain must be turned with all
this misery."

"And she has lost her husband, too," sighed Bella; "she loved him so.
Oh, dear Cyril, what should I do if I lost you?"

Before Lister could reply with the usual lover-like attentions there was
a noise in the road, and looking through the window they saw many people
hurrying along. Dora came in at the moment from the other room, whither
she always discreetly withdrew when not nursing Pence.

"It is only some policeman they are running after. He declares that Mrs.
Vand is in the neighbourhood. If she is I hope she will escape."

"By Jove! I must go out and see," said Cyril, seizing his hat.

"I shall come also," cried Bella, and in a few minutes the two were on
the road. But by this time the people were not tearing along as they had
been, and one villager told Lister that it had been a false alarm.

"The old vixen won't come back to her first hole," said the villager
with a coarse laugh, and Bella frowned at him for his inhumanity.

As there really was nothing to hurry for the lovers strolled easily
along the road talking of their future. "Bella, you haven't many boxes?"
asked Cyril.

"Only two. Why do you ask?"

"Will you be ready to come with me to London to-morrow?"

"Yes; I shall be glad to get out of Marshely, where I have been so
miserable. Only I wish I knew where Mrs. Vand is, poor soul."

Cyril passed over the reference to Mrs. Vand, as he was weary of
discussing that unfortunate woman. "There's a chum of mine got a motor,"
said the young man. "I wrote and asked him for the loan of it. He
brought it down last night, and it is safely bestowed in the stables of
'The Chequers.' To-morrow at nine o'clock let us start off with your
boxes----"

"And Dora?"

"No," said Cyril, very decidedly. "Dora can remain with Pence, whom she
probably will marry. We will go to London and get married at a registry
office in the afternoon, and then cross to Paris for our honeymoon. I
haven't much money, Miss Rothschild, but I have enough for that. In our
own happiness let us forget all our troubles."

"I'll come," said Bella with a sigh. "After all, we can do nothing. By
the way, Cyril, what about Durgo's things?"

"Well it's odd you should mention that. He evidently thought that
something might happen to him on that night, for he left a note behind
him saying that if he did not return they were to be given to me. So I
have shifted them long since to my lodgings. There they lie packed up,
and ready to be taken away in our motor to-morrow."

"Cyril, you have been arranging this for some time?"

"Well, I have. It's the only way of getting you to leave this place, and
you will always be miserable while you remain here."

"I only stayed in the hope that poor Mrs. Vand might return, and then I
would be able to comfort her. Oh! how I wish Durgo with his occult
powers was here to help us."

"I don't; Durgo's occult powers brought him little happiness, and didn't
solve the mystery of my father's death. One would have thought that
Granny Tunks, in her trances, would have told Durgo that the scarecrow
which he saw daily was his dearly-beloved master's dead body."

"It is strange," said Bella thoughtfully; "but then, as Durgo said about
something else, perhaps it was not permitted. What's become of Granny
Tunks, Cyril? Is she still at the hut?"

"Yes; but I heard to-day that she is going on the road again with her
old tribe of the Lovels. I daresay Granny will be at all the fairs and
race meetings, swindling people for many a long day."

"And her son Luke?"

"He'll get off with a light sentence. He certainly had no hand in the
murders, and there is no one to prosecute him for blackmail. Granny and
Luke will soon be together again. I hope never to hear more of them, for
my part. Bella! Bella! don't let us talk of such things. We have had
enough of these tragedies. Let us be selfish for once in our lives and
consider ourselves. Hullo, what's this?"

The question was provoked by the sight of Inglis with three constables,
who whirled past in a fly which they had evidently obtained from the
station. As they dashed onward in a cloud of dust the inspector,
recognising the two, shouted out something indistinctly, with his hand
to his mouth.

"What does he say, Cyril?" asked Bella anxiously.

"Something about fire. I wonder where they are going? Oh!"--Cyril
suddenly stopped short--"I wonder if they are after poor Mrs. Vand.
Come, Bella, let us see where they go to."

"But where are you going?" asked Bella, as he rushed along the road
dragging her after him swiftly. "Oh!" she cried out with horror, "look!"

At the far end of the village and in the direction of the Solitary Farm,
a vast cloud of smoke was mounting menacingly into the soft radiance of
the twilight sky. "No wonder Inglis said fire!" cried Lister excitedly,
"I believe, Bella, that the Manor-house is blazing."

"No," cried Bella in reply, "it is impossible."

But it was not. As they rounded the corner of the crooked village street
in the midst of a crowd of people who had sprung as by magic from
nowhere, they saw the great bulk of the Manor-house enveloped in thick
black smoke, and even at the distance they were could catch sight of
fiery tongues of flame. The sky was rapidly darkening to night, and the
smoke-cloud, laced with red serpents, looked lurid and livid and
sinister.

"Come, Bella, come!" cried Cyril to the panting girl, and took her arm
within his own, "we must see who set it on fire."

Bella got her second wind and ran like Atalanta. They speedily
outstripped the crowd, and were almost the first to cross the planks
over the boundary channel. Inglis and his policemen were already running
up the corn-path. Why they should run, or why the villagers should run,
Cyril did not know, as there was no water and no fire brigade, hose, or
engine, and no chance of saving the ancient mansion. He and Bella ran
because they wished to see the last of the old home.

"Who can have set it on fire?" Cyril kept asking.

"Perhaps a tramp," suggested Bella breathlessly, but in her heart she
felt that something more serious was in the wind. A strange dread
gripped her heart, and the name of Mrs. Vand was on the tip of her
tongue, although she never uttered it.

As the weather was warm and the ground dry--for there had been no rain
since the electric storm which raged when Vand and Durgo had gone down
into the muddy waters of the boundary channel--the old house flamed
furiously. The dry wood caught like tinder, and when Cyril and the girl
arrived the whole place was hidden weirdly by dense black smoke, amidst
which flashed sinister points of fire. Inglis and his men attempted to
enter the house, but were driven back by the fierce flames which burst
from the cracking windows; also the great door was closed and could not
be forced open. They were forced to retreat, and the inspector nearly
tumbled over Miss Faith, as Bella was now called.

"Can't you get her out?" asked Inglis breathlessly.

"Get her out!" cried the girl, terrified, and half grasping his meaning.

"Mrs. Vand; she is in there," and he pointed to the furnace of flame.

Bella screamed and Cyril turned pale. "You must be mistaken," he said.

"No, no," replied the inspector, who was greatly agitated, for even his
official phlegm was not proof against the terror of the position. "The
London police wired to me at Pierside that Mrs. Vand had gone down to
Marshely. We waited at the station to arrest her, but she got off at a
previous station and was seen by your village policeman to run across
the marshes. He wired to my Pierside office, and the wire was repeated
to the station we waited at. We got a fly and hurried here only to see
the smoke. I cried out 'Fire!' to you as we passed. Great heavens, what
a blaze!"

"Can't you get her out?" cried Bella, who was white with despair. Little
as she had liked Mrs. Vand, the position was a dreadful one to
contemplate.

"What can we do?" said the officer, with a gesture of despair. "There is
no water and no buckets: and if there were, what bucket of water would
put out that conflagration. You might as well try and extinguish hell
with a squirt."

Bella paid no attention to the vehemence of his expression, but turned
to Cyril. "What can we do?" she wailed. "Oh, what can we do?"

"Nothing, nothing. Look at the police, look at the villagers. We can do
nothing. If Mrs. Vand is in that blazing house God help her."

There was now a great crowd of men, women and children all gathered some
distance away from the burning mansion, trampling down the tall corn in
their efforts to see. Bella, with the police and her lover, stood the
nearest to the house. "Please God she is not there!" breathed the girl,
clasping her hands in agony.

At that moment, as if to give the lie to her kindly prayer, a window on
the first storey was flung open and Mrs. Vand's head was poked out. Even
at this distance Bella could see that her hair was in disorder, her face
haggard, and her whole mien wild. Breaking away desperately from Cyril
she rushed right up almost under the window, despite the fierce heat.

"Aunt, oh aunt," she cried, stretching up her hands, "come down and save
yourself!"

"No! No. They shall not catch me! I shall not be hanged! I am innocent!
I am innocent!" shrieked Mrs. Vand, and Bella could almost see the mad
flash in her eyes.

"Bella! Bella! come back," shouted Cyril, and dashing forward he caught
the girl in his arms and carried her away as the front door fell
outward. A long tongue of flame shot out and licked the grass where
Bella had stood a moment since.

By this time the house was blazing furiously, and every window save that
out of which Mrs. Vand's head was thrust, vomited flame. The sky was now
very dark, and the vivid redness of the flame in the gloom made a
terrible and lovely spectacle. Bella, in her despair, would have rushed
again to implore her aunt to escape, but that Cyril and Inglis held her
firmly. "It is useless," they said, and the girl could not but admit
that they were right.

Mrs. Vand apparently was quite mad. She kept flinging up her arms, and
shouting out taunts to the police for having failed to catch her. Then
she was seized with a fit of frenzy and began to throw things out of the
window. Chairs, and looking-glasses, and rugs, and table ornaments did
she fling out. Suddenly a devilish thought occurred to her crazed brain.
She noted that a tongue of uncut corn stretched from the main body of
wheat almost under the window. Darting back she plucked a flaming brand
from the crackling door, and, regardless how it burnt the flesh of her
hand, she ran to the window. "Off! off! off with you!" cried Mrs. Vand,
and carefully dropping the brand on to the tongue of corn.

In one moment, as it seemed, the thread of fire ran along to the main
body of the corn, and in an inconceivably short space of time, the acres
of golden grain were a sheet of flame. The villagers, the police, both
Cyril and Bella, ran for their lives, and it took them all their speed
to escape the eager flames which licked their very heels. Pell-mell down
to the boundary channel ran everyone. The plank bridge was broken, and
many tumbled into the muddy water. Mrs. Vand stood at the window
yelling, and clapping her hands like a fiend, and the whole vast fields
of wheat flared like a gigantic bonfire.

Half swimming, half holding on to the broken bridge planks, Cyril, with
Bella on his other arm, managed to scramble through that muddy ditch.
Beside him shrieked women and cursed men and screamed children. The
police having safely reached the other side stretched out arms to those
in the water. Cyril and Bella were soon on dry land, and shortly
everyone else was saved. Not a single life was lost, either by fire or
water. And when safe on the hither side of this Jordan, the excited,
smoke-begrimed throng looked at the flaming fields and the roaring
furnace of the Manor house. The smoke and flame of the burning ascended
to heaven and reddened the evening sky. Mrs. Vand, in setting fire to
her last refuge, had indeed provided herself with a noble pyre and a
dramatic end. Before those who watched could draw breath after their
last exertions, the roof of the mansion fell in with a crash. Mrs. Vand
gave one wild cry and fell backward. Then fierce, red flames enwrapped
the whole structure, while far and wide the raging fire swept over the
fields of the Solitary Farm.

"May God have mercy on her soul!" said Cyril removing his cap.

"Ah!" said Inglis, "if I had caught her, I wonder if the judge would
have said as much."

"No," replied Bella, "she is dead, and she was innocent. God help her
poor soul!" and everyone around echoed the wish.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bella and Cyril did not go to London the next morning as they had
arranged, but three days later. In the meanwhile search had been made
amongst the ruins of the Manor-house for the body of Mrs. Vand. But
nothing could be found. In that fierce furnace of flame she had been
burnt to a cinder, and not even calcined bones could be gathered
together. In a whirlwind of flame the unhappy woman had vanished, and
her end affected Bella deeply. Indeed, Cyril feared lest the much-tried
girl should fall ill, and on the third day he brought round the
motor-car to Miss Ankers' cottage, to insist that she should come with
him to London.

"But if we marry so soon it seems like a disrespect to Mrs. Vand,"
argued Bella, "and she has left me her money, remember."

"My dear, don't be morbid," advised Dora; "you will be ill if you stay.
Get married, and go to Paris, and try to forget all these terrible
things."

"What do you say, Pence?" asked Cyril, who in the meantime had carried
out Bella's boxes.

Pence, looking lean and haggard after his recent illness, but with a
much calmer light in his eyes, nodded. "I say, go, Miss Faith, and get
married as soon as you can."

"You wouldn't have given that advice once," said Bella, with a faint
smile, as Dora assisted her to adjust her cloak.

"No. But I have grown wiser."

"What a compliment!"

"You have forgiven me, have you not?"

"Yes, I have." She held out her hand, "and the best thing I can wish you
is the best wife in the world."

As if by chance, her eyes rested on Dora, who blushed, and then on
Pence, who grew red. Afterwards, with half a smile and half a sigh, she
got into the car beside Cyril. Dora hopped like a bird on to the step to
kiss her.

Lister raised his cap, and the car went humming down the road on the way
to peace and happiness.

"That's the end of her solitary life," said Pence, thankfully.

"On the Solitary Farm," rejoined Dora; "come and have some breakfast."



THE END.



THE BEST NOVELS BY FERGUS HUME


The Mystery of a Hansom Cab

The Sealed Message

The Sacred Herb

Claude Duval of Ninety-five

The Rainbow Feather

The Pagan's Cup

A Coin of Edward VII

The Yellow Holly

The Red Window

The Mandarin's Fan

The Secret Passage

The Opal Serpent

Lady Jim of Curzon Street





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