A Son of Ishmael: A Novel
Date: 2021-08-22T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Detective and mystery stories; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction; Burglars -- Fiction; Husband and wife -- Fiction

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Title: A Son of Ishmael: A Novel

Author: L. T. Meade

Illustrator: A. B. Shute

Release date: August 22, 2021 [eBook #66110]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SON OF ISHMAEL: A NOVEL ***

A Son of
Ishmael

BY
Mrs. L. T. Meade
Author of
“The Medicine Lady,”
“Dr. Rumsey’s Patient,”
“A Soldier of Fortune,” etc., etc.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. BURNHAM SHUTE

NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
156 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK

A SON OF ISHMAEL.

“I die before my work is completed,” he said; “but leave it to you.”—Frontispiece.

A SON OF ISHMAEL

A Novel

BY
L. T. MEADE
AUTHOR OF “THE MEDICINE LADY,” “HEART OF GOLD,”
“NOBODY’S NEIGHBOR,” ETC.

NEW YORK
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
156 FIFTH AVENUE

London—F. V. WHITE & CO.

Copyright, 1896,
by
New Amsterdam Book Company

CONTENTS.

CHAP. | | PAGE
I. | —Dr. Follett’s Secret | 1
II. | —His Willing Bride | 15
III. | —The Packet on the Upper Shelf | 19
IV. | —At the Bungalow | 30
V. | —A Wild Wooer | 37
VI. | —Long John | 45
VII. | —The Wedding Night | 54
VIII. | —At the Opera House | 60
IX. | —The Rose-Coloured Bedroom and the New Maid | 70
X. | —The Boy on the Hearth | 78
XI. | —The Queen Anne Wing and Garden | 87
XII. | —Silver | 95
XIII. | —Long John | 104
XIV. | —The Butler’s Pantry | 108
XV. | —Leah | 121
XVI. | —The Lady in the Wood | 130
XVII. | —Crossley | 139
XVIII. | —The Torn Letter and the Mark | 147
XIX. | —The Silver School | 156
XX. | —A Black Diamond | 170
XXI. | —The Rats in the Queen Anne Wing | 174
XXII. | —The Man with the Mark | 184
XXIII. | —Dame Rowton | 192
XXIV. | —The Black Diamond Again | 200
XXV. | —Kidnapped | 208
XXVI. | —A “Plant” | 214
XXVII. | —Invisible Ink | 225
XXVIII. | —Hester | 236
XXIX. | —“Call Me Dawson” | 242
XXX. | —Mrs. Larkins | 250
XXXI. | —A Summons | 260
XXXII. | —A Red Track | 266
XXXIII. | —“If Not, Lie to Him” | 277
XXXIV. | —A Toast | 290
XXXV. | —Wages | 295
XXXVI. | —The Darkness Before the Dawn | 306

CHAPTER I.
DR. FOLLETT’S SECRET

Not many years ago in the neighbourhood of Andover stood a lonely house, which went by the name of the Grange. It was enclosed in walled-in gardens, and people who passed by on the high road saw nothing of it. The house itself was squarely built—its windows were small, with old-fashioned latticed panes, and its thick walls were closely covered with ivy and other creepers of the hardy species.

It was a lonely place, standing solitary and bleak all the year round, its sole inhabitants being an old man, a young girl, and one servant.

These three inhabited a corner of the old house, living very sparsely and frugally, doing without warmth and comfort in winter and without all the gay things of life in summer. The grounds round the Grange had gone to rack and ruin; the huge kitchen garden was full of weeds, and the lawn in front of the house had been attended to by no gardener since Dr. Follett and his daughter, Nancy, took possession of the place six years ago.

People who saw them at church on Sunday said that Nancy Follett was a handsome girl; she had bright grey eyes, good features, and quantities of beautiful hair; her face had strength about it, her lips were firmly moulded; she had a very upright and erect carriage, but she looked like a girl who lived under a shadow, and during the six years of her residence at the Grange she made but one acquaintance.

The neighbours would have been kind to her if she had let them, but Dr. Follett received no visitors, and strictly forbade his daughter to make friends for herself in the neighbourhood of her dismal home. How she got to know Adrian Rowton was a mystery; how he obtained a footing in the dismal old house was the wonder of the country side. But then Rowton was a man who seemed to do what he liked wherever he went. He saw Nance one day in church, observed the turn of her head, noticed the exquisite curves of her soft neck and throat, commented with a quickening of his heart’s pulses on the lovely shades of her hair, determined to get a nearer view of her, met her by accident the next morning, spoke to her, caught the glint of her bright eyes, and fell madly in love with her on the spot.

Adrian Rowton had never yet seen any reason to check his inclinations, whatever they might be. Nancy Follett’s father was an ogre, but Rowton was clever enough quickly to gain an entrance into the deserted old house. He made love to the father for the sake of the daughter, and to the surprise of everyone in the place, was soon allowed to visit at the Grange as often as he liked.

It was just Rowton’s luck, said other young men who also admired pretty Nancy Follett, but then they looked at one another and wondered what they meant, for if people knew nothing of Dr. Follett and his daughter, they knew still less of Adrian Rowton. He rented a little shooting lodge about half a mile away from the Grange. It was called the Bungalow, and would have been to most men a singularly unattractive place. The house was tumble-down and out of repair, and Rowton took no pains to keep the grounds in order.

He arrived at the Bungalow two years before this story opens, accompanied by a man-servant, a rough-looking fellow with a bulldog head and a singularly unprepossessing face; also by several dogs, and a large supply of guns and ammunition. Rowton had taken the shooting of a large neighbouring estate and in the autumn he occupied himself with his favourite pastime as long as daylight permitted. When the shooting season was over he generally shut up the Bungalow and disappeared, returning, however, any day or night quite unexpectedly and for no apparent reason. He supplied Nancy Follett with plenty of game, but what he did with the rest he never told to anyone. He used to drive about the country on a high dog-cart, and one day brought two or three thoroughbred horses with him from London.

People talked a good deal about him, for he had an air of mystery which tantalised curiosity. He was tall, well set up, and strikingly handsome—too dark, perhaps, for the conventional Englishman, but so plucky, such a good sportsman, and withal so gay and bright when he pleased, that against his own inclination and against the secret prejudice of most of the neighbours, he was quickly invited to the best houses in the place, and was, in short, a universal favourite.

On a certain night towards the end of a particularly tempestuous November, Rowton was riding home from Andover. He was a reckless horseman, and always rode mercilessly. The beast on which he was sitting this special night was only half broken in. Suddenly he heard himself shouted to by an angry voice.

“Hullo! take care, can’t you; do you want to ride right through my gig?”

Adrian pulled up his horse fiercely, the animal reared, he sprang from its back and exclaimed with a hearty voice:

“A thousand pardons; I never saw you, Dr. Read.”

Dr. Read, who was also standing by his horse, faced the young man with a smile.

“You nearly rode into me,” he said. “You ought not to give reins to an animal of that sort on a dark night.”

“I am extremely sorry, but you had no lamp to your carriage. I certainly did not expect to meet anyone on this rough bit of road. What is the matter, doctor? What patient has called you out such a night as this?”

“I am just returning from the Grange,” said Dr. Read; “have you not heard?”

“Heard what?—is anyone ill there?—surely not Miss Nancy!”

“Bless you, Nancy Follett is well enough, unless indeed, poor child, she dies of her sorrows. What an old ruffian that father of hers is? Well, he is dying now: his grief is evidently bringing him to his grave. By the way, talking of mysteries, I believe I have got a clue to the shadow which hangs over the old Grange.”

“And what is that?” asked Rowton, a tone of interest coming into his voice.

“Why, they say that this old man, Dr. Follett, is no other than the well-known physician of the name who performed such wonderful cures in Harley Street some years back—you must have heard of the great Dr. Follett.”

“Can’t say that I have,” answered Rowton.

“Well, well,” said Dr. Read testily, “I thought all the world knew of him. I never for an instant suspected that this cross-grained old fellow could be he, but I believe it is a fact. It seems that the man had an awful shock: his only son was mysteriously murdered. Of course there may not be a word of truth in it, but something must have happened—did you speak, sir?”

Rowton had said “Good God” under his breath. He was quite quiet now.

“I think your informant must be mistaken,” he said after a pause. “I know the Folletts very well, and neither father nor daughter have ever alluded to a murdered son or brother—murdered! Good Heavens! Nancy Follett would surely have told me of a tragedy of that sort.”

“Well,” said Dr. Read, “there is some shadow over those two lives, and the shadow is killing the old man. Poor fellow, his days are numbered; it is only a question of hours.”

“I am surprised, shocked, and sorry,” said Rowton. “I was at the Grange only a week back and then Dr. Follett looked as well as ever.”

“As ill, you mean,” said the doctor. “He has been breaking up fast for the last six months. The mystery, or shadow, or whatever it is, is killing him, for the man is not really old. Have you ever noticed the extraordinary gloom on his face?”

“Yes, and no,” replied Rowton. “I thought him a queer old card, but to be frank with you, I don’t go to the Grange to study old Dr. Follett.”

The moon shone out at this moment, and Dr. Read favoured the bold outline of the young man who stood by his side with a keen glance.

“That girl is as fine a creature as ever breathed,” he said with apparent inconsequence; “take care, young sir, that you do not do her an injury; but now I must be off. Follett is dying because there is a shadow over him and the shadow is killing him. Well, I must not stay here any longer. Good night to you, Mr. Rowton.”

“One moment before you go, doctor. Is Miss Nancy all alone?”

“No, I sent in a nurse this morning. Good-night, I must not stay here any longer.”

The doctor got back into his gig and drove away, and Rowton stood for a brief moment at his horse’s head. He was a man of quick action at all times.

“Not home just at present, Satyr,” he said to the horse; “here, turn your head to the left. So! ho! old boy, easy, easy.”

A moment later horse and rider were flying almost on the wings of the wind in the direction of the Grange.

There was a long rambling avenue under dark lime trees up to the old house. Rowton did not wait to open the gates. Setting spurs to his horse the animal quickly leapt these obstacles, and then at full speed galloped up the avenue. When the pair approached the house Rowton pulled up abruptly, and springing from his steed led him softly over the grass. A great cedar tree stood in the middle of the desolate lawn. Taking a leather strap from his pocket, Rowton tied his horse to a branch of this tree, and then stepping quickly up to one of the windows he began to whistle, in gay clear notes, the well-known strains of “Garry Owen.” His whistle rang out joyfully; he had just completed the melody and was going to begin it a second time, when a noise at a little distance caused him to turn his head; a faint light proceeded from an open door, and a girl’s slender figure was seen standing on the steps.

Rowton made a stride forward, and the next moment had clasped Nancy Follett to his heart.

“This is good,” he said. “I have hungered for a kiss. What is the matter, sweetheart? you tremble as though you were an aspen leaf.”

“Because I am so glad to see you,” she replied. “But how did you know? What brought you here at this hour?”

“By good luck, I met Dr. Read,” exclaimed Rowton; “he told me of your trouble. There, sweetheart, you need not tremble; I am here to shelter you.”

“But you don’t know everything, Adrian,” she said in a sort of choking whisper. “Things have changed since I saw you last.”

“You need not tell me that, I know all about it,” he replied. “Your father is dying and you are miserable—but things must be better when I am with you. Let us come indoors; you will catch your death of cold if you stay out in an awful gale of this sort, besides, we can scarcely hear our own voices; come, I suppose you have some sort of fire in that big, desolate dining-room.”

“Just a spark,” she answered, with a smile, which she quickly repressed. “You seem to lift a weight off my heart,” she continued. “It is strength and real gladness to have you close to me; but, Adrian, I cannot stay with you; he is dying—the doctor says he will not last till morning.”

While she was speaking, Nancy turned and, followed by Rowton, entered the great hall of the almost empty mansion.

“Why, it is as dark as pitch,” exclaimed the young man, “what a state of things; have you no candles, no lamps, nothing to show a gleam of light on an awful night of this sort?”

“I’ll fetch a candle,” she answered. She ran across the hall, opened the door of a sitting-room some little distance away, and returned in a moment, holding a lighted candle high above her head.

“The fire is out in the dining-room,” she said with another shiver, “but we had better go there; I can talk to you better there, and I have something to say.”

“You don’t utter a word until you have a good fire to say it by,” replied Rowton. “This sort of thing is intolerable. You are going to be my wife, you know, Nance, so you have to obey me, whether your father wishes it or not. Here, give me the candle; why, your poor little hand shakes, you would drop it in another moment.”

He took the light out of the girl’s trembling hands, and holding it in such a manner that he could see her face, gazed long and earnestly into it. It was a face of great spirit and beauty. The features were straight and delicate in outline, the brows perfectly black and delicately marked, the eyes large and of a lovely shade of grey, the golden hair looked like a tangled web of many lights. But now the girl’s complexion was pinched and blue with cold, and the lovely eyes had red rims round them.

“Come, let us light a big fire,” said Rowton. “I’ll soon set it going; here are logs of wood and lumps of coal; fetch me an old newspaper, Nancy. Now we’ll set to work.”

He dropped on his knees as he spoke, used his great hands deftly, and in a moment or two a huge fire was roaring merrily up the old chimney.

“There now, that’s better,” he said. “You shall warm yourself—you shall get back your delicate complexion. Why, my wild bird, you wanted me sorely. Give me your hand—here, let me warm it. Sit on my knee close to this blaze; it will tingle right through you. Whisper one word to me, sweetheart; when did you last have a right, good, comforting meal?”

“Never mind about that, Adrian; how can I eat when my poor father is dying? I love him, although——”

“Although he turned your life into a hell,” interrupted the young man fiercely.

“That is true,” she replied; “but never mind that now—he has gone through fearful sorrow, and I am heart and soul with him in everything.”

“Well, dearest, he is your father and one cannot account for the feelings of affectionate girls like yourself. Thank heaven! I never had home ties—I cannot remember my father—my mother died when I was an infant—I was brought up in the roughest imaginable school. Yes, the school of life was hard on me, and it has turned me out a pretty rough specimen; a rough diamond, eh! sweet Nancy?”

“Not to me,” she answered with sudden tenderness. “To me you are the best, the noblest of men; why will you run yourself down?”

“I won’t again,” he answered. “Now let us to business. Have you told your father yet that you have promised to be my wife?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Why do you say ‘yes’ in that dismal way? Is he not glad? Will he not welcome me as a son-in-law after his own heart? A little talk will reassure him on many subjects. When can I have it?”

“Never, I fear, Adrian; he is too ill.”

“Well, then, I take you without his leave.”

“That’s just it,” replied Nance, speaking with hesitation and distress. “You know, Adrian, how he began by taking a wonderful fancy to you. During all the six years of our residence in this dismal old Grange you are the only stranger who has set foot across our threshold. Father liked you to come—he liked to talk to you—he liked to talk of you when you went away. It comforted me immeasurably to feel that you and father suited each other. When I saw that you loved me I was more glad than I can say, to feel assured on the point of father also being tolerant to you. Well, things have changed. The dreadful change took place after your last visit. When you were gone, when you shut the hall-door behind you, I found father in a state of strange and nervous excitement. He was pacing up and down the room, clasping and unclasping his hands and muttering to himself. I really had not the least idea what it all meant. He kept saying under his breath: ‘Suspected—yes, suspected—there is a likeness—there is a possibility of my search being terminated.’ Oh, he has a secret, Adrian, but I don’t want to go into that now, and I thought his poor brain was turned and that he was off his head, and I went to him quite tenderly and touched him on his arm, and said, ‘Sit down, calm yourself.’”

“‘I cannot,’ he said, shaking me off, ‘my heart is on fire and I am nearly mad. That man—that man—and I harboured him here.’”

“‘What man?’ I asked in astonishment.

“‘Rowton,’ he said, ‘Adrian Rowton; I have harboured him here and made a friend of him! Ah, but I shall track him down yet.’

“I felt myself turning quite faint with astonishment and an unaccountable sense of terror.

“‘Father,’ I said, ‘you must be mad.’

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘not mad, but my suspicions are aroused. Good heaven! that I should have harboured that man here!’

“Then he pulled himself together, and tried to speak quietly. ‘Nancy,’ he said, ‘listen to me. My suspicions are aroused—the man who calls himself Adrian Rowton is never to come here again.’

“‘You cannot mean it,’ I said.

“‘I can and do,’ he replied. ‘He is never to darken these doors again. Why, what is the matter?’ he exclaimed, for I was trembling and the tears were running down my cheeks.

“‘It is only that I love Adrian Rowton better than anyone else in all the world,’ I replied.

“Then he stood up and I thought he was going to curse me, but he did not curse me, he cursed you instead. Oh! he used awful, fearful words, and when they were over he fell down in a sort of fit. He got better after a little, and since then has not breathed your name. I do not know what he would do if he really knew that you and I were sitting here together.”

Rowton’s face looked disturbed while Nancy was speaking.

“Your father must have been off his head,” he said after a pause.

“No,” she replied, “his brain is sane enough.”

“He must have been off his head for the time at least,” repeated her lover; “nothing else could account for words so purposeless and wild. They are not worth your grave consideration; do not fret, sweetheart, such words can make no difference to us. You don’t suppose that I will part from the most precious thing in all the world because an old man’s brain has suddenly given way.”

“If I really thought that,” said Nancy Follett.

“What else could it be? but now don’t let us waste our time talking about it; you are mine and I am yours if fifty old men choose to go mad on the subject. Now, I must see that my wild bird does not wear herself out; you must have food, you shall have it; is there no one helping you to nurse your father?”

“Yes, Dr. Read sent in a nurse to-day, she is upstairs now; not that there is much to do, he has lain since the afternoon in a state of stupor.”

Nancy was standing now close to the fire; the bright light fell all over her; it brought a delicate colour into her cheeks and lit up her large eyes with a strange gleam.

“You are the most beautiful creature in all the world,” said Rowton, with passion.

She looked at him with a pained expression; her pretty dark brows were knit together.

“Don’t,” she said suddenly. “I cannot listen to such words just now, they seem incongruous, they press on my heart and hurt me. Whatever you may choose to think of him, I love that old man upstairs; his fate has been a cruel one, his grief is killing him; his terrible, his awful grief is killing him, it is carrying him to his grave.”

“I am a heartless brute not to sympathise with you, Nancy,” said Rowton. “What can be the grief, my dearest?”

“Ah! that I dare not tell you, that is our fearful secret. Once I was a very happy girl, a thoughtless child. I wanted for nothing, I was gay as the sunshine itself. Father was a successful man, he was quite a great doctor, he had one of the largest practices in Harley Street. Then came the trouble; it was a blow sudden and awful, like a bolt from the blue. It crushed father and turned him into an old man, a man with only one bitter object in life. Everything else seemed to die in him, everything but the one consuming passion. He sold the furniture in Harley Street, and we came here because the house was going for an old song, and father wanted us to live cheaply; we have lived here ever since that blow descended on our heads, and we have saved, and saved; we have starved ourselves, we have lain cold at night, we have wanted the common comforts of the most ordinary existence, all for one terrible purpose.”

“You certainly are a mysterious pair,” said Rowton with a laugh which echoed painfully in the old room. “Just whisper to me what the purpose was, Nance.”

She hesitated for a moment, then bending forward whispered a single word in his ear.

His ruddy, dark face changed colour when she spoke, for quite a moment he was silent.

“Your father has made a mistake,” he said; then gravely, “such a purpose turns round and crushes the man who holds it in his grasp. His own fell purpose will kill your father. You must drop it from your life, Nancy. Your little sunshiny face was never meant for shadow or sorrow; you have lived too long in the gloom; turn now to the sunshine of our mutual love.”

“Oh!” she answered, her voice coming out with a sort of strangled sob, “I love you beyond words.”

“To please me, try and put it into words, Nan,” he asked; he gathered her close to his heart as he spoke.

“My love is wide as the world and deep as hell,” she replied; “stronger than death, and I think, I think, it could reach even to the heavens.”

“And mine for you means madness if thwarted,” he replied. “There is not a man on earth can keep me from winning and holding you. There, you may go to the old man now, for I see you want to; we’ll be man and wife before another moon is passed. I’ll come back in the morning to learn your news. Good-night.”

CHAPTER II.
HIS WILLING BRIDE.

Rowton left the house, clinking his spurs as he did so; Nancy listened to the sound he made with a beating heart.

“Suppose father hears,” she thought; but then she remembered that the old man was lying in a state of stupor, which, in all probability, would end in death. He could not, therefore, hear. So far she was safe. Why did her father hate her lover? Why had he cursed the man whom she loved? Well, he was dying, and dead men were powerless to interfere with those who lived. Rowton’s strong will would assuredly win the day, and Nancy would be his bride.

“His willing bride,” she murmured, clasping and unclasping her fingers. “It is awful to think of marrying him against father’s wishes, but I know perfectly well that I shall do it. I am incapable of refusing him anything. I love him to desperation, and who can wonder! I love my father, too, but not as I love Adrian.”

“Please go upstairs, Miss Follett?”

Nancy started and her face turned pale.

“Yes, nurse, what is the matter?” she cried.

“Dr. Follett is awake and wishes to speak to you,” said the nurse.

“Awake! then perhaps he is better!” said Nancy.

“No, miss, he will never be that, but he is conscious and he wants you without a moment’s delay. He asked me to leave you with him, so I am going to the kitchen to try and have a bit of supper. He is pretty sure to go off towards morning; there is little chance of this gleam of consciousness lasting long.”

“I will go to him at once,” said Nancy.

She cast one longing glance at the blazing fire, then turning, left the room. She ran up the rambling old stairs; they were faintly lit at intervals by the struggling light of a watery moon. She reached the gallery which ran round the hall, paused before a creaking, badly hung door, and opening it, found herself in a lofty bedroom. The room was almost bare of furniture. A strip of carpet stood by the bedside, another was placed in front of the old fire-grate. With these two exceptions, the floor was bare. A deal table stood in one of the windows, on which a small looking-glass was placed, a chest of drawers of the commonest and coarsest make occupied a position beside one of the walls; there were a couple of chairs, a very old-fashioned washstand, a huge four-post bedstead made of black mahogany and hung with old velvet curtains—that was all.

The dying man lay in the middle of the bed; he was raised by several pillows and was breathing loud and heavily. His eyes, with dark shadows under them, were directed anxiously towards the door through which his young daughter entered.

“Come here, Nancy, be quick,” he said, speaking in an imperative voice and with wonderful strength for a dying man.

She hurried across the room and stood by the bedside, looking down at him.

“The Almighty has been good to me and has given me sufficient strength to say what is necessary,” panted the doctor. “I am dying.”

Nancy opened her lips to speak, but no sound issued from them.

“I am dying,” said Dr. Follett again. “You need not try to contradict me, Nance, I know what you would say. You have been a good girl, and you will, in the ordinary course of nature, miss me for a little; you will also as naturally forget me after a short time. I have been a burden to you and have led you a weary life, but we have no time to go into that now. Death is in a hurry and I must do something before I go to him. I have sent for you to get you to make me a promise.”

Nancy began to tremble. Again she made an effort to speak, but again failed; her hands were tightly locked together and beads of sudden moisture stood on her forehead. Dr. Follett was gazing at her out of two sunken and fierce eyes.

“You know what I allude to,” he said. “I see the knowledge in your face; you know what has animated me and kept me alive during the last six years.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied.

“I die before my work is completed,” he continued, “but I leave it to you.”

“I cannot take up your work, father,” she answered.

“Don’t talk folly, child. You must take it up. You know what the object of my life has been. Your brother was murdered; for six long years I have been searching for the man who took his life—I have been a hunter in pursuit of my prey. There is a man alive on this earth whom I must find, my grip must hold him, my revenge must reach him. I die without scenting my quarry, but you must follow where I leave off. There, my brain is clouded, I cannot think, not definitely, not clearly—a short time ago I had a suspicion. I wish Crossley, the detective, were here, I could tell him. It seemed to me that I had got hold of a clue at last, but it has slipped from my fingers, from my memory; I cannot recall it. I choke—this emotion is too much for me. Give me a dose of that medicine, quick.”

Nancy turned to a table which stood near. She poured something from a bottle into a medicine glass and brought it to her father. She held the glass to his lips; he drained the contents to the dregs.

“That is right,” he panted, “that is good stuff, it warms the heart. I used to give medicine myself like that long ago; there is chloroform in it, it is very comforting. Come to my side, Nancy, let me hold your hand. Remember I am a dying man and the requests of the dying ought to be granted. You are to make me a promise. Your brother, Anthony, was murdered, you are to find the murderer, and to avenge his death; you are to take up my life work, child. If you don’t I shall curse you.”

“Where you failed, how am I to succeed?” she answered. “I won’t make that cruel promise.”

“If you don’t I’ll curse you,” replied the dying man, his glittering eyes looking full into hers. She shuddered and covered her face with her trembling hands.

“I think nothing at all of your squeamish womanly fears,” he said, with an awful sort of sneer. “Sit down by me—I have everything planned out—listen.”

CHAPTER III.
THE PACKET ON THE UPPER SHELF.

As Nancy seated herself on the edge of the bed, her face grew startlingly livid.

“You cannot surely mean what you are saying, father,” she replied.

“I mean,” said Dr. Follett in a steady and strong voice, “exactly what I say. I have failed to avenge your brother’s death; you must finish my work.”

“I am sorry,” said Nancy. “I am sorry at an hour like this to have to refuse you anything, but I cannot do what you ask.”

“I will not die until you promise,” replied the doctor. “For six years I have done all that man could do. I have not left a single stone unturned, I have not neglected the slightest clue, yet I have failed. The man who murdered Anthony has still to be found. If he walks this earth he shall be found. I die, but you must find him.”

“You forget that I am a girl,” said Nancy; “no girl could undertake work of this kind.”

“Pooh! what does sex matter?” replied the doctor. “Does the fact of your being a girl alter love? Did not you love the dead boy? I die. It is the will of the Almighty to take me away before my work is accomplished; but I leave behind me a child, my lineal descendant, the loving playmate of the murdered boy, the girl into whose ears he whispered his young secrets, the girl who kissed his young lips. This girl is no weakling, she can take up my work; she shall. I insist, I command, I will listen to no silly cowardly entreaties. Do you hear me, Nancy? I die before another sun rises, but my unfinished work drops on to your shoulders; you dare not refuse me—do you hear what I am saying? You dare not.”

“The task you set me will kill me, father. I am dreadfully tired already. I am utterly weary of the misery of my life.”

“Kneel down, child,” said the doctor. His voice changed from its hard and ringing note; it grew all of a sudden soft, beseeching, tender.

“You have a woman’s heart and a woman’s spirit,” he said, touching one of the slim young hands and stroking it as he spoke; “but you have more than that, you have a man’s courage. I have seen that courage shine in your eyes in more than one sudden emergency; the day the blow fell I saw it. I have seen it since, when you have denied yourself and turned your back on the good things of youth, and followed me, step by step, uncomplainingly, up the narrow path of self-sacrifice and self-denial. You can do it—you shall. Think of Anthony, think for a moment of the old times.”

“Yes, I remember the old times,” replied Nancy. She began to sob as she spoke.

“That is right, child, cry away. I have touched your heart. When I touch a heart like yours courage soon re-animates it; you will not be a coward, you will not allow your brother’s blood to cry from the ground for vengeance; think of the old times, think of your mother, think of the old, gay, happy life.”

“Yes, yes, I remember it,” said the girl; “but it is all past and over.” She wept silently, bowing her head until it almost touched the bedclothes.

“I see the old times as I lie here,” said Dr. Follett. A meditative, gentle look stole the anxiety and some of the age out of his face. “Yes,” he continued, speaking in a dreamy tone, “the past rises before me. I see a picture. There are three people in the picture, Anthony, your mother, you. Our house is full of sunshine. Your mother is proud of her children, and I am proud of your mother and of the children. The picture is very vivid, it is almost like a vision, it fills the whole of my gaze. I see the room where we sit in the evening. I see people flitting about. I see our morning-room with the sunshine on it; there is your mother’s gentle face, there is Anthony like a young eagle, all romance, chivalry—a daring boy, a splendid lad. I see you full of courage, but pretty, soft, with hair like the sun. Yes, it is a lovely picture; it rests me, it supports me. Ah, but it is changing—your mother’s place is empty, she no longer sits by the fire, or takes the head of the table. She has gone. I am in one sense alone, but still I live, for Anthony lives, and you live, and I work for you, and my profession abounds with interest and it absorbs me. Here is another picture coming on fast. I see my consulting-room; here come the patients; I give them five minutes each, and I drop the golden sovereigns into my drawer, fast, faster and faster. I am a very successful doctor. You remember all about my success, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, you were grand, magnificent in those days,” said Nancy. She had raised her head now; her tears had dried on her cheeks.

“Yes, as you say, I was magnificent,” repeated the old man, “but don’t interrupt me; I still see the picture. Patients think a lot of me—I am spoken well of by my colleagues, I am consulted by local practitioners. People come from distant lands to see me and to get my opinion. My opinion is golden. I feel myself something like a god; I can dispense life, I can issue the dread fiat of death. Here is a patient who comes from China. All the long way from the flowery land the wretched man has come to consult me. I seem to see the long voyage and the despair at the man’s heart, and now I behold the hope which animates him. He has a tumour, horrible, unsightly, a ghastly thing, a protuberance from the very home of Satan himself, but I remove it by my knife and by my skill, and the man recovers. Look at him! He is blessing me, and he is offering me the half of all his worldly possessions. Oh! how he has suffered, but I have relieved him. I have lifted him from hell to paradise. Yes, I am a great doctor. How beautiful, how absorbingly interesting is this picture of the golden past!”

Dr. Follett’s voice dropped—the animation went out of it.

“There, child, all the pictures have faded,” he said. “The curtain has dropped—the old life is shut away by a door which can never be opened, for Anthony is dead. Let me weep for him, Nancy—I will; I must. Tears come slowly to the dying, but they rise in my eyes now when I remember Anthony. He is dead—he was murdered—he lies in his grave, but his murderer still sees the sunshine and feels the sweet breath of life—his murderer lives.”

“But you are not to blame for that,” said Nancy; “no man could do more than you have done. When you see Anthony again in the strange world to which you are hurrying you will tell him all, and——”

“I shall see him again,” said Dr. Follett, “and when I see him I will tell him that I have dropped my mantle on to you; you are to continue my work.”

Nancy’s face grew so white that it looked almost like the face of one who had died; her lips slightly parted, her eyes, terror growing in them, became fixed on her father’s face.

“I see another picture,” he said again suddenly. “I see the morning when Anthony went to Paris—to gay Paris, where he lost his life. He enters the room. How light is his laugh and how his eyes sparkle! He has said ‘farewell,’ he has gone. Wait a while—another picture is rising in that dark part of the room. Hold me, Nancy, my child, or I shall fall. I must look at it, but it horrifies me, it chills my blood. Do you see the man who has come into the room? His name is Eustace Moore.”

“Oh! don’t let us recall that dreadful scene, father,” interrupted Nancy.

“I must, child. Don’t interrupt me, let me go on describing the picture. Eustace Moore has come into the room. He is Anthony’s friend. He tells his awful tale. Cannot you hear what he says?”

“No, dear father, I hear nothing. You are torturing yourself with all these dreadful memories; they are exciting you too much; it is dreadfully bad for you to talk as you do.”

“Nothing is bad for me now. I am past the good or the bad of life. I stand on its threshold. Let me describe the picture. I hear Eustace Moore speaking. These are his words:

“‘I have brought you terrible news, doctor. I cannot mince matters, nor break the blow in any way. Your son is dead!’

“‘Go on,’ I answer. I stagger, but I don’t fall; ‘go on, hurry, tell me everything.’

“‘Your son was murdered at a café in Paris,’ continues Moore. ‘The cause of the murder is an absolute mystery. A stranger had a quarrel with him; there were hurried words, followed by blows and pistol shots—the boy was shot clean through the heart. My address was found in his pocket; someone rushed to my flat, not far away, and I was on the scene in less than half an hour. Anthony was lying dead on a table in an inner room of the café. The man who had quarrelled with him and who had murdered him was known by the name of Hubert Lefroy. As I was entering the café, I saw a tall man rushing by in considerable agitation; he wore no hat, and he flew quickly past me. I observed his strange face, and a mark—the mark of a death’s head and cross-bones tattooed on the upper lip. Knowing nothing definitely at the moment, I did not stop to arrest his flight. My firm belief is that he is the murderer. Every possible search has been made since, but not a trace of him has been heard of. The man was tall, dark and strong. By the mark on his lip we ought to know him again—I should recognise his face were I to see him.’

“Those were the exact words spoken by Eustace Moore, Nancy. I know them, as you perceive, by heart—they are, indeed, graven on my heart. The picture fades. Moore’s voice is silent. He has died since then. We do not know a single living person who has seen that assassin, who sent my only son to an early grave. For six long years we have searched for him—you, my child, know how well.”

“Yes, father,” answered Nancy, “I do know.”

“We have spent all our money,” continued the doctor, “we have employed the very best detectives—we have done all that human beings could do. I have lived on the hope that the day would come when I should see that wretch arrested, tried, hanged by the neck until he died. My hope is fading into the night. I have not found the murderer. You will find him, Nancy—you will carry on my work.”

“I hate the man,” said Nancy slowly and speaking with intense fervour. “When you recall that dreadful picture, I hate the man who murdered my brother as much as you do. I dream of him also night after night, and my hate is so deep that nothing in all the world can extinguish it; but how am I to carry on this awful search? Where you failed, how am I to succeed?”

“You must go on employing Crossley, the detective; you must use your woman’s wit—you must never slacken your zeal.”

“Oh! father, the thought is too horrible; let me drop it.”

“Never, child; I feel that I could haunt you if you did not do it. Find the man who killed Anthony; promise to carry on my work, or I curse you before I die. It will be an awful thing for you to live under your dying father’s curse.”

“I am superstitious—you have made me superstitious,” answered Nancy; “my nerves are not as strong as the nerves of girls who have lived happier lives; I do not believe I could live under your curse.”

“You could not, it would wither you up, so awful would be its quality; you would die or go mad.”

“I could not bear it,” said Nancy, again shuddering as she spoke.

“Then take my blessing instead, do my work, take up the burden bravely.”

“But is there any chance of my succeeding?” she answered, a note of wavering coming into her voice. “If you have failed to find Anthony’s murderer, how is it possible for me to succeed? All your savings have gone to detectives. All the money you earned when you were rich and famous has vanished. We have stinted ourselves and starved ourselves, and brooded over this awful thing until we have scarcely been like human beings. Can you not leave revenge to Heaven? Why should you ruin my young life?”

“Because I will have revenge,” said the dying man, “because I lived for it and will die for it. Swear, child—your idle words are only like pin pricks to me. Swear to carry on my life’s purpose or I curse you.”

Nancy groaned and covered her white face.

“I won’t be denied,” said Dr. Follett, catching hold of her arm and trying to pull one of her hands away.

“What have I done to be punished in this awful way?” said the girl.

“Swear,” repeated the doctor.

“I won’t swear,” she said suddenly. She flung down her hands; her face looked calm and resolved. “There, have your way,” she said; “I yield, I submit. I will do what you wish.”

“Swear it, swear by the heaven above and the hell beneath.”

“I won’t do that, father. I give you my word. I can do no more. I will devote my life to this accursed search. I have never broken my word. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I am satisfied; you never told me a lie yet.”

He lay back panting against his pillows. He spoke huskily and weakly now that he had won his point.

“I am quite satisfied,” he said again. “You are young and you will have time to do the work. Remember that Detective Crossley has got what few clues we were able to collect. It will be necessary for you to go on employing him. There is still a thousand pounds to my credit in the London City Bank. A thousand pounds will go a long way, and you must give Crossley what money he requires. As to your own expenses, you will of course leave the Grange, but you can live very cheaply in some inexpensive country place. I have trained you to want scarcely anything. You must keep Crossley up to the mark. Crossley must search and keep on searching; he must follow up the faintest clue; the money is there, and a thousand pounds with your aid ought to do the work. Don’t forget that the man is an Englishman and that there is an ugly scar on his lip. I feel convinced that you will carry my work to a successful issue, and that your brother’s blood will be avenged. Don’t turn your young attention to the lighter things of existence; don’t marry until you have fulfilled your sacred mission.”

“But if I find the murderer, father,” interrupted Nancy, “if I am successful, what am I to do?”

The old doctor gave a grim smile.

“There is the justice of the law,” he answered; “the man would be tried and hanged; I have thought of all that. I have pictured the dying scene, and had I lived such pleasure would that trial have given me, such exquisite bliss would I have felt in the moment that the murderer was breathing out his dying breath, that I could have wished for no greater gratification on earth; but you, child, are made of different metal, and I have thought of a way by which revenge will come, swift, sure, and terrible. None know better than I that a woman’s strength has its limits. I myself will direct the bolt which severs that wretch’s life from this fair earth. Now take my keys, go to the cupboard in the wall and open it.”

Nancy walked across the room, fitted a key into the cupboard and turned the lock.

“There is a packet on the upper shelf—bring it to me,” called the doctor to her.

She raised her arms and lifted down a square box. It was neatly folded in brown paper, corded with strong cords and firmly sealed.

“Bring it here,” said her father.

She did so.

“Lay it on the bed.”

“Yes, father,” she replied; “what does it contain?”

“Nancy, you are never to open the box.”

“What am I to do with it?”

“When you find the man who killed your brother, you are to give this unopened box to him. Give it to him, and when you do so, say, ‘Dr. Follett, the father of Anthony Follett, asked me to give you this.’ You need not add a word more. Keep the box until that supreme moment comes. Whatever else you part from, never let this box out of your keeping. Where you go take it, for any day or any night the need for it may arise. When you give it to the murderer and when he opens it, your brother’s blood will be avenged.”

CHAPTER IV.
AT THE BUNGALOW.

Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse’s steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man’s broad figure and muscular arms to perfection.

“You are late to-night,” he said, addressing Adrian with a sort of growl. “I lay down by the horses and went to sleep; I thought when I heard the clock strike one that you were not coming.”

“I was delayed on my way home from the station,” said Rowton briefly; “here, take Satyr, rub him down well and attend to him before you go to bed.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want any supper?”

“None that I can’t get for myself. Good-night, Samson; I shall not need your services before the morning.”

Rowton turned to his left as he spoke; Samson led the horse away to the stables which stood to the right of the Bungalow. Rowton entered the lowly built house under a heavy porch. A paraffin lamp was burning in the hall; he took it up and entered a sort of general sitting-room. It was long and low; there were three windows occupying the greater part of one of the walls; the room was furnished in nondescript style, partly as dining-room and partly as study; a square of carpet placed in front of the fire gave a certain degree of comfort to the upper portion of the apartment; the lower part near the entrance door was bare of carpet and also of furniture. A high desk occupied the whole of one window. Rowton placed the paraffin lamp now on this desk; he turned it up high and the light illuminated the entire room.

“Bad enough hole for a man to live in, but the lap of luxury compared to Nancy’s sitting-room,” he muttered. A red gleam sparkled angrily in his eye as he spoke; he sat down where the firelight fell all over him, tossed off his heavy boots, and gazed gloomily into the heart of a large and glowing fire. He was a huge man, built on a massive scale. He tossed his hair impatiently from a broad and splendidly developed brow. At this moment his eyes were full of dreadful and fierce reflection, and he pulled at his long moustache with an almost savage gesture.

“Without food, without fire, without the decencies of life—that old fool is a madman,” he muttered again, “but I’ll soon change matters. I take her with leave, if I can, but I take her without leave if any difficulties are put in my way, and sooner without leave than with. After all, to carry her off by force would suit my purpose better. The wild bird shall sing to me and make me gentle; I cannot live without her. Hullo! what’s up now, Samson? Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that the boxes will be here to-morrow night.”

“Who told you that?”

“Scrivener; I had a cipher from him by the last post.”

“All right,” said Rowton, “take them in when they come.”

“Between one and two to-morrow night,” repeated Samson; “there is no moon and we can easily get them carted off from the station without anyone noticing. Scrivener will come with them.”

“All right,” said Rowton again. “What are you waiting for? To-morrow night is not to-night, and I am dog-tired and want to get to bed.”

“There is no room in the cellar unless we move the boxes which are there already,” continued Samson. “We cannot go down there with lights in the daytime, and I can’t do the job by myself.”

“You dog! I shan’t help you to move a box to-night; get off to bed and leave me alone.”

Samson withdrew, muttering angrily as he did so.

When he left the room, Rowton rose from his chair by the fire, walked across the apartment and locked the door. Then stepping up to the uncarpeted portion of the room, he touched a secret spring, which immediately revealed a trap-door. There was a ladder beneath the door which led down into a cellar. Rowton gazed gloomily down for a moment.

He then let the trap door fall into its place, and a moment or two later put out the lamp, lit a candle and went upstairs to his bedroom.

He slept until late the following morning, and when he went downstairs between nine and ten, Samson was bringing his breakfast into the room.

“That’s right,” said Rowton, “I am as hungry as a ferret. You can put it down; I shall wait on myself.”

“You won’t forget that Scrivener is coming to-night?”

“Am I likely to, when you remind me of the fact whenever you see me? You want me to help with the boxes; I’ll go down to the cellar with you after breakfast.”

“As you please, sir, but if I were you I would not draw attention by taking a light there in the daytime.”

“We need not have a light; we can move the boxes in the dark. Be sure, by the way, that you have the cart in good time at Mervyn station to-night.”

“I forgot to say that Nelly has gone lame,” said Samson; “she hurt her hoof yesterday and won’t be good for anything for a few days.”

“You must take Satyr, then.”

“Satyr,” said the man, scratching his head in some perplexity; “he ain’t used to harness; he’ll fidget a good bit.”

“Folly! don’t make obstacles; he’ll do very well. If anyone asks you about the boxes, say that I am getting some wine; the goods will come in wine cases, so your story will sound all right. By the way, Samson, I shall leave here by the two o’clock train. I am supposed to be on my way to Liverpool if anyone asks, but——” here Rowton’s voice dropped to a low whisper. Samson came close, bent his head slightly forward, listened with all his ears, and nodded once or twice emphatically. He was about to leave the room when he suddenly came back.

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that old Dr. Follett is dead.”

“Ah! how did you hear that?” asked Rowton, who was in the act of pouring out a cup of coffee.

“The milkman brought me the news. He died between three and four this morning. The wench will be in a fine taking—she was bound up, they say, in that queer old character.”

“That is enough, Samson; I prefer not to discuss Miss Follett. Thanks, you can leave me alone now.”

When Samson withdrew, Rowton went calmly on with his breakfast. He then returned to his bedroom and completely altered his dress. His rough Norfolk suit was exchanged for that which a gentleman might wear in town. Five minutes later he issued from the Bungalow, looking like a very handsome, well set-up young man. Samson, who was grooming one of the horses, raised his head to watch him from behind the hedge. When he saw his master’s get-up, he grinned from ear to ear.

“Now what’s in the wind?” he said, under his breath; aloud he called out:

“Do you want the horse?”

“Not this morning.”

“You ain’t helped me with the boxes.”

“True, I had forgotten; I will help you when I come back. I am going to see Miss Follett.”

Samson grinned again, but he took care now to withdraw his head from any chance of Rowton’s observation.

The morning was clear and frosty; the storm of the night before had completely spent itself; the sky overhead was a watery blue, and the ground beneath felt crisp under Rowton’s feet as he walked. He quickly reached the Grange, and taking a short cut to the house, soon found himself on the lawn, where he had tied Satyr the night before. The door of the old Grange was wide open and Nancy stood on the steps. She heard her lover’s footsteps and greeted him with a very faint smile, which quickly vanished. Her face was ghastly white and red rims disfigured her beautiful grey eyes.

“Here I am,” said Rowton. “Good morning, sweetheart; give me a kiss, won’t you?”

Nancy raised her trembling lips, then all of a sudden her calm gave way, she flung her arms passionately round Rowton’s neck and burst into convulsive sobs.

“There, darling, there,” he said. He patted her on the cheek, kissed her many times and tried to comfort her, showering loving words upon her, and then kissing her more and more passionately.

“You know,” she said at last in an almost inaudible whisper.

“Of course I know,” said Adrian. “What you feared last night has come to pass—your father’s sufferings are over, he is dead. Peace to his soul, say I. Now it is your duty, Nancy, to take care of yourself and not to fret yourself into an illness. Remember I am here, and it is my privilege and blessing to feel that I have a right to comfort you.”

Nancy with some difficulty disengaged herself from her lover’s arms.

“I have something to tell you,” she said—her face was like a sheet. “Something happened last night after you left, and—Adrian—I am not free to marry you—I am not free to marry anyone! I am a doomed woman; a doom is on me and I cannot be your wife!”

She covered her face with her trembling hands; tears rained down her cheeks.

“I swear,” said Rowton, “that there is not a doom on this wide earth which shall part us. What is the matter, child? Tell me.”

“I cannot; it is a secret.”

“I swear that you shall, and now.” He tried to clasp her again in his arms, but she slipped from him.

“I can never tell you,” she said; “and while I hold this secret I must not be your wife!”

CHAPTER V.
A WILD WOOER.

Instead of replying indignantly to her excited words, Rowton gave Nancy a long, attentive and very searching glance.

“When did your father die?” he asked at last.

“Towards morning. He had gone through a terrible night, but towards morning he dozed off and the nurse who was with him said he passed away in his sleep. He looked quite peaceful in the end; I think he trusted me fully.”

“With his secret?” said Rowton.

“Yes,” replied Nancy, “with his secret.”

“And you think,” continued the young man, again favouring her with a queer glance, “that because you have a secret, you and I are to part?”

“Yes; I can be no fit wife for you—it breaks my heart to have to say it. I love you more than I have any words to express, but I have got a dreadful thing to do, Adrian, and I can be no fit wife for any man until it is accomplished.”

“You think so now, of course,” said Rowton, “but by-and-by you will change your mind. You forget that you are young. Whatever burden your father has laid upon you he cannot crush your youth. I am also young. Dark things have happened in my life, but do you think they have crushed the youth out of me? Assuredly not, at least they have not when I look at you. I am here and you are my wild bird. I have lured you into my cage, and you are never going out again, Nancy, so you need not think it.”

As he spoke Rowton clasped her again in his arms; he pressed her close to him and kissed her on her brow and lips.

“Ah!” he said, “you cease to struggle; you are content with your cage.”

“And with my master,” she said, bowing her head until it rested on his broad breast.

“Yes, that’s right; it is folly to talk of parting lovers such as we are. Now, my little Nancy, you must cheer up. I’ll soon teach you a sweet new song. You won’t know yourself when I take you from all these dismal surroundings.”

“What was I dreaming of?” said Nancy. “Your love is so sweet to me that for a moment I yielded. I cannot marry you, Adrian. It is impossible.”

“You must give me a better reason than you have yet given, before I agree to any such nonsense.”

“Adrian, do you think I would say a thing of this sort without very grave reason? It is not only the death of my father. Fathers and mothers die in the course of nature, but children still live on. No, it is not that. The burden laid upon me is of such a character that I must part from you. I must, Adrian, I must; the thought drives me mad. I wish I had never been born.”

All Nancy’s apparent composure gave way at this juncture. Dry, tearless sobs shook her from head to foot; she tottered as if a storm had really blown over her, and but for Rowton’s protecting arms would have fallen.

“Don’t hold me so close to you,” she panted at last, when she could find her voice; “don’t make it any harder. You guess, don’t you, how much I love you? Oh, why did God give me such passions, why did He give me the love I feel in my heart, and then crush me with such a fearful doom? Oh! I shall go mad, I shall go mad.”

“No, Nancy, you will do nothing of the kind,” said Rowton. He spoke, on purpose, in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “You are over excited now and very much upset. Put on your hat, darling, and let us go outside. It is not so gloomy out as in; this tumble-down old Grange is enough to give the blues to anyone. You don’t live another week in such a hole. Wait, my angel, until you know what life really is, and life with me. I’ll show you what it is to live. Why, you won’t know yourself—no more dull days, no more cold and starvation. You shall have the softest of homes, the most luxurious of lives, the most tempting delicacies to eat, the most beautiful dresses to wear. You shall listen to music, you shall sing yourself, you shall see laughing faces around you, amusements of every sort shall but await your orders, and above and beyond all these things, sweetheart, there will be love. The mighty love of my heart will surround you.”

Rowton had by no means a tender face—his bold black eyes, his stalwart frame, his swarthy complexion, his ringing voice, were all made to command—but when he chose, no man could be more tender; his deep voice could thrill to the very depths of the soul, his eyes could speak volumes of passionate adoration.

Nancy shivered as she looked at him.

“How much I love you,” she repeated, twining and untwining her slender hands as she spoke, “and yet, Adrian, I must part from you.”

“Not a bit of it, wild bird,” was the reply. “You and I are never going to part again in this world—we shall be man and wife before a week is out. Now, Nancy, do you really believe that a slender bit of a girl like you can oppose a man of my sort, more particularly when you confess how much you love me? Why, the last obstacle to our marriage was withdrawn last night, and now you talk about a secret, as if any secret that ever existed can come between us. After all, Nance, that old father of yours was a very crabbed nut to crack—well, he is out of the way, now.”

“He was my father—do not speak against him.”

“I won’t, child; far be it from me to hurt you by disparaging the dead. Your father is dead now and you are alone. I whistle and you come to me, my pretty bird. I lure you to my side and you stay with me always. We’ll be married next week. Hullo! what are you trying to say, sweetheart? You had a terrible night, forsooth, and you speak of an awful doom which you say hangs over you. Faith! Nancy, there is no doom which ever yet hung over a girl’s head that can part you from me. Now, look me full in the eyes. Jove! child, you have almost wept your pretty eyes out of your head. Well, look full at me if you can. Dare to say ‘no’ when you look me full in the eyes.”

“I am overpowered by a terrible fate,” said Nancy slowly. “You know what a strange man my father was. You must have guessed that we, he and I, always carried a secret with us. It was a terrible secret and it ruined my father’s life—it ruined my life also. For six long years I have been a miserable girl.”

“You shall be a happy woman for the rest of your days, to make up for those six years of misery.”

“Adrian, you must hear me out.”

“Walk up and down with me, sweetheart; you’ll catch cold if you stand still.”

Rowton stole his strong arm round Nancy’s waist; they walked in front of the old Grange. Nancy soon found her head resting against her lover’s shoulder.

“Now we can talk,” he said, “but I defy you to say much about parting while I am as near to you as I am now; out with your secret, my wild bird, we’ll share it.”

“That’s just it—I cannot tell it to you.”

“What! not even to your husband?”

“You are not my husband yet.”

“I shall be in a week; won’t you tell me your secret then?”

“Never—never on this side eternity.”

“Is it so bad as all that?”

“Yes, it is ghastly, terrible.”

Rowton gave vent to a long, significant whistle.

“Tell me what you can,” he said after a pause.

“I cannot say much, Adrian. After you left me last night, father sent for me. He made me promise to do something terrible. He bound me down on pain of his curse to carry on the work which he had not time to finish. I struggled to refuse, but he frightened me into compliance. He even threatened to return as a ghost to haunt me if I would not yield to his wishes.”

“The man must have been raving mad,” interrupted Rowton.

“Mad or not, his words had power over me,” said Nancy. “He terrified me into submission. I promised him that I would keep his secret and would carry on his life work. Then, Adrian, he asked me not to marry—not to think of the lighter things of life until my task was accomplished.”

“And you promised?”

“No, I hesitated.”

“You did well, for if you had promised fifty times you would have found yourself my wife before many days had gone by.”

“Adrian, why are you so overmastering? You overpower me—you subdue me. Your power over me is greater even than my father’s was.”

“That is as it should be,” said Rowton. “Now then, Nancy, let us to commonplace. I am truly sorry you are burdened with a secret, but if you think that secret is to keep us asunder you do not yet know your man. Listen, my child; I am going to tell you something strange. It so happens, my pretty wild bird, that your having a secret does not matter so terribly to me as it would to other men. I also, sweetheart, am the owner of a secret care. Nancy, my pretty child, I am not what I seem. I look one thing, but I am in reality something different. There, now, I have startled you, have I not? It would be comical to hear what you really think of me, from those red lips. What sort of a man do I seem, Nancy mine?”

“The best, the bravest, the noblest in the world,” she answered. “You are an honourable English gentleman; a man whose word is as good as his bond. You are a true man in heart and in soul.”

“Faith! child, do not say any more or you’ll crush me to the earth. Why, you poor little girl, I am not a bit like that in reality. Do you think I have no wild blood in me. Don’t I look at times, at times—the truth now, Nancy—don’t I look at times a very Ishmaelite, a man whose hand might be against every other man? Has not my eye a wild gleam in it? Look at me now, Nance, and say truly what you think.”

“You never appear anything to me but what I have just said,” she answered, giving him a somewhat timid glance, “but it is true that others have told me——”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rowton, “I thought that whisper would get about. You see, my fair Nancy, I am not exactly what I seem. To you, my darling, I am all that is true, all that is honourable, but to the world at large—I will whisper it to you, Nancy—the world and I, the world and Adrian Rowton, are at daggers drawn. Now, my love, will you marry me, knowing this?”

“You mean that you have a secret?” said Nancy.

“I have.”

“A real grave secret?”

“Yes, the gravity of the thing cannot be exaggerated.”

“And you won’t tell me?”

“No, never. Are you curious? Curiosity, thy name is woman.”

“I will crush my curiosity, Adrian, if you think I had better not know.”

“Dear little Nance, you must never know. You shall be my wife, but you must respect my secret, and if you see things which you do not understand, you must be a good child and ask no questions; and I on my part, will promise to respect your secret and not to worry you with questions, even when your conduct surprises me—even when the desire to know bubbles to the tip of my tongue. Why, Nancy, the fact of our both having a secret makes the whole arrangement fair and above board.”

“It seems so,” said Nancy; “in one sense it seems fair, and yet in another, dreadful. This is not my idea of a happy married life.”

“Never mind what your idea is; a happier husband and wife than you and I will never be found. Well, that is settled; we will be married by special licence next week.”

“So soon!” said Nancy.

“So late, you mean,” he answered, and stooping he pressed his lips to hers. “I hunger for you,” he said. “I cannot live any longer without you. We’ll be married next week by special licence. You have only a few more days to live in this horrid old Grange.”

“And you take me to the Bungalow?” she asked.

“To the Bungalow!” he repeated—he laughed. “Jove! child,” he said, “do you think that a comfortable home?—have I nothing better than that to offer my little girl?”

“I do not know,” she replied. “I shall be quite satisfied with any home with you—you are poor, are you not, Adrian?”

“Ah! now I shall surprise you,” he said. “I have a secret, after all, which I can confide to my little girl.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“I am a rich man, Nancy Follett; your betrothed is a gentleman of means.”

“Indeed!” she said in surprise.

“Yes; I have heaps of money. I am a landed proprietor. In another part of England, a long way from here, there is a beautiful mansion which belongs to your humble servant, Adrian Rowton—it is furnished richly, softly, luxuriously. In short, I have a nest of down for my wild bird, and I can deck her with jewels. Oh! child, how lovely you will look when you wear your husband’s diamonds.”

CHAPTER VI.
LONG JOHN.

When an hour later Rowton returned to the Bungalow, Samson met him in the porch.

“Scrivener has come,” he said.

“Scrivener! I did not expect him to-day,” said Rowton, a frown gathering between his thick brows.

“He has come, sir, and he wants to see you; he is waiting in the dining-room. There is a good bit of excitement about him—I cannot tell what the news can be.”

“Well, I’ll go to him,” said Rowton; “don’t keep me, Samson.”

“When will you want the horse saddled, sir? You are going to catch the two o’clock train, are you not?”

“No, I have changed my mind. I shall not leave here before night or early to-morrow morning; get back to your work now, don’t keep me.”

The man favoured Rowton with a keen glance; he then turned softly on his heel, whistling as he did so.

“Gone out in his best clothes,” he remarked to himself; “come back again with the airs of a lord; changes his plans when there is danger in the wind. Now, what does this mean? Seems to me it ain’t far to guess—sweethearting, and marrying, and giving in marriage. Good Heaven! if this sort of thing goes on we are all lost.”

Samson returned to some mysterious carpentering that was engaging his attention in the stable, and Rowton went into the dining-room.

A little man, with sandy hair and a thin face, was standing by one of the windows. He was vulgarly dressed and had somewhat the appearance of a fifth-rate commercial traveller. He had large bushy whiskers, a shade redder than his hair, but his small eyes were light and set far back in his head. With the exception of his whiskers the little man had a clean-shaven face, which revealed the lines of remarkably thin and somewhat crooked lips. The lips alone marked the face with the stamp of originality—they were cruel and repulsive in their expression.

When he saw Rowton enter he turned and came up to him with a quick, alert tread.

“You have kept me waiting for over an hour,” he said.

“Well, I am sorry, Scrivener. You see I did not expect you,” said Rowton. He flung himself into a chair as he spoke, and favoured his unprepossessing visitor with a quizzical glance.

“Come, no nonsense of that sort,” said Scrivener. “You were bound to be here. I thought the boxes would be packed and ready to be sent off; Samson tells me there is nothing done.”

“Everything that is necessary is done,” said Rowton. “I don’t choose to be called over the coals by Samson.”

“Come, come, Rowton,” said Scrivener, giving his tall host another lightning glance, “there is no good in your getting into a temper. You are all very well, and of course a great help to us, and your manners and your ways are no end of a blind, and we are awfully obliged to you, but all the same, business is business, and you have no call to neglect any of our interests.”

“I do not do so,” said Rowton. He stood up as he spoke. “By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “I give up my life to your cursed interests. I have wrecked my soul for them. You have no right to twit me with want of zeal. Where would any of you be without me?”

“I know that, Silver, I know it,” said the man in a servile tone. He walked again to the window and looked out. “All the same,” he added after a pause, “the boxes are not ready and they must be moved to-night.”

“You have the afternoon to get them ready in,” said Rowton.

“Well, let us have something to eat and set to work,” answered Scrivener.

Rowton crossed the room and rang the bell. Samson appeared after a moment.

“Get something to eat for yourself and this man in the kitchen,” he said.

“In the kitchen!” said Scrivener; “do you think I will eat in the kitchen with your serving man!”

“You won’t eat with me,” replied Rowton. “I am sick of the whole concern and have a good mind to cut it.”

“Ah! you dare not do that,” said Scrivener; “you are too deep in by now. What about the Kimberley diamonds and the silver ingots, and the——?”

Rowton’s tone changed. He stood up, and a look of perplexity flitted across his handsome face.

“It is true, Scrivener,” he said, “it is too late to withdraw now, and I did wrong to lose my temper over one like you.”

There was an indescribable scorn in his words.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am in too deep; there is nothing for it but to stay in.”

“And the life is a jolly one, my fighting cock,” said Scrivener.

“Yes, jolly enough.” Rowton began to hum the first bar of the well-known song, “Begone, dull care;” and his rich baritone filled the room.

“Yes! faith,” he continued, “the life suits me well enough; I am a jolly rover, and I like excitement and dare-devil escapes, and all the rest of the thing. I am sorry I showed temper to you, Scrivener, but the fact is, I did not want you just now on the scene. I am particularly busy at the present moment on my own account.”

“But your time is ours,” said Scrivener. “What would Long John say, or Spider, if I told them you were giving your most precious moments to private concerns?”

“Now, listen to me, Scrivener,” said the other man; “your pals may say exactly what they please of me. I have agreed to take the lead of you all, and I do not complain of the life; it has plenty of excitement and there are heaps of plums. I do not attempt also to deny that the richest plums have fallen into my mouth, but clearly understand once for all, that I know my own value. I know that I have a head on my shoulders; I know that I have a keen eye for business; I know that I am a desperate man whose courage has never yet failed him. No one knows better than I the game I am playing, and no one more clearly realises what my lot must be in the long run. ‘A short life and a merry one’ is my motto, and before Heaven! I’ll have it; but if you think, even for a moment, that you are going, any of you, to bully me or even pretend to lead me, I’ll cut off to Australia by the very next steamer that sails.”

“Yes, and if you do,” said Scrivener, “you’ll be met on board and brought back; you know where. I do not think,” he continued, “that I need add any more.”

“I don’t think you need; we both understand the position,” said Rowton.

He sat down again and remained perfectly still, with his hands hanging between his great legs, his head slightly bent forward. There were lines of perplexity wrinkling his brow; but presently he looked up with a laugh, which showed the gleam of strong white teeth.

“You would suppress me if you could,” he said; “but it would take a stronger than you to do that. My day is only at noon; I wait for the black dog of care, I wait for the demon of misery until the night time. Now then, tell me, Scrivener, why it is you have altered your plans and come here at this hour; Samson and I did not expect you until nightfall.”

“I came to tell you,” said Scrivener, “that the goods which you expect will not arrive until to-morrow. We have had word at our head office that it is safer to keep them where they are for another twenty-four hours. I thought it best to call on purpose.”

“Did any one see you coming?”

“Did any one see me?” said the man, laughing. “Of course—plenty; why, I had a pipe and a glass of spirits at the sign of the ‘Jolly Dogs,’ on my way through the village. I am a commercial traveller this time. How do you like the get-up?”

“Admirable, most admirable; I did not know you at first. I really thought you were the character.”

“Yes, I was sure these checks would do it,” said Scrivener, looking down with affection at the hideous pattern of his trousers. “I had a good time at the ‘Jolly Dogs,’ and have ordered dinner there on my return. Oh! I’m all right, but I have only told you one half of what brought me here. We have an important commission for you, Silver, and you are to go up to town to see Long John to-night.”

“What does he want me for?” asked Rowton.

“He wants you to go to Spain with——”

The man bent forward and began to whisper.

Rowton’s brow grew black.

“When does he want me to go?” he asked.

“To-morrow.”

“How long will the business take?”

“That depends on yourself; it ought to be done within a fortnight.”

“Then tell Long John from me that he must get some other man to do the job; I am already engaged and cannot go.”

“This is madness,” said Scrivener; “you are the only man among us who can go. How can you pretend to be one of us and yet shirk duty in this way?”

“You must get someone else,” repeated Rowton. “Ah! here comes lunch; you can lunch with me, after all, if you please, Scrivener; I can recommend this round of beef. Samson, bring in some ale.”

The man withdrew.

“You’ll have to go,” pursued Scrivener, as he followed his host to the table.

“I do not intend to; I have another engagement.”

“But no one else speaks Spanish; you are the only one among us who has the slightest smattering of the tongue. You alone can do the work.”

Adrian drew the great joint of beef towards him.

“I am sorry to disoblige,” he said, as he cut huge slices from the joint and piled them on his guest’s plate, “but the fact is, I am going to be married next week.”

“Great Heaven!” cried Scrivener. “Is this the time for marrying? What do we want with a woman in the business?”

Rowton’s black eyes flashed.

“Do you think I would bring her into your accursed business?” he said. “Not I; but now listen once for all, Scrivener. I marry the girl I love next week, and I go away with her on a holiday and don’t return to business for a month. For five weeks from now I take complete holiday. You can tell Long John so from me. At the end of that time I am once more at his service. Now he can take me or leave me. I am quite willing to cut the concern, notwithstanding your threats. I can get off to Australia as knowingly as anybody else.”

“No, you can’t, Rowton; your personality is too marked. Cut four inches off your height, and take a trifle from your breadth, and give you less strongly marked features, and you might manage the thing; but what disguise could you put on that we should not see Adrian Rowton peeping through? You have no help for yourself; you are in the toils and you must stay with us to the bitter end.”

“I am always forgetting,” said Rowton. “Were it not for—” he stretched out his huge arms as he spoke and indulged in a mighty yawn—“were it not for the angel who will soon walk by my side, I would cut the knot in another way. As it is, you do well to remind me of my cage, Scrivener; I am in it, but even a captive lion has the liberty of the length of his chain; and I shall take mine to the full length of my tether. Five weeks I take; a week to get ready for my wedding bells and four weeks of bliss with the angel of my life. After that you and the devil can have your way. Now I have spoken, and you can take my message to Long John.”

“You have spoken truly,” said Scrivener. “I’ll take your message; I do not promise what the upshot will be.”

“It may be anything you please as far as I care,” said Rowton. “I’ll change my mind for no man; now, help yourself to some beer.”

Scrivener took a long draught, and Rowton ate in silence; his thoughts were far away, and his heart, for all his brave words, felt like lead in his breast.

While he ate and frowned and thought, Scrivener regarded him furtively.

“Where are you going to live when you marry?” he asked abruptly.

Rowton brought his thoughts back to present things with an effort.

“Did you speak?” he asked.

“I only want to know, Silver, if your bride is to come to this house?”

“She is not.”

“Where then?”

“She will come with me to Rowton Heights.”

“What!” exclaimed Scrivener; “you don’t mean to say——”

Rowton nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I do; the king will come into his own; I shall lord it at Rowton Heights, and mark my words, will be the great man of the place before I am six weeks in possession. I am marrying a lady, and she will help me to entertain the county folk.”

Scrivener’s small eyes began to glitter.

“It is like you, Rowton,” he said after a pause; “you always were magnificent in your ideas; but Rowton Heights! I did not think you would dare.”

“There is nothing under Heaven that I would not dare,” said Rowton. “And now, with your permission, if you have lunched, I have got heaps to attend to. Take my message to Long John; tell him that I wed next week, that I take my full honeymoon with its four quarters; and that at the end of that time he will hear from me from Rowton Heights.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE WEDDING NIGHT.

Adrian Rowton kept his word to the letter. His iron will seemed to bend all things to his wishes. Nancy Follett forgot her father’s dying injunctions. Long John in his lair in London remained passive. Samson did not dare to utter a word. Rowton went backwards and forwards day by day from London to Andover. The special licence was procured—the rector was asked to come to church to perform his duty; and on a certain dull morning early in December, when the snow lay on the ground and the world was steeped in a winter’s fog, Nancy Follett stood by Adrian Rowton’s side and was made, with the full blessing of the Church, his lawful wedded wife.

The marriage was so unusual, so sudden and unexpected, that early as the hour was, the little church was filled. The men and women of the neighbourhood, who had noticed the girl in church with the interest people will always give to a mysterious, little known person, came to see her wedded. She made a very beautiful bride. Her white dress, perfectly simple and unbridal in its material, but enhanced the extreme fairness of her face; excitement had lent colour to her cheeks and made her dark grey eyes look almost black. Adrian Rowton’s height and magnificent physique were commented on by everyone. As he walked down the church with Nancy’s hand resting on his arm, he nodded to his friends, but Nancy kept her eyes lowered; she did not know anyone, and did not care to receive the smiles of strangers. The bridal pair went back to the Grange, where Nancy hastily changed her white dress for a somewhat shabby-looking travelling costume—it was the best she could make up at short notice—and in a carriage and pair the couple started for the railway station en route for Paris.

They arrived at their destination late that night and went straight to the Grand Hotel, where Rowton had telegraphed for rooms. They found a bedroom, dressing-room and a large salon at their service. Nancy felt intensely happy, but also queerly restless and excited. She walked about her salon and looked out of the window into the courtyard below. Large parties of smartly-dressed people were sitting there, a fountain playing in the middle; the place looked gay, very gay, and a splendid string band was playing martial music. Winter as it was, the night was clear and full of stars, the atmosphere was destitute of the faint suspicion of fog which almost always hangs over England in winter. Nancy opened the window and looked out; Rowton went and stood by her side.

“What do you think of Paris the gay?” he said.

Something in his tone made her start. She drew in her head, turned round and faced him.

“Why did you bring me to Paris for my honeymoon?” she asked suddenly.

“What do you mean, Nance?” he answered.

“What I say,” she replied. “Why did you bring me here? I had forgotten.”

She covered her face with her trembling hands; she shook from head to foot.

“My darling, what in the world is the matter?” asked Rowton in astonishment.

“I am oppressed by the strangest sensation,” replied the bride. “It will pass. Oh, yes, it will pass. Don’t speak to me for a minute.”

She left her bridegroom’s side and went over to the far end of the room. Sitting almost with her back to him, she gazed gloomily at the glowing hearth, where a pile of logs burned with cheerful blaze.

Rowton watched her with knitted brow and in some perplexity.

She felt that he was watching her. Suddenly she sprang to her feet and faced him.

“You wonder at me?” she said.

“I do,” he answered.

“The thing is past,” she said with a smile. “But I must tell you; I cannot keep a secret from you on our wedding night. For a moment, Adrian, I—I who love you with passion, with devotion, with a love which seems to me to pass the love of any ordinary woman, I felt that I hated you—for a moment you became intolerable to me; I shrank from your face—you reminded me in some incomprehensible way of Anthony.”

“Of Anthony!” exclaimed Rowton. “Who is Anthony?”

“My brother Anthony. Oh! we must not speak of him.”

“Had you a brother named Anthony?” asked Rowton.

“I had. He is dead. I never care to talk of him. You look queer, Adrian; did you ever know anyone of that name?”

“Yes, I once met a man of the name. He passed into my life and passed out of it; I have a somewhat disagreeable reminiscence of him. Let us go downstairs, Nance; why should we stay here alone?”

“But it is our wedding night,” she answered. She went to his side, put her arms round his neck and laid her fair soft head on his breast.

“Look me in the face, little girl,” said her husband. He placed his hand under her chin and raised her charming face, gazing full into the lovely eyes which she raised to his. “You don’t hate your husband now, do you?”

“No, no, no!” she reiterated. “It was a passing sensation, just a momentary queer stirring in my heart; it came when I suddenly remembered that we were in Paris for our honeymoon. The fact is this, Adrian. Since father’s death I have been in a whirl, and it was only a few minutes ago that I suddenly remembered Paris in connection with⸺ Oh! there is something I must never say to you—the thought rather overpowered me for a moment, and I remembered poor dead Anthony. I won’t speak of him again. Yes, I love you, my darling, my best, my noblest. Adrian, I mean to be a good wife to you.”

“Just go on loving me, Nance, and I shall want nothing further,” he replied. “No one else loves me, and although I am a hard, dare-devil sort of chap, I hunger for love—the soft beautiful love of a good woman. You are a good woman, my angel, and you are mine; you love me and I love you; just bathe me in your love, sweetheart, and I ask for nothing further. A perfect wife I do not want—I do not look for a perfect wife, but I do want a wife whose whole heart is mine, who is mine absolutely.”

“And I am yours, absolutely,” she answered.

“I can be fiercely jealous,” he continued. “If I thought you gave any part of yourself to anybody or anything but me, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do. Even if you gave your love to a dead man, Nance, I should be jealous—and jealousy with me would be fierce—I am all fierce passion. The side I turn to you, my darling, is almost angel, for you make it so, but all the rest of me is demon; you must keep that little angel bit of me alive, and you will, if you love me with your whole complete entire heart.”

“I do, I do,” she replied. “You are all in all to me. Would I have disobeyed my father’s dying wish if I had not loved you best of all? I love no one else, Adrian.”

“And I love no one else,” he answered with a laugh. “Come, Nancy, we have a whole month to make merry in. We will make merry—we’ll have a royal good time. Do you hear that music in the courtyard? Does it not seem to draw you?”

“It does,” she replied, “it is wonderful.”

“We’ll go and sit there, and listen to it.”

“But there are strangers there, and I am shy.”

“You shan’t be shy long, my beauty—you shall meet fresh faces daily, and fresh lives will touch your life, and your time will be gay, very gay. We will go out shopping to-morrow and you shall buy lovely things—wonderful raiment of all sorts to make a fit setting for that grave, soft, magical loveliness of yours. I shall take delight in choosing things for you. You don’t know yourself yet, Nance; you don’t know what a great gift is yours, what a power you have in your face; but your beauty will be acknowledged by all when you wear the things which I shall buy for you. Yes, we will have a fine time to-morrow, just the time which they say a woman loves. But now, come downstairs with me and sit in the court.”

“They are all wearing wraps of some sort, and I have nothing pretty,” said Nancy. “You know that I came to you without a trousseau, Adrian.”

“What is a trousseau?” asked Rowton.

“Oh! all the pretty things that brides bring to the men they love—they are called by the collective name ‘trousseau.’”

“Then this right loyal lover will give his bride the pretty things himself, and—stay a moment, a recollection comes to me. I believe I stuffed something into my portmanteau, something which I thought would suit you. Wait a moment.”

Rowton went into the adjoining bedroom. He returned in a few moments with a thin parcel wrapped in tissue paper.

“There,” he said, “you can wrap that round you. I don’t believe a lady down there will have anything more radiant to sun herself in.”

Nancy took the pins out of the paper and the next moment a gossamer shawl woven with what appeared like every thread of the rainbow—as light as a feather, as fine as a cobweb—was extended on her arm.

“This is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I never saw anything so like a bit of the sun itself.”

“It came from Persia, it is only a trifle,” said Rowton. “I thought of you when I put it away; let me wrap it round you; now come down stairs.”

CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE OPERA HOUSE.

The next day, true to his word, Rowton took Nancy to the shops. They went to the Bon Marché, and to many other places where finery the most fascinating, dresses the most bizarre, articles of toilet the most chic in the world, were to be found. Rowton consulted one of the shopwomen whose taste was supposed to be absolute: she brought out one costume after another and fitted them on Nancy, while her husband looked on and criticised and admired. Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, tea gowns, evening dresses, were bought in variety and abundance. With a mere nod of his head Rowton would signify to the attendant that such a thing was to be sent to Mrs. Rowton to the Grand Hotel; he never even enquired the price.

“You want shoes and dainty stockings and handkerchiefs and ribbons, and feathers and flowers,” he said, just laying his hand for an instant on Nancy’s shoulder. “Oh, I know how women ought to be dressed.”

“See here,” he said to the attendant, “fit Mrs. Rowton with all that is necessary. Let her have some dozen of this, and of this, and this—” he indicated costly things with his hand. “Now then, Nancy, we will go to the millinery department.”

Nancy found herself furnished with small velvet caps, with fascinating toques, with hats adorned with great plumes of ostrich feathers, which made her look, Rowton said, with eyes of passionate love, as if she had just stepped out of a Gainsborough picture. The morning passed in a perfect whirl, and when finally the pair returned to the hotel for lunch, Nancy said frankly that she felt as if she had been going about all the morning with a fairy godmother.

“Ah! you will have a good deal more of that sensation,” replied her husband. “Hurry with your lunch, now, for afterwards we must go to the Palais Royal to look at trinkets.”

“Trinkets?” she said; “you don’t mean jewels?”

“I mean a few rings and necklaces, and ornaments for your hair,” he said. “I have taken a box at the opera to-night and you shall look—ah! I’ll not be the only one to look at you to-night, Nancy mine; no woman will look fairer, more divine than my little girl.”

The trinkets were bought and Nancy’s slender fingers were laden with sparkling rings. A necklace consisting of a single row of magnificent pearls was secured to encircle her dainty throat.

“Not that these are much,” said Rowton; “I have diamonds which you shall wear. They are too valuable to take away from home. We will have a house in town next season, Nance, and you shall wear them then; I won’t show them to you until then. Pearls suit you best however, you are so maidenly, so delicate, so youthful. Heavens! to think that one like you should belong to one like me. My darling, my treasure, what have I done that Providence should be so good to me?”

“And what have I done to deserve such a husband?” she answered.

“Do not say that,” he said, his tone completely changing; “you do not really know me.”

“I know what you are to me; I know that in all the world no more gallant gentleman, no braver prince amongst men could live.”

“Come, come, Nancy, it is bad to flatter,” he said; but his eyes shone and his lips trembled.

“If she only knew!” he said to himself.

They drove in the Bois in the afternoon and after dinner went to the opera. Nancy was dressed for the opera in one of her new costumes; it was white, shaded off to the faintest tinge of rose. She looked something like a summer cloud when she was dressed in these billows of diaphanous texture; the pearls round her neck gave the last touch to the dazzling effect.

“You look like the heart of a sea-shell,” said her husband; “there, let me look at you from this distance; yes, the effect is perfect. Now again, favour me by standing so. Now you resemble a sunset cloud; you are all poetry, you are a dream. In fact you are a living, walking poem.”

“Don’t, Adrian,” she said.

“Why do you say ‘don’t’? it is my delight to see how much can be made of unique beauty like yours. To-morrow night you shall be dressed quite differently; to-morrow night that pale sweet face, those dark deep eyes shall gleam in more sombre surroundings, and then my princess will look like a star. Give me my delight, Nancy; don’t refuse it to me.”

“But my father is not dead a fortnight,” she said; “I ought to be in mourning for him.”

“Tut! not a bit of it; no mourning during our wedding tour. Afterwards you shall be up to your throat in crêpe if you like.”

“It is strange of you, Adrian, to say so very much about afterwards; when you say ‘afterwards,’ a cold shiver seems to go through me.”

“Faith, child,” he replied, pulling himself together with an effort, “I don’t mean anything. You shall, if I can manage it, walk on roses as long as you live; and now, now, Nance—during our glorious honeymoon, we will not think for one moment of the possibility of a shadow. Come, darling, the carriage must be waiting for us in the courtyard.”

They went downstairs in the lift.

Rowton’s prophecy was abundantly fulfilled: there was not a man in the place who did not look with more than admiration at the lovely girl who walked by his side. They went to the opera and Rowton watched the faces of his fellow-men and women. Some acquaintance in a distant box recognised him and bowed. Rowton returned their salutations icily; he did not want old friends to crop up here; he was determined to share Nance with no one during the golden four weeks which he had allowed himself. But when a Frenchman of the name of D’Escourt knocked at the door of the Rowtons’ box, Rowton felt forced to admit him and to introduce him to Nance. The two men talked for a little time in French, and D’Escourt promised himself the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Rowton early the following day. He sat down presently by her side, and began to talk. He was a man of the world, extremely polished, and with a perfect knowledge of English as well as French. Nancy’s French was not her strong point, and she was glad to talk to the stranger in English.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, turning and looking at Rowton, who with a frown between his brows gazed gloomily into the house, “it is some years now since I saw you in our gay capital, my friend; not since 18⸺” He mentioned a date; it was the year of Anthony Follett’s death.

“I wonder,” thought Nance to herself, “if Adrian could help me in my strange and awful search. I will not think to-night of that terrible fate which hangs over me.”

She tried to force her thoughts from the subject, but try as she would, they hovered round it. She suddenly felt cold and miserable; her conscience seemed to reproach her for her present extraordinary bliss; she thought of her dead father, the desolate Grange, and the long six years of misery. Her present life seemed like a dream; she might awaken any moment to find herself back at the Grange; Rowton not allowed to visit her, her father there, and the dreadful, stingy, starved existence once more her own.

She started, hearing Adrian’s voice in her ears.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“I was trying to pinch myself,” she said.

She looked up and saw that D’Escourt had left them. “I was trying to pinch myself,” she continued, “to find out whether I was really in a dream or not.”

“You are not in a dream; at least, if you are, I am in it too; and I vote we stay in dream-land, for it is monstrous pleasant,” said Adrian. “Now listen to that music, Nance; does it not uplift your soul?”

She turned and looked vaguely at the performers on the stage. The opera was one of Rossini’s; the scene now represented was a harvest festival; the stage was full of motion and brilliant colour; the gay, light, uplifting music rose to the very roof of the magnificent opera house.

“It is almost too much,” said Nance, with something like a sob in her throat. She looked suddenly so white and weary that Rowton insisted on her returning to the hotel without seeing the piece out.

The next day, to her astonishment, he proposed that they should leave Paris and go on to the Riviera.

“We will go to Nice,” he said; “it is gay enough there, and we shall have warmth and sunshine; we will visit Monte Carlo, too. Oh! I don’t gamble, you need not fear anything of that sort, but for all that we will have one exciting evening at the roulette tables.”

“I am sorry,” said Nance. “I am interested in Paris now that I am here, and I should like to see more of it. M. D’Escourt said, too, that he would call, and he promised to arrange to take us to Versailles; don’t you remember, Adrian?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Rowton; “but that fact can scarcely influence my movements.” He spoke with the faintest sneer. “I want to get on, Nance. Paris is all very well; it satisfies me in one sense, and yet in another it does not.”

“Do you know Paris? Have you been often here?”

“Yes; I spent two years in this gay capital; the liveliest and yet the most wretched time of my life.”

“I heard you mention a certain date last night,” said Nancy in a low voice, which slightly trembled. “You mentioned the year 18⸺. It so happened that I am interested in that date. It was just then the cloud came which changed father’s life and mine.”

“We need not go into that subject now, need we?” asked Rowton with manifest uneasiness. “I want you to forget those six dreadful years of famine. You have now, to borrow a Bible simile, come into the seven years of plenty.”

“So I have,” she replied, running to him and kissing him with passion. “How happy you make me; how more than willing I am to do anything you wish.”

“Then we will take the Mediterranean express from the Gare de Lyon this evening,” said Rowton. “I will go now to try and secure a sleeping carriage. You can begin to pack some of your pretty things while I am away from you, Nance.”

Rowton left the salon and hailing a fiacre, drove straight to the Gare de Lyon.

“I don’t want D’Escourt to have much to say to Nance,” he said to himself. “We were good friends in 18⸺. Heaven! When I remember that time; can I possibly be the same man? Yes, I was a gay dog then; but upright and honourable, notwithstanding all my pranks. I could look men straight in the face. Now things are different. D’Escourt knew me intimately at that time. Yes, we were great friends. He was glad to see me last night; he evidently knows nothing; but if he comes often he may begin to ask questions. His questions would be highly inconvenient. Not that Nance, bless her, could answer one of them. But suppose he asks me straight out, while that child is looking on, ‘What have you done with yourself since 18⸺? How have you passed your life?’ I might, it is just possible, with the clear eyes of that angel looking into mine, I might show confusion. There! confound the horrible thing! D’Escourt and I must not meet again. D’Escourt and Nancy must have nothing to do with each other. My sweetheart and I go to Nice to-night and have a right gay time.”

Rowton, arrived at his destination, secured the last sleeping compartment on the train, and went quickly back to the Grand Hotel.

Nancy was waiting for him.

“I have not been dull,” she said, her eyes dancing with excitement and pleasure. “M. D’Escourt called: I like him extremely; he has only just left. He is quite put out at our going to Nice.”

“You told him that?” said Rowton.

“Yes; why not? Dearest, how thick your brows look when you frown.”

“I was not aware that I had frowned, sweet Nance.”

“But are you vexed with me for telling him where we are going?”

“Not in the least; all the world may know our movements. Now let us pack. We will leave some of our boxes here, but we must take plenty of your finery with us. I intend you to be the most beautiful woman at the Casino when we visit Monte Carlo.”

Nancy began to pull her different beautiful dresses out of their boxes.

Rowton stood and watched her.

“M. D’Escourt seems to have been a great friend of yours, Adrian,” she said; “he has the highest opinion of you.” She glanced up at him as she spoke.

“He would be sure to praise me to you,” said Rowton in a would-be careless tone. “We will go for a drive after déjeûner; I find that I must get several small things on my own account. Are you not hungry, little woman?”

“No, I feel too excited to be hungry. You don’t know what this life is to me after my starved existence; but, Adrian, I am really sorry you missed your friend.”

“Well, I am not,” said Rowton. “On a honeymoon one only wants one’s wife, particularly when she is such a wife as mine; but you seem fascinated with the fellow, Nancy.”

“Only because he praised you so much,” she said, with a sweet smile.

They went down to déjeûner.

As they were finishing the meal, Nancy again reverted to D’Escourt.

“He was really disappointed,” she said. “He was quite certain we were going to stay in Paris for another week at least.”

“I have ordered the carriage to be round by now,” said Rowton without replying, and glancing at the clock as he spoke. “Put on your prettiest cloak and your most becoming hat and come out with me.”

They spent the afternoon shopping and afterwards drove in the Bois. By eight o’clock that evening they had left the Grand Hotel and were on their way to the Gare de Lyon. They reached it in good time to catch the Mediterranean express.

At the booking office Nancy was much astonished to hear her husband ask for tickets for San Remo.

“You are making a mistake,” she exclaimed. “We are going to Nice.”

“I have changed my mind,” he answered. “San Remo will suit us better.”

“What a pity,” cried Nancy. “M. D’Escourt said he might visit Nice in a few days.”

“The very reason why we go to San Remo, sweetheart. Now take your place. Here we are. You will admire the olive woods and the flowers before many more hours are over, cara mia.”

CHAPTER IX.
THE ROSE-COLOURED BEDROOM AND THE NEW MAID.

The honeymoon was over; the four weeks all of pure gold had come slowly but surely to an end. Nancy had forgotten much during this time. The look of trouble, of anxiety, had absolutely left her face: it bloomed into greater and greater beauty in the new atmosphere. Rowton, too, appeared to be a different man. A great deal of his harshness and roughness had left him. He could be polished when he chose. In the early days of his life he had only associated with gentlemen; he was of good birth, and his natural breeding quickly re-asserted itself.

“You are just like a tamed lion,” Nance was fond of saying to him. “You are so gentle to me; so courteous and kind to everyone, but I know——”

“What do you know, sweet wife?” he said, clasping her round her slender waist and looking into her deep, beautiful eyes; “you must not get to know me too well, Nancy; be satisfied with the surface of me, and do not penetrate too deep.”

“Ah!” she said smiling, “you will run yourself down; but I know the deepest and the best of you. I leave the shallow part to strangers.”

“You were going to make a remark about the lion,” he said, patting her soft hand; “so you really think I am a roaring lion, my darling?”

“You never roar to me,” she answered; “but that you can roar I am firmly convinced.”

“Capital,” he said with a great laugh; “well, Nancy, I hope it will never be your fate to hear one of my manifestations. Child, we go back to England to-morrow; are you glad or sorry?”

“Glad,” she replied. “I was intensely happy on our honeymoon; oh! what lovely places we have seen; how grand and magnificent the world is! It has been sunshine inside and out ever since I gave myself to you.”

“And yet you want to leave it all and to go home,” he said.

“I do. I love you so much that to see you at home must be the best of all; to live with you at home must be the sweetest of all.”

“You are mistaken,” he said, but he said it low, and the inaudible words never reached his lips.

“Pack, child, now,” he said. “Our wearisome journey begins to-morrow.”

A day or two later, the Rowtons arrived at Rowton Heights in Yorkshire. Nancy had never been in this part of the country, and her excitement and delight reached the utmost bounds as they approached nearer and nearer to their destination.

“You must tell me all about the place?” she said when they drove in through the gates of the long winding avenue.

“Oh! what are all those people doing?” she exclaimed suddenly; “they have torches and they are coming to meet us.”

“Some of the tenants on the estate, I presume,” said Rowton. “I expect Maberly, my steward, has been getting up a little display. Never mind, Nancy, it is in your honour.”

“In mine,” she said in astonishment; “how very sweet of them!”

“I never told you, darling,” said her husband, “that in your own house amongst your servants and our tenantry, you will take the position of a great lady.”

“I! a great lady!” she said; “I! poor little starved Nance of the Grange.”

“But starved no longer, and the Grange may well now be forgotten,” he said. “I told you that I was rich, did I not?”

“Yes. Have you not proved it?” she said; “why, you are made of money; I never heard of anyone throwing money away so lavishly.”

“Goodness, child! you know nothing of what really wealthy men can do. Understand once for all, Nance, that I am rich, I am very rich. It is my pleasure to give you everything that money can buy. I want to make your life one long dream of happiness.”

“You are doing so,” she said; “but I think in one way you make a mistake,” she added.

“How?” he asked, surprised at her tone.

“You think that I want such a lot of money, Adrian. In that sense you do not really know me. I like pretty dresses, but not too many; I like pretty jewels, but not too many again; I like the soft things of life, but a little of them contents me.”

“Then I am not making you happy,” he said in alarm.

“Yes, yes,” she answered: “but not because of these things. You make me happy because you love me, because you fill my heart with love, because you give me your sweetest and your best in the way of love, and because I give you all the love of my heart.”

“Sweetheart, you are adorable,” he said, catching her hand and squeezing it. “You must accept the wealth and the responsibility it brings, even if you do not care for it, Nance, for it is my lot, my portion in life, to have more money than I know what to do with. Now, here we are. Come, let me introduce you to my housekeeper, to the servants. Put on the airs of a grande dame, pretty Nance.”

She was tall, and very slender. Her neck was somewhat long and her head was set on it with perfect grace. Rowton watched her as she held that small queenly head high; his heart glowed with admiration and love.

“She would fill any position,” he said to himself. “Could that curmudgeon, her father, see her now, would he know her, my beautiful, lovely darling? Ah! I cannot corrupt a heart like hers; she wants a little wealth, and a few pretty dresses, and a few jewels forsooth, and—love, love, love for everything else. Will she always remain like that? Heaven grant it.”

Meanwhile the steward, Maberly, had come up, and Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper, had presented a bunch of keys to Nance. Instructed by her husband she gave them back again to the good woman, telling her in a sweet voice that she knew far better what to do with them than she did. A long string of servants, all neatly attired, with white satin rosettes pinned on to their dresses, gave deep curtsies as Nance and her husband walked down the great hall through their midst.

“Take Mrs. Rowton to her bedroom at once,” said Rowton, addressing the housekeeper; “see that she has everything she wants. Have you engaged a good maid for her?”

“Yes, sir, a thoroughly experienced girl. She is from the village, but was trained in London for a couple of years. I have her for a month on trial. Come here, Hester, and let me introduce you to your new mistress.”

“I am glad to see you, Hester,” said Nancy in her cordial voice.

The girl, a small, dark-eyed lass, dropped a low curtsey; she had keen eyes and they fell all over Mrs. Rowton’s beautiful travelling dress.

“Run upstairs at once, Hester,” said Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper; “see that the trunks are taken up and begin to attend to your duties; go, girl, don’t stare.”

Hester coloured crimson, fixed her eyes again with a look half of admiration, half of something else, which Nance did not quite understand, on her face, and turned to obey.

“I hope you’ll like her, ma’am,” said the housekeeper as she followed more slowly with her mistress.

“Oh! yes, she seems a nice girl,” said Nance; “but I have not been accustomed to a maid, and I do not really know what to do with one.”

Mrs. Ferguson looked puzzled. She knew nothing whatever with regard to the bride whom Rowton was bringing home. Had he really by any possibility married beneath him?

But one glance at Nancy’s lovely face dispelled this illusion. The sweet face stole straight down to the old woman’s heart.

“If Hester does not quite please you, ma’am, you’ll be sure to tell me,” she said; “but she seems a clever girl, and particularly good at doing hair.”

“I have always arranged my own hair,” said Nance; “but I suppose if it is necessary I must submit.” She sighed a little as she spoke. The next moment her sigh was changed for an exclamation of delight.

“What a lovely bedroom!” she said. “Is this for me?”

“I am heartily glad you are pleased, ma’am,” said the housekeeper. “Mr. Rowton gave instructions that this room was to be completely re-furnished. He chose those rose-coloured silk curtains himself; they came from London only two days ago. I hope you’ll like the whole arrangement. I must say the room does look cheerful. This is your dressing-room, and your boudoir is just beyond; these stairs lead to Mr. Rowton’s dressing-room, and this is the door of the bathroom. This complete suite is shut away by these curtains and door.”

“It is quite a little house to itself,” said Nance; “it certainly does look perfect.”

“Well, I am pleased,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll leave you now, ma’am. I see Hester is waiting to attend on you.”

Nance, who was standing in a dream of delight in the middle of the lovely room, looked up at these words and encountered the dark gaze of her new maid.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“The trunks are in your dressing-room, ma’am,” said the girl, “and I am waiting for your keys, please.”

Nancy pulled them out of her pocket.

“Perhaps you will kindly tell me in which trunk your evening dresses are, ma’am?”

“I really cannot say,” began Nancy; then she paused to consider for a moment. “Oh! I know,” she said, “there is a very pretty evening dress which I can wear to-night—grey silk—in the large basket trunk with the arched roof.”

“I’ll have everything ready for you, ma’am, in less than a quarter of an hour,” said the girl. She withdrew as she spoke, closing the door of the bedroom behind her.

Nance went up to where a fire burned merrily in a grate, which was bright with brass and ornamental with lovely tiles, and stood warming her feet. The paper on the walls was of the faintest tone of rose; the mantelpiece of the purest white marble; the overmantel and all the furniture were ivory white mounted in brass; the window curtains and the bed hangings were of the softest shade of rose silk; no more lovely room could be imagined, and Nance, as she turned to survey her slender image in the many mirrors which were inserted in the walls, could not sufficiently give voice to her admiration. Her husband came in while she was examining the room.

“Ah!” he said, “I see the London people have done exactly what I told them. Well, Nance, what do you think of our bedroom?”

“Perfect,” she answered; “I never want to leave it.”

“Heaven forbid!” he cried; “that would mean that you were ill, which would never do. I am glad you like this room, but wait until you see the rest of the house.”

“I am almost too happy,” said the girl, and she breathed a sigh, the depth of which nearly reached the point of pain.

“What, because you have got a pretty room, little one?” he replied.

He kissed her and went off to his dressing-room, whistling as he went.

Hester came to summon Nance, and in a few moments the young wife found herself divested of her travelling things, her hair rearranged in the most becoming style, and her evening dress put on. She scarcely knew herself when she was arrayed for the evening, without having lifted a finger on her own behalf.

“After all a maid is a comfort when one is dead tired,” she could not help thinking. Her instinct was to pick up and put by her own things, but Hester, who seemed to divine her intention, swept them out of sight with an almost peremptory gesture.

“You may be sure I’ll do my best to try and please you, ma’am,” she said in a soft voice.

Nance murmured her thanks and went downstairs.

“She is a chit of a thing,” muttered the girl when her mistress had turned her back. “I can twist her round my little finger, particularly when I make use of some very private information, which will considerably alter the complexion of things for pretty Mrs. Rowton, or I am greatly mistaken.”

CHAPTER X.
THE BOY ON THE HEARTH.

When Nance entered her drawing-room Rowton was waiting to receive her. He was standing by the hearth. A great fire burned in the grate. Nance, as she entered at the extreme further door, saw a picture which caused her to give an exclamation of fresh delight; she looked down a long vista of lovely furniture, of knick knacks, of small tables, of flowering plants which filled the air with a subtle perfume, and saw her husband’s noble figure in evening dress as he waited for her. She scarcely noticed the dress, but her heart leapt up to receive the smile which shone out of the dark eyes and trembled round the lips. Then her gaze travelled a step further. Close by the man stood someone else—a slender boy, who might have been any age from nine to eleven, dressed picturesquely in black velvet with a Vandyck collar.

Each feature of his bold dark face was a counterpart of the dark face of the man who towered above him; by the boy’s side, the boy’s hand resting on his head, was a huge German boarhound, a magnificent creature of perfect breed.

“I never told you about this young gentleman, Nance,” said Rowton, coming forward, and holding the boy’s hand as he did so.

“Let me introduce you to my nephew, Murray Cameron; he has Scotch blood in him. Make your best bow to your aunt, Murray.”

The little chap went forward, giving a low bow.

Nancy held out her hand.

“Nonsense,” she said, “you need not bow to me, Murray; I am delighted to see you.” She laid her white hand on his shoulder, and bending forward kissed him on his brow just where his clustering curls met the white skin.

The boy flushed crimson, raised two splendid dark eyes and looked full up into her face.

“Come, come, Murray,” said his uncle, “you can go back now and continue your attentions to Roy; Roy will be jealous; look how he is sniffing your coat.”

“Roy has no reason to be jealous,” said the little fellow in a determined, manly voice; “he must be a very silly dog if he supposes I can compare him to a beautiful lady.”

Rowton burst into a loud laugh.

“Jove! youngster, you are coming on,” he said; “there, you may go now, in any case; you may come to dessert if your eyes remain open long enough.”

“I am not likely to sleep,” said the boy. He gave another glance of the broadest admiration at Nancy, and then walked gravely down the room, accompanied by the boarhound.

“How is it you never told me about that dear little fellow, Adrian?” said Nancy.

Rowton rumpled up his hair with a careless movement.

“I forgot his existence,” he said briefly.

“Forgot the existence of a splendid boy like that!” said Nancy in astonishment.

“Yes, I was occupied with other matters.”

For some reason which Nancy could not understand there was annoyance in his tone. With a woman’s tact she hastened to change the subject.

“How lovely this room is!” she said; “no wonder you gave me to understand that you would dazzle me some day. I cannot believe that I am really the mistress of this house.”

“I am glad you like it!” said her husband, recovering his good humour on the instant. “Ah! I think the servant has just announced dinner. Come, Nancy mine, let me have the pleasure of leading you to the head of your table.”

The dinner passed off somewhat tamely. The dining-room was a long and decidedly sombre apartment. But the Rowtons sat at a cheerful little table at one end, laid with glittering glass and massive plate; it was brought up close to the fire, and was lit by candles with coloured shades over them. The rose coloured light somewhat softened Rowton’s harsh complexion, and cast a fairy-like gleam over Nancy with her golden hair, pale face and soft draperies. Two footmen waited, doing their work noiselessly; the rest of the room was in absolute gloom.

Nancy could scarcely tell why she felt a sudden depression. She would not yield to it, however, and struggled hard to keep up the gaiety which she had really experienced not a few minutes ago.

When the dessert was on the table she raised her voice somewhat timidly.

“May not Murray come in?” she said. “I should like to see him again.”

“Tell Master Cameron that dessert is served,” said Rowton, turning to one of the footmen.

They both noiselessly left the room and the husband and wife were for a moment alone.

“Does Murray live here?” asked Nancy of her husband.

“Yes, this is his home. Now, see that you do not spoil him; he is a fine little chap, but the soft ways of a woman about him just now would be his destruction.”

“You don’t really mean that, Adrian; surely at Murray’s age more than at any other time, he——”

“I differ from you, my love,” said her husband. “Hush!”

He interrupted her words: she glanced down the room. Out of the darkness came a high-pitched glad voice, a gay laugh followed, and then the flashing of bright eyes, the charm of a noble little face, and the boy seated himself frankly and confidingly by his new aunt’s side.

“I left Roy in the other room,” he said, looking up at her; “I do not want Roy now.”

“Have a glass of wine, Murray?” said his uncle.

The boy held out his glass, which Rowton filled to the brim.

He drank it off and his tongue began to chatter.

“I am so glad you have both come back,” he said; “I have been awfully lonely; Mrs. Ferguson is not the best company. Now I expect I shall have a right jolly time. You are going to live here always, are you not, aunt?”

“Listen to me, Murray,” said Rowton; “you are not to worry your aunt.”

“Oh! he won’t,” said Nance. She took one of the small hands—hard as iron it felt, for the boy was all muscle—and patted it softly.

“We won’t worry each other, will we?” said Murray, glancing up at her again and laughing.

Rowton gave the pair as they sat thus close together—the very fair young girl, for Nance was nothing more, and the beautiful dark boy—an earnest, penetrating glance.

“By Jove!” he said, “I see you are both going to fall in love with each other. Take care both of you; I shall begin to be jealous.”

“Not you, Adrian,” said Nance with a smile.

“But he will, though,” said Murray; “you don’t know him yet, auntie; I don’t know anyone who can be so, so——”

“So what?” said Rowton. “Come here this minute, lad, and give your aunt an account of me; she won’t believe what I say of myself, but you have known me for years.”

“Not so many years,” said Murray. “I am only eleven, and that is quite young, isn’t it?”

“Well, speak, tell your aunt what you think of me.”

The boy left his seat by Nancy’s side, went up to Rowton and leant against his knee.

“You have a bold face, young ’un,” said the man, chucking him under the chin; “speak out, you are not afraid, are you?”

“Afraid,” said the lad proudly, tossing back his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“That is right; you are a gay little bantam. Now tell that beautiful lady whom you have been impertinent enough to fall in love with exactly what you think of me, her husband.”

“You know what I think of you,” said Murray, giving the man a very keen and intense glance. Something in his gaze, fixed and full as it was, caused Rowton to lower his own bold eyes. He caught the boy’s little wrist with a grip of iron, and turned him fiercely round.

“Tell your aunt what you think of me, Murray,” he said.

“I think you are a very fine man—yes, auntie, he is a very fine man indeed, very brave; about the bravest man in the world, I should say, but——”

“No ‘buts,’ young sir, out with everything.”

“Then I will tell the truth,” said Murray; “you are not good in one way.”

“Ha! ha! Nancy,” said her husband, “listen with all your ears now; this youngster is about to lift the curtain and show you the sort of man you have deigned to marry.”

“Perhaps you can make him good all round,” said the boy, suddenly fixing his bright eyes on Nancy’s soft face; “he is not good all round now—he is not good to my mother.” The boy stepped back two or three inches, and flung back his beautiful noble head.

“Silence, this moment, sir,” said Rowton. His voice rose; it seemed to fill the big room. “Leave the room, Murray,” he said. “You have transgressed your limits; you have a certain tether and you have gone beyond it; leave the room.”

“I will, but I am not frightened,” said the boy. He still stood upright with his head flung back, but Nancy saw that his delicate lips were trembling.

“You are cruel to my mother, Uncle Adrian, and when I think of it, I—I hate you.” He turned then and marched proudly away.

It seemed a long time to the listeners up at the warmly-lighted part of the room, until they heard the last echo of his little footsteps, and the banging of the door in the dim distance as he walked away; then they both looked one at the other. Nancy’s face was white and troubled; tears were in her eyes; Adrian was looking full at her.

“That little turkey cock must be quieted,” he said; “he takes too much on him; you are not to spoil him, Nancy, do you hear?”

“But what does he mean?” asked Nancy; “he says that you—you are cruel to someone.”

“Come back to the drawing-room with me, sweet Nance.”

Rowton held out his hand; he clasped Nancy’s with a pressure which almost made her cry out; she bit her lips and walked by his side in silence. The drawing-room was the picture of comfort; Rowton sank down into a deep easy chair, and pulling Nancy towards him, seated her on his knee.

“Now, my wild bird,” he said, “the curtain begins to lift; what do you think of your Adonis? do I begin to show the cloven hoof?”

“No, no, no,” she said, a strangled sob in her throat, “but you frightened me; why did you roar like that at the child?”

“He angered me, the little spitfire,” said the man; “he has got a spirit that nothing will break.”

“But he is you, Adrian, he is you—young. He is what you were as a child.”

“Faith! I believe you are right, Nance.”

“I wish you had not shouted at him,” she continued. “I hated to see him, and yet I loved to see him standing up so bravely under your anger.”

“I told you I was a lion,” said Rowton. “You have heard my first thunder. Heaven grant that I may never thunder at you, darling. For the rest, by those who know me well, by those who know me best of all, I am more feared than loved.”

“No, no,” she said, “I cannot believe it. That little chap loves you.”

“But he said he hated me.”

“He hates you for a cause; he wants you to be good all round.”

“That I can never be; goodness is mawkish.”

“And who is his mother, Adrian, and why, why are you cruel to her?”

Rowton grasped Nancy’s wrist again.

“Do you really think I am?” he said.

“No, I don’t,” she said with white lips, for his grasp was so firm, so fierce, that she could scarcely help wincing at the pain.

It relaxed at her words and his features wore a smile.

“That is good, little woman,” he said; “if you believe in me, all the rest of the world may think as it pleases.”

“But who is the boy’s mother?”

“My sister.”

“And why did he speak in that strange way about her?”

Rowton did not answer for a while.

“Nancy,” he said then, “this is our first night at home, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised at his tone.

“Now I am not going to say anything harsh.”

“No,” she answered, “but I don’t think I much mind if you do.”

“Ah! my little woman,” he said, suddenly clasping her to him in a fierce embrace, “I knew you had a spirit of your own: now I am going to remind you of something. Do you remember the compact we made each with the other on the day of your father’s death?”

Her face turned very white.

“I wish you would not remind me of that,” she said after a pause.

“You force me to,” he replied; “the time has come for me to remind you of it, Nancy; I shall not interfere with your secrets if you do not interfere with mine.”

“Then you have secrets?” she said again.

“Yes, little girl,” he answered—his voice was low—there was shame in the tone.

“Ah!” he said suddenly, “you would make me an angel and worship me as such, but I am a fiend. Do not try to know too much; be happy—you can be happy, but knowledge would be your death-blow.”

She sat quite still and did not speak another word. In the distance she heard a child’s laughter.

“Hark to the young cock sparrow—he has recovered,” said Adrian; “nothing depresses him long, and nothing can crush him.”

CHAPTER XI.
THE QUEEN ANNE WING AND GARDEN.

Nancy lay long awake that night. Her husband slept soundly by her side, but sleep seemed determined not to visit her; she was agitated, alarmed, depressed. All the glory of that summer moon through which she had lived had faded not only into autumn, but into winter.

What were Adrian’s secrets? Why was he cruel to his own sister? What was the mystery which hung over him? The burden Nance had herself to carry was quite sufficiently heavy to daunt most women, but just at present she seemed to have laid it aside. All her thoughts were for Adrian. She loved him more deeply, more passionately than ever, but she found herself not only anxious but curious. What did he mean by those dark hints? Where she found him angel, why did other people think of him as fiend? Towards morning the tired girl fell asleep. She slept until late, and awoke to find a snow-covered world, but much comfort around her. A fire had already been lighted in her room and her maid, Hester, was waiting to attend on her.

“Is it late?” asked Mrs. Rowton, starting up in bed.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl, speaking in a certain prim, respectful voice, which was rather aggravating to listen to: “it is nine o’clock, but Mr. Rowton said you were not to be disturbed. Would you like breakfast before you get up, ma’am?”

“No, indeed,” replied Nance. “I don’t think I ever breakfasted in bed in my life; I will get up now if you will leave me, please.”

The girl raised her brows in some slight surprise.

“Just as you please, ma’am,” she said. “I have left everything in perfect order in your dressing-room, and when you ring the bell I shall be ready to arrange your hair.”

Nancy said nothing more and the girl retired.

“Why is it I don’t take to her?” thought Mrs. Rowton; “she seems a good girl, clever and obliging, but she gives me an uncomfortable sensation. Well, I need not keep her if she is not quite to my taste, and she certainly need not trouble me now.”

Nance dressed herself quickly and ran downstairs. She did not ring for Hester to arrange her hair. Her spirits rose as she dressed, and when she entered the room where she and her husband had dined the night before, she felt full of excitement and interest.

Rowton had promised to take her over the house, and she was all agog to explore her new home without delay.

The servant who waited upon her told her that his master had breakfasted nearly two hours ago; that he and Master Murray were out, but would be in before long.

Nancy had scarcely finished her meal before they appeared.

The boy ran up to her, flung his arms round her neck and kissed her.

“Have you slept well?” he asked. “I hope you are not tired; there is so much for you to see, and it is so interesting. Are you not very curious to see everything?”

“Enough, Murray,” said his uncle; “you shall take Aunt Nancy round the place this afternoon, but just at present she is my property. Run off to your lessons, my lad; I saw your tutor coming up the avenue just now.”

“Bother lessons!” said the boy.

“Are you not fond of study?” asked Nancy.

“No, I hate it; I can’t think what use tiresome books are to anyone.”

“Make yourself scarce, chatterbox,” said his uncle again.

The boy laughed and ran off.

“He is quite a darling,” said Nancy; “what a difference he will make in the house.”

“I am glad you have taken to him,” said Rowton; “he is a fine little chap, only you must not let him gossip to you, Nance. The boy has a keen vein of curiosity in him; he knows too much or thinks he does. Now, if you have quite finished breakfast I will take you round.”

They began their exploration, going from room to room and from storey to storey. The house was an old one, and as Rowton showed it to his wife he gave her a brief history of it. It had belonged to his family for several generations, but had been so eaten up by one mortgage after another, that Rowton’s own father had declined to live in the old place.

“But is it mortgaged now?” asked Nancy.

“No,” was the brief response.

“And you are rich, very rich, and your father was poor?”

“Even so, Nancy,” was the somewhat curt reply.

Nancy glanced up at her husband. His eyes looked full into hers; there was a sort of dare devil gleam in them, which she turned away from.

“I see,” she said after a pause, “I must not expect you to confide in me.”

“Forsooth, no,” he answered; “not on certain topics. We two married under a condition; if there is to be a chance of peace between us, we must keep to it. You must ask me no questions, my darling; I on my part will ask you none. I frankly admit that there are pages in my life which I do not wish you to know anything about, but on the other hand there are fair white pages which only you shall read. Are you not content with me, Nancy?”

“Yes, I am,” she answered. “I love you. I trust you too utterly to feel anything but happiness when with you.”

They kissed each other, standing side by side in the long picture gallery. Portraits of Rowton’s ancestors adorned the walls. There were Holbeins, Van Dycks, Gainsboroughs, and Raeburns among them—in short, a magnificent collection, which Nancy scarcely knew enough of art to thoroughly appreciate.

“Fair dames, are they not?” asked Rowton, stopping under a celebrated Gainsborough as he spoke. “Ah! now I know whom you reminded me of when you wore that Gainsborough hat in Paris; you have got just the face of that Dame Rowton; just that graceful turn of the neck. We will copy that picture for your next ball dress; you will look, as the old saying is, as if you had stepped out of the canvas.”

They both laughed and discussed the picture a little longer; then they walked on to the extreme end of the gallery.

“This way now,” said Rowton, turning abruptly to his left.

“Why so?” she asked. “Why not go through this door? See! you must have overlooked it; there is a door here, and it will take us out into another wing of the house.”

“Not now,” said Rowton. “There is nothing of interest in that wing; come into the old ball-room; it has been disused for some time, but we will restore it. Look”—he flung open a door as he spoke—“look at this carved oak; it covers the room from floor to ceiling, from ceiling to floor again. This oak is hundreds of years old and of enormous value. Will you believe me when I tell you that once such a Goth lived in the old place that he painted the oak white? It took a whole year to get that paint off; my grandfather had that done. The oak looks nearly as well as ever now. Observe the delicacy of the carving. We will furnish this ball-room again. What say you, Nancy, shall we give a ball as your house warming, after the neighbours have called on you.”

“The neighbours!” she said in some alarm; “are people coming to call on me?”

“My dear, darling little goose,” was the reply, “do you think you are going to live here in solitude? This is Saturday, to-morrow will be Sunday. You and I and Murray appear in church together—a picturesque group; we sit in the old family pew. On Monday the callers begin to arrive. We shall be invited out a good bit, and then we will give a ball in this room and you shall be dressed as Gainsborough’s Dame Rowton.”

Nancy laughed; Rowton continued to talk further about this idea; and they strolled out into the grounds. It was a lovely winter’s day towards the end of January. The pair walked quickly, exploring the different gardens and pleasure grounds. Suddenly they came straight up to a high wall which ran parallel with the house.

“What is in there?” asked Nancy.

“Another garden,” said Rowton in a careless tone.

“What a heap of gardens,” she exclaimed with a laugh. “I am almost tired of exploring them.”

“We will return to the house now,” he said; “we need not go any further to-day.”

“Oh, yes, let me see the inside of this garden. What a high wall, and broken glass all along the top! I cannot get even a peep within. I am curious. Is it a very old-fashioned garden, Adrian?”

“Yes,” he said after a pause; “we call it the Queen Anne garden here.”

“How charming! Are the trees cut about in queer shapes?”

“Yes. Contorted into foxes and dogs and bears. I fancy there is a cock, who looks exactly as if he meant to crow, just inside the entrance gate.”

Rowton’s face wore a quizzical expression.

“Where is the entrance?” asked Nancy. “I am dying to see the garden.”

“Not to-day,” replied her husband. He drew her hand through his arm.

They walked on in silence for a moment, then he bent down and looked at her.

“Are you vexed, little woman?” he asked.

“I try not to be,” she answered; “but it seems a simple thing just to show me that last garden. I have never seen a proper Queen Anne garden, and this one——”

“You feel a pin prick of natural womanly curiosity,” said Rowton; “suppress it, dearest. Now I am going to confide in you to a certain extent. I did not mean to, but I see that it is necessary. I have brought you to a beautiful home, have I not?”

“Lovely—a palace,” said Nancy.

“The whole place is yours,” continued her husband: “the house, the ground, with—with a reservation.”

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at him with parted lips.

“With a reservation,” he continued. “There is a wing of the house which you are never to enter. That wing looks into the Queen Anne garden—you are, therefore, never to go into the Queen Anne garden.”

“Never, Adrian, never?”

“Never, darling.”

“Why so?”

“I meant to keep the reason from you,” said Rowton; “but I must tell it—there is a reason.”

“Yes?” she said again. She began to tremble.

“You heard Murray speak of his mother last night,” continued the man, standing very upright as he spoke, folding his arms and looking down at Nancy’s slim young figure.

“Yes,” she replied.

“The boy’s mother lives in that wing.”

“What?” cried Nancy.

“She lives in the wing into which you are never to go,” continued Rowton. “She takes exercise in the Queen Anne garden. You need not be afraid of her, but you are never to see her.”

“Why, why?”

“Because she is mad.”

CHAPTER XII.
SILVER.

These words had scarcely passed Rowton’s lips before he abruptly turned and saw a little man crossing the lawn to meet him.

“Scrivener! by all that is unpleasant,” he muttered under his breath. He turned to Nancy who, very white and frightened, stood by his side.

“Go into the house now,” he said; “go up to your room and unpack your things, or sit by the fire in the library and enjoy a right good read of one of the many novels which are scattered about. I want to speak to that man who is coming across the lawn.”

“Who is he, Adrian?”

“A devil,” said Adrian. “Go away; he is not to see you.”

She turned abruptly at his words. His tone completed the trembling at her heart; she tottered rather than walked into the house; she was full of fear and misery.

Rowton, without even glancing after her, went to meet his unwelcome guest.

“Now, what has brought you here?” he asked.

“Ah! I expected you would take that sort of air when you returned to your property,” said Scrivener. “The whole thing was a mistake, and I told Long John so. And so that young lady is the angel of your life?”

“I forbid you to mention her name. What is your business here to-day?”

“To bring you a message,” said Scrivener, favouring Rowton with a long and steady glance. “You have had your five weeks; the end of your tether is therefore reached; you belong to us now, and we have something for you to do.”

“I doubt not that you have,” said Rowton.

“Yes, there is some important business waiting for you. Can you return with me to town this afternoon?”

Rowton looked both disturbed and annoyed.

“Does Long John want me so soon?” he asked.

“He wants you to-night. We have an important meeting at our club to-night, and it is absolutely necessary that you should be present.”

Rowton stood quite still, a frown between his thick brows. Presently it cleared away.

“I am at your service,” he said.

Scrivener was evidently relieved at this sudden acquiescence.

“That is a good thing,” he said. “I was commissioned to bring you with or against your will. When you submit to the inevitable you make things far easier for us. I’ll get straight back to Pitstow Station and take the next train to town. The meeting is appointed for eleven o’clock to-night—you’ll be sure to be there? You won’t play us false?”

“No, I shall come up to town by your train. Go, Scrivener, I don’t want people to see you about.”

“As you please,” said the man; “but I expect folks round here will have to get accustomed to me. I am thinking of taking lodgings in the neighbourhood.”

“You are not?”

“Yes, I am. The air is wonderfully bracing, and I have been feeling rather pulled down lately. Well, good-day, I am sorry, sir, you have not got a job for me on the premises.”

These last remarks were made in a servile tone, and for the benefit of an under-gardener who was seen approaching.

Rowton nodded. Scrivener turned on his heel and disappeared.

“Come here,” said Rowton to the gardener. He walked with him across the lawn, gave him some directions with regard to the moving of several plants, and then sauntered slowly into the house.

He went into the library, where he hoped to find Nance. She was there; she had seated herself in a chair in front of a great fire; a book lay open on her lap, but she was not reading; with the tears undried on her cheeks, she was fast asleep. She looked weary, almost ethereal, in her sleep. Rowton looked at her fair face with a great pang at his heart.

“Poor lily flower,” he murmured; “she looks as unfit as girl could look to stand the storms of this troublesome world, and what storms she may have to encounter with her lot linked to mine, Heaven only knows. But there, perhaps I wrong her, there is, I sometimes think, muscle as well as weakness under all that delicate womanly charm. Poor little girl! shall I go away without telling her, or shall I tell her? No, I won’t shirk the nasty things which I undertook when I married one like her—she must bear her burden—Heaven knows I want to make it light to her. Yes, I’ll tell her.”

He went up to Nancy, knelt by her side, put his arms round her, and gently transferred her head from the sofa cushions to his breast. The movement, light as it was, awakened her. She opened her eyes, saw him looking down at her, and smiled at first dreamily and happily.

“Where am I?” she asked. “I thought I was back at San Remo—I remember now, I am at home, and you are with me.”

“I am glad you have had a sleep, Nance,” said her husband in a matter-of-fact voice. “Now I have something to say which is not quite pleasant.”

“What is that?” she asked.

She started up and pushed her hair from her brow.

“I remember everything now,” she repeated; “the garden which I am not to see, and the poor afflicted lady, and the dreadful man who walked across the grass.”

“The man has gone, dearest. I trust you may not be troubled with him again—in any case he has nothing whatever to do with you.”

“Then what unpleasant thing have you to tell me, Adrian?”

“Only that I must leave thee, sweetheart.”

“Leave me, leave me?” she asked, her face turning very white.

“But not for long.” Rowton bent forward and kissed her lips. “Only for a few hours at the worst. That man brought me a message which makes it imperative for me to go to town to-night. In fact, I am leaving almost immediately—I shall take the very next train from Pitstow. If my business is happily concluded I shall be back in time to go to church with you to-morrow, if not——”

“Why do you say ‘if not’?” she asked. “Is there any fear?”

“No, none really. Of course there is a possibility that I may not return in time for church—in that case, you will go with Murray; be sure you go, Nance, whether I am with you or not. Now I have not a moment to spare.”

Rowton walked across the room and rang the bell. When the servant appeared he gave orders that his dog-cart was to be brought round in a quarter of an hour. He then prepared to leave the room.

“Let me come with you and help you to pack,” said Nancy.

“To be sure, little woman, come along,” he said.

He took her hand and they went upstairs together. They passed through the beautiful bedroom into Rowton’s dressing-room. He thrust a few things into his Gladstone bag, then turned and took his wife in his arms.

“How much I must love you,” he said, “when I feel it horrible even to part for a few hours.”

“Can I not come with you?” she asked suddenly; “why should not I go to London with you this afternoon?”

“No, darling, it is best not. I shall have to leave you at times, sweetheart, and we must both get accustomed to the thing. Now I must say farewell. I’ll soon be back. Adieu, darling, adieu.”

Rowton ran downstairs, and Nancy watched him from the window of the dressing-room as he drove rapidly away.

He arrived at Pitstow Station a moment before the train was starting. He saw Scrivener pacing up and down the platform, but neither man, by word or glance, recognised the other. Rowton travelled first-class to town—Scrivener third. In due course they arrived at King’s Cross, when both men again went their several ways. Rowton drove to a small hotel in the neighbourhood of the Strand. It was a comfortable, cleanly place, but very unpretending and plain. He ordered something to eat and then went out into the Strand. He amused himself buying one or two trifles for Nancy. He then went to his club, the Shelton, where he smoked a cigar, and chatted with two or three men, who were all delighted to see him again. He invited several of his friends to stay at Rowton Heights, and altogether was much cheered by his time at the club.

“Lucky for you, Rowton, to be back in the old place once more,” said Charlie Danvers, a gay young Guardsman. Rowton had been at school with him.

“Wish I could clear off all my mortgages, and come in for my own,” said another man, whose name was Halliburton.

“I have heard a lot of your diggings, Rowton,” said a third; “the best place in the county; shall be delighted to accept your invitation. What time did you say?”

“I’ll write and fix a date,” said Rowton after a pause. “My wife and I mean to give a ball, but we must wait a little until the county magnates have time to call. I’ll want as many of you good fellows as will honour me to come down for the great occasion. I mean to do something with the hunting next season, but it is rather late to think much of that this year. The ball, however, is a different matter. You’ll all come for the ball, won’t you?”

Three or four promised, and Rowton made notes in his engagement book.

It was about ten o’clock when he left the club. He hailed a hansom then, and drove straight back to the quiet little hotel off the Strand. When he got there he went upstairs, changed his hat for a round one of somewhat shabby make, put on a light overcoat and came down again.

“Going out, sir?” said the landlord, who was standing in the hall.

“Yes, for a bit,” said Rowton.

The man noticed the change of dress and made no remark—many of his guests were out all night; he supplied them with latchkeys, and never sat up for them.

“A latchkey, sir?” he said now to Rowton.

“Thanks,” replied the owner of Rowton Heights in a nonchalant tone. He slipped the key into his pocket, and the next moment found himself again in the Strand.

He took another hansom and told the man to drive him as far as the Chelsea Embankment. It took about half an hour to get there. He got out just by the Embankment, paid the driver his fare and walked slowly on, bearing straight to his right all the time. By-and-by he found himself, still almost within sight of the Embankment, but in a low part of Chelsea. He went down several by-streets, being remarked by those who glanced at him by reason of his height and a certain uprightness of carriage which, try as he would, he could never get rid of. It was Saturday night, near midnight, and the place was all alive—barrows in the streets, hawkers everywhere, people buying and selling, children screaming, women arguing and gesticulating, good, hard-worked housewives hurrying home with well-laden baskets, drunken men staggering across the streets. Rowton passed quickly through their midst. The place smelt horribly. The air was heavy with the odours of stale fish and rotting vegetables.

“Contrasts,” muttered the man to himself. “Rowton Heights last night, Nance in her silver-grey dress, the old ancestral home—all the ‘noblesse oblige’ of long descent surrounding me and tingling in my veins! To-night, the slums, and I no stranger in them!”

He muttered an oath which scarcely reached his lips, but filled his heart with intolerable bitterness. He left the glaring street with all its light and noise, and turned abruptly down a dark passage. The next moment he had knocked with his knuckles in a peculiar way on a certain door. The door was cautiously opened by a girl in a dirty dress with a towzled fringe reaching to her eyebrows.

“Who is there?” she asked.

“Silver,” was the reply.

“Oh! Silver, thank Heaven you have come,” she answered.

“Hush! don’t speak so loud,” said Rowton in a low voice. “How are you, Sophy—pain in the back any better?”

“No, sir, I suffers awful still,” answered the poor slavey. “Glad you are back, sir; don’t think I can stay much longer.”

“Oh! yes, you can—here is a sovereign to put in your pocket.”

“Bless you, sir, bless you, Silver,” the girl murmured as she stifled back a sob. She slipped the coin into her mouth for greater safety, and abruptly turned to walk upstairs.

“Are they in the old rooms?” asked Rowton.

“Yes, sir, ten of ’em strong.”

“Then you need not come. I can find my own way.”

He bounded past her three steps at a time, opened a door without knocking and found himself in a long low room, which was now reeking with tobacco smoke and the fumes of whisky. Several men were stationed about the room, some sitting, some standing, some were smoking short pipes, some indulging in cigars, some were doing neither. There was a certain expectancy about all their faces, and when they saw Rowton it was more than evident that this expectancy was realised. They welcomed him with cheers; said, “Hullo, Silver, glad to see you back,” and motioned him forward into their midst.

CHAPTER XIII.
LONG JOHN.

Rowton nodded to one or two, and then going straight to the other end of the room, where a man was seated by a desk, bent down over him.

“Here I am,” he said; “you have sent for me. I am in a great hurry, as I want to take an early train back to Pitstow. What’s up, Piper? Why did you require me to come in such a hurry?”

The man addressed as Piper raised himself slowly and fixed two steady, luminous grey eyes on the speaker. He had an extraordinary face, with a certain marked power about it. The lips were very hard, but the eyes were tender as those of a woman. The face itself was long and extremely narrow—the brow high, with scanty hair which receded far from the temples; it was perfectly clean shaven, and was emaciated as well as long and thin. Even as the man looked full at Rowton, a hectic colour came and went on his cheeks. He was small and slenderly built, and why he went by the name of Long John would have puzzled a stranger to account for. At a first glance one would have taken him for an insignificant and somewhat effeminate person; but a second, revealing the pathos and beauty of the eyes, would not have failed to arrest attention, and a third glance from an observer of human nature, would have revealed the fact that the man possessed a strange and powerful personality.

“Now that you have come, you must listen to our business,” said Long John. “We have waited for five weeks to consult your pleasure—there is a good deal now to attend to. Are you there, Scrivener?”

“Yes,” said Scrivener, answering to his name.

Piper rose from his seat by the desk where he was carefully making notes, lifted a flap, slipped the notes under it, locked the desk and came forward into the centre of the room.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “now that Silver has come back, there is nothing to prevent our beginning the business of the evening.”

“No, nothing,” said several voices. “Right glad to see you again, Silver.”

Several signs then passed between the parties; certain instructions were read aloud by Long John, and commented upon in a terse, quick, eager voice by Scrivener. Two or three of the men fell to whispering, and one, who had seated himself close to Rowton, bent forward and said in a tone of almost affection:

“I feel comfortable and safe, now that you are going to be at the helm again.”

All this time Rowton was silent. Not that he lost a single word of what was going on—he was acquainted with all the ciphers—he knew the mysterious allusions. A sort of jargon was spoken which was not Greek to him. Still, he never opened his lips, although, after a time, he noticed that Long John constantly raised his lustrous eyes and fixed them on his face.

Suddenly that individual turned round and addressed him.

“Marrying at the time you did,” he said, “you put us all to the height of inconvenience. We lost that business in Spain by which we hoped to have secured enormous profits. You are a strong man, you give weight and solidity to all we do, and we cannot dispense with you. You were aware of the fact when you made that audacious demand for five weeks off duty. You have now returned to duty, and I presume will work extra hard for the privilege we have accorded you.”

“Thanks,” said Rowton. “I belong to you, and I shall, of course, do my best for the interests of the business.”

“That’s right,” said Long John after a pause. “The fact is, you have come back in the nick of time—that affair in Spain can, I find, be re-opened. Bonds to the tune of £20,000 are to be conveyed from Madrid to Paris by train on the night of the 20th. Spider will meet you in Madrid. How soon can you go there?”

Rowton started and looked troubled.

“Before I make any promises,” he said after a pause, “I wish to say something on another matter.”

“What is that?”

“I wish to ask a favour.”

“A favour, Silver,” said Scrivener. “You seem great at that sort of thing lately.”

“This matter is of much importance to me, Piper,” said Rowton, fixing his bold eyes on the meagre face of the other man. “I want the headquarters of our school to be removed from Rowton Heights.”

This demand was evidently most unexpected. The different men looked at each other with blank faces. Scrivener shook his head, leapt forward and whispered something in the ears of the man known by the name of Long John.

“It is quite impossible, Silver, and the matter cannot be further discussed,” said Piper in an incisive voice, which sounded like the snapping of steel.

His eyes changed their character as he spoke. They no longer looked gentle and pathetic; rays of light, cruel as hell itself, seemed to leap from their depths.

“Impossible,” he said; “not to be discussed. The place is absolutely convenient—above suspicion, and therefore invaluable. So no more. Your request is unequivocally refused.”

“I must bow to the inevitable,” said Rowton, slightly bending his head.

“Your marriage came at a most inconvenient time,” proceeded Piper; “but now that you are married and have elected to live at Rowton Heights, we all see our way to doing magnificent business. In your position as one of the wealthiest and most influential men of your county, you can give us information which will be more than useful. I will speak to you a while on that point. Meanwhile it is my wish that Scrivener should go and live at Pitstow. There is a village there, is there not?”

“A small town,” said Scrivener; “a healthy, bracing place. I need change of air.”

The other men laughed. Rowton remained pale and silent.

“It would be particularly disagreeable to me to have Scrivener in the neighbourhood,” he said after a pause.

“He may be useful,” said Piper. “He is to take lodgings at Pitstow next week. Now that affair is settled for the present. How soon can you start for Spain?”

“When must I go?”

“If you have arrangements to make at home we can give you until Monday to make your plans.”

“Thanks,” said Rowton. He rose as he spoke.

“You will come here again on Monday night?”

“I will.”

“Then come with me now into this inner room. I have something to say with regard to your duties as landlord and country gentleman.”

A queer expression crept over Rowton’s face; the healthy colour went out of it; it grew grey and deathlike in hue. He followed his strange host without a word.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE BUTLER’S PANTRY.

Nancy spent an almost sleepless night, and awoke the next day with a headache. She got up earlier than usual, and went downstairs. Murray was waiting for her in the hall—as usual, the boarhound, Roy, accompanied him.

“Roy wants to make friends with you, auntie,” said the child. “Come, Roy, come forward, do allegiance.”

The dog turned his eyes on the bright childish face, then he walked straight up to Nancy, lay down at full length at her feet, and tried to lick her shoe with his tongue.

“There, you belong to us now,” said Murray, delighted. “Is not Roy wonderful? I whispered all that to him this morning. He seems to understand almost as if he were a person. It is so nice to think that there are three of us all of one mind—you, and Roy, and I. I know I shall be awfully happy at Rowton Heights in the future.”

“Come to breakfast now, Murray,” said Nancy, holding out her hand.

He clasped it in his and danced into the breakfast room by her side.

“This is Sunday,” he said presently, giving her a glance, as bold and direct as Rowton’s own.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Rowton.

“Sunday means church. Are you going to church?” asked the child.

Nancy remembered Rowton’s wish on that subject.

“I don’t want to,” she said, “for my head aches; but all the same I shall go.”

“That is awfully brave of you,” replied Murray. “I am delighted, for I always have to go, and I have to sit in that dull old square pew by myself. I hope, auntie, now that you have come to Rowton Heights, you will get the Rowton pew altered, and made like everybody else’s. It is so dull not to see the congregation.”

“Is the pew so high as all that?” asked Nance.

“Yes; if you sit down—I mean if you happen to be a child—you are quite lost to the congregation. Perhaps you will be seen, and perhaps you will see, for you are tall. I like tall girls. I shall marry a very tall girl when I grow up.”

Nancy could not help smiling. The boy’s chatter, the gaiety of his sweet, high laugh, the look in his eyes, ever and always reminding her of Adrian, gave her more pleasure than she knew.

“I see we shall be capital friends,” she said, looking at him affectionately. “We’ll often talk together of that tall girl whom you are to marry. Now come out into the grounds; a little of the fresh air may take off my headache.”

They walked about for some time, and then a beautifully-appointed carriage being brought round, Nancy ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and mantle, and she and Murray drove to church together.

After all, Rowton did not come back in time to go with them. Nancy’s heart sank within her. She did not want to face the eager and curious congregation without him. Her life had been so solitary for such a number of years that she was often affected by almost painful shyness—she felt queerly shy now, and quite trembled as she walked up the little church. A verger went before her, opened the family pew with much ceremony, and ushered in the bride and Murray Cameron. Murray had very quick perceptions. He seemed to guess all that Nancy was feeling—accordingly he sat close to her, seeming to take possession of her. He found her places for her, and saw that she was accommodated with a comfortable footstool; now and then his eyes fixed themselves on her lovely face; when he saw that it looked pale and sad, he slipped his little hand into hers.

The service was about half way through, when the pew door was suddenly opened, and, to Nancy’s surprise, and indescribable delight, Rowton came in. He just glanced at her and then seated himself at her other side. His face looked perfectly serene and contented. Nancy’s face now shared the look of apparent happiness which was seen on his. All her depression vanished on the instant—she felt comforted, soothed, blissful. He had gone away, but he had come back again; the first separation was over; how full of delight were the joys of reunion!

After church Rowton stopped to speak to one or two friends. He introduced Nancy to an old lady with a kindly face, and beautiful grey hair.

“This is my wife, Lady Joyce.”

Lady Joyce favoured Nance with a piercing and yet kindly glance. She held out her hand cordially.

“I am delighted to see you, Mrs. Rowton,” she said. “I hope to have the pleasure of calling on you to-morrow. It was a good day for us all when this young man married and elected to bring his bride back to Rowton Heights.”

Rowton smiled and said something in a light tone. His remark, of a trivial nature, amused the old lady; she laughed in a very hearty way, shaking her sides as she did so.

“Ah! you always were a sad dog,” she said. “Don’t forget that I have known you since you were as tall as that little lad,” pointing to Murray as she spoke. “Mrs. Rowton, I’ll have plenty of tales to tell you of that good husband of yours when we get better acquainted—so you had better keep in my good graces, young man, for you were a pickle when you were young.”

The good lady hobbled off to her carriage as she spoke. Rowton helped her in, and presently Nance, he, and the boy, returned home.

The rest of the day passed without anything special occurring. Rowton and his wife took a walk together. In the evening they sat in the library and Rowton told her stories with regard to several of the books. He never alluded to the sorrow which he knew was waiting for her the next day.

“Time enough,” he said to himself; “I need not leave here till three o’clock in the afternoon—there is a train at three-thirty which will take me to King’s Cross in sufficient time. Let me see, I need not tell her to-night, nor will I tell her to-morrow, until after lunch; we’ll have what happiness we can. After all it may be all right, and I may come back safe and sound, or——” he paused in his own thoughts. A picture rose up before his eyes. He saw himself a corpse, shot through the heart—such an event was more than probable. He knew that he was going into grave danger—that, in very truth, he was about to carry his life in his hand.

“No matter, but for her,” he said to himself. “I am sick of the whole thing, and to die fighting would be the heart of my desire; but I cannot leave her to face what may any moment be before her. No, I must court caution this time—I must avoid risks. Her happiness must come first with me—her happiness! Ah! Nance, what are you looking at me so earnestly for?”

“I see you are not reading,” said Nancy, flinging down her own book.

“No more I am,” he replied. “Come and sit on my knee, little woman. By the way, I have a piece of work for us both to-morrow.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“I want us to overhaul the family plate.”

“Have we much plate?” asked Nance.

“Have we much plate?” he answered, mimicking her tone; “something like three or four thousand pounds’ worth I should say.”

“Adrian!”

“Well, wait until I show it to you to-morrow. My grandfather was celebrated for collecting plate. A good deal of it was mortgaged when my father got into difficulties, but we managed to rescue almost the whole of it. I want to have it all out to-morrow, for I have ordered a special safe of a peculiar make to be sent down from town. Of course there are several men servants in the house; but it is not well to have such a lot of plate unless perfectly secured. I have ordered a safe, however, which would baffle the efforts of the most accomplished burglar in the world. Now let us talk no more about it. If you are not tired, I am. Remember, I was up the whole of last night—suppose we go to bed.”

“I am so sleepy that I can scarcely keep my eyes open,” said Nancy.

“All right, come upstairs.”

The night was over, and the next day, immediately after breakfast, Rowton and Nancy, accompanied by Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper, went to the butler’s pantry, where a show of magnificent plate was arranged for them to view.

“This is not all by any means,” said Rowton, running his eyes over the articles as he spoke. “Where are the gold-plated things? I don’t see them.”

“In this chest, sir,” said Mrs. Ferguson.

“Open it, pray. I want Mrs. Rowton thoroughly to understand in what her property consists.”

The chest in question, a very heavy one, which was standing on the floor, was opened by a curious mechanism of keys which completely puzzled Nance. Its contents made a dazzling show; gold-plated spoons of every size and shape, forks, large and small, dessert knives and forks; in short, a complete assortment for the requirements of a good-sized party stood revealed before her.

“See,” said Rowton, taking up one, “these spoons have all got the Rowton crest on them, and just where the crest ends, a ruby of great value has been introduced. They are unique of their kind and are undoubtedly almost priceless.”

“Heaven preserve us, sir,” said Mrs. Ferguson; “I often tremble in my shoes when I think of the plate that is in this house. Why, it would tempt any burglar in the land. I say to Vickers, ‘Vickers, never show this chest to any of the young footmen—you never can tell what friends they have outside.’ That was why I did not open it, sir, until your good lady and you were in the room.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said Rowton; “it would, as you say, never do to let this kind of thing get abroad. I have often half an idea to transfer this chest to the bank at Pitstow; but on second thoughts, what is the use of having pretty and valuable things if we do not use them? Now then, Mrs. Ferguson, open the secret spring of the safe and bring out the jewel case.”

“If you have no objection, sir, I’ll first of all lock the pantry door and draw down the blind.”

“As you please, my good soul; but you don’t suppose that burglars are about at this hour?”

“No, no, sir, of course not, but it’s best to make all safe.”

Rowton stood very upright, with an inscrutable smile on his lips which Nancy remembered by-and-by, as Mrs. Ferguson locked the door, and drew down the venetian blind. The room was now in semi-darkness, but there was plenty of light to see the brilliancy of the magnificent diamond necklet, which he presently lifted out of its velvet case.

“Here,” he said to Nance, “this is yours.”

“Mine?” she answered, her colour coming and going.

“Yes, yours—you shall wear it at the ball. There are heaps of other things, but I flatter myself that the necklet has scarcely its second, certainly not in the county, and perhaps not in the kingdom. I’ll give you its history some day. Ah! it could tell several tales if it could but speak! Here are rubies—magnificent, are they not?”

“Yes, yes,” said Nancy; “how they shine, they seem to fascinate me.”

“Jewels of such value often have that effect on people,” said Rowton. “What is the matter, Mrs. Ferguson? You look quite scared!”

“I never knew those things were here,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “It’s a-tempting of Providence—they ought not to be in the house, that they ought not. It’s enough to frighten me into leaving my situation.”

“What! you would leave us?” said Rowton.

“No, no, sir, you know I would not; but to have diamonds and rubies like those! why, they flash so it is enough to tempt one. There’s something awful uncanny about them. Oh! I don’t say that they are not beautiful; but they look like evil eyes fastening on one—they ought not to be here, sir, in a lonely country house—they ought not, really.”

“I agree with you, Mrs. Ferguson,” said Rowton, “and I shall take measures to have all this valuable plate and these jewels properly secured. This old safe, strong as it looks, is practically of no use at all. I have ordered another down from town. It will arrive to-morrow or the next day, accompanied by several experts, who will give you, Vickers, Mrs. Rowton, and myself, the cipher of how it is worked. No one will be able to open the safe who does not understand the cipher.”

“Then, sir,” said the housekeeper, “I beg to say at once, that no consideration on earth will make me learn it. I’d rather lose a thousand pounds than know how to open that safe.”

“Nonsense, woman,” said Rowton, the colour coming into his face as he spoke. “I think that will do now. Put the jewels back again, and the gold plate and the rest of the things. They have lain here for many a month, not to say years, and they may well stay here in safety for a few days longer. Now come along, Nance mine, I want to take you to the stables. Do you know anything about riding?”

“I used to ride when I was a girl, and when we lived in Harley Street,” said Nance.

“Ah! true,” he said, linking her arm in his and drawing her away from the pantry.

Vickers, the butler, was standing outside. He was an elderly man, stoutly built, with a good-natured and good-humoured face.

“Go into the pantry and help Mrs. Ferguson put away the plate,” said his master.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man.

He disappeared immediately, and Nancy and her husband went out of doors.

“I forgot,” he said, “that up to the age of—how old were you, Nance, when you left Harley Street?”

“Fifteen,” she replied.

“Up to the age of fifteen you had all the things which rich girls possess.”

“Yes, all,” she answered, tears springing suddenly to her eyes. “The best home, the best father, the most loving mother——” she bit her lips and could not go on. She had a vision before her at that moment of Anthony’s splendid young strength, of his courage, his nobleness. She knew now of whom Murray reminded her. He was like Rowton in feature, but, in heart and mind, he was Anthony’s counterpart.

Rowton glanced at her face and guessed something of her thoughts.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a certain gravity which was full of sweetness; “I see that as far as possible, I must banish memory from you. You must live, my beloved, in the glorious present, and forget all those shadows of your early youth.”

“But why forget its sunshine?” she answered.

“Yes, you must even forget its sunshine,” he replied; “for that sun of long ago casts a deep shadow on you now.”

“It does,” she answered, “it does.”

“You will try to forget it?”

“I will,” she replied.

They reached the stables, and he showed her a thoroughbred mare, spirited, obedient to a touch, gentle as a lamb, with a mouth like silk, and a coat which shone like the brightest satin.

“Ho! Bonny Jean,” said her master. The creature raised its perfect head—it had a white star on its forehead—whinnied in some excitement, and thrust its nose into Rowton’s hand.

“This is your mistress, Bonny Jean,” said Rowton again. “You must resume your riding lessons, Nancy,” he continued. “Murray can sit any horse that ever was broken in, or unbroken in for that matter, and when I am not here, he must accompany you—you must ride a good bit. After a little practice you’ll be able to follow the hounds.”

“And you,” she answered, “which is your horse?”

He showed her a beautiful hunter, which went by the name of Peregrine.

“These two make a perfect pair,” he said. “We’ll have many a good canter on their backs. By the way, I must order a habit for you. I will the next time I go to town.”

Nancy did not reply.

The happy morning passed all too swiftly. Lunch was scarcely over before the sound of wheels on the gravel proclaimed the first of the visitors who were calling to pay their respects to the bride.

The lady who drove up now was one of the characters of the neighbourhood—her name was Lady Georgina Strong. She drove herself, and stepped lightly down from the high dog-cart, throwing the reins as she did so to her groom.

Rowton and Nance were standing on the steps of the beautiful old house when she appeared.

“Welcome to Rowton Heights,” said Rowton, taking off his hat and advancing to meet her.

She held out her hand to him, and favoured him with a frank and scrutinising glance.

“How do you do?” she said in a brisk, high voice; “and so this is the baby—come here, baby, and be introduced.”

“How do you do?” she said, in a brisk, high voice.—Page 119.

In some astonishment Nancy ran down the steps.

Lady Georgina gazed at her out of two dark bright eyes, which were rendered more intensely brilliant by means of her pince-nez.

“Ah!” she said, “you are a pretty, fair little girl—no wonder you bowled him over. I was curious to see what sort of a woman could take that fortress. I have known him for close on twenty years—off and on, that is—and I never yet, poke as I would, pry as I would, search as I would, discovered that he had the vestige of a heart. Where did you find it, my dear—under the fifth rib, eh?”

Nancy laughed, but without much cordiality; she did not understand this dashing dame. Rowton, however, seemed to enjoy her badinage thoroughly.

“Come in,” he said, “come in. You have arrived in the nick of time. You always were the most good-natured woman in the world, Lady Georgina, and I trust to your kind clemency for the present moment.”

“Anything that I can do for you, my good friend, you are more than welcome to,” she answered. She walked on with him—he led her into the largest of the drawing-rooms. Nancy followed slowly. Rowton glanced back and saw her at some little distance—she had stopped to speak to Murray, and to caress Roy, who was fast becoming her slave.

“One moment,” said Rowton abruptly, turning and speaking with eagerness. “I am obliged to leave that child in less than half an hour. I am going away.”

“One of the mysterious absences?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Will you be good to her until I come back?” he whispered.

There was no time to add any more.

“I will, I will,” said Lady Georgina.

Nance came up to them.

CHAPTER XV.
LEAH.

Nance could read faces very quickly.

“What is the matter?” she said, looking at her husband.

He hesitated for a moment. It seemed cruel to tell her before Lady Georgina; but after all it might be the best way.

“I was telling this good old friend of mine,” he said, “that I am obliged to leave Rowton Heights in a few minutes. I was asking her to be good to you during my absence.”

Nance had a good deal of pride, and also much latent strength of character. Had Rowton given her this information when they were alone, she would probably have cried and fallen on his neck; now she only turned very pale, drew herself up until her slender but stately height gave her new-born dignity, and said in a gentle tone:

“Thank you for thinking about me. I did not know you were going away. Shall you be back to-morrow?”

“Plucky darling,” said Rowton under his breath. Aloud he said: “I shall be away for a few days. I will write to you from town.”

“And where are you going?” she asked in a curiously steady tone.

“I will let you know from town.”

“But are you going soon?” she asked again.

“In five minutes, dearest.”

“Then,” she answered, “I had better ring the bell to order the dog-cart round.”

“If you’ll be so kind, Nance,” he replied.

She went across the room and pressed the button of the electric bell, then she walked to one of the windows and stood looking out.

“I admire this view very much, don’t you?” she said to Lady Georgina.

“It is one of the most superb views in the county, Mrs. Rowton,” said that good lady, marching up to Nancy’s side.

“I will help her out—she has stuff in her,” thought the lady. “By the way,” she said, turning abruptly to Rowton, “what do you think of that mare I chose for you?”

“I was just showing her to Nancy,” said Rowton, smiling and looking relieved; “she is perfect.”

“You would say so if you saw her pedigree. Now, Mrs. Rowton, I propose to call here early to-morrow morning to take you out for a ride. Without conceit I can say of myself that I am one of the most accomplished horsewomen in the county. Will you be ready for me by nine o’clock?”

“So early?” asked Nance.

“So early!” exclaimed Lady Georgina; “I am often on horseback at seven o’clock. Ah! and you might bring your husband’s little nephew with you; that boy rides splendidly—he has no fear in him.”

Nancy did not reply. The sound of wheels was heard on the gravel.

“There is the dog-cart,” she said, looking at Rowton.

“So it is,” he answered—he looked at his watch—“and time for me to be off too. I see they have put the luggage on. Good-bye, Lady Georgina, a thousand thanks. Good-bye, little woman, expect to hear from me from town.”

“Good-bye, Adrian,” said Nancy. Her voice felt like ice, but her heart was on fire.

Rowton took her in his arms and pressed her to his breast; his lips met hers passionately, his eyes, bold and yet full of subdued anguish, looked into hers. He turned abruptly, the door sounded behind him, and a moment later the crunching of wheels on the gravel became distinctly audible.

“I would not overdo it,” said Lady Georgina, looking at Nance.

“Overdo what?” she answered somewhat proudly.

“Well, you know you feel horribly lonely without that good fellow. I never saw anything more plucky in my life than the way you subdued your feelings and let him go away without a murmur, but you need not mind me—I am the soul of frankness—the essence of openness. I always say what I think and show what I feel. You can copy me. It strikes me, by the way, that you and I are going to be friends.”

“I hope so,” said Nancy.

“I know it, that is, if you will have me. I am a good friend, Mrs. Rowton, and a very nasty enemy. You may as well take me as a friend, will you?”

“You are Adrian’s friend, and you shall be mine,” said Nancy.

“That is right. Now, look here, child. I am not going to leave you to your own miserable feelings for the rest of the day. I know that good man you have married fifty times better than you do.”

“I can scarcely allow you to think that,” said Nancy.

“Oh! tut, tut, of course, I don’t mean the love-making side of him. He never would make love to anybody, although half the girls round the Heights had a try for it in the old days; but I know a side of him that you do not know. He is restless, he is essentially a rover—a gay rover, we all call him here. You must get accustomed to his vanishing in the peculiar way he has just vanished—he will come back as suddenly; without the least warning, any day or any hour the sunshine of his presence will once more light up the house. Now, come for a walk in the grounds—and, oh! by the way, pray invite me to dinner.”

Nancy could scarcely forbear from smiling.

“Will you stay?” she asked.

“Scarcely a cordial invitation,” said Lady Georgina, biting her lips and smiling; “all the same I shall accept it. If you will excuse me, I’ll just go and speak to my groom; he can take Dandy round to the stables. I need not send for a dinner dress, need I?”

“Oh, no; stay as you are,” said Nance. She felt slightly stunned, but Lady Georgina’s presence forced her to rouse herself.

They went into the grounds. The day was sunshiny, and the first signs of spring began to be apparent in some delicate buds of green which were coming out on the ribes and other of the hardiest shrubs. As they walked side by side, Lady Georgina kept up a flow of small talk. She was a woman of considerable character, although at first sight she appeared to be nothing but froth and frivolity. She had a kindly and sterling heart. She knew more about Rowton than he had any idea of, and she pitied Nance from the bottom of her heart.

“How pretty she is!” she said to herself. “Anyone can see that she is madly in love with that handsome lion. Poor child, what will her future be? If my suspicions are correct, what chance has she of lasting happiness? Well, I like her husband, whatever his failings, and I am going to like her.”

Accordingly Lady Georgina put out her really great powers, and before long Nance had submitted to her charm. They walked about for over an hour and then came in to tea. Afterwards Nance took her guest up to her bedroom.

Hester entered to attend to the ladies. When she had withdrawn Lady Georgina spoke about her to Nance.

“I know that girl,” she said; “her name is Hester Winsome. She used to be one of my favourite pupils in the village school. She went off to London when she was fifteen. I have heard things of her since, which were not absolutely in her favour. Why have you engaged her as your maid?”

“I do not know anything about it,” said Nance. “Mrs. Ferguson brought her to me on the night of my arrival. She told me she was a girl from the village who had been thoroughly trained in London.”

“Oh! I don’t doubt the training,” said Lady Georgina. “I think she got a start when she saw me—she pretended not to recognise me. Frankly, I don’t like her.”

“Nor do I in my heart,” said Nancy; “but she is very attentive and clever.”

“Clever! too clever,” said Lady Georgina. “Don’t let her pry into your secrets.”

“My secrets—I have none,” said Nance. Then she paused and coloured crimson. She remembered the great secret which pressed upon her day and night.

“Why do you get so red, child?” said Lady Georgina. “You say you have no secrets, but your face says you have. Now, don’t tempt me. If I have a fault, it is curiosity, inordinate curiosity. I never betray a friend, and once I know the truth I never question, and never, never pry; but until I know the truth I am—well, I cannot help it—troublesome. Don’t show me a little, Nance Rowton, for if you do I shall poke out all.”

“I am sure you won’t,” said Nancy—“you are too much of a lady.”

“Now, was there ever such a snub!” said Lady Georgina, tapping her foot somewhat impatiently on the floor as she spoke. “Child, you are quite refreshing. If you speak in that frank way to everyone else you will bowl all the county over; but I hear wheels—more visitors—come along down and I will help you to entertain them.”

Until quite late in the afternoon, until the winter’s day had faded into dark, Nance and Lady Georgina, or rather Lady Georgina herself, entertained the county at Rowton Heights.

Each neighbour with the least pretensions to gentility hastened to pay respect to Rowton’s fair bride.

“You must begin to return all these visits in a few days,” said Lady Georgina.

“I cannot until Adrian comes back,” said Nance.

“Oh! nonsense, you must manage to lead an interested and happy life apart from that husband of yours.”

“No, I won’t,” said Nance proudly.

“Oh! you won’t. You will sing a different tune after a time. I tell you, Mrs. Rowton, he has got his own pursuits, and he will follow them to the death in spite of you or twenty girls like you, and you’ll die of ennui if you have not your own individual interests. You must begin to return these calls by the end of the week, and then invitations will pour in. If Mr. Rowton is at home he will go with you, if not, you must go by yourself or with me. I shall be delighted to chaperone you to any extent.”

Nance bowed her head somewhat wearily. A good deal of Lady Georgina’s gay chatter was scarcely heard by her. She admitted all the kindness, but her heart was sore, and she longed indescribably to be alone. When the good lady at last took her leave, Nancy could not help giving vent to a sigh of relief. Soon afterwards she went upstairs to bed.

On the way to her own room, just outside the door she came face to face with her maid, Hester, who was talking to an elderly woman, with sandy hair and a broad freckled face. The woman had straight lips, a jaw of iron, and pale light blue eyes. She was dressed very neatly, but not in the dress of an ordinary servant. Her hair was tightly braided and she wore it perfectly smooth.

“Well, good night, Leah,” said Hester, as Mrs. Rowton appeared on the scene.

The woman called Leah favoured Nancy with a prolonged and undoubtedly curious stare.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said; then she dropped a curtsey and disappeared down a passage.

“Who is that?” asked Nancy of Hester.

“She is the caretaker of the poor mad lady,” replied Hester.

“Then what is she doing in this part of the house?”

“She was only talking to me about her charge, Mrs. Rowton. She says that poor Mrs. Cameron is very queer to-night, and Leah wanted to know if I would go and help her to sit up with her.”

“Well, of course you won’t, Hester,” said Nance. “I do not know anything about the case, but you surely want your night’s rest, and I am sure Mr. Rowton——”

“Oh!” said Hester, with a toss of her head, “Mr. Rowton would not interfere with a thing of this sort. Leah does want help at times, for Mrs. Cameron is terribly violent. Indeed, I cannot make out why she is not put into an asylum like other mad ladies.”

“It is not your business to discuss that question,” replied Nance.

“Of course not, ma’am, and I am sorry I forgot myself.” Hester spoke in a subdued voice; she turned her back on Nance, who did not see the angry and vindictive flash in her eyes. “Shall I take down your hair now, ma’am?” she asked, speaking in a tone almost of servility.

“Thank you, no, I prefer to wait on myself to-night.”

“As you please, ma’am. I have left everything ready and comfortable in your bedroom. You are quite sure you would not like me to help you to get into bed?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“Very well, ma’am, then I think with your permission I’ll go to Leah; I am not at all nervous with the insane, but Leah, strong as she looks, gets quite overpowered at times.”

“But surely Leah has not the care of Mrs. Cameron by herself?” asked Nance. The words were almost forced from her, for she had the greatest dislike to discussing the matter with Hester.

“Oh! yes, ma’am, I assure you it is so—those two always sleep alone in the Queen Anne wing. After all, it is only occasionally that it is necessary for Leah to have assistance. Well, I’ll go to her now—I like to be good-natured.”

“Good night,” said Nance.

“Good night, madam; I hope you’ll sleep well.”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE LADY IN THE WOOD.

True to her promise Lady Georgina arrived at nine o’clock the following day to take Nance for a ride. They had an hour and a half of vigorous exercise, and Mrs. Rowton returned home with spirits raised in spite of herself. A letter from her husband awaited her—it was dated from a big London hotel and was written late the evening before. She seized it, opened it eagerly, and with eyes full of passionate love and anxiety, devoured the contents. The letter was short, and although every word breathed affection, there was little or no information to be obtained from the hurried scrawl.

“I am leaving England, Nance, for a short time,” wrote her husband. “I cannot give you any information with regard to where I am going. In short, my darling must make up her mind to do without hearing from me for a few weeks. I know this is hard on you, Nance, as it also is on me. The fates are bitterly hard on us both, but we married, did we not, accepting the position, and we must now endeavour to make the best of things. Unexpectedly some day I shall be again at your side. Meanwhile, believe that I am well, very well; believe that I will take all possible care of myself, for your sweet sake; believe also, that all my heart is yours—my best thoughts are yours. Good-bye, my angel.

“Your loving

“Adrian.

“P.S.—Do not mention to anyone that I am out of England for a time. You can say, if questioned, that I am detained on business in town.”

“No, I won’t tell a lie,” said Nance to herself proudly.

She did not add any more. Even with her own anxious, beating heart, she refused to commune over the contents of her letter. A flush burned on either cheek, her eyes grew bright, with the brightness which often precedes tears, but no tears came to them. She read the brief letter over twice, then folded it up and slipped it into her pocket.

As she did this she noticed that Murray had come into the room, that he had observed her action, and that his bold eyes, so like her husband’s, were fixed on her face.

“Don’t look at me like that, Murray,” she said with a note in her voice which sounded like a sob.

For answer the boy sprang to her side.

“Cry if you want to, auntie,” he said. “I know you want to. That letter was from Uncle Adrian, was it not?”

“Yes, Murray.”

“And he told you that he must be away from home for a little?”

“Yes, dear. We won’t talk of it now.”

“But why not?” said Murray. “Why not talk of it to me? You see I am accustomed to the sort of thing, Aunt Nancy; when I was young, quite a little fellow, I had a mad, passionate feeling for Uncle Adrian, and when he went away as he has done now and would give no address, I used nearly to go wild. I used to stray off all by myself and have a terrible time. But by-and-by, I saw it was foolish to make myself ill. He always came back again, and I was glad, very glad, to see him. I thought him perfect then,” concluded the boy.

“And you don’t think him perfect now?” said Nance.

He looked full at her, shut up his lips and was silent.

“I think you perfect,” he said after a long pause. “Don’t fret too much, Aunt Nancy; but if you do fret, talk about it all to me, for though I am a boy in years, some things have happened—yes, they have happened here at beautiful Rowton Heights—which have turned me into a man. There are times when I think I am almost an old man, for I feel quite a weight of care, although, of course, I don’t talk of it. Don’t keep your grief too much to yourself, Aunt Nancy, and be sure of one thing—that Uncle Adrian will come back. Some day he’ll walk into the room. He’ll just whistle as he knows how, and open the door and come in, and then it will be all sunshine.”

“You are a dear little chap,” said Nancy, bending forward and kissing him.

He flushed when she did so.

“I love you so much,” he said enthusiastically. “Now I am the man and I shall look after you. Have you eaten anything since you had your ride?”

“No; I had breakfast quite early and I am not hungry.”

“But that will never do. You must have some wine and a biscuit. Uncle Adrian would wish it. Of course, he intended me to take great care of you. It must have been an awful comfort to him to feel that I was about when he had to leave you. I know where the wine is—I’ll go and fetch it.”

He ran off and returned in a moment or two with a glass of port and a box of biscuits.

Nancy drank off the wine and felt all the better.

“Now you are to come out with me,” said the boy. “I have planned our day. My tutor, Mr. Dixon, is not coming at all to-day. Uncle Adrian said I might have two days’ holiday in order to look properly after you, and won’t we have a good time of it! Are you up to a long, long walk?”

“Yes, anything,” said Nance. “Anything is better than the house.”

“Of course it is, and the day is so lovely. Well, come along, we’ll make for the Rowton Woods. The road is all uphill, remember. You will be pretty dead beat by the time you get there. Suppose we take some luncheon with us?”

“Yes, that will be capital,” said Nancy; “much better than coming back to a stately lunch here.”

“Oh! much better,” answered Murray, with a gleeful laugh. “I’ll run and order sandwiches and a basket of grapes. Stay where you are, auntie; I’ll be with you soon.”

Half an hour later the pair started off. Murray carried the grapes, and Nance the basket of sandwiches. They looked like two children as they crossed the grounds, passed through a stile, and found themselves in a low-lying meadow which led to the opening which by-and-by was to bring them into the famous Rowton Woods. In spite of her grief, in spite of the fact that her husband’s letter, his mysterious letter, lay in her pocket unanswered because it was impossible for her to answer it, Nancy’s spirits rose. Her little companion was too healthy and charming not to exercise a beneficial effect over her. Soon his gay laughter evoked hers, and Nance found it possible to endure life even though Adrian was away.

“I wish, Murray,” she said, as presently they turned their steps homeward, “that you and I might have the Heights all to ourselves. I should never be lonely if I had plenty of your society.”

“I love to hear you say that,” answered the boy.

“Ha! ha!” laughed a voice in their ears.

The sound seemed to come from the ground beneath them. They turned instinctively and saw a lady seated under a large tree. She was dressed somewhat peculiarly in a neat little bonnet and mantle of old-world cut, and a black alpaca dress. She wore cotton gloves, and although it was winter and the sun was about to set, held a parasol, made of some light fancy silk, over her head.

Nancy first thought that this peculiarly-dressed woman was one of her neighbours. Murray touched her arm, however, and when she glanced at him, she was forced to draw a different conclusion. His handsome little face had turned deadly white.

“Go on, auntie,” he said in a whisper. “Don’t be a bit frightened. Just go on quite quietly through the wood. I’ll follow you in a moment.”

“But who is that lady, Murray?”

“My mother,” answered the boy. “I must speak to her. I am not a bit afraid.”

“But I am—it is not safe for you to be alone, I won’t leave you,” said Nancy, her voice shaking in spite of herself.

“Ha! ha! what a nice little conversation you two are having,” said the eccentric-looking lady, rising to her feet as she spoke and going towards Nancy. “You are frightened, my pretty girl, although you try not to show it. Well, perhaps you have cause. I know very well that there are times when I am very dangerous. At times, too, I have got unnatural strength. But it so happens that to-day I am in a quiet and tractable mood.”

“Let me take you home, mother,” said Murray. He ran up to her side and laid his hand on her arm.

She shook it off with a sudden fierce gesture.

“Don’t touch me,” she shrieked; “you are the boy. It was on account of you I got into all that trouble. I won’t speak to you! I won’t look at you! Get out of my sight—go, at once!”

Her eyes, hitherto quiet, and, although somewhat wandering in their expression, intelligent enough, began to blaze now with a fierce and terrible fury.

“Go, Murray,” said Nancy; “go quickly back to the house. Your presence excites your poor mother. No; I am not frightened now. Go, dear, no harm will happen to me.”

“Yes, go, Murray Cameron,” shrieked his mother. “I don’t want you about. When I look at you, mischievous, wild, uncontrollable thoughts come into my head. Run away, child—get out of my sight as quickly as you can. I have come here on purpose to speak to this young lady, and I won’t be foiled by twenty little chaps like you. Go away, go at once.”

Nance nodded her head emphatically to the boy. He glanced from the mad to the sane woman, and then turning abruptly, walked down the hill. When he had gone a little distance he slipped behind a tree and waited with a palpitating heart for the issue of events.

The moment he was out of sight, Mrs. Cameron strode straight up to Nance and laid her hand on her arm.

“Look at me,” she said.

With an effort Nancy raised her frightened eyes.

“I have no reason to dislike you,” said the mad woman, “and you need not fear me. I am anxious to have a right good stare at you, though. I am devoured with curiosity about you.”

“Well, here I am,” said Nance.

“Here you are, indeed. What a finicking sort of voice you have, and your face, although pretty, is not worth much. Perhaps I am wrong though—you have an obstinate chin—I am glad you have an obstinate chin. You may possibly have strength of character. I hate people without strength of character.”

As she spoke, the woman placed her hand under Nancy’s chin, raised her face and looked full into it. Her dancing wild eyes scanned each feature. Presently she turned away laughing again.

“I do not hate you,” she said; “after all, you are harmless—you cannot interfere with me. I hate your husband, though, and I hate Murray Cameron.”

“But Murray is your child,” said Nancy, shocked.

“He is; but he has interfered with me, and I hate him. It was after his birth I went off my head. Have I not good reason to dislike one who did me an injury of that sort? I loved the boy’s father. Pah! what am I talking about? Love was my undoing. Yes, I have had a strange history. I’ll tell you my story some day, Mrs. Adrian Rowton. You must come and see me some day in the Queen Anne wing.”

“Well, let me take you home now,” said Nance in a soothing tone.

“You have quite an agreeable way of speaking; and as you are not related to me by any blood ties, I am willing to be civil to you. Call out to that boy to get out of my sight—I know he is hiding behind that tree yonder. You are perfectly safe—I would not hurt a hair of your pretty head. But he is different.”

“Go home, Murray,” called out Nance.

He gave a low whistle in answer, and they heard his footsteps vanishing down the hill.

“Now that is right,” said the mad woman, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now I can really talk to you. Would you like to know why I am not confined in an asylum? Would you like to know why I am kept in that dull Queen Anne wing? You could not guess the reason, but I will tell it to you.”

“You shall some day,” said Nancy; “but now let me take you home.”

“I will tell you before I go. I have followed you on purpose to tell you. Do you know what you did when you married Adrian Rowton?”

“Made myself very happy,” said Nancy in a faltering voice.

“So you think, you poor goose. Do you know what Adrian Rowton is?”

“I would rather you did not tell me.”

“Ha! ha! you are frightened, my pretty little dear. That good husband of yours is away from home and he won’t give you his address. Ha! ha! he says he will come back again unexpectedly, does he not? Ha! ha! ha! Well, so he will. Now you ask him a question when he returns—ask him what goes on in the Queen Anne wing at night—in the cellars, I mean. There are big cellars under that part of the house—ask him what they are used for. Ask him, too, why his mad sister is not put into an asylum; why she is used as a—ha! ha!—a blind—ha! ha!”

“Now, madam, what nonsense this is. Come home this minute. You shall suffer for this conduct.”

A strong voice rose on the air, firm steps were heard approaching. The poor mad lady glanced round with a wild expression; suddenly she clung close to Nance.

“Save me, save me!” she gasped; “that is Leah’s voice. At times she is awfully cruel to me. Sometimes she beats me. Oh, save me!”

The poor creature’s voice rang out on the air with a wild scream.

CHAPTER XVII.
CROSSLEY.

The woman whom Nance had seen the night before came forward with quick strides.

“None of this folly, Mrs. Cameron,” she said in a powerful voice. “Leave that young lady alone this minute, or you know perfectly well what will happen. Now take my arm. You have disobeyed me and you know you must be punished.”

The miserable creature seemed to shrink and collapse into herself. She gave Nance a piteous look.

Nance’s kind heart was immediately touched.

“Do not be hard on her,” she said, speaking to Leah; “she really meant no harm. She came out on purpose to see me. She was curious, I suppose—it was perfectly natural, was it not?”

“Yes, yes, that is it—it was perfectly natural,” said the mad woman. “You hear her, Leah, she said I meant no harm. I only came out to tell her what she ought to know. For instance—the cellars.”

“Hold your tongue this minute,” said Leah. “If you’ll have the goodness, madam,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Rowton, “to leave us now, I think I can take Mrs. Cameron home quietly. She was excited last night and is not quite herself. Of course, you know well enough, that anything she may tell you is not of the slightest consequence.”

“Ha! ha! Leah, you know better than that,” laughed Mrs. Cameron. Her laugh was so wild that it was blood-curdling.

“Good-bye,” said Nance in a kind and steady voice. She held out her hand, and the mad lady seized it in a fierce grip.

“I like you—I love you,” she said. “Yes, yes, even I—even I can love, and I love you—you are a sweet little girl. I’ll be your friend. Be sure you come to me when you really want a friend. Good-bye, good-bye, pretty little Mrs. Rowton.”

She turned as she spoke, and Nance walked away through the wood. She had been brave enough during the interview, but now she trembled exceedingly. She felt suddenly quite weak and faint. When Murray discovered her, she was leaning against a tree too exhausted to proceed on her walk.

The boy’s eyes were red as if he had been crying, but when he saw Nance a smile flitted bravely across his face.

“Oh! don’t think about me,” he said. “I am so glad you are safe. Of course, you got a fright—you are not accustomed to this sort of thing. I am—I mean there have often been scenes like this one, and mother has said dreadful things of me. It is rather hard to hear your own mother speak of you like that, is it not? but I know she does not mean it—it is just her awful affliction. I love her very much. There is nothing I would not do for her. She has been very badly used, but I will not go into that now. May I take you home?”

“Yes, Murray, I am dreadfully tired,” said Nance in a faint voice.

Murray gave her his shoulder to lean on.

“Lean hard,” he said; “I am a splendid stick.”

By and-by they reached the house and Nance went away to her own room. She lay down on her bed and made a great effort to shut away all thought. This was by no means easy. There was much to think about—much to puzzle and perplex her. Her husband’s mysterious absence; the near vicinity of the poor insane lady; the strange words which the lady had used: “I am here as a blind. Ask Adrian Rowton what goes on in the cellars at night.” What did it all mean? What could it mean? Nancy’s heart beat with great throbs—she felt excited and terribly overwrought. Her adventures, however, were by no means at an end. She was just falling off into a restful doze, when the door of her bedroom was softly opened, and her maid, Hester, advanced across the room on tiptoe.

Nancy’s antipathy to this girl was decidedly on the increase, and she now raised her head and spoke almost irritably.

“What is it, Hester?” she said.

The girl approached the bedside with alacrity.

“I just came in to find out whether you were asleep or not, madam,” she said. “I am glad you are awake, for there is a man downstairs. I suppose he is a gentleman, but I cannot say. Anyhow he has called to see you. He said I was to tell you that Mr. Crossley was below.”

“Crossley,” said Nance with a start. She sat up in bed. A queer look came into her eyes.

“When did he call?” she asked the girl.

“Half an hour ago, ma’am, I believe. Vickers has shown him in the library. He said he would wait your convenience.”

“Go to Vickers and tell him to say to Mr. Crossley that I will be with him in a few minutes,” replied Nance.

The girl left the room, walking with her usual absolutely noiseless tread.

“Mr. Crossley,” murmured Nance.

All her depression left her on the moment. Her thoughts were completely turned into a new channel. Since her father’s death she had lived in a dream of excitement, of adventure, of golden bliss. It was true lurid lights were coming into this dream of hers; but the subject of all her young life hitherto had been banished from view. Now she remembered it with a pang and a thrill—a pang of deep pain and self-reproach, a thrill of excitement. She thought of her father when he lay dying. She remembered the mission which had been given to her. Her promise to her dying father was abundantly recalled by the mere mention of Crossley’s name.

She had taken off her dress, but she soon replaced it. She brushed out her beautiful hair, gave one glance at herself in the long mirror and ran downstairs.

Nance knew Crossley, the detective—she had often seen him before. During the six years she had lived with her father at the Grange, he had come to see them as a rule three or four times a year. At each interview she had been present. It was perfectly true that she and her father had indeed stood side by side in their intense eagerness to track the man who had sent Anthony to an early grave. She was with her father now, heart and soul. Her beautiful eyes shone as she entered the library.

“Mr. Crossley, I am glad to see you,” she said.

Crossley, a stout middle-aged man, with grizzly hair and bushy whiskers, came out of the recess of one of the windows. He made a low bow to the mistress of Rowton Heights.

“I thought it best to call, madam,” he said. “Since the letter which you wrote to me announcing Dr. Follett’s death, I have been actively pursuing inquiries, and with, I believe, a certain measure of success. In short, I am now in possession of facts which can really lead to the ultimate discovery of——”

“Hubert Lefroy?” interrupted Nance.

“Yes, or the man who called himself Hubert Lefroy.”

“You are certain, then, that the name is a feigned one?”

“I am positive; but do not say the word so loud—there may be listeners about.”

“Oh! no, that is impossible,” said Nance, but she glanced nervously behind her back as she spoke. “I am very glad you came,” she said; “sit down, won’t you? My husband is away from home at present.”

“I am aware of that fact,” answered Crossley.

“Are you? How did you find out?”

“In the usual way, madam. When I take up a case of this kind I employ emissaries all over the country, and nothing takes place with regard to my clients’ movements that I am not acquainted with. Your father’s strange case has, as you are aware, Mrs. Rowton, occupied my best attention for many years. During his lifetime, owing to the absence of almost all clues, we have been unsuccessful in bringing matters to an issue. But since his death unexpected developments have taken place, and these I may as well own have startled me considerably. I must repeat the words which I have already uttered—I am, I believe, in a position to lay my hands on the man who murdered your brother.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” said Nancy. “This excites me very much,” she continued. She rose as she spoke, tugged at the neck of her dress as though she felt her breathing a little difficult, and then crossed the room to one of the windows.

“You understand my position,” she said after a pause. “I am my father’s representative. It is my painful duty to carry out this search to the bitter end.”

“Is it your duty?” asked Crossley.

“Is it my duty?” repeated the young lady; “need you ask? I am under a vow.”

The detective gave Nance a long and earnest gaze. He had one of those faces extremely difficult to read. It was smooth in outline, commonplace in expression; it was a contented, slightly self-satisfied face; the eyes were well open and of a serene tone of blue; the mouth was hidden by a thick short moustache. Crossley was the sort of man who would pass anywhere without exciting the least attention. He had the sort of physiognomy which thousands of other people possess. No one to look at him would suppose for a moment that he was one of the shrewdest detectives of his day—a man practically at the head of his profession—keen to read motives, capable of looking down into the hearts of many apparently inexplicable mysteries.

While he gave Nance one of his slow and apparently indifferent glances, he was really looking into her troubled heart.

“You are a happy young married lady now,” he said after a pause.

“Yes, yes, I am very happy,” she said, clasping her hands.

“You are much attached to your good husband, madam?”

“Need you ask?” Her eyes filled slowly with tears.

“Then for Heaven’s sake, Mrs. Rowton,” said the detective, speaking in an altogether new voice for him, “give this matter up, let it drop. Nay, hear me out”—he raised his hand to interrupt a flow of words which were rushing to Nancy’s lips—“I am speaking against myself and against my own interests when I so advise you; but I am not without heart, madam, and I have seen in the past how sad your life was and how you suffered. It is my profession to hunt down criminals—to scent crime to its source. In this case let me do what is contrary to my profession—let me leave the curtain unlifted. Mrs. Rowton, may I persuade you to leave justice and revenge in this special case to Heaven?”

“I cannot,” said Nance. “I am amazed to hear you speak in that tone—you, of all people. I cannot possibly do it. What do you mean? What can you mean?”

“What I say, madam. I will tell you quite frankly why I came here to-day. I came to Rowton Heights for a double purpose. I am, I believe, in possession at last of a valuable clue which may lead to the arrest of the man who took your brother’s life; but I find on looking into matters that there are complications in connection with this search, and because of these, I would earnestly beg of you, from a friendly point of view, to give up the search. Now, Mrs. Rowton, I shall not explain myself. Once again I beg of you to let the matter drop. Do not carry on this search any further.”

“I wonder at you,” said Nance, with sparkling eyes; “and you call yourself a professional detective!”

“I do, madam, I do; but even a professional detective may have a heart.”

“Well, listen to me,” said Nance. “I hate the man who killed my brother. Two passions move me—love for my husband, and hatred for the man who killed my young brother. When I think of that ruffian I have no heart; when I think of my ruined father’s life, of my brother’s shameful death, I have no heart—none. I am under a vow to the dead. I must carry on this search. Do you understand me?”

“I do, Mrs. Rowton. Well, I have done my duty in recommending mercy to you. Some day you may regret that you have not listened to me.”

“I shall never regret it. Now let us drop this side of the question. You have a clue—tell me all about it.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TORN LETTER AND THE MARK.

Crossley heaved a sigh, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped some drops of moisture from his brow, and then began to speak in a dry, business-like tone.

“You know how very slight our clues have been up to the present?” he said after a pause. “Your brother was murdered in a café in Paris; murderer unknown; motive of the crime unknown. A man who is now in his grave appeared on the scene half-an-hour after the murder was committed. He found close to the body of the murdered man half a sheet of paper on which something in cipher was written, and at the foot of the cipher in place of signature were some very peculiar hieroglyphics. That piece of paper has lain in my possession for years. I have studied the cipher and the hieroglyphics which stood in place of a signature with the utmost care. I have transposed the alphabet in all manner of ways, not only at my office when I had a moment to spare, but over my evening pipe at home. With infinite trouble I have made out a few words, but nothing to give me any clue to the identity of the man to whom the paper belonged.

“The gentleman who is now dead and who appeared on the scene of the murder half an-hour after it was committed, says he saw a man leaving the café who looked much excited—was dark, and of unusual height and breadth. His attention was attracted to this man because he wore no hat, and he had also a peculiar mark above his upper lip. He described the mark as something in the shape of a death’s head and cross-bones, but could not positively be sure on that point. By evidence taken at the time it was made abundantly plain that this man must have been the murderer. He has never been captured, and our only chance of finding him consists in following up the clue which the mysterious paper in my possession can give us.

“There is little or no doubt either that the murder was premeditated, as the writing was an appointment, bringing the murdered man to the spot. My business, therefore, Mrs. Rowton, is to find the man who wrote the letter, and who has that peculiar mark on his face.”

“Yes,” said Nance, with some impatience. “Remember,” she added, “that I have heard all this discussed many, many times.”

“Yes, madam.”

“And have you nothing further to say?”

“A little more. Have you any objection to my locking the door?”

“Certainly not. But is it necessary? No one will disturb us during our interview.”

“I am none so sure of that,” replied the detective. “There is a young woman in this house who would think very little of eavesdropping.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Nance with a start.

“A dark-eyed slip of a girl, madam—she came into this room a few minutes ago to fetch a book. I looked at her and she looked at me. If ever a face had cunning in it, hers is the one.”

“My maid, Hester Winsome,” thought Nance to herself.

Aloud she said: “Well, lock the door, and we shall be safe.”

Crossley did so.

As he resumed his seat, he said:

“I have something of great interest to tell you, madam. I have lately arrested a man who belongs to a notorious school of burglars—he was discovered uttering a forged cheque. In searching his house I found a similar half sheet of paper to that already in my possession, with the same cipher and the same hieroglyphics.”

“Impossible!” said Nance, springing to her feet, and speaking in great excitement. “Then you have really found the man?”

“Pray sit down, Mrs. Rowton. I have not found the man, but I have found a clue which may lead to him. Now I want you to allow me take certain steps in order to make my suspicion a certainty.”

“What are they?”

“I want, with your permission, to locate a member of my staff at Rowton Heights.”

“You do! What can you possibly mean?”

“Simply what I say, Mrs. Rowton. In order to make my suspicion a certainty a member of my staff must come here.”

“But why?”

“I would rather not say at present. Remember, young lady, that I have asked you to give up this search—you wish to continue it to the bitter end. The clue which I have unexpectedly acquired points to a certain track—that track lies red and hot round Rowton Heights.”

“You excite and terrify me,” said Nance, turning white as death.

“Even now, ma’am, we can drop the whole thing.”

“Never, never; my heart palpitates with eagerness to go on. Oh! that I could find that coward, that ruffian, that assassin! If it is necessary for your purpose to send a man here, let him come.”

“I thank you, Mrs. Rowton. The question now to consider is, in what guise he had best appear on the scene.”

“Do you mean to imply that the man we are seeking for is in this house?”

“I mean to imply nothing of the kind, young lady. I believe, however, that a member of my staff may do good work if his headquarters are here for a short time.”

“He shall come,” said Nance, “he shall come. Send him down at once.”

“It would be fatal to our purpose, madam, if the least suspicion were aroused. Now let me think. Can you manage another footman?”

“I don’t know anything about the servants—they are entirely managed by my housekeeper, Mrs. Ferguson. We are a small family and we have two footmen here at present.”

“Has Mr. Rowton a valet?” asked Crossley, knitting his brows as he spoke.

“No, he never will have one. He hates to have people about him when he is dressing.”

“Some gentlemen are like that,” said Crossley. “It must be the footman then. There is nothing for it, Mrs. Rowton, but for you to dismiss one of your servants.”

“I don’t know how that is possible,” answered Nance—“the two footmen who are here at present grew up in the village, and are, I believe, much attached to the place.”

“You must make an excuse to get rid of one of them. Watch him when he commits some slight indiscretion, give him notice, pay him a month’s wages and a trifle over if you like, and then wire to me. My man shall come down quickly to take his place.”

“This upsets me terribly,” said Nance. She pressed her hand to her forehead as she spoke.

“I said there would be crooked work and all kinds of unpleasantnesses,” said the detective in a dry tone. He rose as he spoke. “Can you oblige me with fifty pounds on account?” he asked.

“I will go to my room and fetch it,” answered Mrs. Rowton.

She ran upstairs and entered her little boudoir. To her annoyance she found that her maid, Hester, was standing over her writing table. The girl had a duster in her hand which she began to use assiduously when Nancy appeared.

“I want this room—will you leave me?” said her mistress.

“Yes, ma’am, certainly. I was just dusting the ornaments on your table—I had no time to look after them properly this morning. I am going now to the conservatories to pick some fresh flowers for these vases.”

“Thank you. But leave me now,” said Nancy.

Hester slowly left the room. Mrs. Rowton hastily unlocked her secretary, and taking out her cheque book, filled in a cheque for the amount which Crossley had demanded, and went downstairs.

The detective took it without a word.

“I have just time to catch my train,” he said, looking at his watch as he spoke. “I shall expect to hear from you, madam, in a day or two with regard to the new footman.”

“Yes,” answered Nance. “You shall hear from me.”

The man left the library and a moment later his footsteps might have been heard crunching the gravel as he walked away.

Hester Winsome, from an upper window, looked after his retreating form.

“I guess who you are,” she said to herself. “You don’t know all that I know. Some day perhaps you and I may be friends, there is no saying. Ah! my young lady, you’re a deep one, but you are not quite as deep as Hester Winsome yet.”

As Nancy was leaving the library she came suddenly face to face with Mrs. Ferguson.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said the housekeeper, “but may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Certainly,” answered Nance; “is anything the matter?”

“I am ashamed to trouble you, Mrs. Rowton. It is about that tiresome George—he has just given notice to leave.”

“George,” said Nance with a start, her colour flushing; “I thought that you liked him.”

“He is an excellent servant, madam, and gives complete satisfaction; but the fact is, he has taken fright on account of the new safe. The safe arrived this morning and the men have been busy putting it up all day. It is a wonderful safe, and they tell me there is not a burglar in the land who can break into it. It is worth your while to come and see it, ma’am.”

“So I will presently,” answered Nance; “but tell me now about George.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “I never knew before that the lad had nerves; but nerves he has and no mistake. The men called him to help them move the plate into the safe. It was evidently a surprise to him to see such a heap of splendid plate, and he came to me afterwards all white and trembling.

“‘I had no idea there was so much plate in the house,’ he said. ‘It quite frightens me, and I won’t take the responsibility of living in the same place with it. I have heard of a place in London that I think will suit me, and I’d like to go.’”

“Well, let him go,” said Nance.

“To be sure, ma’am. Foolish lad, to leave a first-class place of this sort because he has got a bit of a scare. What has the plate to do with him?”

Nance was silent.

“The inconvenience, too,” continued Mrs. Ferguson, knitting her brows, and speaking with a touch of annoyance; “and just when Vickers had taken the trouble to train him in. This will put too much work on Hamley, the under-footman, and he don’t know his work as well as George. If my master should come back unexpectedly, as he always does, we’ll not have the place in the apple-pie order that I should like it to be in. I shall, of course, look out for another servant immediately.”

“George must go,” said Nance. “There is no use in keeping an unwilling or frightened servant in the place.”

“Very well, ma’am, of course you are right. I’ll send off a note by the next post to the registry office in London, where I generally apply for servants.”

“No, don’t do that,” answered Nance. “It is strange that you should have spoken to me about George now, for it so happens that I heard only a few moments ago of an excellent footman. I will write about him myself at once. When does George want to leave?”

“Really, madam, he is quite unreasonable!”—the housekeeper laughed as she spoke. “He says the sight of the plate has fairly shaken his nerves, and he knows he’ll fancy burglars are breaking into the house every night from this moment forward. I never saw a sensible lad in such a taking. He wants to forfeit his month’s wages and get off as soon as possible.”

“Let him go,” answered Mrs. Rowton; “but pay him his wages, of course. The new footman can arrive to-morrow or the next day at latest—now I’ll come with you to see the new safe.”

The two women went into the butler’s pantry, where the men from London were busy adjusting one of Clever’s patent safes. Nancy looked into it with curiosity. The plate was lying about in all directions. It made a dazzling and splendid show—silver trays, baskets, candelabra, table ornaments of every description, coffee-pots, tea-pots, silver jugs, and valuable silver hunting cups were lying on the shelves, and even on the floor.

“What a quantity!” exclaimed the young mistress of Rowton Heights. “Will the safe hold all these?” she asked, turning to one of the London workmen.

“Oh! yes, madam,” was the reply, “it is one of our very largest. Yes,” he added, glancing at the silver which lay shining all about him; “there is scarcely a country house that holds such treasure as this—to say nothing,” he added, lowering his voice, “of the gold-plated articles and the jewel case.”

“Will you have the goodness to come forward, madam?” said another man. “I should like to show you the secret receptacle where the jewel case will be placed.”

“I think I would rather not,” she said, turning white and frightened.

“As you please, madam,” said the man in some surprise; “but I surely understood from Mr. Rowton that you were to be acquainted with the workings of the safe.”

“Oh! if my husband wished it shown to me, that alters the matter,” said Nance, the colour returning to her face.

She spent nearly an hour with the men, who explained the different keys for opening the safe.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE SILVER SCHOOL.

About a month after the events recorded in the last chapter, some men who went by the name of the Silver School, or Mob, assembled for an important meeting. The Silver School had existed now for several years, doing its mysterious work effectually and quietly, and never exciting suspicion, except in the minds of certain individuals in New Scotland Yard. They had meeting places all over England, and not only in England, but also in many parts of the world. They knew each other by a certain code or cipher; they had their own peculiar way of shaking hands; their own peculiar nod or smile; they were in short, a dangerous secret society, their object being to upset morality and turn the system which makes a man’s property his own topsy-turvy. Often they met at a lonely public-house; often in the heart of the busy town; but their favourite place of meeting was in the house of a private individual near the Chelsea Embankment—the very place where Rowton had gone to see Long John just before his mission to Spain.

To-night the members assembled themselves by a roaring fire, and taking out their pipes awaited the appearance of their leader.

Adrian Rowton, who went by the name of Silver, was in many respects the leader of the School. He was secretly admired by every other member; but their real chief, the man whom they feared, respected, hated, thrilled under, was Piper, or Long John, as they called him. Piper had none of Rowton’s dare-devil and careless magnificence of manner. He often appeared rather to slink than to walk into a room; but there was not a member of the Silver Mob who did not tremble when he spoke to him, and did not feel elated for a whole week if the chief gave him even a scant word of praise.

To-night, as the men sat together, they looked anxiously at one another.

“Well, Scrivener, and how do you find the country?” said the landlord, Simpkins, who was invariably present at these meetings. “What sort of a place is Pitstow? You don’t look, to judge from your face, as if you found the air so wonderfully bracing, after all.”

“The air is well enough, but there are other drawbacks—don’t you meddle, Simpkins,” replied Scrivener.

“You’re as unsociable as usual, Scrivener,” exclaimed another man. He uttered a whole jargon of mysterious epithets, and then continued abruptly: “Well, out with the cat. Why did you come up to night? I don’t believe Long John expected you.”

“Don’t you? I should not have come if he didn’t. I had a wire from him at ten o’clock this morning. Don’t you know that Silver has come back?”

“Ah,” muttered one or two voices deeply and under the breath.

This exclamation had scarcely sounded through the room before the door was opened and Long John, accompanied by Rowton, entered.

Long John’s eyes looked kind and pathetic; his lips intensely firm, a smile now and then parting them and showing the white teeth. That smile, innocent as it appeared, was the dread of every man in the room.

As Rowton now walked by his side up to the top of the room, he felt that the chief was smiling, and augured ill from the circumstance.

“Welcome back, Silver,” said one or two voices as he passed them. Simpkins in particular, a cadaverous-looking man for all his apparent prosperity, clutched hold of Rowton’s coat to attract attention.

“It’s all right, old man,” said Rowton, nodding to him.

The man’s face instantly relaxed into a happier expression.

“Sit down near me, Rowton, and tell us all that you have done during your absence,” said Long John. “We did not expect you for at least another fortnight. Have you concluded the business?”

“Yes and no,” replied Rowton.

“That is very ambiguous—explain yourself.”

“I have concluded the greater part of it, but not all, Piper,” replied Rowton.

“And why not all, my good fellow? You went away for a definite purpose. It was understood, was it not, that you were on no account to show your face in England again until that purpose was completed in its entirety?”

“I managed the diamonds and have brought them back with me,” answered Rowton.

“Aye, aye, that’s right—that’s the main thing,” muttered several voices at the other end of the room.

“Silence there,” said Long John. He did not speak loudly, but his eyes flashed fire.

“Give us full particulars,” he said, flinging himself back in his chair, and swinging round in such a way that his eyes could comfortably fix themselves on Rowton’s face. Rowton looked haggard; there were a few streaks of white in his black hair; he was unshaven, and had a somewhat unkempt appearance. He told his story briefly, speaking with a certain terseness which compelled every man in the room to listen to him, not only with interest, but respect.

“I have brought a specimen of the diamonds with me,” he said after a pause. He drew forth a small bag as he spoke—he had been holding it all this time between his knees—opened the bag with a peculiarly-shaped key, and taking out a harmless-looking brown paper parcel, laid it on Piper’s knee.

“There they are,” he said; “in the rough, it is true. These are just ordinary specimens of the pile. The whole thing is worth between eighty and one hundred thousand pounds. I have the remainder at my hotel off the Strand.”

Long John got up with a certain eagerness, which not all his efforts to show no emotion could altogether conceal. He took the little parcel, laid it on the table, opened it and called the other men to come round.

They were rewarded by nothing apparently remarkable—a few rough-looking stones, uncut and dull, lay before them.

Long John fingered one or two, giving them a peculiar and intense glance out of his melancholy eyes.

“And the rest are at the hotel?” he said.

“Yes, in a packet in a cupboard at the back of my bed.”

“Why did you not bring them?”

“I might have been watched. It was not safe. I will return for them later on to-night, if one of you men will accompany me. Those diamonds had just arrived from Kimberley and were waiting to be put into the Bank at Madrid. I nabbed them in the nick of time.”

“Yes, yes; you did well—you told us all that story,” said Piper.

“You did very well. No one but Silver could have managed it,” said one of the other men in a tone of deep elation. “This haul sets us straight, don’t it, Piper?”

“The diamonds have to be realised,” said Piper; “and we have not got them yet. How did you get on at Madrid in other respects?”

“As well as possible,” answered Rowton with a short laugh. “My introductions got me into the best society in the place. I made some friends and saw something of the life.”

“Well, so far so good,” said Piper; “but now for the other part of the business. You sold that black diamond, did you not?”

“I got rid of it for fifteen hundred pounds. I have the money in my breast pocket.”

“Too little,” said Piper, with a frown. “I said it was worth two thousand—you sold it for five hundred pounds below its market value.”

“I could not help that.”

“You were right, Silver, of course you were right,” said Scrivener, coming close up to Piper and Rowton as he spoke. “It would never have done to have brought the black diamond home again—some of us might have swung for it. Good to have it out of the land. You are certain it won’t be traced, though, old chap—remember it has a history.”

“No, it is safe enough,” said Rowton with a grim smile.

“You did right to sell it for fifteen hundred,” repeated Scrivener.

“And I say he did wrong,” exclaimed Piper, stamping his foot as he spoke; “the stone was worth two thousand pounds, and if Rowton had played his cards well he’d have got it.”

“I could do no better,” said Rowton, with a frown between his brows.

“Stuff!” exclaimed Piper. “What is the good of having a man like you attached to us—a man who may trip us up at any moment—if you cannot do what you are commissioned to do? This loss of five hundred must be accounted for when we divide the profits.”

“As you please,” said Rowton, slightly bowing his head. “The money part of the business does not affect me in the least.”

“You have been feeding too well, my fighting cock,” said Piper with a sneer. “You would sing another tune were I to take you at your word.”

Rowton said nothing. He leant back in his chair folding his arms. The other men still lingered round the table where the specimen diamonds were lying. Piper went up to the table, took the little parcel, folded it up and placed it in his desk at the top of the room. He locked the desk and put the key in his pocket.

“The rest of the diamonds have got to be fetched to-night,” he said, looking at the men. “You, Scrivener, and you, Simpkins, had better accompany Rowton when he leaves us—wait for him outside the hotel, take the bag from him and bring it straight here. You can manage to do this when the policeman is off his beat.”

“Rather,” said Scrivener, with a smile. “All the same it is a ticklish business,” he added.

“But worth one hundred thousand pounds. We must realise that money and soon. I have got my plans all marked out. You, Scrivener, are the man for the job.”

“I?” said Scrivener, looking up with a startled and scared face.

“Yes, you are not going to funk it—we will make a man of you—you want to marry, too, don’t you?”

“Oh, time enough,” said Scrivener with a smirk.

“Not at all. It is good for a man to have a wife, and your wedding bells shall ring before long. You are a good fellow, one of the best of us. What do you say to our starting you as a jeweller? A merchant who buys rough diamonds in the ordinary market. I heard only to-day that a small jeweller’s shop in Cheapside was going a-begging—you shall take it, change your name and your coat, and do good business. We will fit you up with capital, and you shall buy sufficient diamonds at the ordinary price to lull suspicion. By degrees those which Rowton has brought back from Spain can be sold at full market value.”

“That’s a prime notion,” said Simpkins, coming forward.

“Yes, we’ll talk of it later on—I have the whole thing neatly planned. Scrivener shall take the shop to-morrow. Now, then, to turn to another matter. Come here, Silver, let us hear the whole of your story. You did part of our work, but not all. What about the bonds? How did that affair prosper?”

“I have returned without executing that part of my order,” said Rowton in a brief tone.

“You have!”

Long John sprang to his feet, so did Scrivener, so did Simpkins, so did every other man in the room. Rowton alone remained seated. He raised his head and stared from one to the other.

“Your reasons,” said Piper then; “your reasons, my noble leader.”

“I am not your leader, and you know it,” replied Rowton. “You lead us all.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” interrupted Long John, with a sneer on his lips. “You are our ostensible leader. Why did you not bring back the bonds as well as the diamonds?”

“I was in the train,” said Rowton, speaking slowly, and raising his eyes until their full insolent light was fixed intensely upon Long John’s face; “I was in the train which ran from Madrid to Paris, and the bonds were there; but the work given me to do was dirty, defiling, dangerous. I thought I had done enough—in short, I did not execute my commission.”

“Your reason?” said Piper in a low voice.

“Quite simple, and I am not afraid to state it,” replied Rowton. “I saw plainly that were I to pursue the business in connection with those special bonds, although my confederate Spider might escape, my own life would be the forfeit.”

“Spider—by the way, where is Spider?” asked Scrivener.

“I left him in Spain—he is all right.”

“And so you feared your life would be the forfeit?” snarled Piper.

“Yes.”

“Well, and what of it, you dog?”

“Everything—to myself,” replied Rowton. “I don’t choose to die. I—if you like the word, I will use it—I funked that part of my expedition.”

An incredulous and amazed look filled the eyes of every man in the room. Even Long John’s eyes leapt for a moment with an expression almost of compassion; then they fixed themselves in a stony stare on Rowton’s proud face.

“It is not like you, Silver, to be a coward,” he said then; “the word fits you badly. You were always our dare-devil; no danger was too hot for you. Why do you come back to us with the story of a sneak? I repeat, it is not like you.”

“I did not secure the bonds,” continued Rowton, speaking in a steady and absolutely quiet voice, “for the simple reason that, had I done so, my own life would have been the forfeit. I do not choose now to throw away my life.”

“And why now, if I may venture to ask the question of your mightiness?” snapped Piper.

“Because I have got a wife, and I do not intend her to become a widow.”

Something like a groan was heard throughout the room. It was more than evident that no one present sympathised with Rowton.

After a pause he said abruptly, rising as he spoke:

“You must get another man for that part of the business. I distinctly refuse to commit myself in the matter. My life is of moment to me.”

“Coward!” growled one or two.

“You may taunt me with that word if you like, my good fellows,” said Rowton, looking down the room as he spoke. “Your taunts will not in the least affect me, or turn me from my set purpose. I am willing to go into danger for your cause, but into absolute and certain defeat I no longer venture. My wife is much more valuable to me than the opinions of the Silver Mob. Now, Piper, in bringing you the diamonds, I have, I think, executed my orders as fully as I can execute them. Here is the money for the black diamond. When I deliver over the packet which contains the diamonds in the rough, to Scrivener and Simpkins, I shall feel that I have earned a holiday. I am anxious to return to Rowton Heights early to-morrow morning. Have you anything further to say?”

“Yes, a good deal,” said Piper; “sit down again and don’t be so impatient. As to your conduct with regard to the bonds, I refuse to speak further about it on the present occasion. I must consult with Scrivener and one or two other members of the School, and shall probably summon you here any day within the next week or fortnight. In the meantime there are other matters to be talked over. We want fresh blood—the School won’t prosper without. What sort of a boy is that lad of yours?”

“What lad?” asked Rowton, raising his head, but a startled expression all the same crossing his face.

“You know the boy I mean—the son of the mad woman. Is he a plucky little chap?”

“I refuse to say anything about him—he has nothing to do with you nor you with him.”

“That’s as we may think best,” said Piper, with another sneer. “After all, I can get information apart from you. Scrivener, come here.”

Scrivener, who had re-seated himself near the fire between Simpkins and another man with a particularly evil cast of face, now stepped lightly across the room.

“Scrivener,” said Long John, “have you made good use of your time at Pitstow?”

“Excellent, Piper,” replied the man. “I have mapped out the entire district. I know every room in every house, the amount of——”

“That will do,” said Piper, raising his hand; “we can go into that matter at a less pressing moment than the present. What sort is Rowton’s boy?”

“A fine lad,” said Scrivener.

“You have seen him?”

“Often.”

“Describe him.”

“Slim, dark, tall,” answered Scrivener; “plucky, a little dare-devil like his uncle there—in short, Silver himself in miniature.”

“Suitable, do you think?” said Long John, looking fixedly at Scrivener.

“Undoubtedly; the very lad for our purpose; heaps of go in him; don’t know the meaning of funk; slippery and agile as an eel.”

“That will do, Scrivener,” said Long John.

Scrivener retired down the room and Long John turned to Rowton.

Rowton was standing perfectly upright with his back to the wall. He was looking straight before him down the long vista of the room.

“Silver, you have disappointed me,” said Long John. “What I expected would happen, when you took it into your head to marry a wife, has happened. You are now half hearted, lukewarm. We don’t want lukewarm people here. Get you gone to Rowton Heights if you want to—that is, after you have delivered the swag to Scrivener and Simpkins. Yes, get you gone; take your holiday; kiss your wife, and make the most of her. Embrace your nephew, too, for if my plans are carried out, you won’t have him long. Now go. Hark ye, though, one moment. That safe was sent down to the Heights, was it not?”

“I ordered it, but cannot tell if it has arrived,” replied Rowton. “I have been out of England for a month, and during that time I have had no news.”

“The safe arrived weeks ago,” called out Scrivener from his seat by the fire.

“That’s right,” said Long John. “We can open up business in that neighbourhood next week. Go home, Silver. Your duty now is to entertain the county. Cease to be Silver, the head of our School, and assume your rightful name—Rowton, the heir to a fine old country estate, the owner of an ideal country house. Wake up the county, entertain them. Be the good old English squire; dispense hospitality right and left; use your wife as a bribe to induce the neighbours to come to your house. Be a complete blind yourself, and leave us to our work. We won’t trouble you for a time. We will respect your scruples and your fears.”

Piper’s lips smiled grimly as he uttered the last words, but his eyes looked gentle and refined.

“I have a word to say,” interrupted Rowton.

“What is that?”

“I return to Rowton Heights and I do exactly what you wish me to do, but only on a condition.”

“There you are with your conditions again,” laughed Scrivener.

“Silence,” said Long John.

“I do what you want, Piper, on one condition.”

“Your position does not admit of conditions,” said Piper. “You are completely under my thumb. You dare not move an inch except as I will you—you know that.”

“Your position does not admit of conditions; you are completely under my thumb.”—Page 168.

“I do not.”

“What does the fighting cock mean?” cried several voices.

“I owe submission to none of you,” repeated Rowton. “There is always, you men understand, such a thing as throwing up the sponge. I am completely sick of this life. If you put the screw on too tight I throw up the sponge—how I do it is my own affair.”

The man standing there gloomy, defiant, his head thrown back, his bold eyes fixed on the pathetic and peculiar eyes of the chief, was a spectacle to bring forth admiration in the breasts of such men as were members of his School. There was absolute sincerity in Rowton’s tone. He was driven into a corner—he could turn round and show fight. To such a man suicide was more than possible. Suicide would be bad enough. Rowton was an important member of the School—his presence, his individuality, his life, were essential to the carrying on of the nefarious business. If he really threw up the sponge, danger might quickly accrue.

“Your condition?” asked Long John.

“I do what you wish,” continued Rowton, tugging at his moustache as he spoke; “I keep up this horrible farce, this tragedy of comedy, I put my powers, my genius, at your command, I blind the county and you can do your cursed will, provided you leave that lad of mine alone.”

CHAPTER XX.
A BLACK DIAMOND.

Early the next morning Rowton returned home. Nance was standing in the garden when she suddenly saw her husband cross the lawn; he had walked over from Pitstow. Nancy, whose face was very pale, and under whose eyes were large black shadows, looked, when she suddenly beheld his face, as if a ray of the spring had got into her heart. She uttered an almost inarticulate cry of joy, and sprang into his arms.

“At last,” she panted, “at last. Oh! how cruelly I have missed you.”

“And I you, sweetheart,” he answered. “Let us forget the past now we are together again.”

“Yes, at last,” she panted. She laid her head on his breast. Her happiness was so intense that her breath came fast and hurriedly.

“Look me in the face, little woman,” said Rowton. “Why darling, you are changed; how thin you have got, and your eyes so big—too big. What is it, Nancy?”

“I have been starving,” said Nancy.

“Ah, I might have guessed,” he said, clasping her again to him. “Well, I have returned. I, too, have starved and suffered; but this is plenty after famine. Kiss me, Nance, kiss me many times.”

“You are never going away again?” she asked after a pause. “I cannot live if you do it again, Adrian.”

“Let us think of nothing gloomy to-day. I am pretty safe to remain for a time.”

The new footman, whose name was Jacob, was seen at that moment crossing the lawn bearing a letter on a salver.

“From Lady Georgina Strong, and the messenger is waiting,” he said to Nance.

Nance took the letter impatiently, opened it, glanced through its contents, and spoke:

“Lady Georgina wants to dine here to-night—shall we have her?” she asked, as she glanced up at her husband.

“Yes,” he replied, “we must not make ourselves hermits. Tell the messenger to wait,” said Rowton, speaking to the servant, whose eyes, after glancing at him, were fixed on the ground. “Say Mrs. Rowton will send a note in a moment.”

Jacob turned obediently and went back to the house.

“A new footman?” said Rowton. “Have you engaged another servant, or has one of the other domestics left us?”

“Yes, George has gone,” said Nance. She had forgotten all about Jacob, to whose presence she had become quite accustomed, but at her husband’s words a great flush of colour rose to her cheeks.

“George went for a silly reason,” she said; “he was quite nervous about the plate. This man has come in his stead—he seems a good servant.”

“Doubtless, dearest,” said Rowton. “Now let us go into the house. I must send to the station for my luggage, and you had better scribble a line to Lady Georgina. Tell her the prodigal has returned, and that to-night we kill the fatted calf.”

Nance laughed a laugh of pure pleasure. The note was despatched, and a messenger sent for Rowton’s luggage; after which the pair had lunch together and then went out into the grounds.

The day was a spring one, warm and balmy; crocuses and snowdrops bloomed gaily in the garden; the trees were putting out their first spring buds.

“Our good time is about to begin,” said Rowton, his arm round his wife’s waist as he spoke. “There is just a month from now to Easter. I presume all the neighbours have called on you, Nance?”

“I suppose so. There are shoals and shoals of cards,” she answered.

“We will look through them together—I know everybody. Have you returned the calls?”

“I think so. Lady Georgina was my guide into polite society—she went with me everywhere. We left your cards with mine.”

“Right. I knew you would make a splendid woman of the world. Have invitations come to us yet?”

“Yes, half a dozen dinners and one or two rather big evening affairs. Oh, and a ball given by the officers at Pitstow. It is to take place in the town hall. I have not replied yet—the ball is for next Tuesday.”

“We will go,” said Rowton; “we will dance our time away. I shall dance with my wife, no matter what the county say.”

He hummed a bar of his favourite song, “Begone, dull care.”

“You don’t look too well, Adrian,” said the young wife, glancing up tenderly into his face; “you don’t suppose I want balls or parties. You are with me again and my heart is full.”

“Faith, Nance, gaiety is no delight to me,” he replied; “but ‘noblesse oblige,’ dearest—we must live up to our position. The Squire of Rowton Heights is the biggest man in the place—he must entertain. Dame Rowton must entertain too. Ah! pretty one, how superb you will look in that old dress—and I have brought home a trinket for you.”

“A trinket!” said Nance; “but I have so many.”

“None like this,” he answered. “What think you of a black diamond?”

“Black,” she said.

“Aye, such a beauty—fit for the brow of a queen. I am not going to show it you yet. You shall wear it at our own ball. To-night we will talk over that matter with Lady Georgina. She is worth her weight in gold when we take her really into our confidence.”

“Yes, she has the kindest of hearts,” said Nance; “but do you really like all this excitement, Adrian? Does it really give you pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” he answered, his brow darkening; “your kisses alone in all the wide world give me pleasure.”

“Take them then,” she answered.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE RATS IN THE QUEEN ANNE WING.

The new footman’s name was Jacob Short. On his arrival he had specially requested that he might be called by his Christian name. Nance saw no objection to this. The man, to outward appearance, was harmless in every way. Unlike his name he was somewhat tall of stature—this was his ostensible reason for making the request that he might be called Jacob.

“I am lanky and long and thin,” he said to the maids, “and when I am spoken to as Short, it’s like inviting you all to make fun of me.”

He quickly became popular in the servants’ hall and in the housekeeper’s room. He could tell good stories. He was extremely obliging and had a thorough knowledge of his duties.

There was one member of the household, however, who did not get on with the new footman—this was the lady’s maid, Hester Winsome. She was a rather pretty girl, and she took great pains to make herself attractive when she supped in the servants’ hall. On these occasions she had been accustomed to delicate attentions from the now absent George. Hester was a flirt, and she liked a good-looking young footman to pay her attention. She regretted George, but was abundantly willing to allow Jacob to take his place. But Jacob did not see this at first. He gave Hester one or two apparently indifferent glances, read her through and through, and then determined to have nothing whatever to do with her.

Hester bore this at first without complaint, but after struggling against her fate for quite three weeks, she became restive. As Jacob would not confide in her, she began to make him confidences.

“Why, you have never been all round the house yet,” she said to him at supper, on the day on which Rowton came home.

“How do you know that?” he asked her.

“How do I know it?” she retorted, lowering her voice, and edging close to his side. “If you had even tried to go all over the house you’d be asking questions, my fine fellow.”

“And how do you know I have not asked questions?” replied Jacob. “I’ll trouble you, Miss Winsome, to pass me the sardines.”

Hester pouted, stretched out her hand for the delicacy which Jacob demanded, and after a time continued in a low voice:

“Well, then, if you have been over the house, and if you have asked questions, tell me what you think of the Queen Anne wing?”

To this query Jacob did not immediately respond. After a long pause he said slowly:

“I have not been in the wing yet—can you take me there?”

Hester’s heart gave a sudden throb of delight. Up to the present, deep as she undoubtedly was, she had never suspected Jacob to be any other than a well-behaved and excellent servant. She now saw a chance of getting him into her power, of forcing him to flirt with her, and her spirits rose.

“It is difficult to get into that part of the house,” she said. “Do not say anything more at present. I will come to you if I can at nine o’clock to-morrow in Vickers’ pantry.”

Jacob made no reply at all to this, and Hester did not even know if he heard her.

At the appointed hour, however, she made her appearance at the door of the pantry. She held a key in her hand.

“I saw Leah half an hour ago,” she said.

“Leah! and who is Leah?” asked Jacob.

“She is the poor mad lady’s caretaker.”

Jacob began to polish up his silver—he held a chamois leather in his hand.

“Now that’s curious,” he said in a slow voice; “so you keep a mad lady on the premises?”

“That we do—she is in the Queen Anne wing.”

“You don’t say so!”

“I do. I can take you over the wing if you come at once.”

“I can’t until I have put all this plate tidy.”

“Oh, bother the plate,” said Hester. “Can’t you come at once?—the chance may go.”

“I can come all the sooner if you’ll help me,” said Jacob. “You can wash while I polish. Now then, two pair of hands are better than one.”

“That they are,” said Hester, delighted. She put the key on the shelf by her side, and helped Jacob to wash up the plate.

With a sudden dexterous turn of his hand and a flick of the leather with which he was polishing a valuable tray, Jacob contrived to slip the key into his own pocket. Hester, quick as she was, did not see the movement.

After a time the plate was all in order, and the footman announced to the lady’s maid that he was at her service.

Hester began to look for the key—she looked on the shelf where she had placed it, she looked on the floor, she felt her pockets and shook out her apron, but all in vain. Jacob helped her in her search with assiduity. He appeared as anxious and annoyed as she was. Footsteps were heard approaching before any solution of the difficulty was arrived at, and Hester, knowing that her opportunity for that evening was gone, bade Jacob a reluctant good-night.

“What am I to do?” she said as she was parting from him. “If I lose that key Leah will give it to me—it opens the little postern gate into the garden, and Leah never knew that I took it. I took it yesterday, for I thought I’d like to show you the Queen Anne wing and the garden, Mr. Jacob.”

“And I am sure I am much obliged to you,” replied Jacob. “We’ll have a good look for the key the first thing in the morning.”

Hester was obliged to be satisfied, and when she departed Jacob softly patted the key which lay in his trousers pocket.

That night, when the rest of the house had gone to bed, the new footman rose and stole quietly through the silent house. He was evidently an expert at this sort of thing, for the floors did not creak as he passed over them, and he turned the handles of several doors without making the ghost of a sound. By-and-by he found himself in the open air. The night was a dark one, which favoured his purpose. A great watch-dog, of the name of Chance, rose up and growled as the man approached. Jacob called his name very softly under his breath and the creature wagged his tail.

“Quiet, Chance, stay where you are,” said Jacob.

The dog looked wistfully after him, but obeyed.

Jacob Short quickly discovered the little postern door. He slipped Hester’s well-oiled key into it, turned the lock, and soon found himself in the Queen Anne garden.

The night was a cold one, but Jacob did not seem to mind that fact in the least. He stayed in the garden for two or three hours, and during that time he explored every inch of it. Dark as the night was, there was a perfect map of that garden sketched out in Jacob Short’s brain before the first streak of daylight dawned. He was back in his bed by that time, having made some discoveries which excited him considerably.

“I could never have done it with that minx of a girl tacked on to my heels,” he said to himself; “but she shall show me the inside of the house whenever she likes—and now to sleep, and to keep my astonishing suspicions to myself until they become certainties.”

In the morning the man put the key of the postern gate into Hester’s hands.

“I found it buried under some rubbish on the floor,” he said. “I’ll be very much obliged if you will take me to see the wing to-night.”

Hester, who had slept badly, was delighted to get back the key again, and early that evening, having made a rendezvous in advance with Leah, she took Jacob into the wing.

Leah met the pair just outside the mad lady’s sitting-room.

“How do you do?” she said, after Hester had formally presented Jacob Short to her notice. “I am sorry that my patient happens to be asleep at this moment, so I cannot take you into her sitting-room.”

“I won’t awaken her, and I’d like to see her,” remarked Jacob.

Leah shook her head.

“It cannot be done,” she said. “If she were to wake it would be as much as my place is worth. You can see the rest of the house, of course.”

“Well, thank you for that,” replied Jacob. “It seems an uncommon snug place,” he added, glancing round him as he spoke.

“Yes, it is well enough,” replied Leah. “It is to all intents and purposes a little house by itself. Come this way now—I’ll show you the bedrooms first.”

Leah was right in saying that the Queen Anne wing was a complete small house. It contained kitchen, scullery, coal cellar, two sitting-rooms and two large airy bedrooms. The little house was well but plainly furnished There was nothing gaudy about it, and the furniture was somewhat old-fashioned; but the whole place had a cheerful and complete air of comfort.

“This is my bedroom,” said Leah, “and this is my mistress’s.” She entered one of the large bedrooms as she spoke. “You see this door,” she added: “this communicates with my mistress’s room—come in and I’ll show it to you. See, my mistress has no door to her room, except through mine. There was a door, but Mr. Rowton had it built up when Mrs. Cameron was brought here. We have been obliged to bar the windows, too, and they only open a very little way at the top; but, of course you would not notice that at night. The poor lady has a comfortable room, and, but for the fact that she is really in confinement, all the ordinary luxuries of life.”

“Yes, the place seems comfortable,” said Jacob. “I am interested in the insane,” he continued; “I had a sister once who went off her head—they took her to the Bethlehem Asylum, and she did not live very long, poor thing. Her sad case makes me take a sort of liking to all insane people.”

“Insanity is a most fascinating subject,” interrupted Hester at that moment. There was a queer light in the strange girl’s eyes. She walked about Mrs. Cameron’s bedroom, prying here, there, and everywhere.

“Hester, your curiosity will be your undoing,” said Leah, giving the girl a grim smile which flitted across her strong face for a moment and then disappeared.

“Are you often disturbed by your charge at night, Mrs. Leah?” queried Jacob.

“Now and then,” replied Leah, “but often for a whole month the poor lady sleeps without rocking. It is wonderful what good nights she has, all things considered; she is often more restless in the daytime than she is at night.”

“And are the rats as troublesome as they were?” suddenly asked Hester.

“No; the last poison had good effect,” replied Leah, turning her back as she spoke.

“Are you troubled with rats?” asked Jacob. “Why don’t you keep a cat?”

“Mrs. Cameron hates cats,” answered Leah. “It is one of her illusions, poor thing, that she is pursued by a black cat. She would not see one within a yard of her at any price.”

“If I were you, Mr. Jacob Short,” said Hester with a quick, sudden movement which brought her directly facing the new footman, “I’d ask to see the cellars of this house. The cellars are, to my way of thinking, very curious.” Her dark eyes flashed as she spoke.

“To be sure,” replied Jacob; “that is, if I am not giving too much trouble.”

“Well, you are, and that’s plain,” replied Leah. “There is nothing at all wonderful in the cellars; they run under the house. For that matter, I believe they run under the whole of Rowton Heights. I like houses with cellars, for my part; they keep the sitting-rooms so much drier. It is a pity, of course, the rats have got into them; but, as I said just now to Hester, they have not troubled us very much lately. Come to the kitchen, if you like, and I’ll show you the door which leads into the principal cellar.”

They went downstairs, explored a small and well-appointed kitchen, and a short time afterwards the footman and Hester bade Leah a cordial good-night, and returned to the house.

“Now, you must never tell on me,” said Hester as they walked back over the grass, for Leah had let them out from the Queen Anne garden. “If it was known that I had shown you the mad lady’s wing, it would be as much as my place was worth.”

“I have no object in betraying you,” said Jacob in a sharp voice.

“And what do you think of it?” said Hester, after a pause.

“I think nothing of it,” answered Jacob, “only that my master must be a very considerate gentleman.”

“Yes, that he is,” replied Hester; “it is not everyone would keep a mad sister close to him, and so comfortable, too.”

“Exactly,” replied Jacob.

“It is a good thing the rats are not so troublesome now,” continued Hester.

“Very good,” said Jacob.

The maid favoured him with a glance of some irritation.

“You must be a ninny,” she said, after a pause.

“I don’t understand you, Miss Winsome,” replied the new footman.

“Well, now, just tell me plain out and honest,” returned the girl, “if you believe that story about the rats?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve it,” he answered. “Have you?”

“Yes, that I have.”

“I know what you think,” said Jacob, after a pause; “you are superstitious—some girls are made that way—and you believe in ghosts.”

“Very substantial ones,” she retorted. “I could tell tales to them that are curious. You are not curious, are you, Mr. Short?”

“One of my faults,” replied Short, after a pause, “is that I am made without the least scrap of curiosity. They say it is a sign that I am lacking in human sympathy; but I never did take the least glimmer of interest in what did not concern myself. It is nothing to me whether there are rats in the cellars, or whether there are ghosts. You will excuse me now, Miss Winsome, for hurrying on; I have got to take the wine into the drawing-room; it is past ten o’clock.”

CHAPTER XXII.
THE MAN WITH THE MARK.

The Rowtons now entered on a very gay time. They accepted every invitation which came to them. No night passed which did not find them either dining out or attending large evening receptions. The ball at Pitstow turned out an immense success, and Nance was the acknowledged belle of the occasion. She wore one of her most beautiful Paris dresses, which gave her all that diaphanous and somewhat cloudy appearance which best set off the delicate style of her beauty. Nance wore diamonds on this occasion, and there were no jewels to match with hers amongst the giddy throng. By-and-by, the time drew on when Rowton and his wife were to give that house-warming which the master of Rowton Heights had spoken of on the day when he first took Nance over the house. The preparations for the ball were at their height, and the ball itself was to take place within a week’s time, when, to Mrs. Ferguson’s unbounded astonishment and annoyance, Jacob, the valuable new footman, begged for a holiday. He came to the housekeeper just when she was at her busiest, and made his request in that cool, quiet voice which always characterised him.

“I want to go up to London for a day and a night,” he said.

“Well, I suppose you can when the ball is over,” she returned. “You have not been here two months yet; but you are a good servant, and I daresay Vickers can manage to spare you; but, of course, such a thing cannot be thought of until the ball is over.”

“I am very sorry,” replied Jacob, “but I have had bad news from home, and must go and attend to matters myself. If you let me off to-day, Mrs. Ferguson, I’ll be back, at the very latest, the day after to-morrow.”

“You cannot go at all. Your request is most unreasonable,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “There are some new servants coming down immediately, and the house will be full from end to end; then half of the guests at least will arrive on Saturday. No, no, my good fellow, I cannot listen to you. Don’t keep me any longer. I can give no servants holidays until the ball is behind us instead of in front of us.”

Jacob retired without a word.

But he was not to be out-done. After thinking matters over for a moment or two, he resolved to attack his mistress, and, if necessary, to take her partly into his confidence. After a little searching he found Nance in the large conservatory which opened out of the yellow drawing-room. Her husband was with her. He was busily engaged re-potting some flowers. Rowton was devoted to horticulture, and no employment gave him greater pleasure. Nance was helping him—garden gloves on her hands, and a large apron over her pretty morning dress—when she was startled by hearing Jacob’s quiet voice in her ears. She turned round quickly.

“Can I speak to you for a moment, madam?” he said. “I am very sorry to trouble you.”

“Certainly, Jacob,” replied the girl in a kind voice. “What is the matter? You look quite in trouble. Can I do anything for you?”

The man glanced over his shoulder at Rowton. Rowton, absorbed in his work, did not even know that Short had come into the conservatory. He was bending over a very valuable cactus.

“Nance,” he called out, “come here. This is certainly a night-flowering cactus, and I do believe there is a bud coming. We must watch for the time when it bursts into flower; the scent is something never to be forgotten—the flower only lasts during one night. Can you sketch? You ought to make a drawing of it. Well, if you can’t, I can. You never saw a night-flowering cactus, did you?”

“No, no,” she answered. “I’ll be with you in one moment, Adrian. Now, Jacob, what is it you want?”

“Can I speak to you alone, ma’am? I won’t keep you,” said the man.

Nance walked to the door of the conservatory. Jacob followed her.

“I am very sorry to be troublesome,” he said, “and I really thought to get to London without worrying you in the matter, ma’am, but Mrs. Ferguson won’t let me go.”

“Do you really wish to leave us?” said Nance. She forgot at that moment all about Crossley; and Jacob was nothing more to her than an ordinary valuable and good servant. “You seem to suit the place very well,” she continued. “I am sorry you have to go.”

“I don’t want to go at all, ma’am. I am coming back again; but I must go to town to-day.”

“Well, why not? I daresay you can be spared.”

“Mrs. Ferguson says not, ma’am. Now the fact is,”—here Jacob lowered his voice, and his eyes sought the ground—“it is Crossley; I have had a letter from him.”

“Crossley the detective?” cried Nance, with a start.

“Yes, ma’am; perhaps you won’t speak so loud. I have had a cipher from Crossley this morning—in answer to one of mine, of course. You know, Mrs. Rowton, why I am here?”

“Nance, what is keeping you?” called her husband.

“I cannot stay with you now, Jacob,” said Nance, colouring and looking confused. “Coming, Adrian. Of course, if you want to go to town,” she continued, glancing almost nervously at the footman, “you must do so. Do not stay away longer than you can help. Tell Mrs. Ferguson I have given you leave.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I am extremely obliged,” answered Jacob.

He left the conservatory, walking in his deliberate fashion through the drawing-room. In the lobby outside he came face to face with Hester Winsome.

“Well?” she said, looking at him interrogatively.

“Well?” he replied, drawing himself full up.

“I saw you talking to my mistress,” said Hester. “Were you asking a favour?”

“Yes and no,” replied Jacob. “One of my relations is ill, and I am anxious to go to town to see her. Mrs. Ferguson would not let me off because of all this fuss in connection with the big ball, so I went to Mrs. Rowton.”

“How sly of you,” said Hester. “Of course, she, poor weakling, gave you leave.”

“You ought not to speak of your mistress like that, Miss Winsome. Yes, she gave me leave. She is a kind-hearted young lady. I’m off to town in an hour. Shall I bring you a pretty trifle when I return?”

“That’s as you please,” answered Hester, with a smile. “I may be going to town on my own account before long,” she added. “I am rather tired of Rowton Heights. It don’t seem the right sort of place for a girl like me. There’s nothing to excite one here—at least, nothing to excite one who has been used to London ways.”

Jacob smiled.

“You’ll have plenty of excitement next week,” he said, “when all the grand folks are down. The house will be chock full, like an egg full of meat.”

“Yes, won’t it?” said Hester. “They’re putting up beds everywhere. Now, don’t it seem stupid to crowd people like that when the Queen Anne wing would hold three or four more of the guests? Why cannot beds be put in the Queen Anne wing?”

“You are very unreasonable,” said Jacob. “How can a poor lady who is off her head be disturbed with company?”

“Of course, I forgot,” answered the girl. “And the rats, too, might frighten the guests. Oh! it’s best as it is, no doubt.” Her eyes flashed in a knowing way.

“By the way, Mr. Jacob,” she called out as the man was disappearing down one of the passages, “have you heard the latest news?”

“No,” he said, arresting his steps as he spoke.

“Why, it is this,” answered Hester, running up to him, “there’s been no end of a big burglary took place last night at Castle Stewart. The postman brought us the news this morning.”

“I have not heard anything of it,” replied Jacob. “A burglary, did you say—not really?”

“Yes, really, and a very big one. The burglars got in through one of the upper windows—they say they had rope ladders with them and all kinds of modern contrivances—and they broke open the safe in Lady Arabella’s dressing-room, and took off all her jewels and a lot of plate from the butler’s pantry besides. The police are scouring the country to try and catch some of the thieves.”

“It is a good thing we have one of Clever’s safes here,” remarked Jacob.

He stood quite silent for a moment, evidently thinking hard. Then he went to find Mrs. Ferguson to let her know that his young mistress had given him permission to take his holiday.

That evening Crossley the detective was enjoying his pipe over a snug fire in his little house near Clapham Common. He had gone through a day of hard work, and was just in the humour to appreciate some well-earned rest, when his servant opened the door and announced a visitor. The next moment Short stood before him.

“Here I am,” said that worthy. “I got your cipher by the first post this morning and managed everything first rate. The house is full and will be still fuller, so I must take the first train back. And now what do you want of me?”

“Sit down, Jacob,” said Crossley; “if you are in a hurry I am more than willing to go to business at once. You seem, to judge by your letter, to be managing all right down in those parts.”

“Yes, I am making discoveries,” said Jacob; “and some which I fancy will surprise you. These I keep to myself for the present. The discoveries which relate to the special business which keeps me at Rowton Heights, I, of course, disclose to you.”

“Why not all your discoveries?” said Crossley.

“Because some are not ripe for disclosure at the present moment,” answered Jacob, in a terse voice. “The fact is this, a clue is a delicate matter—a clue seems to me to be often a sort of intangible thing. If you speak of it, it vanishes under your grip. But I repeat that things look well, and that I am doing good work.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Crossley, “the part of your work which concerns me is what I am naturally anxious to hear about. You know what you went to Rowton Heights for?”

“Rather,” said Jacob—“to get hold of the man who murdered young Mr. Follett.”

“Yes, we must nab him soon, I fancy.”

“He requires careful handling,” said Jacob. “Your clue to him at the present moment is a piece of paper with a certain cipher and a certain hieroglyphic upon it—the man himself being marked in a peculiar way.”

“Precisely,” said the detective, removing the pipe from his mouth, and looking hard into Jacob’s eyes.

“You arrested a man lately who belonged to the Silver Mob,” continued Jacob. “On examining his papers you found a letter, or part of a letter written in the same cipher, and signed with the same hieroglyphics.”

“I did, I did. What is the good of going into that over again?”

“I want to get it firm in my mind,” continued Jacob. “You sent me to Rowton Heights because your suspicions pointed to one man.”

“Good Heavens! yes,” said Crossley, jumping up as he spoke. “It is ridiculous for a man like me to feel anything, but you don’t know, Short, what I have suffered on account of these suspicions. The young lady wants to go on with this matter and yet——”

“If your suspicions and mine are correct,” continued Jacob in a calm voice, “the business will break her heart—still business is business. I don’t mean to drop the thing now. It is true at the present moment I have not found any cipher at Rowton Heights like that which you hold in your hands, but I think I see the way to doing so before long. I also believe that I shall discover the mark for which we are searching. It won’t be long, therefore, before we put our hands upon the man.”

“And he is?” said Crossley, bending forward, his voice dropping to a whisper; “speak low, Jacob, for Heaven’s sake!”

CHAPTER XXIII.
DAME ROWTON.

Jacob Short returned the next day to Rowton Heights, and almost immediately afterwards the excitement and confusion incident to the great ball began. Many fresh servants were engaged for the occasion; a string band from London was secured; in short, no expense was spared to make the occasion a worthy one, and to render the ball as brilliant as possible. The old ball-room was too magnificent in itself to require much decoration. The carved oak, which covered it from ceiling to floor, was re-polished, but the windows were not draped, Nature’s draping of ivy and old creepers being considered far more effective than anything man could devise. The ball-room, which was over one hundred feet in length and thirty feet in breadth, was one of the most celebrated rooms in the whole county. In the old days, brave knights and fair ladies had held high revelry here. It was well known also that more than one personage celebrated in the history of England had figured in the giddy mazes of the dance in the old room. For years it had been shut up, as misfortune and even poverty had come to the noble old family who for so many generations had reigned at Rowton Heights. The occasion, therefore, of its being re-opened was considered a truly auspicious one, and certainly Rowton and his wife could not have discovered a more popular way of entertaining the county than by allowing them to dance once more in the oak ball-room. It had been long years now since Rowton Heights had so resounded to mirth and merry-making.

For days before the ball the house was full of eager and expectant guests. Smart young men from town and the prettiest girls of the neighbourhood gladly accepted invitations to stay at the Heights. The host and hostess were seen on this occasion at their very best. Nance, under her husband’s protecting wing, lost much of her inborn shyness. Her gentle beauty, her sweet low voice, her affectionate and sympathetic manner, could not fail to make her a universal favourite. As to Rowton, he was, as Lady Georgina Strong expressed it, every inch a man of the world, and, she was wont to add, fascinating at that.

“There is a certain air of mystery about your husband, Nancy,” she said on one occasion to the young wife, “which much adds to his attractions. He is delightful, gay, debonair; but watch him, he never talks of himself. He never tells anybody what he does with his time.”

“With his time?” said Nance, looking slightly startled. “What is there to tell?”

“I only allude to his mysterious absences,” said Lady Georgina in a light tone. “Dear me, child, you need not turn so pale—he is with you now. He always was a favourite, and he will go on being so to his dying day. I sometimes wish he were a little more of a flirt, however; it would be glorious to have a flirtation with him. How you open your eyes! You think because he is your husband——”

“There are few men like Adrian,” said Nance, in a proud tone, “and he——”—her lips trembled; she could not get out the next words.

“You are a greedy little creature,” said Lady Georgina, who was watching her closely. “You need not fear that he will ever flirt with anybody but you. Why, child, he loves you to distraction. I only say that I consider it scarcely fair of you to keep such a man all to yourself.”

Nancy laughed almost gaily. She did not often laugh. There was an under vein of sadness in her, which not all her present great happiness could quite remove.

Sweeping her arm round her waist, Lady Georgina led her into the next room.

“Come,” she said, “you must not hide your charms. You are too much of the violet in the shade. Don’t you know that you and your husband are simply worshipped by everyone in the house?—you and your husband, and that dear manly boy, Murray.”

“Ah, anyone would love Murray,” said Nancy; and this was true.

The handsome little fellow had added to the merriment of this gay time. The excitement and pleasure were new to him, and he enjoyed the mirth and the merry-making all the more in consequence. He and Roy obtruded themselves on all possible occasions. They made a picturesque addition to many a lovely scene, and added to the mirth when it was highest, and to the wit when it flowed most freely.

The great day of the ball at last arrived, and Lady Georgina came over early to the Heights to help Nance and to hear the latest news.

“Not that there is anything special for me to do,” she said in an almost vexed voice as she flung herself into a chair in Nancy’s pretty boudoir. “It seems to me that these are the days for idle hands—at least, where rich people are concerned. Money commands willing labour. Money banishes fatigue; money destroys illusions. There was a time when I should have slaved myself to death to produce results which, by the magic wand of your money, Nance, can be made ten times more beautiful than any toil of mine could possibly effect. Well, never mind, you are the wife of the richest, the gayest, the most delightful man in the whole county. Ah, and here comes that angel of virtue to speak for himself. How go the festivities, my friend?” she continued, holding out her hand to Rowton, who entered the boudoir at that moment.

“Swimmingly,” he replied, seating himself on a sofa near her. “There are so many people in the house that they entertain one another, and leave their host and hostess practically with nothing to do. As to the ball, I do not anticipate a hitch anywhere.”

“There’s one thing left to settle, fortunately for me,” said Lady Georgina, “and that is this young lady’s dress. I have not yet seen her in the Dame Rowton costume.”

“No more you have, and no more have I,” said Rowton. “The dress is all complete, is it not, Nance?”

“I believe so,” she replied, somewhat indifferently. “Hester told me that a box arrived from Madame Delaroi, of Bond Street, last night.”

“That genius, Delaroi!” cried Lady Georgina. “If Delaroi tries to get up the antique, then there is certain not to be a flaw in the costume. You sent her a photograph, did you not?”

“We not only did that,” replied Rowton, “we had her down to examine the Gainsborough picture for herself.”

“Once again, I must repeat, what will not money effect,” said Lady Georgina. She tapped her fingers playfully on the ivory handle of a large fan which she wore at her waist.

“Come,” she said, turning to Nance, “you must put on your dress before the evening. Let me help you to do it now.”

“I don’t want to,” said Nance, somewhat lazily.

“But, my dear child, you must. Some trifling alteration may be necessary. Besides, I have come over to make myself useful, and useful I must be made. You will like to see the modern Dame Rowton when she is rigged out,” continued Lady Georgina, turning to Rowton. “We will ring for you when we are ready to show you the exhibition.”

Nance rose to accompany Lady Georgina to her dressing-room. On the way there she suddenly stopped.

“Now, what is the matter?” asked that good lady.

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Rowton; “only sometimes I am sick of so much dress and so much money.” There was a wistful and very sad tone in her voice.

“Dear me, child, you would be much more sick if you had not got the dress and the money,” replied Lady Georgina in her brusque voice. “Don’t quarrel with your lot, Nancy,” she added. “Take the goods the gods give you with a thankful heart. There are few women so blessed.”

They entered the dressing-room, and Nancy shut the door.

“I know you are right,” she said, making an effort to recover her spirits, “and when Adrian is at home there is no woman in all the world whose heart is more full of thankfulness. Oh, I suffered when he was away,” she continued. “I earnestly hope he will never leave me again.”

“Poor little girl!” said Lady Georgina.

She paused for a moment, thinking somewhat deeply for her.

“It would be unkind,” she said then, “to counsel you to wish for the impossible. You must take the sour with the sweet, the dark with the light, like all the rest of us, Mrs. Rowton. Your husband will certainly leave you again. He is a wanderer not only by nature, but by heredity. His father was one of the most celebrated travellers of his day. His grandfather could never stay three months in the same place, and as to Adrian, he has been already over the greater part of the world. Yes, my dear, he will of course, travel again, and leave you again, and come back to you again and rejoice your heart. Now let us be content with the happy present. Heigh ho! for the beautiful dress. Shall we ring for your maid?”

“Let us manage without her,” said Nance. “I do not like Hester,” she continued. “Each day I dislike her more.”

“Then in the name of fortune, child, why do you keep her?” said Lady Georgina. “You are surely your own mistress and can do just what you please.”

“Of course I am my own mistress,” answered Nance, “but I do not like to give way to mere fancy, and the girl really serves me very well. Still,” she added, emphasis in her voice, “I do not like Hester Winsome; I know I never shall like her.”

“Did you ring for me, madam?” said Hester’s voice at that moment.

Both ladies turned and started. Hester had advanced a few steps into the room. Her face looked serene and innocent.

“I surely heard you ring for me, madam.”

“I did not ring,” answered Nancy.

“Another time, knock before you enter a room, Hester,” said Lady Georgina in her curtest, shortest voice.

“Yes, please do, Hester,” said Nancy; “but now that you are here, stay. I want to try on my new ball dress. You told me, did you not, that it had arrived from Madame Delaroi’s last night?”

“Yes, madam, it is in the large wardrobe.”

Hester crossed the room as she spoke, opened a wardrobe, and took out a magnificent dress of the palest cream brocade, richly and heavily embroidered with seed pearls.

“Ah!” cried Lady Georgina, “that dress is worth looking at. It really makes my mouth water. For the third time, I say, what it is to be rich!”

“The dress is lovely,” said Nance. She went up to it, and, lifting the train, flung it over her arm.

“It is not only the material but the style,” said Lady Georgina. “Why, it is unique, perfect. Madame Delaroi is a genius. See this enticing petticoat. Notice the train—the way it will set. You must be careful how you hold it up to-night, Nancy. See, oh, do see this fascinating little shoe with its pearl buckle. Get into your costume, my dear; be quick about it. You will certainly be Gainsborough’s Dame Rowton come alive.”

“If I might venture to speak, madam,” said Hester, “I think your hair ought to be arranged to correspond with the dress, or it will be impossible to judge of the general effect. The hair must, of course, be piled up very high on the head and powdered.”

“Yes; but I cannot wait for that just now,” said Nance.

“You must, Nance: we really must see the thing complete,” said Lady Georgina.

“Well, if I must, I must,” replied Mrs. Rowton.

She sat down before her glass with a good-humoured sigh.

“There are some disadvantages in being rich,” she said, smiling up into Lady Georgina’s face.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE BLACK DIAMOND AGAIN.

While Hester was busy dressing Nancy’s hair Lady Georgina seated herself near, and began chatting volubly as usual.

“By the way,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “I am told there has been another robbery in the neighbourhood. The burglars broke into Belton Priory last night. Fortunately they were heard before they committed much mischief.”

Nance listened to this information with somewhat languid interest, but Hester, who was sweeping some of her mistress’s beautiful hair over a high pillow, started violently, and dropped the pad which she was using to the floor. When she raised her head again after stooping to pick it up, her whole face was scarlet.

Lady Georgina, whose bright eyes took in everything, noticed her sudden increase of colour.

“The ruffians escaped,” she continued, speaking in her quick incisive voice, “but I believe they carried off very little. Of course, at Castle Stewart the loss of plate and jewels is considerable. The Belton Priory people have got off much better. I cannot imagine,” continued the good lady, tapping her feet impatiently, “what the police are made of in these days. How is it that they cannot get the faintest trace of these burglars? It is reported that they belong to a certain gang, called the Silver Mob.”

“How much you seem to know about burglars,” said Nance, shuddering slightly as she spoke. “Do they really go about in gangs?”

“I believe so, very often,” said Lady Georgina, after a pause. “They say the Silver Mob is very well-known to the police; that it has also existed for a long time. But the members are so clever and so widely scattered, that it is almost impossible to collect evidence sufficient to arrest any of them.”

“Well, I hope none of the burglars will come here,” said Nance.

Her hair was finished now, and she rose from her seat. Hester helped her put on the beautiful dress, and Lady Georgina amused herself hopping round, pulling out the train, and ejaculating over it in various staccato exclamations of delight.

A knock was heard at the door, and Rowton put in his head.

“Is the dressing complete?” he asked.

“Yes, pray come in,” called out Nance.

Hester was putting the finishing touches to the beautiful robe. Nance turned and faced her husband.

“My darling,” he cried, “powder does not look well by daylight.”

“One moment,” said Lady Georgina.

She went to the window, drew down the blinds, pulled the curtains across, and turned on the electric light.

“Now,” she said, “speak the truth. Was there ever a bonnier, a more lovely resurrection?”

“Hail! fair dame,” said Rowton.

He fell suddenly on one knee with a fantastic gesture, and kissed the tip of Nancy’s slender hand.

“You are complete but for your jewels,” he said. “I will fetch them.”

“No; to-night will do,” she answered.

“I think you can leave us now,” said Lady Georgina, turning to Hester, who was standing submissive and subdued in the background.

“Yes, certainly, Hester, I do not require you any longer,” said Nance.

“Thank you, madam,” replied the girl.

She went softly across the room, opened the door, went out, and shut it behind her.

Rowton was still busy examining the dress.

“I am going for the jewels,” he repeated. “We must see the effect complete.”

“It really is not safe, Mr. Rowton, to have jewels lying about at the present moment,” said Lady Georgina. “We were talking about those mysterious burglaries which are taking place in the neighbourhood just when you came in.”

“Ah, of course,” said Rowton. “How clever burglars are in the present day! Have the police yet got the least inkling as to the scoundrels who have broken into Castle Stewart?”

“Not they. Police, I think, are born without brains,” said Lady Georgina in a fretful tone. “But the Stewarts are not the only victims. The Frasers at Belton Priory have also had their place broken into.”

“You don’t say so!” cried Rowton.

“Yes, it is a fact. The attempted burglary took place last night, between ten and eleven o’clock. Fortunately, as I say, it was in this case only an attempted burglary. The old butler gave the alarm, and the ruffians decamped without doing much mischief. They had only just got into the butler’s pantry, and had not even begun to attack the safe. I am told that they made off with some spoons and a few other articles of plate, but nothing really worth speaking about. The case was very different at Castle Stewart, and, unless the police get quickly on their scent, the mischief will never be repaired. Poor Lady Arabella is, I hear, inconsolable. She has lost, among other treasures, her famous rose diamond.”

“The police are sure to find the brutes in the end,” said Rowton. He came close to Nance as he spoke, and softly rearranged the setting of one of her sleeves. “Did you really say that Lady Arabella had lost her rose diamond?” he said, turning to Lady Georgina.

“Yes; the old family heirloom, estimated as worth quite sixty thousand pounds.”

“A gem of that kind will certainly be traced,” said Rowton. “Still,” he added, “as you say, the whole thing is preposterous. To think of men in the latter end of the nineteenth century being able to break into a house in the dead of night and take away jewels out of some of those marvellous modern safes, quite beats my comprehension. It is a good thing that we have got one of Clever’s safes here.”

“Yes; you are in luck,” said Lady Georgina. “There’s not a house in the whole country which contains so much plate and valuables as this.”

“True,” said Rowton, tapping his fingers on the back of Nancy’s chair. “Well,” he added, starting as if from a reverie, “as we have the treasures we must use them. There will be a good lot of plate out to-night, and Nance must wear her jewels—or, at least, jewels suitable to her dress. I’ll go and fetch them.”

He left the room.

In a few moments he returned with an old leather case, which he unlocked, and exhibited before Lady Georgina’s delighted eyes a magnificent selection of pearls, rubies, and diamonds.

“Pearls are the right ornaments for that dress,” he said, glancing at his young wife, “and I think,” he added, “I have got the very thing.”

As he spoke he touched a secret spring in the box. A drawer flew open, revealing a single string of pearls, each nearly the size of a robin’s egg. Rowton lifted it out and clasped it round Nancy’s soft white neck.

“There,” he said, “you are complete now. Anything further would spoil the effect.”

Nancy went up to the glass to examine herself.

“Are these heirlooms?” she asked.

“Of course, dearest. Lady Georgina, don’t you remember them?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I saw them last on your mother’s neck. I was a tiny child at the time, but the unusual size of the pearls attracted me. What is the matter, Mrs. Rowton?—you look disturbed.”

“It is our house-warming, and I want to wear one of your presents to me,” said Nance, going up to her husband. “You spoke of a black diamond. I have not seen it yet.”

“A black diamond!” cried Lady Georgina; “you surely do not mean to say, you lucky people, that you possess a priceless treasure of that sort. There are only a few really valuable black diamonds in the whole world.”

“Strange as it may seem,” said Rowton in a careless tone, “I happened to pick one up when I was abroad. It is a strange gem, and I was able to get it cheap. Yes, Nance, you shall wear the black diamond, if you like to-night. I’ll fetch it at once.”

When he left the room, Lady Georgina went to the door and locked it.

“I want to say something to you,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as she approached Nancy’s side. “You must be very careful about your jewels. Don’t leave those pearls about when you go downstairs. I agree with you in not liking that maid of yours. What is more, I begin to suspect her.”

“Suspect her? What about?” asked Mrs. Rowton.

“I cannot exactly say. But did you notice how she changed colour, how evidently confused she was when I spoke about the big robbery at Castle Stewart, and the attempted one at Belton Priory?”

“No, I observed nothing,” said Nance.

“You have no suspicion in you, child; but I tell you I am certain Hester Winsome is not straight. Half these burglaries are committed through the connivance of girls like her. Ah, here comes your husband with the black diamond. I really am devoured by curiosity.”

Lady Georgina flew to unlock the door. Rowton came back bearing a small case in his hand. He touched the spring, and the case flew open. An enormous diamond of the purest water, but in colour as black as coal, lay on its satin bed within. The diamond was set in heavy gold, to which a pin was attached; and the gem was evidently meant to be worn in the hair. Without a word, but nevertheless with fingers which slightly trembled, Rowton lifted the treasure from its bed, and placed it in his wife’s powdered locks.

“There,” he said, “come and see yourself once again in the glass. I guessed that this queer stone would fit you to perfection. You are so fair that the sort of devildom of the thing comes out all the better from contrast.”

“Upon my word, that diamond looks almost uncanny,” cried Lady Georgina. “What possessed you to get it for your wife?”

“Because of its rarity, and because I am rather fond of the uncanny,” said Rowton, with a slight laugh. “The price of this gem, like a good woman, is above rubies.”

“Well, it certainly is magnificent,” said Lady Georgina. “It will be remarked by everyone in the room.”

“Why not? I mean it to be,” answered Rowton.

“Those tiresome burglars who are hovering round the neighbourhood had better not get wind of it,” continued Lady Georgina. “If they do, they are certain to have a try for this house and its treasures.”

“I am afraid that fact will not prevent Nance from wearing her husband’s present,” said the master of the Heights in a careless tone. “It sends out queer rays, does it not?—rays not of day but night.”

“Adrian, I am half afraid of it,” said Nance.

She put up her hand, took the pin from her hair, and looked at the sparkling dark gem with a frightened expression on her face.

“You poor dear little mass of superstition,” said Rowton; “what can there be to frighten you in your husband’s present?”

“Not in your present,” she answered, “only I wish it were not black.”

“Wear it for my sake, sweetheart,” he said. “I have taken a fancy to it. It has a queer incomprehensible look. You take my fancy in it.” He sank his voice as he spoke until it thrilled with suppressed passion.

“Then I will wear it gladly for you,” she said in as low a whisper.

Lady Georgina turned and walked to the window.

“It is tiresome sometimes being in the room alone with such a pair of crazy lovers,” she murmured to herself.

Aloud, she said, after a moment’s pause, turning and speaking to Rowton:

“Have you ever heard of the Silver Mob?”

“The Silver Mob!” he replied. “No, I can’t say that I have. Who are they? What are they?”

“A notorious gang of burglars. They say that the robberies in this neighbourhood are being committed by them.”

CHAPTER XXV.
KIDNAPPED.

The great house-warming at Rowton Heights was never forgotten by anyone who was present at it. The merry ball was not only remembered on account of the grand festivity itself, but because of that mystery and tragedy which immediately followed it. At the time it went, as Rowton had prophesied, without a single hitch. Rowton was now a king, and Nance was a queen. The king had come in for his own again, and the county rejoiced. Pretty Nance, or Dame Rowton, as the guests called her on account of her quaint and lovely dress, was the undoubted belle of the occasion. She suited the quaint rich costume to perfection. Her slim young figure, her delicate features, the bloom of youth on her cheeks, the sparkle of hope and happiness in her eyes, gave to her beauty a unique and almost spiritual appearance. She might have really lived in the days she so cunningly represented. There was a certain ethereal quality about her which made her appear at times, and under certain emotions, more spirit than flesh; but hers was the sort of beauty which no man has ever been known to resist. There was something womanly, essentially gentle, about her. It was impossible to connect unkindness, want of charity, or any of the vices with that sweet face.

Nance was one of those people who feel so much that, like an Æolian harp, each breath which blew upon her brought out some fresh attribute of her bright spirit. Never for long could the charming face look the same. One half hour the cheeks would be bright, the eyes shining, the rosebud lips would part with smiles; the next, all the colour would have fled, the pathetic eyes would look full of undefined trouble, the lips would be too faintly coloured for health; laughter would then be banished, and the grave face would be too thoughtful for its youth.

To-night, however, Nance showed little of the more sombre side of her character; the place, the occasion, the presence of her dearly beloved husband, all helped to raise her to a state of exaltation. She gave herself up to the happiness of the occasion and the hour.

“What a couple those two make!” said more than one guest as the husband and wife received their guests near the principal entrance.

“And what a charming little cavalier that boy is!” said a lady who was devoted to children, and whose eyes wandered over Murray’s handsome little figure with a certain thrill of sympathy.

The little fellow was dressed as a cavalier of the time of Charles I., and the dress suited his picturesque dark beauty to perfection.

“How like his uncle he is!” everyone said.

Once the boy heard the words. He glanced round with a flash in his eyes, and said excitedly:

“I’m so delighted you say that. I want to be like Uncle Adrian—that is, in most things.”

He did not add any more. He was devoting himself just then to Lady Georgina, who, amused with his manly airs, condescended to dance with him once or twice.

“This is our dance,” he said, running up to her. “I’m so glad it is not a square dance. I hate square dances. This is a right down jolly waltz. There’s nothing like a waltz, is there?”

“No, when you are young, and it does not turn you giddy,” said Lady Georgina.

“Well, you are young enough,” he said, looking up at her.

“And so are you,” she replied with a laugh.

“I wish I were older,” he said. “If I were older, we might be betrothed, might we not?”

“I don’t think age matters,” said Lady Georgina, “we can be betrothed if you like.”

“Do you mean it really?”

Murray’s face glowed with delight.

“It is really nice to be engaged,” he said, after a pause, “and you are a tall lady. I always said I would have a tall lady to be my wife, for then she might become something like Aunt Nancy. Come on, won’t you? Don’t let us waste lose a minute of this dance.”

Lady Georgina stepped into the middle of the room, and she and Murray danced together to the amusement of many people who watched them. As they approached the other end of the ball-room, they suddenly came plump up against Hester Winsome. She was passing through the room with a tray of glasses in her hands. Lady Georgina’s dislike to this girl was increasing each moment. She stopped now to reprimand her.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “Do you know that it is very wrong of you to bring glasses into the ball-room? We might have knocked them all over.”

“What are you doing here? Do you know it is very wrong of you to bring glasses into the ball-room?”—Page 211.

“I am really sorry, madam,” said Hester, dropping a curtsey as she spoke. “I know I ought to have gone round by the corridor outside, but this part of the room seemed quite clear just for the moment, and Jacob was in a hurry. He sent me flying for some fresh glasses. I am very sorry, of course.”

“Well, don’t do it again,” said Lady Georgina, “and go away now; this is no place for you.”

Hester tripped across the room, carrying her glasses deftly. Lady Georgina and Murray prepared to resume their dance. Suddenly Hester’s face was seen in the doorway.

“Master Murray, may I speak to you for a moment?” she called out.

“What can you want, Hester?” cried the boy. “I am very busy just now. I can’t leave my partner.”

“I won’t keep you long, sir; there’s something you ought to know.”

Hester’s face looked really troubled.

“I wonder what she wants,” said Murray to Lady Georgina. “Would you mind very much if I went to her?”

“No, dear,” was the reply, “I’ll sit on the window ledge and wait for you.”

“Please don’t give our dance to anybody else.”

“No, I will keep it for you, my little lover,” said Lady Georgina, kissing her hand to the handsome boy.

He laughed back at her and ran out of the ball-room. The moment he did so, Hester took his hand, and led him a step or two into the supper room.

“I really cannot stay with you, Hester,” he said; “what can you possibly want with me now?”

“I am very sorry to bother you, Master Murray,” said the girl, “but the fact is, I am in an awful fright. I am terribly afraid your poor mother has managed to get loose, sir.”

“My mother! Oh, what do you mean?”

“What I say, Master Murray. I was going through the garden just now, and I saw someone dressed as your mother dresses running and dodging just behind the laurel shrubs. If she did get loose, she would think nothing of going into the ball-room and frightening everyone. I wanted to see Mr. Rowton about it, and hoped he might be at the lower end of the room.”

“Shall I try and fetch him for you?” said Murray.

“No, sir, it is not necessary; you’ll do just as well as my master.”

“I!” said Murray. His little face turned pale as it always did when his mother was mentioned. “Perhaps you know, Hester,” he said with a sigh, “that mother is not very fond of me. I do not see how I am to find her.”

“Of course not, my little gentleman,” said the girl. “Leah is the one who ought to do that. Now, if anyone could be got to run round to the Queen Anne wing, Leah would soon put matters straight. I’d go myself, but there’s such a heap to be done that I really haven’t a single moment.”

“Hester, stop talking there and come and help us,” said Jacob from the other end of the room.

“Yes, Jacob, I’m coming. Please, Master Murray, would you help us, sir?”

“If I can. Do you want me to go to the Queen Anne wing?”

“Oh, sir, if you only would.”

“But I am never allowed to go there.”

“That don’t matter, sir, on an occasion like the present.” Hester slipped her hand into her pocket as she spoke. “Here is the key of the little postern gate in the garden,” she said, lowering her voice. “You know the Queen Anne garden, of course, Master Murray?”

“Of course I do,” answered Murray.

“Will you go there now, sir? You can open the postern gate easily; then you have only to run across the garden, and tap with your knuckles on the back door. Leah will be there to hear, for she is expecting me round with a bit of supper presently. I promised I would bring her over a trayful. Go, Master Murray, be quick, tell her what I said.”

“Of course I will,” said Murray. “It would never do for mother to frighten the people in the ball-room.”

He ran off quickly. The mere thought of his mother had always the power to depress him, but his spirits were high to-night.

He soon found the postern door, and let himself in. The garden was not large; he quickly ran across it, and found the back door of the house. Here he knocked with his knuckles as Hester had desired him to do. His first knock was unanswered. He repeated it in some impatience. This time he was evidently heard. He saw through the fanlight overhead the light of a candle coming nearer and nearer. The next moment the door was cautiously opened, and a voice said, in muffled tones:

“Who is there?”

“It’s me, Murray Cameron,” said the child.

“Then you are just the person we want, Murray Cameron,” answered the voice.

A hand was cautiously put out, and the child was pulled into the house. The candle was immediately extinguished; a cloth was thrown over the little fellow’s face. He found himself lifted into somebody’s arms and carried—he did not know where.

CHAPTER XXVI.
A “PLANT.”

Until the daylight dawned in the far east the merry ball went on. Even with daylight the happy dancers were scarcely willing to give up such glorious fun; but the happiest times must come to an end, and at long length the sound of the last carriage wheels was heard to die away upon the gravel outside the old house. The guests who were staying in the house retired to their various rooms, and Nance, Lady Georgina, and Rowton found themselves for a moment alone together.

“I am dead tired, of course,” said Lady Georgina, “but I really may as well say frankly that I never had a better time in my life. The whole thing was so young and yet so old.”

“What do you mean by that conundrum?” asked Rowton with a careless laugh.

“Must I unriddle my riddle?” she replied. “Well, then, here’s the answer. The ball was young because it was spirited and absolutely unconventional; it was old because it seemed to partake of a certain last century flavour—the room, the situation, certain memories, all conspired to that; but most of all was the last century flavour accentuated by Dame Rowton’s presence.” Here Lady Georgina gave a mock but graceful bow in pretty Nancy’s direction. “Have I explained myself?” she said, turning her bright eyes full on Rowton’s somewhat flushed but handsome face.

“Perfectly,” he replied. “You have the gift, Lady Georgina, of making very neat compliments. Now I vote that we all go to bed and discuss the charms of our house-warming to-morrow.”

“By the way,” said Lady Georgina, as she prepared to leave the room, “I missed one person towards the end of the evening. Who was it ordered little Murray off to bed so early?”

“Murray to bed!” exclaimed Nancy. “Why, surely he never went to bed. He begged of me to let him stay up during the entire night, and, perhaps not very wisely, I gave him leave. The fact is, I did not think the child could sleep with so much noise going on.”

“Nevertheless, he must have gone to bed,” said Lady Georgina, “for I have not seen him for several hours. He was dancing with me, having a very good time, and making outrageous proposals, the monkey, that I should be his future wife. He was called out of the room by your maid, Hester Winsome, but promised to be back in a moment. He never came back, however.”

“Mrs. Ferguson may have sent Hester to speak to him,” said Nance after a pause; “she is quite a dragon about early hours for the boy. I wonder he did not appeal to me. Poor little dear, he must have been disappointed if he was banished off to bed when he expected so thoroughly to enjoy himself.”

“The boy was much better in bed,” said Rowton suddenly; “don’t fret yourselves about him now. Good-night, Lady Georgina.”

He held out his hand as he spoke. The lady took it, favoured him with a full admiring glance, kissed Nance on her cheek, and left the room.

“Now, Nancy, to bed, to bed. I cannot keep my eyes open a moment longer,” said her husband. He took her hand and they ran upstairs.

A fire burnt in the beautiful bedroom; the doors of the two dressing-rooms were wide open—fires were also blazing there. Through the drawn curtains, with their soft shadows of rose colour, peeped in the first rays of the dawn.

“How horribly dissipated I feel,” said Nance with a smile. “The fact is, I have never in the whole course of my life spent the entire night dancing before.”

“You have enjoyed everything, have you not, dearest?”

“Almost beyond the point of enjoyment,” she replied. “My happiness was so great that I felt, to allude to an old superstition, ‘fey,’ as they express it.”

“Nonsense, little woman,” replied her husband. “This is the beginning, let us trust, of many scenes as gay, as fresh and invigorating.”

Nance moved a step or two nearer to Rowton as he spoke. A ray of sunshine at that moment pierced through the rose curtains and fell across her face and figure. It gave her a sort of unearthly beauty. Rowton went up to her, put his arms round her, and clasped her to his heart.

“What is there about you, child,” he said, “which moves all the best in me? The dead, forgotten good stirs feebly once again in my breast.”

“But you are good. Why will you ever and always run yourself down?” she said, a note of pain in her voice.

“To you I am what I seem,” he said; “for you I could, devil that I am—yes, Nancy, for you I could almost become an angel.” He unloosed her suddenly as he said the words. “Get to bed, child,” he said; “take off those pearls and that diamond.”

Nance put her hand to her head, took the black diamond from her hair, and then slipped the row of pearls from her neck.

“I am glad to be rid of these priceless treasures,” she said. “Had you not better take them down to the safe at once, Adrian? Is it wise to keep them here till the morning?”

“It is morning now,” he said, with a yawn; “burglars do not come in broad daylight; the jewels can lie with perfect safety in your dressing-room till we get up. Now I am going to tumble into bed as fast as ever I can.”

He went into his dressing-room as he spoke, and Nancy rather slowly and with a certain unwillingness, which she could not account for, went to hers.

To her surprise and by no means to her pleasure, Hester, looking pale and worn, was waiting for her.

“Why are you here, Hester?” exclaimed her mistress. “I particularly told you that I did not wish you to stay up.” There was some annoyance in Nancy’s gentle voice.

“Yes, ma’am, you are very kind and thoughtful,” replied the maid, lowering her eyes as was her invariable habit, “but I could not possibly let you unlace your dress.”

“My husband could have done it. I really wish you had obeyed me,” said Nance. “Well, as you are up you had better do what is necessary. Please give me my jewel-case from the dressing-table; I want to put the pearls and this diamond into it.”

Hester took up a beautiful morocco jewel-case, unlocked it and held it out before her mistress. Nancy put the string of pearls and the diamond in the top compartment of the case.

“It is a queer, uncanny sort of stone,” remarked Hester, looking at the black diamond as she spoke.

Nancy did not reply. Hester locked the case and gave her mistress the key.

“If you have no objection, ma’am,” she said, after a pause, “would it not be best to put this case into the safe?”

“No; it is quite unnecessary,” replied Nancy: “you can put it on the shelf in my wardrobe; and if you are nervous you can give me the key of the wardrobe.”

“I will certainly do so, ma’am; it is really not wise to have jewel-cases of this sort about when burglars are known to be in the neighbourhood.”

“I am perfectly sick of the subject of those tiresome burglars,” said Nancy.

Hester made no remark at all to this, and soon afterwards left her mistress.

The tired household slept long and late, unsuspicious of any danger. It was between nine and ten the following morning when Nancy suddenly opened her eyes. She started up in bed, and was about to ring her bell to summon Hester, when the young woman hurriedly opened the bedroom door and stood on the threshold with a scared and absolutely deathlike face.

“Oh, madam, I’m so glad you are awake,” she said. “Vickers said you ought certainly to be aroused at once, and yet I did not like to do it.”

“What is the matter, Hester? How terrified you look!” cried Nancy.

“Oh, I am, madam. Please will you wake Mr. Rowton; Vickers wishes to see him immediately.”

“Go into my dressing-room. I’ll be there in no time,” said Nancy.

Hester closed the bedroom door softly behind her.

“Adrian, dear, wake; you are wanted at once,” cried Nancy.

Rowton opened his eyes with a start.

“What is it?” he cried.

“Vickers wants you; I am afraid there is something wrong. Hester came to the door to call us; she looked so frightened.”

“Vickers wants me!” repeated Rowton. “I don’t know that there is anything to alarm one in that. I am afraid he must wait for a little, however. I feel much too sleepy to get out of bed at present.” He turned on his pillow as he spoke, and wrapped the bedclothes round him.

“But you really must get up, Adrian. Hester’s face looked positively terrified. I know there is something grave the matter.”

Somewhat unwillingly Rowton sat up in bed, yawning as he did so.

“My dearest,” he said, noticing how Nancy’s hand trembled, “there is probably nothing at all to alarm anyone. Servants are always taking fright. You have not been long at the head of an establishment of this sort; if you had, you would not put yourself out simply on account of a scared face. In all probability Vickers misses one of the spoons, and thinks the gang of burglars who are haunting this neighbourhood have broken into the house. I do wish the police would nab those fellows, in order to give us all quiet nights.”

“I wish, Adrian, you would get up. I am quite convinced it is worse than you imagine,” said Nancy.

She went into her dressing-room as she spoke.

To her surprise and consternation both Hester and Mrs. Ferguson were waiting for her there. The housekeeper was on the verge of hysterics.

“The most frightful, awful thing has happened,” she cried; “we cannot find Master Murray high nor low, and Vickers says some people meddled with the safe last night. He says a lot of the plate and most of the jewels are gone, and, oh, ma’am, look, look!”

Nancy turned quickly round. The housekeeper was pointing to her wardrobe, which had been broken open. A glance showed her that her small private jewel-case, the case in which she had put the pearls and diamonds, had been abstracted.

“Don’t be so frightened,” she said to Mrs. Ferguson; “I’ll go back at once and tell my husband. Of course the burglars will soon be caught. But what did you say about Murray?”

“That is the worst of all, ma’am, to my thinking—the child is missing; he can’t be found high nor low.”

“Murray missing! You must be dreaming,” said Nancy.

“No, I am not, ma’am; we have searched all over the place for him. He never lay in his bed at all last night, the blessed lamb. Where he is Heaven only knows.”

“Who saw him last?” asked Nancy.

“I did,” said Hester, suddenly coming forward.

She spoke with a catch in her voice; her face was deadly pale. She was scarcely able to keep steady; and, staggering slightly, leant up against the wall.

“Tell me everything, and be quick,” said Mrs. Rowton hurriedly, beginning to dress as she spoke.

“I believe that I was the last person to see the young gentleman,” replied Hester. “The fact is this, ma’am: I got a fright just between ten and eleven last night soon after the ball opened. I saw, or fancied I saw, a lady flitting about in the garden. You remember, ma’am, there was a moon, but there were lots of black clouds, and the light was always being shut away by the clouds going across the moon; but just for the minute it shone out quite bright, and I distinctly saw a woman running and stooping as she ran close to the laurel hedge. I seemed to recognise the dress, and I thought at once that poor Mrs. Cameron had got loose. I wanted to tell my master, for I knew it would be awful if she ran into the ball-room. I made an excuse to get into the room, hoping that Mr. Rowton might be somewhere within sight; but I only caught sight of Master Murray, and it occurred to me that I would ask him to help me.”

“You did very wrong,” said Nancy; “you know, or you must know, that it is not safe for the boy to be with his mother. Well, go on, be quick.”

“I had no time to think, madam, and besides, I am not supposed to know anything.” Hester made an effort to give her head its old pert toss. “I managed to get Master Murray out of the ball-room,” she continued, “and I asked him to run across to the wing and tell Leah at once that Mrs. Cameron had escaped. He ran off quite willingly. I gave him the key of the postern door, which opens into the Queen Anne garden.”

“And the child has never come back? You must be making a mistake,” cried Nancy.

“It is true, ma’am; alas! it is true,” sobbed Mrs. Ferguson. “I was over with Leah this morning, and she says she never saw the boy, and never heard him knock, and Mrs. Cameron did not escape at all last night, but at the very time that Hester fancied she saw her, was sound asleep in bed. Oh, I dread to think what has happened—burglars breaking into the house, and the child gone, kidnapped most like. Oh, the plate and jewels are nothing—it is the child.”

“Yes; it is the child,” said Nancy.

She had dressed herself now. The very magnitude and imminence of the catastrophe which had suddenly overtaken her, gave her a certain feeling of strength. She remembered that queer sense of being “fey” last night; she remembered the words which she had spoken to her husband.

“Well,” she said, looking at the two terrified women, “you have done right to tell me; don’t be over frightened; try and keep yourselves calm. The boy will, of course, be found immediately. I’ll go now and tell Mr. Rowton.”

She ran into the next room, but Rowton had already dressed and gone downstairs. The direful tidings had, of course, been broken to him by Vickers.

Nance at last came face to face with her husband in the butler’s pantry. There a scene of the utmost confusion and destruction met her astonished eyes. The celebrated Clever safe, which was supposed to be proof against any burglar in the land, had been burst open by means of certain explosives, which had probably been introduced through a joint in the side. The safe had been nearly completely rifled of its contents. The secret receptacle for the jewel case had been discovered, and the splendid Rowton diamonds, with many other valuable and priceless jewels, had disappeared; the gold plate had also completely vanished. In short, the burglars had possessed themselves of many thousand pounds’ worth of valuable goods.

“Here’s a wreck,” said Rowton, turning to Nance when she appeared. His face was pale, and his underlip shook. “You see what this boasted safe is worth, after all,” he continued.

“Yes, yes; but the jewels are nothing,” panted Nancy, “it is the child. Who minds about the jewels or the plate? Oh, Adrian, it is Murray.”

“Murray!” cried the man; “what in the world do you mean? What has Murray to do with this?”

“Nothing, of course,” said Nancy, tottering as she spoke, “only they seem to have stolen him, too. He cannot be found anywhere; Murray is lost.”

For answer Rowton took his wife’s hand with that grip of iron which had hurt her so much on the night of her arrival at the Heights.

“Come into my study,” he said in a voice which he scarcely recognised as his own. He shut the door when he got there, and turned her round to face him.

“Now, tell me everything,” he said.

“Why do you look like that?” she replied.

“Don’t mind my looks. Tell me everything, quickly.”

Nance repeated the story which Hester had told her.

“A plant!” muttered Adrian under his breath.

“What did you say, Adrian? I did not hear you.”

“The devil is in this job, Nancy,” he replied; “for Heaven’s sake, leave me for a moment.”

“Do you really think any harm has happened to the little fellow?”

“Harm? God only knows. Would I had never been born. Leave me, wife; I shall go mad if your innocent eyes look into mine a moment longer. I must do something, and I must be alone.”

CHAPTER XXVII.
INVISIBLE INK.

Nance left the room. The moment she closed the door behind her the master of the Heights went straight to his desk. His brow was like thunder; his face was white with an awful grey shadow over it.

“Long John has gone one step too far,” he muttered. “The robbery was planned and carried out to perfection. It was done as a blind, and as a blind it will succeed admirably; but this—this blow was aimed at me. I have threatened to throw up the sponge. If I do, it will mean so much that all will be up with the Silver School. Now, hear me, Heaven,” continued the man, clenching his hand and looking up as he spoke, “I swear, I swear that, as I live, if that boy is not back at the Heights within twenty-four hours, I carry out my threat.”

Trembling violently, Rowton sat down before his desk and opened it. He took out some paper of a peculiar make and quality, dipped his pen into a small bottle which contained a preparation not in the least like ordinary ink, and wrote a short sentence. At the end of this sentence he appended a hieroglyphic. The paper was then folded up, put into an envelope and directed. Having done so, Rowton put on his hat and went out.

As he was walking up the avenue, Jacob, the footman, who had been unremitting in his active services and presence of mind during the terrible scare of the morning, also put on his hat, and followed his master at a respectful distance.

With quick strides, Rowton approached the little post office of the small adjacent village. The post-mistress, who had evidently not yet heard anything of the burglary, looked at him with some slight surprise when he entered her shop.

“Am I in time to catch the post, Mrs. Higgins?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, just; Polly and me, we are packing the bags now.”

“Then here is a letter; hold out the bag and I’ll drop it in.”

The woman did so.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“Now I want to send off a telegram.”

“Here are the forms, sir, and a new pen.”

Rowton scribbled two words on a telegraph form, added a brief address, and handed it in.

“I want this to go at once,” he said.

“I’ll send it off this moment, sir; it is early, and the wires are sure to be clear.”

“Very well, I’ll wait and see it off; it is of the utmost importance.”

The woman turned to where the little telegraphic apparatus stood, and immediately worked off the message while Rowton stood silently by.

“Thank you,” he answered. He left the post-office as he spoke.

Just outside he ran almost into Jacob’s arms.

“What are you doing here?” cried his master with a scowl.

“I beg your pardon, sir; I saw you go out, and I thought I’d run after you, sir, to suggest that the police should be telegraphed for from Pitstow.”

“Aye, a good thought,” answered Rowton; “go into the office and send a wire off immediately.”

Jacob lingered outside the post-office until his master’s figure had vanished from view. Rowton did not once look round. When Jacob could see him no longer, he too, went into the post-office.

“I want to send a telegram,” he said to the post-mistress; “please give me a form.”

“Dear, dear, you must be all gone mad on the subject of telegrams,” she answered; “there’s Mr. Rowton sending off the queerest words, enough to frighten a body. Oh, I am not going to tell, so don’t you think it, Jacob Short.”

She showed him with a motion of her hand where the telegraph forms were lying. As she did so, his eyes met hers with a fixed and peculiar glance. She faintly nodded to him, and then her face turned pale.

“Run, Polly,” she said to a rosy-cheeked girl who was helping her, “and tell Hudson to be quick; tell him it’s time the post was off, or he will miss the train at Pitstow.”

The girl immediately left the room.

“That was well done,” said Jacob; “now we have not a minute to lose. He brought a letter here, did he not?”

“He did that, Mr. Short; he brought it and dropped it into the mail-bag himself. I can’t find it, so there’s no use in your trying to meddle. It is as much as my place is worth, even talking to you on the subject, and if I was to do more, it’s penal servitude might hang over my head.”

“It might, or it might not,” said Jacob; “we have talked over these matters a few times, haven’t we, Mrs. Higgins? It is rather late in the day for you to take up this tone. I thought the matter was all arranged. You want thirty pounds, don’t you now? You shall have it if you give me one look at the letter which Mr. Rowton has just dropped into the bag.”

The woman hesitated again; she had a weak and somewhat cowardly type of face—her mouth expressed greed. When Jacob spoke of the thirty pounds which might so easily become hers, her eyes glittered with an ugly light.

“Heaven knows I do want that money,” she said, “and I don’t suppose any harm will come of it; be quick, then, or Polly will be back.”

The woman shivered as she spoke. She lifted the flap of the counter.

“I was just about to seal the bag,” she said; “I won’t look—you do.”

Jacob slipped inside the counter. The post-mistress held the bag, half-full of letters, for him to peep in. His eyes which were keen as an eagle’s, quickly discovered the despatch he wanted.

He lifted it out of the bag and coolly deposited it in his pocket.

“He lifted the dispatch out of the bag and coolly deposited it in his pocket.”—Page 229.

“No, no; that’s not fair,” she cried in terror.

“Perfectly fair,” he replied; “I’ll post it myself at Pitstow in time to catch the same mail.”

“You cannot; it is impossible.”

“It is quite possible. Don’t keep me now, woman; here’s your thirty pounds.” He laid an envelope on the counter, and vanished before she could utter a word.

Going as quickly as ever his feet could carry him, Jacob approached the nearest inn, ordered a trap and the fleetest horse in the livery stables. He made a very plausible explanation for his hurry.

“You know all about the burglary up at the Heights,” he said—“well, I’m off to see the police at Pitstow; my master told me to telegraph, but it occurred to me it would be best to drive over and bring one or two of them back with me. Now, do be quick. Half a crown to the man who brings round the trap first.”

“It shall be at your service in three minutes at the farthest,” said the burly host of the little village inn. He ran off to the stables, and several men began to loaf round and eagerly question Jacob Short.

“I think I’ll go and lend a hand in putting the harness on the horse,” said Jacob, who did not want to communicate any of his tidings to the excited bystanders. He had reason for his hurry, for at that moment the cart containing Her Majesty’s mail rattled up the street. Two minutes afterwards Jacob himself was driving as fast as he could in the same direction. He soon overtook the mail cart, nodded to the driver, whom he happened to know slightly, and promising his own driver five shillings if he got to Pitstow ten minutes before the mail, settled down comfortably to consider the present position of affairs.

Pitstow was quite five miles away, and part of the road was very lonely. When Jacob got to the lonely part, the mail-cart was so far behind that it was not even visible. Short’s driver was smoking a cigar supplied to him by that worthy, and happy in his own reflections, was looking the other way. With a hasty movement, Short now took the letter which he had abstracted from the mail-bag out of his pocket. It was addressed in an upright and somewhat cramped hand.

“The sort of hand that ain’t natural to the writer,” muttered Short, a gratified smile spreading over his countenance. “I’ve seen Mr. Rowton’s own hand scores of times—big and flowing and easy, with a sort of dash about it; now, this is as stiff and crabbed as if the writer had got the rheumatics very bad. Let me see, to whom is it addressed?

“‘George Morton, Esq., ⸺, Redcliffe Square, London S.W.’ Well, there’s certainly nothing remarkable in the address. George Morton—the name is respectable, the locality good.”

Jacob held the letter close to his eyes; once again he perused the upright, stiff hand with minute and careful attention. He presently took a pocket-book out of his breast pocket and carefully compared the handwriting on the envelope of the purloined letter with some handwriting which he had in his pocket-book.

“Done, by Jove! Caught at last!” he muttered.

He slipped the pocket-book into its place, put the letter once again into his breast pocket, and began to talk in a cheerful and lively manner to the man who was driving him.

The subject of the burglary was, of course, the only one of the least interest at the present moment.

“It’s the queerest thing going,” said Jacob Short’s driver; “why, that’s the third big robbery that’s taken place in the last month or six weeks—and the police ain’t nabbed one of the fellows yet. I can’t understand it, can you, guv’nor?”

“Oh, the burglars will be nabbed all in good time,” said Jacob; “I should not be a bit surprised if this robbery at the Heights last night did not do for them. Then there’s the child, you know.”

“What child?” asked the man.

“Why, that game little chap, Master Murray Cameron, he was kidnapped, too, last night, as well as the plate and jewels.”

The driver, a stolid-looking fellow, dropped his mouth wide open on hearing this startling intelligence.

“Heaven preserve us!” he cried; “It is enough to terrify a body. There seems a sort of judgment on the place. Don’t it strike you so, guv’nor?”

“It does and it doesn’t,” said Jacob; “you whip up your horse, my man. Ah, here we are, at Pitstow, at last.”

“Shall I drive you straight to the police station?” asked the man.

“No; you put up here at the sign of the Boar; I shall want you to drive me back before long.”

Jacob jumped off the cart and entered the inn.

“A private room, quick,” he said; “a room with a fire in it.”

Jacob was conducted into a small parlour at the back of the inn.

“You can have this room to yourself, sir,” said the landlady. “It so happens that there’s no one using it just now, and the fire is lit all handy.”

“That’s right,” answered Jacob; “now bring me pen, ink, and paper. I am in a desperate hurry—I want to write an important letter to catch the next post to London.”

“You’ll have to be quick, then,” said the landlady, glancing at the clock over the mantelpiece as she spoke, “for the post will be cleared in ten minutes.” She hurried out of the room to procure writing materials, returning with them almost immediately.

“Thank you, ma’am,” answered Jacob; “and now I’ll be all the quicker if I am left alone.”

The landlady took the hint and closed the parlour door behind her.

The moment she did so, Jacob took Rowton’s letter again out of his pocket. He breathed on the flap, which was securely fastened down, holding it to his mouth with one hand, while he wrote a communication of his own, as if for life or death, with the other. At last he took the moist letter from his mouth. With very little difficulty and with consummate skill he unfastened the flap of the envelope and took the letter from beneath. He opened it, to survey nothing whatever except a perfectly blank sheet of paper.

“Ha! invisible ink,” he muttered. “Now, will it make its appearance under the influence of fire or of water? I hope to goodness heat will do it, for I never thought of ordering water, and the mail will be off in a few minutes.”

He rushed to the fire as he spoke, and held the blank sheet of paper at a little distance from the bars. After doing so for a few seconds, a satisfied exclamation fell from his lips. Some writing of a bright blue colour was now perfectly visible on the hitherto blank sheet of paper. Jacob read the words, which, to an unobservant eye, meant very little:

“Illness has increased; will call to-morrow for ultimatum.”

At the foot of this apparently unintelligible sentence was a certain hieroglyphic of a peculiar shape and size.

After once again consulting some memoranda in his pocket-book, Jacob re-enclosed the letter in its envelope. As he did so he observed with satisfaction that the writing had completely disappeared. Slipping this letter with another of his own into his pocket, he now rushed almost on the wings of the wind to the nearest post-office. He opened the door and went in—the mail was just being packed.

“Am I in time to post two letters?”

“Just in time, master, if you look sharp,” said the postmaster. “Here, give ’em to me and I’ll drop ’em into the bag myself.”

Jacob did so; the letters were thrown on the top of a heap of others, and the postmaster began to tie up the bag. Jacob went out of the post-office with a perfectly radiant face.

“Well, Jacob Short, you’ve done a nice stroke of business to-day,” he muttered to himself; “and now I fancy your residence at Rowton Heights has very nearly come to an end.”

His mind was completely relieved with regard to the letter which he had abstracted from Her Majesty’s mail in the little village near Rowton Heights. After all, it would go by exactly the same post to town.

He now went to the police station, gave a circumstantial account of the events of the last night, and, as he expected, was soon accompanied by two or three of her Majesty’s constabulary back to Rowton Heights.

The rest of the day was passed, as might be imagined, in hopeless confusion and excitement. Jacob saw very little of his master and mistress. He was not required to wait at lunch, but was busily occupied taking notes with the police, who required someone to help them.

Most of the guests had left or were leaving the Heights, the ladies being, many of them, in a state of panic, and everyone earnestly wishing to get away from a place over which a tragedy seemed now to hang. The news of the mad lady being confined in the Queen Anne wing had got abroad; that fact, the abstraction of the jewels, and the loss of the child, seemed quite to change the aspect of the place. Rowton Heights was no longer gay, cheerful, the home of brightness and frivolity. Detectives and superintendents of police kept coming and going; the entire house was searched from cellar to attic, the Queen Anne wing not being excepted. Nothing of the least importance was, however discovered, and not the faintest clue to the lost child was obtained.

Rowton, who had busied himself all day seeing to his guests and hastening their departure, came into the room where his wife and Lady Georgina were seated, about six o’clock in the evening.

“I cannot stand this inaction any longer,” he said. “I mean to go up to town to-night myself.”

“Oh, take me with you,” said Nance, springing to her feet; “the fact is, I am quite afraid to stay here alone.”

He fixed his eyes gloomily upon her—they were slightly bloodshot; his face was more or less flushed. He looked so agitated and upset that Lady Georgina seemed scarcely to know him.

“Will you have the goodness to stay with my wife?” he asked suddenly, giving her a keen intelligent glance, which also seemed to her to convey to her a certain warning.

“With pleasure,” she replied.

“But don’t leave me behind, Adrian,” cried Nance. “I know Lady Georgina is kind, but I am terrified to be left without you. Please take me with you to town.”

“I’ll send for you if necessary, Nancy,” he replied after a brief pause.

“You are surely not going to stay away long?” she asked with a gasp of terror.

He did not answer her, neither did he kiss her; there was an expression about his face which she could not fathom. Half an hour later he went away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
HESTER.

Jacob witnessed the parting between his master and mistress in the great hall of the old house. Without apparently noticing anything, he yet saw with vivid distinctness the queer grey pallor on Adrian Rowton’s face; he noticed how Nance bit her lips, how tightly her hands were locked together; he saw a look in her eyes which touched him in spite of himself. The look was one of agony. As Nance bade a voiceless good-bye to her husband, her soul seemed to look straight into his. Jacob saw it all without appearing to see.

“Poor young lady,” he muttered under his breath; “it ain’t in me to be very sorry for anyone, but if I could have a spice of feeling it would be for Mrs. Adrian Rowton. She is so pretty and so kind. Whatever possessed her to give herself up, heart and soul, to that devil-may-care chap?—and yet, and yet, if he were not what he is, I could find it in my heart not to be greatly surprised. Ah, my fine fellow, you’ll know what Jacob Short has found out about you. You’ll lay low enough before long.”

As these thoughts flitted through his mind, the footman turned slowly in the direction of the servants’ premises. He was met just outside the servants’ hall by the housekeeper.

“Well, now,” she said, “here’s a new trouble.”

“And what is that, ma’am?” asked Jacob.

“Why, as if we had not worries enough, there’s that tiresome girl, Hester Winsome, has gone and been taken real bad.”

“Bad?” echoed Jacob; “how so?”

“You may well ask how so.”

“Now I come to think of it,” answered Jacob, “she did look a bit queer at dinner-time.”

“Well, she is queerer now; she is up in her room sobbing and moaning and clasping her hands, and crying that she wishes to heaven she had never set foot in this place, and that her pain is more than she can bear. Pain of mind, it seems to me, for I can’t make out that there’s anything wrong with her body.”

“I wonder, now,” said Jacob, after a somewhat long pause, during which he was thinking deeply—“I wonder, now, if she would see me. Perhaps you have noticed, ma’am, that I have a soothing sort of way with me.”

“Of course I’ve noticed it,” said the housekeeper. “I remarked it from the very first. It was only half-an-hour ago I was saying to Vickers, ‘if it was not for Jacob Short I really don’t know how we’d have lived through the day.’ He is the only one amongst us who has kept a cool head on his shoulders.”

“Then perhaps I might soothe Hester,” answered Jacob, in his soft and melodious voice, his face exhibiting the utmost kindness and sympathy. “Perhaps you would not mind telling her, Mrs. Ferguson, that if she would like to come downstairs I should be glad to have a chat with her.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Ferguson; “it is a good thought. You may do something to make the girl unburden herself, for mind trouble I am convinced it is.”

Mrs. Ferguson trotted upstairs, and went straight to Hester’s room.

Hester was laying on the bed, face downwards; she was moaning now and then very heavily, but otherwise lay perfectly still.

“Now, you silly girl, have you not recovered your nerve yet?” said the housekeeper.

“It is the ache in my head, ma’am,” replied the girl; “there’s a pain running through me at the back of my head enough to make me screech out.”

“I hope, then, you won’t screech out, for there is confusion and worry enough without that. For my part, I have no patience with people who have not got self-control. You get up, Hester, and come downstairs.”

“It is easy for you to speak, ma’am,” answered Hester; “your conscience lies light enough. It was not you who sent Master Murray to the Queen Anne wing.”

“Well, and if you did it, child,” answered the housekeeper, her voice slightly softening, “you did it, I know, with a good motive; you ain’t to blame for that. Now, cheer up, and come downstairs; it will do you good to eat a bit of supper with the rest of us.”

As Mrs. Ferguson said these last words, she laid her hand on Hester’s shoulder.

“There’s Jacob, too,” she continued. “Now, if there’s a man I do admire, it’s Jacob. He has self-control if you like; he has a head on his shoulders; he don’t think anything of himself. What has not he done this day? Why, everything for everybody. Helping the police to take an inventory of the missing plate, remembering all about it—wonderful, too—better even than Vickers, who has been here for years, and going off on his own accord for the police, and then seeing my master off to town. I never had a better servant in the house, and that I will say. When I told him about you, no one could speak nicer; he said to me at once, looking as concerned as you please:

“‘Mrs. Ferguson, maybe I could soothe her a bit. I have a soothing way, you might remark,’ says he.

“‘That you have,’ says I.

“‘Well, then, send her down to me and I’ll have a bit of a talk,’ says he.

“I answered that I would; so down you go now, Hester, and pour out your mind to him. You tell him how you feel about sending the poor little chap off to the Queen Anne wing. He’ll bring you to your senses if anyone will.”

“I cannot go,” answered Hester, who had thrown herself back again on her bed; “it’s useless to expect it of me—my head is so giddy that I could not rise to save my life; you can tell Mr. Jacob so with my compliments, Mrs. Ferguson. Perhaps I’ll be better in the morning after I have had a bit of sleep.”

“Well, if you are as bad as all that,” answered Mrs. Ferguson, “you had best take off your clothes and get right into bed. I’ll tell Jacob you ain’t well enough to see him, and have gone to bed.”

“Yes, please do,” answered Hester.

Mrs. Ferguson left the room.

As soon as her footsteps died away in the distance, Hester raised her head from the pillow and began to listen intently. Not hearing a sound, she rose, crossed her room, and turned the key in the lock. It turned smoothly, as if the lock had been recently oiled.

Hester then went and stood by the window. Her little room was high up in a certain wing of the old house; it looked out across the garden. Night had fallen over the place, and the moon, clearer and brighter than on the previous night, lit up the landscape with a fantastic and weird distinctness. Hester clasped her two hands above her head and gazed steadily out. Her dark eyes were full of a curious mixture of feeling. Emotion, despair, chased away the almost cruel expression which, on most occasions, characterised them.

“I have gone a step too far,” she muttered. “I thought I was taking in others, and I was took in myself. I am fit to kill myself. There, was that nine that struck?”

A little clock on the mantelpiece had signalled the hour.

Hester went across the room to a wardrobe, which she opened. She took out a cloak and flung it over her shoulders, and then with stealthy and swift movements approached the door. She unlocked it and went into the passage outside. The house was quiet as the grave; the servants were at supper far away; the mad lady was quiet in the Queen Anne wing; Mrs. Rowton and Lady Georgina Strong were at some distance in one of the drawing rooms. Hester’s opportunity had come.

Quick as lightning she flew down the stairs, and a moment later found herself under the shade of a large yew tree. The moonlight fell broadly on the grass, but under the yew there was a shadow nearly black. As she stood there someone touched her on the arm.

“So you’ve come,” said a man’s voice in a muffled tone.

“Yes, I am here, Jim Scrivener,” panted the girl.

“We can’t talk so near the house,” answered Scrivener.

“I know a place where we’ll be safe; follow me and keep in the shade.”

He turned abruptly. Hester, trembling in every limb, followed in his wake.

CHAPTER XXIX.
“CALL ME DAWSON.”

Scrivener walked down a narrow winding path, and Hester followed him. They presently found themselves under some oak trees in a little dingle, where they were completely sheltered from view. Hester stood up to her knees in undergrowth, but Scrivener, supporting himself against the trunk of one of the trees, twisted his arm round a lower branch, and so raised himself out of the brushwood. In this position he could look down on the pale and trembling girl. Hester’s agitated face showed distinctly in the white light of the moon. The light came in checkered bars through the bare branches of the oak tree.

“That’s right,” said Scrivener, uttering a little sigh as he spoke; “we can talk freely now. No one will trace us to this hiding-place. With all their ’cuteness the police would not think that we were fools enough to stand out in a place of this sort chatting together—and if they did see us, why, it would not matter, for we are declared lovers, and the fooleries of lovers is past belief, as everybody knows.”

Hester made no reply to this tirade, but her trembling lips suddenly shut themselves firmly, and she looked boldly up into Scrivener’s face.

“Well, you are a handsome girl,” said that individual. He jumped down from his vantage ground, and clasped her in his arms.

“Let go at once,” she cried. She raised her hands and tried to push him from her.

“Hush, hush, old girl, not so loud,” he replied. “Why, what is the matter with you, Hetty? Ain’t a kiss welcome from your own true love?”

“Not at present,” she answered, “and if you are my true love, I don’t know that I am yours. You have played me false, Jim Scrivener, and I am not sure—no, I am by no means sure—that I want to have anything to do with you.”

“Well, now, you surprise me,” he said in astonishment which was by no means feigned. “I thought our agreement was fair and above board. I was to make a lady of you, Hester Winsome. With your looks, and that fine, bold, queenly way of yours, all you want, as I tell you over and over, is money and the name of an honest man at your back.”

“An honest man!” said Hester, her lip curling.

“Well, well,” Scrivener laughed as he spoke. “You must forgive a slip now and then,” he continued, “and in the eyes of the world I am a rare honest specimen, in a fair way to make a big fortune. When it is made, really made, Hester, my girl, we will forsake all the ways of evil. There is a new world at the other side of this old earth of ours, and we’ll settle down there and live as honest as any people in the land. Now you know our bargain. I am to make you a lady and my wife. We are to be married as soon as ever the registrar will do the job. You have fulfilled your part to the letter, splendidly, too, and now it is my turn.”

“All the same, you have deceived me,” said Hester. “We did make a bargain, but you meant more than I knew.”

“Ha, ha, you cannot blame me for being a little cunning,” said Scrivener. “I repeat, you did your part of the job splendidly. If I had told you all, the fat would have been in the fire—you would never have had the courage.”

“The courage! The cruelty, you mean,” said Hester, clasping her hands so tightly together that the veins almost started through the skin. “You must let me speak out, Jim Scrivener. You told me some, but not all—you deceived me. Did you think I’d have gone as far as I did if I had really known?”

“No, that you would not, so I kept some to myself.”

“You said you wanted to have a good look at the child—that you were really curious about him. You wanted to know if, by-and-by, not at present, but by-and-by, he might take to the business, the cursed black business which I hate at this moment as much as I hate you, Jim Scrivener. You asked me to send him round for you to squint at, as you expressed it. How could I tell you meant to kidnap him? When he never came back last night I guessed the whole, and I was fit to kill myself. I have been fit to kill myself ever since. And now, look here, Jim Scrivener, I won’t be your wife, not if it makes me the grandest lady in the land. If you don’t do something, and pretty quick, too, I’ll tell what I know. I don’t care if I do go to prison for it, I’ll tell what I know.”

“Is that your real mind?” said Scrivener, coming up close to her and looking intently into her face.

He wore an ugly look; there was a certain green tint about his face which the moonlight intensified. His small shifty eyes looked cruel. Hester, who had not much real courage, shrank away from him.

“We’re ugly people, we are,” said Scrivener, “good to work with but ugly to meddle with—worse than ugly, dangerous, to cross. If you ain’t tired of the life that beats in that pretty little body of yours, Hester Winsome, you had better not talk in that way, for I may as well say out flat, it would not be worth an hour’s purchase if some of our folk knew what you just said. Look me full in the face, Hester, and repeat those words again if you dare.”

“You know I do not dare, Jim,” she answered; “you know that you have a terrible power over me; you know that you have had it for a long time.”

“Yes; you are completely and utterly in my power, body and soul,” said the man. As he spoke he slipped his arm round her waist and drew her close to him. “Body and soul, little girl,” he repeated, “you are in the power of Jim Scrivener, of the Silver School.”

“Oh, don’t say it so loud,” she panted.

“I won’t if you don’t drive me to it. There, now you look like your old self. Give us a kiss, gentle and pretty like. Why, I am so fond of you, Hetty, that there’s nothing I would not do for you but put my own neck in jeopardy, and that’s more than any girl can expect.”

“Yes, I know, Jim,” she replied, seeing it was best to humour him, “and, of course, I would not tell for all the world. But, look here, Jim, couldn’t you manage to get the little chap back again? You cannot really want a little fellow like that. Why, what can he do for you?”

“We want him as a draw,” said Scrivener. “You let him alone; you won’t see him for the present.”

“Oh, Jim, I feel as if I’d go mad when I think of him. I don’t mind a bit about the jewels nor the silver, nor, for that matter, about Mr. Rowton, but I do care for that nice little fellow. Oh, there’s no knowing what harm he will come to—and it is my doing. I shall feel that it’s my doing to my dying day.”

“The kid will come to no harm, silly girl.”

“But where is he, Jim? You might tell me, seeing that you love me so much.”

Scrivener laughed.

“Not I,” he answered. “I do love you, and you’re an uncommon pretty girl, and I’ll make you a real affectionate sort of husband. You’ll be loving to me, and I’ll be loving to you, and we’ll be like a pair of turtle doves together. There, now you are looking at me in your old pretty way. Upon my word, I am all impatient for the ceremony to take place. You are not to know where the little chap is, Hester, but there, I’ll say something to comfort you. He is snug enough and will come to no harm. Long John has got him, and Long John ain’t to be gainsaid, not by any silly girl that ever breathed, so you stop whining in that way, and let us go to the real business which has brought me here.”

“Yes,” she said, controlling herself with a mighty effort.

Suddenly she raised her eyes, which were full of tears.

“I see you won’t tell, and I must be content,” she said. “Will you swear faithful, then, Jim, that if I do go on bearing this awful weight on my conscience, no real harm will happen to the child?”

“Yes, I can swear that right enough. At the very worst, the little fighting-cock will only enter on a short and a merry life. Why, Hetty,” continued the man, “think of what it all means—lots of money, lots of excitement, hairbreadth escapes, adventures no end.”

“Prison afterwards, penal servitude, and worse perhaps,” she muttered under her breath.

“True enough,” replied the man. “I ain’t one to shut my eyes to the danger; we most of us go that way in the long run; we make up our minds to that from the first. Why, it is part of the excitement. The fear, for I suppose it is a sort of fear, makes the pleasure of the present all the greater. Oh, girl, it is a mad, merry life, and I would not change it for twenty of the humdrum existences of the city clerk and the other poor, half-starved beggars I see around me. Now then, my pretty one, when shall the marriage bells chime?”

“Not yet,” she answered; “I don’t want to be your wife yet awhile.”

“Yes, but I want you to. You know too much, Hester Winsome; you must join us out and out now, or take the consequences.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, turning pale.

For answer, Scrivener once again put his arm round her waist, drew her close to him, put his hand under her chin, and looked fixedly into her eyes. Then he whispered a short sentence into her ear.

Whatever he told her had a queer effect. She turned first a vivid red, and then white to her lips; her slender figure swayed as if she would faint, and were the man not supporting her, she must have fallen.

“There’s a brave lass,” he said; “you have taken it as I knew you would. You must make the best of things now, my beauty. I go back to town to-morrow, or perhaps to-night, and I’ll see what the registrar requires. It is my belief, as I have been so long in the place, that we can be married at very short notice. Now, you leave your present situation in a week or ten days at the farthest. Why, look here, I am no end of a swell in town. You’ll be surprised when I take you to your home. In my own way I am as good as Silver—yes, that I am. I believe his dame was a good bit taken aback when she came here; so you’ll be when I take you to my humble dwelling, pretty Hetty. Now let me hear from those beautiful rosebud lips that you’ll soon be mine.”

“I’ll soon be yours, Jim,” answered the girl, “though I am in no end of a funk.”

The man laughed. He pressed Hetty close to him, and began to kiss her on her lips and forehead. She submitted to his caresses, shutting her eyes and trying to keep back the agony which was really filling her heart.

“That’s all right,” said Scrivener. “You give notice to quit to-morrow, do you hear?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“You had best not give too short notice, or it might rouse suspicion. Say you are engaged to be married to a respectable man in a way of business. You might call me Dawson if you like; it don’t much matter; the less you bring in names, the better, only if you are driven to it, say the man’s name is Sam Dawson. Then at the end of the fortnight you go up to town, and I’ll meet you at King’s Cross and take you right away to my own house. I think that’s all now. You had best slip back, or you may be suspected.”

“Very well, Jim, I’ll do what you say, for I cannot help myself. I suppose you are going to town?”

“You had best not know where I am going. Leave me to manage my own affairs. If you don’t know, you can’t tell. There, good-bye.”

CHAPTER XXX.
MRS. LARKINS.

George Morton, of ⸺, Redcliffe Square, was supposed by his many friends to be a retired solicitor. He was a man who lived in a comfortable and respectable way, who gave largely to charities, who was a good Church member, an affectionate father, and a kind husband. He was much respected and looked up to in the neighbourhood, and no one would suspect him of having anything to do with that disgraceful thing, an alias. Nevertheless, Long John, of the Silver School, and George Morton, of Redcliffe Square, were one and the same individual. He received Rowton’s letter in the course of the evening, and its contents by no means surprised him. The telegram, which had come early in the day, had given him quite to understand that this troublesome member of his mob or school was in a state of insurrection. Morton read the letter calmly, slipped it into his pocket, and proceeded to discuss the soup in his plate. His wife, a pretty little woman, who had not the faintest idea that her husband was other than what he represented himself to be, looked at him with the dawn of anxiety on her face.

“Does anything worry you, George?” she asked.

“No, nothing. Why do you ask?” he replied. He gave her a glance out of his big and beautiful eyes, and she knew at once that he did not wish to be questioned further.

“Have you to go out to-night, dear?” was her next query.

“Yes,” he answered; “I have just received a letter which requires immediate attention.”

“Has it anything to do with the telegram which I opened in your absence?” she asked—“the telegram with the queer words, ‘death imminent.’”

“I wish, Alice,” he answered, “that in future you would not open my telegrams. No, the letter has nothing whatever to do with the telegram. The latter referred to an affair on the Stock Exchange, and was a cipher.”

“Oh!” she answered, looking puzzled, as he meant her to be. “Then you cannot come with me to the Norrises’ ‘At Home’?“ she said after a longer pause.

“Not to-night; I must go to my club. I cannot say when I shall be in, so will take the latchkey. Don’t sit up for me.”

Having finished his dinner, Morton presently went out.

His wife nodded brightly to him when he bade her good-bye, and soon afterwards she went upstairs to her nursery. She kissed her children and heard them say their prayers, and then went to dress for the “At Home,” to which Morton could not accompany her.

At about the time that Long John, or Morton, received Rowton’s letter, the detective, Crossley, had an epistle of extreme interest from Jacob Short, the footman at Rowton Heights. He read it over with care and conned the last sentence with special interest.

“There’s no doubt,” wrote Short, “that we have found our man. He answers in every respect to the description which you have had by you for so many years. The only thing now left to discover is the mark on the upper lip. The man whom we suspect—for safety I name no names here—although clean shaven otherwise, wears a long and heavy moustache. I have tried once or twice to steal secretly into his room when he was sleeping. It even occurred to me to drug his wine, in order to ensure that he might have such deep repose that I could lift his moustache without his noticing it; but that opportunity has never come. I doubt, too, whether the man, who is naturally all suspicion, could arrive at such a state of slumber that I could effect my object. It is necessary, of course, to discover this mark, and it is my opinion that the wife is the only person who will be able to find out whether her husband conceals under his moustache the death’s head and arrow.”

“True,” said Crossley to himself, “too true.”

Having finished his letter he put it into his pocket, and soon afterwards went out. Hailing a cab, he drove to an address in Lambeth. His hansom turned into a shabby side street, and drew up before a small and decidedly common order of house. Crossley ran up the steps and rang the bell. After a moment’s delay, a woman opened the door and stood before him. She was a pale, anxious-faced woman, of middle age, untidy in appearance, with unkempt, disorderly hair. Her eyes were sunken into her head as if she had indulged in much and constant weeping. When she saw Crossley, the colour rushed into her face, and she gave a violent and perceptible start.

“How do you do, Mrs. Larkins?” said the detective.

Mrs. Larkins dropped a curtsey. Her words, when they did come out, were uttered so quickly that they seemed to tumble one on top of the other.

“I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know you for the instant, standing with your back to the light. Come in, sir, if you please.”

Crossley entered the little house without a word. The woman took him into her parlour. She was a sempstress; a sewing machine stood on the centre table, and a lot of plain linen was scattered about. A couple of children, dirty and ill-fed, were quarrelling on the hearth-rug. They did not look up or desist from their occupation of pulling each other’s hair when Crossley and the mother entered.

“Send them away,” said the detective, pointing to them; “I want to see you alone, and I am in a great hurry.”

“Run upstairs to granny, dears,” said the woman to the children. “Ask granny to give you a bit of supper and put you to bed.”

“Granny says there ain’t nothing for supper except dry bread,” piped the elder child, “and I don’t want dry bread; do you, Bobby?”

“No,” said Bobby, beginning to whimper. “I want cake.”

“Here,” said Crossley, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out half-a-crown, “take this to your granny and tell her to buy you some cake.”

The elder child, young as she was, knew the value of money. She clutched the coin eagerly, and ran out of the room, followed by her small brother.

“Them children, and myself, for that matter, are half starved,” said Mrs. Larkins. “I’ve worked ’ard, as you can see, sir, but I can’t make the two ends meet, no matter how I try. It do seem bitter ’ard, Mr. Crossley, that you should not let me have the twenty pounds my husband hid away for me. He knew well when he hid the money in that mug behind the dresser that an evil day would come. He knew I would be safe to find the money the first time I turned the room out. I say again, sir, it do seem ’ard you should have taken it, for it were meant for me.”

“Shut up, woman,” said Crossley, “and let me speak. I did what I did for a good purpose, and could do no otherwise. Your husband’s trial comes on at the next assizes; he is certain to get his five years at the least.”

“Do you think so, indeed, sir? Oh, my poor Bill. And whatever will become of me?” The woman raised her apron to her eyes and began to sob.

“It is impossible for me to say. Now, listen and stop crying if you can. The fact is this; I know your case is a hard one. I have thought a good bit about you and that twenty pounds which your husband saved away for you in case he should be nabbed, as nabbed he was certain to be in the end.”

“Yes, yes, sir, I am not going to defend him, but that money I do believe he come by honest.”

“The less we talk on that subject, the better,” said Crossley. “Well, now, look here. I found the money, and as, of course, I ought, I took it with me because you had no possible right to it; but it so happens that at the present moment I have got twenty pounds in my pocket—here, in my waistcoat.” Crossley tapped himself as he spoke.

“Oh, sir, that twenty pounds?”

“No matter to you what twenty pounds. I have twenty pounds in my pocket, and you shall have it—yes, every penny of it, all in gold sovereigns, too, if you’ll do what I want.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing I would not do for the money,” began Mrs. Larkins.

“Then that is all right; you are a sensible woman when all is said and done. Now, you just give me a little bit of information.”

At these words the poor woman’s face, which had gradually begun to assume an expression of hope, turned once again to its old death-in-life appearance. She shook her head feebly, and taking up a long seam of needlework began to sew at it. “I cannot tell on poor Bill’s pals,” she said; “no, I can’t, it’s no use asking me, so there. I won’t give evidence agin them.”

“Very well,” said Crossley, “I can only say I am sorry for you. It is quite out of my power to give you twenty pounds for nothing. If you help me, I’ll help you. That is fair and above board, isn’t it? Now, will you speak or will you not?”

“I cannot, sir; I really cannot.”

“Well, well, you have something to sell, and I want to buy it. I offer a good price, but if you won’t accept, there’s an end of the matter. Good evening to you, Mrs. Larkins.” Crossley placed his hat on his head as he spoke and made for the door.

“Oh, sir!” said the poor woman, “if only you would see your way to give me five pounds out of the twenty. Even five would save me, sir. I can’t pay the rent, and we’ll be turned out next week, and everybody knows I am the wife of a thief, and I can’t get employment, except this sort, and this sort is starvation, it really is.”

“Now look here, my good woman,” said Crossley, returning once more and taking up his stand on the hearth rug, “don’t you think you are a bit of a fool? What are you making all these bones about? You want the money, and I am willing to give it to you. I want to buy something which you can sell. Now, if I promise absolute secrecy, will you tell me what you know on a certain point?”

“Oh, if I thought it would never get abroad, of course I would,” said the woman.

“Your name will never be breathed in the business—that I swear to you. I want this information for my own private reasons.”

“And you’ll give me Bill’s twenty pounds, sir?”

“I’ll give you twenty pounds before I leave this house, but you need not call it Bill’s unless you like. I advise you not to for your own sake.”

The woman was silent for a moment. Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped some moisture from her forehead. After a pause, she said abruptly:

“Very well, I’ll tell. I hope to heaven I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”

“Of course you’re not; you are a wise woman who simply knows when her bread is buttered. Come here to the light. Do you know this? Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

As he spoke, Crossley held a fragment of the letter, which for so many years he had kept in his possession, before Mrs. Larkins’ eyes.

“Yes, sir, I seem to know it,” she replied, turning white.

“It is queer writing, is it not?”

“Oh, yes, sir, very queer.”

“And you are sure you have seen it before?”

“Well, yes, sir, I am positive.”

“Tell me when and how.”

“Well, my husband got letters writ like that more than once—several times. Once he left a letter about and I puzzled to read it. Of course, I could not make out a single word, and he laughed at me trying to get at the back of the cipher as he called it.”

“You are quite right; this letter is written in cipher. Now, can you tell me the name of the writer?”

“No, sir.”

“No, Mrs. Larkins! Remember your twenty pounds.”

“Even for that I cannot tell what I do not know, sir. I do not know the name of the writer of that letter.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Oh, that’s another matter,” said Mrs. Larkins. “Yes, I’ve seen him; he come here once or twice—once he came and stayed over an hour; he and my husband talked in this ’ere room.”

“And you saw him?”

“I see him come and go. The light fell on his face.”

“You would know him again, would you?”

“Yes, sir, well.”

“Well enough to swear to him?”

“I think so, sir.”

“What sort of a man was he? Describe him as well as you can.”

“So dark that he looked almost like a foreign chap,” said Larkins’ wife; “taller than most men, and broader. He wore a hat slouched down over his eyes, so I could not see his face, but his voice was deep and full, and had a fierce sort of note in it.”

“Would you say, now, that he was a gentleman?”

“Oh, yes, he had the way of one—’aughty he were, and proud as a lord.”

“Well, now, think a minute: you are quite sure you never heard his name?”

“No, that I didn’t; but Bill was mighty flustered the last time he came here. I were in the next room for a bit, and I ’eard my husband and this gentleman talk about a robbery which they meant to commit in the north of England. I believe it were a bank they wanted to rob. Someone, whose name I could not catch, had said they were to do the job between them—that is, my man was to do the real business, and the other man was to watch and to look on. That’s all I ever heard, and it’s my belief the robbery never came off—but I remember they planned it.”

“Here,” said Crossley suddenly, taking a photograph out of his pocket; “you say you would know your man if you saw him again?”

“I would, sir.”

“Was he anything like this?”

“Here,” said Crossley, taking a photograph out of his pocket; “was he anything like this?”—Page 259.

“Why, yes, sir,” said Mrs. Larkins, turning pale, “that were ’im. I could not mistake him. Oh, sir, you swear you won’t get me into trouble for this. It seems as if I were telling you too much.”

“Not a bit of it. I swear that your name shall never come out in this matter. Now, here’s your twenty pounds. I believe you have told me all you know truthfully, and you can do no more.”

“Heaven bless you, sir,” called Mrs. Larkins after him when Crossley went away.

Before the indefatigable detective went to bed that night he wrote the following letter, which was addressed to Mrs. Adrian Rowton, Rowton Heights, near Pitstow, Yorkshire, and ran as follows:

“Madam,

“I have some painful news to impart to you in connection with the business which has occupied my attention for so many years. I wish to heaven your father were still alive so that I might break it to him instead of to you, but it being your express wish that the thing should go on to the bitter end, I have no help for it, but to summon you to town as quickly as possible. On receipt of this letter, which I calculate will reach you about noon to-morrow, will you take the next train from Pitstow to King’s Cross? I will meet you at King’s Cross and bring you straight here to my own house. I shall have something to communicate to you then which will fall as a blow on you, madam. I trust to your good sense, however, to keep up under these afflicting circumstances, and to remember the solemn promise you are under to your late father.

“I am, Madam,

“Your respectful servant,

“Robert Crossley.”

CHAPTER XXXI.
A SUMMONS.

Nance received Crossley’s letter about noon on the following day. Lady Georgina was, of course, still with her. Nance and this lady were standing by the drawing-room window when Jacob brought in the letter. Before he left the room, he perceived the death like hue which spread over his young mistress’s face.

“When all is said and done, mine is an odious calling,” he muttered to himself. He went straight to the housekeeper’s room.

“Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, “even at the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must ask you to give me another holiday.”

“What, Jacob, another! Really, what servants are coming to in this day passes belief. The old business, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am, the old trouble,” answered Jacob.

“Well, well, I am sorry for you. You’ll be back to-morrow?”

“Certain, sure, ma’am, and I am much obliged.”

Jacob left the room.

He had scarcely done so when the drawing-room bell summoned him to appear there.

Mrs. Rowton was standing by a table—she was taking up and putting down some new magazines—there was an abstracted and somewhat alarmed look on her face. When Jacob appeared she started.

“Did you ring, madam?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Will you, please, go to the stables at once, and desire the coachman to bring the carriage round to meet the next train to town?”

“The covered carriage, madam?”

“Yes, the brougham with the basket on top for luggage.”

“Very well, madam; the next train leaves for town at 3.30,” answered Jacob.

“Desire the carriage to be round in good time.”

“Now it is my turn,” said Lady Georgina, who had sat quite silent during all this time by the window. She approached the table where Nance was standing. “May I ask, Nancy Rowton,” she said, “if that mysterious letter was from your husband?”

“It was not,” answered Nance.

“Ah! that is strange; and yet the letter was a summons for you to go to town?”

“Yes, it was,” replied Nance.

“And not from your husband?”

“No.”

“You are going to obey the summons, child?”

“I am, Lady Georgina.”

“You won’t tell me what it is all about?”

“I cannot; you must not question me.”

“Then, at least understand one thing,” said Lady Georgina in a determined voice—“where you go, I go.”

“You!” answered Nance, looking up with a queer expression in her eyes. Her mouth suddenly twitched with emotion which she could scarcely control.

“No,” she said, “you are kind—you are very kind, you are my best friend after my husband, but I must do this thing alone. It is part of the agony that it must be done alone and without help; I must consult no one. I must go to town by myself.”

“My dear little girl, you must do nothing of the kind. I have no wish to spy into your secret. You can see whoever you wish to see by yourself, but your husband put you into my care, and where you go, Nancy, I go.”

“As you please; I have no strength to argue about the matter,” said Nancy in a faint voice.

She went up to her room to put on her travelling cloak and bonnet, and found Hester waiting for her. Hester was neatly dressed in her travelling things.

“Of course you want me to go with you, madam?” she said.

“I think not, Hester,” replied Nance, “If I stay in town for any length of time I will telegraph to you to join me, but you are not to accompany me to-day.”

“As you please, of course, madam. I have packed everything you will require, and, of course, shall be in readiness to go to town the moment I receive your telegram.” Hester took off her hat as she spoke. Her face was very pale.

“You don’t look well,” said Nancy, whose heart was never too much troubled to forget to notice the pains and sorrows of others.

“I have been having bad head-aches lately,” replied the girl, turning crimson; then she added after a pause, as she held out her mistress’s cloak for her to put on, “I don’t know if Mrs. Ferguson acquainted you with the fact, madam, that I must leave your service.”

“Indeed,” replied Nance. She would have liked to have added that she was sorry, but the words were arrested on her lips. She knew in her heart of hearts that Hester’s absence would be a relief.

“Yes, madam,” continued the girl, “I am leaving in about a fortnight. Mrs. Ferguson says she can easily supply my place, and as I am to be married——”

“Married!” cried Nancy; “you are leaving because of that?”

“Yes, madam, I expect to be married in a fortnight from now.”

The sound of wheels was heard crunching the gravel outside.

“I must go,” said Nance, catching up her gloves and muff. “Good-bye, Hester; you can tell me all about your future prospects when next we meet—who your husband is to be, and all about it. Good-bye.”

Nance nodded kindly and left the room. A moment or two later, she and Lady Georgina were driving to Pitstow station. They reached it in good time, took their train, and presently found themselves steaming quickly in the direction of London. They had a first-class compartment to themselves.

“I have a fear,” said Nance suddenly, “which I cannot account for, nor explain away.”

“You mean that you dread our dear little Murray may not be quickly found?” said Lady Georgina.

“No,” answered Nance after a pause; “it would be wrong to deceive you or to make you think me better than I am. I love Murray, but my fear is not about him.”

“Then what is it about, child? Ah, you need not tell me—you are troubled about your husband?”

“He is unhappy, and he is away. I am much, much troubled.”

“You are naturally nervous,” replied Lady Georgina. “Now, if you had known that good Adrian Rowton as long as I have, nothing that he did or said would surprise you—in short, you would cease to be nervous about one who is unaccountable. His ways are unaccountable, so is his mind, so also doubtless is his heart.”

“No, no, there never was a heart like his,” interrupted Nance.

“It shows its sunny side to you,” replied Lady Georgina; “to others——” she paused, her bright dancing eyes became grave. “Adrian comes of an eccentric family,” she continued, “eccentric to the verge—yes, I may as well say it, of insanity. His sister, poor thing! has been insane for years. Report whispers that Adrian gave her a dreadful shock, soon after Murray’s birth. Anyhow she went completely off her head, and has been insane ever since. As to Adrian himself, he has his own mad points. Oh, my dear child, there have been occasions when I have thought him as mad as a hatter, but all the same, I repeat once again, I have never met a more fascinating, a braver or more attractive man.”

“Thank you for those good words,” Nance said impulsively.

She left her seat, crossed the carriage, put her arms round Lady Georgina’s neck, and kissed her.

“Thank you,” she repeated; “when even for a moment you see my husband as he really is, you give me inexpressible comfort.”

“It is my honest opinion,” continued Lady Georgina, “that the only very great trouble you have to bear at present is the mysterious absence of dear little Murray. Your husband is doubtless taking steps to discover his whereabouts in town. As to his conduct in other respects, remember that I think nothing at all about it. He is queer, but not mad; he will never kick over the traces, or go too far in any one direction. You will most likely meet him to-morrow or the next day in London. By the way, do you know his address?”

“No.”

“I thought as much. Does he never give you his address when he leaves you?”

“He has not done so hitherto.”

“Again I may say, that I thought as much,” replied Lady Georgina, tapping her foot impatiently. “Did you really have no directions where letters are to be forwarded to?”

“No.”

“Where do you propose to spend the night yourself?”

“I cannot tell, Lady Georgina. I only know that I am going to town; after that all is blank.”

“Then, my dear, it is a blessing I am with you. We will put up at the Universal Hotel. It is large and central, and the very moment we take rooms there we will wire to Rowton Heights to tell the servants our whereabouts.”

CHAPTER XXXII.
A RED TRACK.

When the train arrived at King’s Cross, Crossley was waiting on the platform. A quick glance showed him Nancy’s pale face in the window of a first-class compartment. He went forward to meet her.

“Thank you for answering my letter so promptly, Mrs. Rowton,” he said. “I have a carriage outside; may I take you at once to my house?”

At this moment Lady Georgina touched Nancy on the arm.

“Introduce me to the gentleman,” she said.

“Mr. Crossley, Lady Georgina Strong,” said Nance.

Crossley bowed. Lady Georgina favoured him with an intensely earnest glance. She saw a man of middle height, dressed in the correct garb of an ordinary gentleman. He had a pleasant face, and looked eminently respectable.

“Lady Georgina has been kind enough to accompany me to town, Mr. Crossley,” said Mrs. Rowton.

“Yes,” said Lady Georgina, “I have come with this lady because she is too young and inexperienced to take care of herself—also because her husband left her in my charge. She says that she has come up to London on receipt of a letter. May I ask, sir, if you are the writer?”

“I am, madam. I am anxious to see Mrs. Rowton on a private matter of much importance.”

“Yes, Lady Georgina, it is quite a secret,” said Nance.

“I am aware of that fact,” said Lady Georgina. “Well, sir,” she continued, “here is Mrs. Rowton. You are at liberty to tell her what you please. Where do you propose to take her to communicate your tidings?”

“To my own house, madam.”

“And where is your house?”

“It is a good way from here—near Clapham Common—but, expecting the lady, I ordered a private carriage, which is waiting for us at the present moment, and we can reach the house in about an hour from now.”

“Very well,” answered Lady Georgina, “only please understand that where Mrs. Rowton goes I go.”

The luggage was secured and put upon the top of the private carriage, which Crossley had hired from a livery stable not far from his own house. Lady Georgina and Nance entered, but the detective preferred sitting with the driver on the box, he said.

“The mystery thickens, but excitement suits me,” said Lady Georgina with a sigh, which she quickly suppressed as the horses started forward at a good pace, and they soon left King’s Cross behind them.

In the course of an hour they reached Crossley’s house. The moment they got within, Nance, who had been absolutely silent during the long drive, spoke.

“I am anxious to see you alone at once, Mr. Crossley,” she said.

She raised her eyes to the detective’s face as she spoke. He was placing his hat on the stand in the little narrow hall.

“Very well, madam, I wish to tell you my tidings without delay,” he replied.

“Then will you kindly show Lady Georgina to one room and take me to another?”

“May I take you to my drawing-room, madam?” said Crossley, bowing to Lady Georgina.

He opened a door on one side of the hall as he spoke, and ushered Lady Georgina into a small room, furnished in the ordinary style of a drawing-room of that class of house. There was a centre table on which some newspapers and one or two gaudily-bound books were placed. A paraffin lamp stood in the centre of the table, a bright fire burned in the grate; an easy-chair of old-fashioned make stood beside the fire.

“I shall do well here,” said Lady Georgina. “Do not pray give me another thought, only let me know when you have quite done with Mrs. Rowton.”

“One word, madam,” said Crossley, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I count it a providential arrangement that you are with the young lady. I have sore tidings for her. Heaven knows she will need help.”

There was a note in the detective’s voice which startled Lady Georgina, who was not a woman affected by nerves. She made no reply, however, beyond an emphatic nod of her head. The detective left the room, closing the door behind him. He took Nance at once into his private study, and motioned her to a chair. She loosened her cloak, but did not sit.

“I prefer to stand,” she said. “I want, Mr. Crossley, to learn your tidings at once and without preface.” She fixed her eyes on him as she spoke.

“How will she bear it?” thought the detective to himself. “I wish I had never gone into this business. Who would have thought that it would have come out as it has? Poor young lady, I cannot bear to meet her eyes.”

“You have prepared me for something very dreadful,” said Nance; “but please understand it is not the news itself, but the suspense which is really killing me. Speak! tell me what you have discovered.”

“I have very grave tidings, Mrs. Rowton,” said the man. “It is impossible for me to tell them you in half a dozen words. You have got to listen to a certain story. Believe me, I will not keep you in suspense a minute longer than I can help.”

“Begin, then,” said Nance.

A chair was standing near. She caught the back of it with one trembling hand, and stood very upright, facing the detective, who placed himself on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire.

“I believe,” said Crossley, in a low but very firm voice, “that I have at last found the man who murdered your brother.”

“I thought as much,” said Nance. She spoke faintly.

“His name?” she said then after a pause.

“I will come to the name in a few minutes, madam. I have, I believe, found the man. You remember when I visited you at the Heights about two months ago that I then spoke of certain suspicions?”

“You did. Pardon me, why must we go into that? Can you not put me out of suspense at once?”

“I must tell my story in my own way, Mrs. Rowton. Believe me, my task is no easy one.”

“I will have patience,” said Nance. “I beg you to forgive me for showing want of self-control.”

“I more than forgive you, my young lady. I will say something more; I wish to Heaven I had never touched this business. But, now to proceed. The suspicions I had two months ago led me to place a detective belonging to my own staff on your premises.”

“Yes,” said Nance, “you sent Jacob Short, our very excellent footman, down to the Heights. He was a good servant, and for my part, I seldom remembered that he was anything else. But I recall now your words at the time. You said the scent lay red round Rowton Heights. I did not understand you.”

“Very likely not,” said Crossley. “Nevertheless, before I proceed any further, allow me to remind you, madam, that I earnestly begged of you to give up the search.”

“And I refused to do so,” said Nancy. “We need not revert to that again. I had vowed to go on with the thing—my vow was given to a dying man. I will go on with it to the bitter end.”

“Very well, madam, I have now to proceed with my story. Jacob Short went to Rowton Heights and did the work which I had expected him to do. The suspicions which I entertained before he arrived there were abundantly confirmed by evidence which he was able to collect.”

Nance came a step nearer.

“What do you mean?” she said. “Do you infer,” she moistened her lips, they were so dry she could scarcely get out the words—“do you really infer that the murderer, the man who took the life of my young brother, was really an inmate of Rowton Heights?”

The detective nodded.

“This is fearful! Who could it be? One of the servants? Surely not Vickers—not Hamley.”

“You must have patience, madam; you will know all in a few minutes.”

Nance again grasped the back of the chair and stood firm.

“You remember,” continued Crossley, looking fixedly at her as he spoke, “the evidence which I had in hand from the beginning. There was found near the body of the murdered man a torn piece of paper, which contained some writing in cipher; at the bottom of the cipher was a hieroglyphic of peculiar shape and size. On the night of the murder, a friend of the murdered man saw a man escaping from the café—a tall, dark, fine-looking man, with a peculiar mark on his upper lip. That man was searched for by the police, but he was not heard of again. On that evidence I had to work up my case. The most important part of the evidence was contained in the torn paper which held the cipher.

“After long toil and weeks of labour I became acquainted with the key of the cipher, and was able to read what was written on the torn bit of paper. It was incriminating to the last degree, showing that the murder was premeditated, for it was an appointment to meet your brother at the café where he lost his life. From that day to now my object, madam, has been to find the man who used that cipher and that hieroglyphic. I obtained a certain clue which made me think it probable that I should find him in your house. Yes, Mrs. Rowton, in your house.

“I sent Jacob there for the purpose of rendering my suspicions certainties. He worked well, his object being to find the cipher and hieroglyphic, which had already been used on the piece of paper found close to the murdered man in the possession of the suspected party. For this purpose he made friends with a woman who kept a small post-office in the village near your home. He also left not a stone unturned to make investigations at the Heights itself. Yesterday morning, madam, a man living on your premises wrote a letter to town in the same cipher and signed it with the same hieroglyphic which was used when your brother was murdered more than six years ago.

“This is terrible! it excites me beyond measure. Go on; tell me the rest quickly.”

“Jacob Short sent me full particulars,” continued Crossley, “and acting on them I went to see a woman last night whose husband belongs to a celebrated gang or school of burglars, known to us police as the Silver School. The man has not long ago been arrested on a charge of uttering a forged cheque. I thought it possible that the wife might know something about the man who wrote the cipher and who lived at Rowton Heights. I went to her last night and taxed her with her knowledge, believing, as I will explain, that her husband and this man belonged to the same School. Under pressure, she told me what she knew. She described the man who used that cipher and who signed his name with that special hieroglyphic. She described him as I expected her to describe him, but she could not tell me his name, for that had always been hidden from her. I had a photograph in my possession, however, which I showed her, and she identified the photograph with the man. There is no doubt that this man and the woman’s husband had been employed in the same nefarious work.”

“You absolutely bewilder me,” said Nance. “Then this ruffian has not only taken human life, but he is also a burglar. And you tell me calmly to my face that this fiend has lived in the house with my husband and myself. Have you arrested him, Mr. Crossley?”

Nancy Rowton’s eyes became full of fire—a passion of absolute revenge gave to her face a totally foreign appearance.

“Have you arrested the scoundrel?” she repeated.

“I cannot arrest him at present,” answered Crossley. “To complete my evidence there is one last link wanting. The man who murdered your young brother not only used the cipher which I have discovered and the hieroglyphic, but he wore on his face a peculiar mark, a mark so uncommon and so impossible to hide that by that alone he might be identified at any time. My man, Short, found the cipher and the hieroglyphic, but it was, as he said, completely outside his province to discover the mark. When we find the man with the mark on his upper lip, we have found, beyond doubt, the murderer of your brother. I regret to say, madam, that no one can give us that last evidence but yourself.”

“I?” said Nance. “Impossible! You cannot know what you are saying. I?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rowton, that is your painful duty—that is, if you still wish me to go on with the search.”

“Of course I wish you to go on with it. My heart is on fire—my noble young brother—my father’s life sacrificed. Go on with the search? Yes, yes, I say to the bitter end. I would see that man on the gallows if I could. I have taken a vow in this matter.”

“There are some vows which are bad,” said the detective; “some vows are better broken than kept. I speak against my own calling when I remind you of that, Mrs. Rowton. I am interested in this case. It is, I admit, a very terrible one. Madam, you must prepare for a blow. It belongs to my calling to know something of human nature. I think I read you right. I think I am not mistaken. You love your husband?”

“Love him,” said Nance. Her face, which had looked fierce and unwomanly, underwent an instant change. “You have no right to ask me that question,” she continued. “Nevertheless,” she added, raising her voice and speaking with sudden and unlooked for strength, “I will answer it. Yes, I love my husband. There are no words in any language to express my unalterable love.”

She no longer leant against the chair—she stood upright, her hands hung at her sides, her head was flung back. There was not the faintest suspicion in her voice, in her face, of the awful news which the detective was trying to break to her. He was silent for nearly a minute, puzzled how to proceed. She herself helped him at last.

“I cannot understand,” she said, “why it is left to me to make the final and last discovery. If you have done all else, why not complete it? The man who possesses the cipher and who has used it, who possesses the hieroglyphic and who has used it, must be the man who also possesses the mark. Find the mark for yourself, Mr. Crossley.”

“The mark, Mrs. Rowton, is on the face—on the upper lip. It is small, but distinct. It alters the complete character of the mouth, being a death’s head and arrow tattooed on the lip. How done and for what purpose I cannot tell you. Now, the man whom we suspect has covered that mark by means of a moustache. My servant would have completed the task himself, but he found it difficult—impossible.”

“A man who lives at Rowton Heights with a moustache,” said Nance, laughing somewhat unsteadily. “You must surely be mistaken, for I know everyone in my own house. The servants, of course, do not wear hair on their faces. In fact, no one wears a moustache except my husband.” She stopped, and looked with dilated eyes at the detective.

“That is true, Mrs. Rowton. No one wears a moustache but your husband, Adrian Rowton.”

“What can you mean? You look at me in a very queer way. What is your meaning? Speak.”

“I mean this, Mrs. Rowton. I have discovered this: your husband, Adrian Rowton, is also known as Silver, the leader of the Silver Mob or School. This man, madam, is the one who murdered Anthony Follett many years ago!”

“This man, Madam, is the one who murdered Anthony Follett many years ago!”—Page 276.

There was a silence in the room which might almost be felt when Crossley ceased speaking. Nancy’s voice broke into it after a moment. She laughed—her laugh was wild and a little unsteady.

“My husband!” she said. “How dare you say that to my face? Do you think for one moment I believe you?”

“I knew it would be a blow to you, madam.”

“It is no blow; you are absolutely mistaken. Anything else might have been a blow, but not that. My husband kill my young brother! My husband take a man’s life! Oh! come—this is too much.”

“Satisfy yourself, then, Mrs. Rowton. Discover if his lip is smooth. Find out if he wears the mark.”

“I will find out. I thank you. You thought to have terrified and crushed me, but you only excite my anger and my contempt. My husband! I myself rather than he.”

She turned to the door as she spoke, opened it, and walked out with a steady step. Crossley followed her into the hall. It had never occurred to him that she would take his tidings with utter disbelief.

“Lady Georgina,” said Nancy, opening the door of the little drawing-room, “my business with this gentleman is now concluded, and I am ready to go away.”

Lady Georgina jumped up. She did not know Mrs. Rowton’s voice with the new quality in it. The ring of defiance, the vibration of strength and courage, were altogether a revelation to her. The carriage was waiting at the door. The ladies drove to the Universal Hotel.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“IF NOT, LIE TO HIM.”

When Long John arrived at the club in the street off the Chelsea Embankment he found several members of the School waiting to receive him. They were all assembled in a large room on the first floor of the house. As usual, they were smoking, and as the chief entered the dense smell of reeking tobacco filled the air. Scrivener was amongst the men present. He looked pale and excited. The other members of the School wore their habitual expressions, some of surly indifference, some of bravado, not a few of ill-concealed fear. For some reason there was a shadow in the air, and the men felt it without knowing that they did so. Scrivener was seated close to the fire smoking very strong tobacco when Long John appeared on the scene.

“You have come; you are welcome,” said Scrivener, starting up and going a few steps forward to meet his chief.

“Yes,” replied Long John in a voice of irritation, “of course I’ve come. There is not much time to lose,” he added; “the night is already late, and it does not do to arouse suspicion by keeping this sort of place open too long. Let us to business at once. You managed the kidnapping of the child very well, Scrivener.”

“What child?” asked Simpkins in an eager voice.

Simpkins, as the proprietor of the club, was always treated with a certain amount of respect, but on this occasion Long John favoured him with a scowling glance.

“You’ll know all if you’ll keep quiet,” he said. “A child has been kidnapped by my orders—that child from this moment belongs to our School; we bring him up in our ways, to do our business, perhaps to lead us in his turn. He is the nephew of your gentleman leader, my men. He is Adrian Rowton’s nephew.”

“Silver’s nephew! Good Heaven!” cried Simpkins. He bit his lips and looked across to one of his neighbours with a glance which was half scared, half appalled. “I thought,” he said after a pause, “that matter was settled. It was proposed in this room that the child should be brought to us, but Rowton objected. It was arranged, was it not, that if Rowton did what we wanted, the child was to be let alone?”

“I was in my right when I kidnapped the boy,” said Piper in that snappy voice which always characterised him when his temper was getting the upper hand. “Now, Scrivener, to business; you took the child. Where is he?”

“I have him, sir.”

“Where?”

“In a room just above the shop in Cheapside.”

“Ah! that was a good thought. Is the lad safe? Any chance of his escaping?”

“None whatever,” answered Scrivener. “I need not go into particulars,” he added, “but the boy is safe enough; he won’t escape.”

“That’s right; you can keep him for the present. I shall want him by-and-by. What sort of lad is he?”

“I told you already, Long John, that he is about the pluckiest youngster I ever came across. To be honest, now,” continued Scrivener, “I didn’t like the job of taking that little game chap away a bit, and I hope—yes, I do—that he’ll soon have his liberty. I don’t hold with bringing up boys to our trade, that I don’t.”

“Nor do I,” said Simpkins. “It’s ⸺ hard,” he added, “and it don’t seem a bit fair to a straightforward fellow like Silver.”

“Silence!” said Piper. “Simpkins, when I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. The boy is not to have his liberty. I shall probably send him to America by-and-by.”

“To America!” cried Scrivener.

“Yes, why not? Am I your head, or am I not, men?”

“Of course you’re our head, Long John,” said a surly bulldog-looking man who stood near.

“Well, then, am I to direct proceedings, or am I not?”

“You are, you are, Piper,” said several.

“Let me hear no more grumbling, then. I propose to send the kid to America before long. The members of our School there will receive him with effusion, and the puppy can be brought up from tender years to walk in the way in which he should go. There’s only one thing now to be said, and it is this; that boy never returns to Rowton Heights. Should any member of this club be base enough to reveal his whereabouts, or even give the slightest hint to Adrian Rowton, he gets the black mark.”

There was no need to explain what the black mark meant: the men all looked lowering and discontented.

“I have had a letter and a telegram from Rowton,” said Long John; “both need attention. The man is in a high state of insurrection, and must be dealt with in a very summary manner. He is likely to come here at any moment.”

“That is true,” said Scrivener. “I know for a fact,” he added, “that Rowton is in town. He will, of course, demand the boy. What is your object, Piper, in keeping the lad from him?”

Piper, otherwise Long John, did not reply for a minute. He stood up looking gloomy and depressed. Then he said, abruptly:

“I refuse to disclose all my plans, but enough can be said to explain my reasons for the very strong move which I have just taken. Rowton is the gentleman leader of this School, but I, my men, am the real boss; but for me, where would any of you be now?”

“True for you, guv’nor,” said a couple of voices.

“I am the boss of this School. Two leaders cannot exist at the same time—one must fall. Rowton has defied me too long. All our plans will go to pieces, the police will get an inkling of our whereabouts, clues will be furnished to them, the scheme which we have formed to undermine society for our own best interest will fail, if there is a division in the camp. In short, the School will come to absolute and open grief. Rowton has defied me. I got the boy into my power because I intend to show Rowton who is master.”

“That’s fair enough,” said one or two again.

“’Tain’t fair to my way of thinking,” said Simpkins suddenly. “There ain’t one of us like Silver. No one has done us the good turns Silver has done, and he’s straight. I’d trust him—I’d trust him to the death.”

“Silence!” said Long John.

There was a heavy oak chair at one end of the room. Piper now approached it, seated himself, and looked down the long room. His face was even thinner and more cadaverous than usual, his eyes more luminous, his lips firmer and more cruel. Scrivener watched him in silence; then he went up the room and asked him a question.

“What do you want done,” he said, “with the plate and jewels which we have just taken from Rowton Heights?”

“They belong to Silver, and he must have them back again,” answered Long John with a weary sigh. “That plant on public credulity was the finest stroke of business we have done for a long time. We crown all when we not only punish and completely gull the public, but also take the desire of his eyes from Rowton.”

“Aye, but that, to my way of thinking, was the step too far,” muttered Scrivener under his breath.

“What are you saying, Scrivener? Speak out! I allow no mutterings here.”

“I am saying this,” answered Scrivener; “we put ourselves into danger when we aroused the indignation of a man like Rowton. You may push your authority too far, Long John. I have spoken, now; I won’t say another word.”

“You had better not. Now about the plate and jewels. You can keep them at your place in Cheapside, Scrivener, for a bit, can’t you?”

“I can, Piper, but to be frank with you, I don’t want them to remain there. They might implicate me.”

“Not a bit of it. The best plan would be to convert them into money, which you can easily do. You have crucibles, and can melt down the plate. The jewels can be taken from their settings, and one of our men can go over to Holland with a part of them in the course of the next fortnight. Rowton would as lief have a good large sum of money as the goods back again. In fact, he cannot have them back; it might arouse suspicion.”

“How about this?” said Scrivener after a pause. “You think yourselves safe enough,” he added, looking at the chief, his ugly small eyes flashing, “but I said we did wrong to get to the black side of a man like Rowton. How about this?” He put his hand into his breast pocket, drew out a small morocco case, and touched a spring. The case flew open, and the black diamond was revealed to view.

Long John was a man not easily moved; his outward calm seldom or never deserted him. He took the diamond from its case, looked at it, and put it back again.

“That black diamond,” he said, “was, by my orders, to be sold by Rowton in Spain. He came here and told a dastardly lie about it. Did I not say that fighting-cock, that bravado, wanted humiliating, crushing, defying? He said he had received fifteen hundred pounds for the gem; five hundred, as I told him at the time, too little. He gave me the money in your presence, mates.”

“He did that,” said a man who stood near. “I don’t know what all this row is about,” he continued, “we never had a straighter fellow among us than Silver.”

“Hush, there! When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. Now, Scrivener, speak. How did you come by this diamond?”

“There’s treachery in the matter,” said Scrivener.

“Well, man, speak up, out with it.”

“It is this,” said Scrivener; “Silver has played us a scurvy trick. Instead of selling the gem and putting it out of the power of the police to trace it to us, he kept it and gave it to his wife. Mrs. Rowton wore the black diamond in her hair on the night of the ball at Rowton Heights.”

“You swear this as a fact?” said Long John.

“My proof, sir, is that I have the diamond,” said Scrivener. “A girl of the name of Hester Winsome, whom I heavily bribed while staying at Pitstow, managed to secure it for me. She took it out of her mistress’s wardrobe after the lady had retired for the night. And here it is, sir.” Scrivener pointed to the gem as he spoke.

“Yes, the proof is convincing,” said Long John.

A growl came from one or two throats near. Long John took up the diamond, looked at it again, and then replaced it on the table.

At that moment there came a knock at the door.

“Silver’s knock,” said Scrivener; “you won’t betray me, Piper?”

“You dog! Get along and let me alone,” said Piper. “Open the door, someone.”

Simpkins went down the room and threw the door open.

“Welcome, Silver,” he said in a voice which slightly shook.

Rowton nodded to him and entered. Without looking to right or left he came straight up the room. It was not his way to be ungracious, and the men resented what they termed his haughty bearing.

“You received my letter?” he said in a curt voice, looking full at Long John.

“I did, my fine fellow. You crow loud and fierce, my fighting cock. How dare you address your boss in that tone?”

“What I dare to do is my own affair,” answered Rowton. “Your part of the business is this; you keep your faith with me; if you break it, I’ll stick to my word. Unless the boy is given back to me in two hours, I break with the Silver School.”

“There are two words to that,” said Long John; “and as to my breaking faith with you, wait a while—we may equalise the balance. Give me that case here, Scrivener. Ha! what do you say to this, Rowton? How did this come into your possession?”

“That is the black diamond,” said Rowton in a cool voice. “I bought it for my wife. I forgot that it was stolen with the other things.”

He took up the gem as he spoke, looked at it with a peculiar expression, and then laid it back on the table.

“My wife wore it the night of the ball,” he said.

His tone was thoughtful. For a moment he ceased to see the scene which surrounded him; a fair vision rose before his mental eyes—he felt clinging arms round his neck. The next, the vision had faded and the black present was alone with him. He started from his reverie and spoke abruptly.

“That robbery was very well planned, Piper,” he said. “I must congratulate you on the whole way the thing was executed. But for the one step too far—but for the kidnapping of my lad—I could admire the pluck and courage of my confederates.” He looked round the room at the men, whose eyes glowed with delight at his words of praise.

“Hold your tongue and listen,” said Long John, interlarding his words with a terrific oath. “How did that diamond get into your possession?”

“I bought it,” answered Rowton. “I gave you fifteen hundred pounds for it.”

“Then, do you know what you have done? By this act alone you have sold us. There are ugly stories known to the police in connection with this black diamond. I could lay my hands at the present moment on three men in this room whom this precious gem of infernal night might bring to the gallows.”

“Hush, for Heaven’s sake!” said Scrivener, “walls have ears.”

“There are moments when one must speak out, danger or not,” said Long John. “The fact is plainly this. By your action, Rowton, you have imperilled us all. You broke faith with us when you appropriated this diamond for your own purposes. It is a lucky chance which brings it again into our possession. Understand, now, that this matter makes us quits, and that you have nothing whatever to do with the child.”

“Then my letter to you holds good,” said Rowton. “My men, I must wish you good evening.”

He took up his hat, walked down the length of the room, opened the door, and went out.

“Follow him,” said Long John, nodding to Simpkins as he spoke.

Without a word Simpkins also left the room.

When the two men had departed, and the sound of their footsteps going downstairs had completely died away, Long John seated himself once more in the old oak chair. He remained gloomy and silent for a moment. Then his voice sounded full and sonorous.

“Come up near me, all of you,” he said; “we have an important matter to discuss.”

All the men flocked, without a word, to the upper end of the room. Scrivener stood exactly in front of Long John. Long John’s eyes, pathetic to almost unbearable sadness, gazed full into the shifty eyes of his spy, his lips became thin as a line, his face showed white and cadaverous, even more deathly in hue than usual. On each cheek there came out slowly an angry spot of flame about the size of a halfpenny; the eyes grew brighter as the spot deepened. The lips were now so thin that they looked like a mere thread. The men all waited in perfect silence. They knew this mood of their leader, and trembled before it.

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Long John; “I name it with regret, but it must be done.”

“What is that?” asked Scrivener.

“We have had too much to do with our gentleman leader—he has defied us and put us in peril. Men, if we do not wish, each one of us, to taste the sweets of penal servitude, if three or four of us do not wish to swing by the neck until they die, Rowton must go.”

“He must go, it is true,” echoed Scrivener.

“It don’t seem to me as if that verdict was fair,” said a man on the outer edge of the circle.

Long John fixed him with his glittering eyes.

“What do you mean, Danvers?” he said.

“What I say,” replied the man, getting a little bolder. “Silver may have been wrong about that diamond, but after all, when all’s said and done, he give it to his wife, and, except for the black diamond, we never did have a straighter feller to work with.”

“If the black diamond is found by the police,” continued Long John, “we are all undone. The police have information with regard to it which will hang three men. Must three hang for one? I repeat that Adrian Rowton must go.”

All the men were silent now. One or two looked eager and impressed, one or two alarmed. Long John, after a silence which might almost be felt, spoke again.

“If we don’t give him away, he gives us away.”

“No,” said the man called Danvers, “’tain’t in Silver to give evidence agin his pals.”

“We have him in a cleft stick,” continued Long John. “Seeing himself at our mercy he will turn round and defy us. Has he not done so already? To-night, in your presence, mates, he named impossible conditions; when they were not acceded to, he went away with threatening words on his lips. He has done us harm, and, I repeat again, he must go. A diamond, well known to the police, has been found in his establishment. His wife has worn it. It is, doubtless, even now written in their records as part of the stolen goods from Rowton Heights. I repeat once again, the man must go. Do not let us discuss the fact of his going. A word or two as to the means and this meeting may break up.”

Just then there came a timid knock at the door.

Scrivener went on tiptoe to open it. The servant girl who brought it stood without. She handed a little twisted note.

Scrivener took it to Long John. He opened it, read the contents, and thrust it into his pocket.

“I have grave information here,” he said. “Spider is in town, and has been acting the spy for us as usual. We have no time to lose, mates. The police have already got wind of Silver’s identity. Spider has informed me in this note that they identify him with Adrian Rowton, master of Rowton Heights. Before twenty-four hours are over he will be arrested. Now, look here, we arrest him first. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered several voices. They were all eager now. Their apathy had vanished.

“We have a wine party here to-morrow night,” said Long John, rising as he spoke. “Scrivener, it will be your duty to bring Silver here as guest. Use fair means to get him to come, if necessary; if not, lie to him. Good-night, men. We meet to-morrow evening at nine.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A TOAST.

Absorbed in his own disturbed thoughts, Rowton never knew that he was followed. Simpkins saw him enter the little hotel off the Strand which has been mentioned in an earlier part of this story.

At an early hour on the following morning, as Rowton was having breakfast in the coffee room, Scrivener was announced. The landlord brought in the information.

“There’s a man of the name of Dawson outside,” he said to Rowton, “he’ll be glad to speak to you for a minute.”

“Show him in,” said Rowton, nodding.

The next moment Scrivener stood before him.

“Ah, Dawson,” said Rowton, taking his cue immediately, “what may your business be?”

“Nothing much,” replied Scrivener. “I have come here with a message from the club.”

“Well, sit down and have a cup of coffee. I’ll walk out with you presently.”

Scrivener, otherwise Dawson, complied. The two men drank coffee together. Then Rowton rose from his seat.

“We can take a turn on the Embankment,” he said.

A moment later the men were seen walking side by side on the Thames Embankment. The morning was a fine one, and a fresh breeze from the river blew on their faces. A man with a smooth face and a perfectly innocent expression passed them slowly. He looked full at Rowton, who nodded to him.

“That is my servant, Jacob,” he said, turning to Scrivener. “What is he doing here?”

“Mischief,” muttered Scrivener. “We had best not be seen in such an open place as this. Let us turn up this by-street into the Strand.”

The men did so. From the Strand they passed into a narrow court. In the court was a public-house. They entered it, asked for a private room, and sat down by the fire. Scrivener took out his pipe and lighted it, but Rowton did not smoke.

“Now,” said Rowton, “your business, and quickly.”

“The boss is sorry you parted from him in anger,” said Scrivener. “There’s a wine party at our club to-night, and I was to bring you a special invitation. Long John has sent it to you himself. Matters may be smoothed over. Long John naturally does not want to get into your black books. Will you come, or will you not? That is the question.”

“When I left the club yesterday evening,” said Rowton, “I said I would never darken its doors again.”

“That is likely enough. I don’t wonder you took some of the words the chief said rather hard; but if matters are spliced up between us, you won’t forsake your own School, will you, mate?”

“If the boy is given back to me I’ll not forsake the School,” said Rowton after a pause.

“I believe that will be done,” said Scrivener. “Anyhow you are bidden to come to-night to talk over the matter.”

“Are you square with me?” asked Rowton, looking full into Scrivener’s face.

“As square as daylight,” replied the man.

Rowton turned away with a suppressed sigh.

“I’ll be there,” he said; “not that I believe matters will be smoothed over. This will doubtless be my last visit.”

“No, mate,” answered Scrivener, “we cannot do without a jolly dog like you.”

“I’ll be there; that is enough,” answered Rowton.

“One last word before I go, mate,” said Scrivener. “You had best keep dark to-day. The police have got wind of your identity and are after you.”

“How do you know?” asked Rowton.

“Long John had a warning last night. Spider is in town, and is prying round as usual. It is true, I tell you. You may thank your stars that you have not been arrested before this. It is all the doings of that footman of yours.”

“My footman! Do you mean Jacob Short?”

“I mean Jacob Short. He is a spy from Scotland Yard. Now you know enough, and I dare not breathe another word.”

Scrivener went away, but Rowton sat on by the fire in the back room of the public-house. His thoughts and sensations were known to himself alone. After a time he got up, paid for the use of the room, and by a circuitous route got back again to the hotel in the Strand. As he was going in he came face to face with Jacob standing near the door of the hotel.

“What are you doing here?” asked Rowton.

“I came up for a holiday, sir. I hope to return to my duties to-morrow night.”

“See you do. I don’t wish my servants to come to town without my special permission.”

Rowton spoke in his chuffiest and most forbidding tones. Jacob’s face flushed. Rowton ran quickly upstairs to his room. It was at the top of the house. On the landing outside a ladder was placed which communicated with a skylight. Rowton packed a few things in a black bag, and a moment afterwards, had anyone looked, might have been seen crossing the leads of the house to another at some distance off. Jacob did not catch sight of Rowton again that day, although he kicked his heels for a long time at the door of the hotel.

Punctually at the appointed hour the men met at the smoking club in Chelsea. Their full number was present. Long John looked at his best. At such moments he could be delightful. He was gracious now, unbending; there was not a shadow of care on his brow; his great eyes glowed with the softest and sweetest expression, his lips unbent in genial smiles. There are times when even men of the Silver School can relax, and, to all appearance, forget their cares. The present seemed to be one.

“Welcome back,” said Long John to Rowton. He went down the room to meet his guest, shaking hands with him warmly.

“You know the condition on which I have come,” answered Rowton.

“Yes,” replied Long John, “but we won’t discuss unpleasantnesses until after supper. Now, men, let us gather round and enjoy ourselves.”

The men sat round a table and began to smoke and drink. The wine was of the best. Under its influence they all soon became convivial and merry. Even Rowton lost his sense of depression; he filled his glass several times. Soon toasts of different kinds were proposed. The men talked in metaphor, and slang terms were freely used.

“To the success of our next meeting,” said Long John, rising from his seat, and raising a glassful of wine high into the air drained it off at a bumper.

“To a short life and a merry one,” said Rowton, rising also in his turn.

“To the sale of the black diamond,” cried Scrivener.

Scrivener was seated next to Rowton. At this moment Long John gave him an almost imperceptible signal. Taking up a wine bottle which stood near he filled Rowton’s glass to the brim.

“To the sale of the black diamond,” he repeated.

All the men, in a spirit of high bravado, drained off their glasses. A moment later they sat down. Other toasts followed. The party grew wilder and more merry. Each man capped his neighbour’s story. The room was clouded with smoke, and echoed from end to end with the sound of boisterous mirth. Suddenly, in the midst of a very wild and daring tale, Rowton staggered to his feet. He made a step or two forward in the chief’s direction.

“You scoundrel, you have poisoned me!” he cried.

CHAPTER XXXV.
WAGES.

The moment Rowton spoke Long John rapped his hand loudly on the board. He rose and spoke in a clear and penetrating voice.

“Silence, men,” he said, “I have something to say.”

Every tongue was instantly arrested.

“I wish to state a fact,” continued Long John, just glancing for a moment at Rowton, who, white to his lips, was standing near. “Our gentleman leader, Adrian Rowton, of Rowton Heights, in Yorkshire, otherwise known to this school by the name of Silver, has been in debt to us to the tune of five hundred pounds. The debt was contracted on behalf of a certain diamond, which we all know here as the black diamond. The diamond was of great worth, and from different circumstances in connection with its coming into our possession, its presence in the School was fraught with extreme danger. Silver was commissioned to take it to Spain and sell it there for two thousand pounds, a sum, as you know, very much below its intrinsic value. Silver did sell the diamond, but, as it turns out, he sold it to himself for five hundred pounds below the price I set upon it. In this manner he contracted a debt to our School of five hundred pounds. By securing the diamond for himself he contracted a further debt, the dimensions of which cannot be measured. This further debt formed the subject of our very painful discussion last night. The first debt was of small importance; the second debt was vital. There was only one way in which Rowton could pay the second debt. I wish to tell you all, now, my men, that Adrian Rowton has cleared the debt. His record with us is white.”

“Hold a minute,” said Rowton. His voice was loud but somewhat shaky. He was staggering with mortal pain. “All here present have acted towards me with treachery. There’s not a man in this room who did not know what Long John wanted me here for. You, Scrivener, lured me to this place by means of a lie. When I came here I trusted to your honour, mates. You have every one of you failed me.”

Some of the men groaned, lowered their eyes, and some shuffled restlessly with their feet. Long John tapped again on the table.

“The old trite proverb that ‘all is fair in love and war’ applies here,” he said. “There was only one way to wipe out Rowton’s debt, and that way has been used.”

“A word more,” continued Rowton; “my debt will be wiped out soon, but there is another debt to cancel. Long John, you kidnapped the boy. If my record is white, yours is black. I forgive the rest of you fellows—you did what you did under compulsion. But as to you, you coward, I swear that if I appear before my Maker unabsolved and with my sins upon me, so do you.”

Quick as thought Rowton produced a revolver and fired. He aimed at Long John’s heart. The man saw his danger, swerved an inch, and received the bullet in his right arm.

All was immediately confusion and alarm. Rowton, after firing, fell to the ground in strong convulsions. Long John, white as a sheet, caught up a napkin to stay the blood which began to pour from his wounded arm. Simpkins rushed to one of the windows to shut it, fearing that the police might have heard the sound of the shot. Long John’s face became more and more ghastly—a smile kept coming and going on his thin lips. Simpkins ran forward to help him. Scrivener and another man approached the heap on the floor which had represented the strong, athletic form of Rowton not ten minutes ago.

“What are you trying to say, mate?” whispered Scrivener.

“Take me where I can be alone.”

The two men tried to lift him in their arms.

“Stay,” called Long John; “we can put cushions on the floor and lay him here. I am going. One word to you, Rowton, before we part; we have not yet squared the record.”

“We wait for that,” answered Rowton. He raised his glassy eyes and fixed them on Long John’s cadaverous face.

Long John staggered to the door. The other men hurried to place cushions and coats in a corner on the floor. They laid the dying man on them.

“How long have I to live?” he asked.

“I do not know,” returned Scrivener, “but I think for two or three hours. We gave that poison before to——”

“Hush!” said Simpkins suddenly, clapping his hands across Scrivener’s mouth.

“I forgot myself in the excitement of the moment,” answered Scrivener. “I wish I’d never done the ghastly deed—Rowton of all men! If it were not for Long John, and that he’d find a way to hurry one out of the world if one did not do his slightest wish, why——” Scrivener wiped the dew from his face.

“Ours is a ghastly calling,” said Simpkins. “There, mates,” he added, turning to where a group of the men were huddled together in a distant part of the room, “you had best leave us. Long John is not killed, but he has got his deserts after a fashion, and he’ll have to lie dark for a bit. The rest of you go home, and be quick about it. When we want you again we’ll let you know.”

The men still hesitated. At last one of them, treading on tiptoe, came to the upper end of the room.

“Shake hands, mate,” said this fellow, going on his knees and holding out his hand to Rowton. “Say you forgive us before we go.”

“I forgive you, mates,” answered Rowton; “you were only tools. There is one man whom I do not forgive, and that is your boss. He acted with treachery and you were not courageous enough to resist. Now go. I have only a short time to live and much to do.”

One by one the men came up, looked at his ashy face, shook their heads, and slowly left the room.

When they had all gone Rowton spoke to Simpkins.

“What did he give me?” he asked.

With some hesitation Simpkins named a drug, bending low to do so.

Rowton’s face could not grow more ghastly.

“Then it is certain death,” he said.

“Yes, certain death; but, if you like, we’ll fetch a doctor.”

“Never mind. Were enquiries set on foot, things would go badly with you. I die, I hope, as a man——”

He paused, struggling for breath.

“I always knew,” he continued, “that the fate I have met might be mine. There is no hope, you say. I may live for—two hours.”

“You may, mate, but it is not certain. You are taking the dose hard,” said Scrivener.

“I want you to do something for me, Scrivener.”

“Anything,” replied the man, falling on his knees.

“Fetch my wife here.”

“Your wife!” said Simpkins suddenly. “Dare you see her, mate?”

“I dare anything. I have one last—desperate wish; it must be granted. I must see my wife.”

“But if she is in Yorkshire, Silver?” queried Scrivener.

“I have a premonition that she is in London,” replied Rowton. His words came more and more slowly, with longer and longer gasps between. “Scrivener—you know Rowton Heights? Wire there at once—get Mrs. Rowton’s address in London, and then fetch her here. You don’t object, do you? If so, at any cost, I’ll get back to my hotel.”

“I’ll do what you wish,” said Scrivener.

“It seems reasonable enough,” echoed Simpkins.

“Of course, you’ll take an oath, pal,” continued Scrivener, “that you’ll let out nothing.”

The ghost of a smile played round Rowton’s white lips.

“Heaven knows I am a deeply-dyed scoundrel,” he said, “but honour among thieves. You may bring Mrs. Rowton to this house without danger to the Silver School.”

Scrivener left the room without another word, and Simpkins seated himself by the dying man.

As Scrivener ran downstairs he could not help muttering some words to himself.

“Ours is a beastly calling; there’s no mercy in a school like ours. If it were anyone but Rowton I should not mind a brass button—but Rowton! ’Tain’t that he was soft; ’tain’t that he was specially kind; but he was straight, although he belonged to us. We’ll go to pieces now without him. Long John made a huge mistake.”

Scrivener sprang into a cab and drove to the nearest post-office. From there he wired to Rowton Heights, remaining in the office until the message bearing Mrs. Rowton’s address in town was sent to him. He then hailed another hansom and drove straight to the Universal Hotel.

This was the night on which Nance had come to London and had received Crossley’s awful communication. She had driven straight to the hotel with Lady Georgina, and when Scrivener was suddenly announced the two ladies were in a private sitting-room. From the moment she left Clapham Common Nance had talked incessantly. She had seemed to all appearances in the highest spirits. She had refused to disclose the faintest hint with regard to her interview with Crossley. Beyond telling Lady Georgina that she believed the man to be altogether mistaken about a certain business which he had undertaken for her, she turned her conversation resolutely from the subject.

“I feel in good spirits,” she said once or twice. “I have the same feeling which possessed me the night of the ball at Rowton Heights. How long ago did the ball take place, Lady Georgina?”

“Only two days ago, child,” was the reply.

“It seems months back,” said Nance, pushing her hair from her flushed face. “I told Adrian then that my excitement and high spirits were almost ‘fey,’ as the saying is. I have the same feeling to-night. Never mind; while I feel happy let me enjoy life. I believe that I shall soon hear news of the boy and also of my husband. Ah! who is that?”

At this moment Scrivener was announced. Nance, with the flush on her cheeks and the queer bright light in her eyes, went forward at once to meet him. She felt stimulated all over to an extraordinary degree. Crossley had spoken the most utter nonsense. His tidings had not given her the slightest pain. A shadow of doubt of the man she loved could not visit her loyal heart.

“I seem to know your face,” she said, looking into that of Scrivener with a puzzled expression. “Ah, yes, I remember now. Surely I saw you once at Rowton Heights.”

“I saw you also, madam,” said the man.

He bowed awkwardly. Then his eyes travelled to Lady Georgina, who, bold, upright, and firm, stood not far away.

“I have a message for you alone, Mrs. Rowton,” he said.

“Please leave us, Lady Georgina,” said Nance.

“I will not,” replied Lady Georgina. “You are left in my charge by your husband, Nance, and I prefer to remain with you whatever happens. Sir, I do not know what your business can be with this young lady, but I must ask you to say it before me.”

“Very well, madam,” replied the man. “We have not a moment to lose, Mrs. Rowton,” he continued; “your husband has sent for you. I am commissioned to bring you to him immediately.”

“To bring me to him!” said Nance, her eyes lighting up with sudden tumultuous joy. “I won’t keep you. But why can he not come to me?”

“He cannot, madam: he is very ill.”

“Ill!” said Nance. She started violently. Her face grew white. “I won’t keep you a single moment,” she said.

“I’ll go with you, dear,” said Lady Georgina.

“I am sorry, madam,” said Scrivener, “but on that point I am obliged to be firm. I cannot possibly take you with Mrs. Rowton. If she wishes to see her husband alive she must trust herself to me alone. I swear no harm will happen to her.”

“If I wish to see my husband alive?” repeated Nance. “Oh! for Heaven’s sake, don’t put obstacles in the way now, Lady Georgina. I won’t keep you a moment,” she said, again turning to the man.

She flew out of the room, returning in less than a minute in her hat and cloak.

“I am ready,” she said, “let us come.”

“This is an awful situation,” exclaimed Lady Georgina. “I promised to look after that child. How do I know, sir, that you are not deceiving me?”

“I swear on the Bible, madam, that I am not. Mr. Rowton has sent for his wife. He is very ill. If you refuse to let Mrs. Rowton come with me I must go away without her.”

“In that case, I have no alternative,” said Lady Georgina; “I only trust I am not doing wrong.”

Nance and Scrivener left the room. A hansom was in waiting outside the hotel.

Nance entered and Scrivener immediately followed her. He gave directions in a low voice to the driver, and the cab started forward at a quick pace. Presently Scrivener put his hand through the little window in the roof.

“A sovereign,” he called to the driver, “if you get us to our destination in a quarter of an hour from now.”

The man whipped up his horse.

“You said that my husband was very ill; is he in danger?” asked Nance.

“He is, madam, in extreme danger.”

Nance did not ask another question. She locked her hands tightly under her cloak. Her face was deathlike. She looked like one carved in stone.

By-and-by the cab entered a squalid street leading off the Embankment. It turned to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, and finally drew up at a shabby-looking door. Scrivener jumped out.

“This way, Mrs. Rowton,” he said.

He flung the sovereign to the driver, and then knocked in a peculiar way on the door.

It was opened immediately by a shabbily-dressed girl, whose eyes were red from violent weeping.

“All right upstairs, Sophy?” asked Scrivener.

“Silver is still alive,” answered Sophy with a catch in her voice.

“Silver,” repeated Nance to herself in a low tone.

It was at this awful moment of her life that a memory came back to her. She had forgotten it until now. Earlier in that same evening Crossley had told her that her husband, her brave husband, whom he presently accused of the most ghastly crime, was also known as Silver, the leader of a school or mob of burglars, called the Silver School. The information seemed to her so baseless and false, and was also so completely swallowed up in the grave and monstrous accusation which followed it, that until now it was completely blotted out of her memory.

“Silver,” she said, looking with dilated eyes at Scrivener as they mounted the stairs. “Who is Silver?”

“Never mind about Silver now, madam; I am taking you to see your husband, Mr. Rowton, of Rowton Heights.”

Nance asked no more questions. The next moment they found themselves inside the club room. The greater part of the long room was in complete darkness, but at the farther end a paraffin lamp flared. Nance saw dimly as she entered the figure of a man lying on the floor.

When he heard her step Rowton raised himself with an effort.

“When he heard her step Rowton raised himself with an effort.”—Page 305.

“My wife has come,” he said to Simpkins. “Leave us. Go into another room.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN.

Nance fell on her knees by the dying man. She took one of his cold hands in hers.

“Little woman,” said Rowton. “Come close to me, Nance,” he continued in an almost inaudible whisper; “hold my hand tighter—I cannot feel your clasp.”

She put both her hands round it, fondling it close to her breast.

“Are we alone, Nancy?”

“Yes, darling, quite alone.”

“That is—good. I have much to say to you.”

“Darling, don’t talk if it gives you pain. I can guess your thoughts, I know you so well.”

“Heavens! She knows me so well,” repeated the dying man.

“Has a doctor been sent for, Adrian?”

“No use.”

“But I thought you were strong, in good health. What is the meaning of this agony?”

“Heart,” he said in a whisper. “I have—known—it long—disease of long standing—hopeless; never mind—no doctor can cure me. Listen—Nancy mine.”

She bent down until her white face was almost on a level with his.

“Speak, dearest, beloved,” she said in her softest voice. “Your very lowest word will be heard by me. Everything you tell me I will do. I am all yours, remember, both in life and death.”

“There never was—such an angel,” he replied, and a faint, half-mocking, yet utterly sweet smile flitted across his face.

“Nancy, my strength is going. See you get the boy.”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Nance. Simpkins knows where he is—so does—Scrivener. So, I fancy, does Sophy—the girl in this house. If—Simpkins and Scrivener fail you—turn to—Sophy. She was always fond of me—poor Sophy! If she—helps you—take her away with you afterwards—for in doing—what you want, she may bring her own—life—into danger. Go away yourself, too. Little woman—you’ll hear terrible things.”

“I don’t care,” she replied. “What are terrible tidings to me if I don’t believe them?”

Rowton smiled into her eyes.

“I would—I might always remain thy white knight,” he said. “Black to everyone else—but white to thee. There!—it is too much to hope.”

He panted, his breath failed him. Nance held some brandy to his lips. He presently closed his eyes.

She sat down on the floor by his side, and slipped her arm under his neck, so that his head rested on her breast.

He felt the warm beating of the loving heart and opened his eyes.

“Are you there?” he said. “I can’t see; are you there?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Do you think I could leave you?”

“Never,” he replied. “My angel who believed in the angel in me. Nancy, I am the blackest scoundrel—on earth.”

“No, no,” she then said with a sob. “Don’t revile yourself now. To one person you have always been white.”

“As an angel, Nancy mine?”

“As an angel,” she replied. “You have been the one hero of my life—immaculate, strong, as you said yourself, my white knight.”

The dying man moved restlessly.

“Child,” he said, “you will hear things.” His voice grew lower and lower. “I have brought thee into the lowest scrape—into the depths. You will know hereafter what I have done for thee, Little Nancy.”

“I don’t wish to know; I will not listen. Whatever I hear, nothing will turn my love,” she replied.

“Is that indeed so? Say—those words again.”

“Nothing in heaven above or hell beneath can change my unalterable love,” she repeated.

“Fold my hands, Nance—together—so. Father in Heaven—if a weak woman can be so forgiving, wilt not Thou—even Thou—have mercy?”

The last words were scarcely distinguishable. Nance kept the folded hands together. A smile came suddenly on the white lips, a longer and slower breath than any of the others, then stillness.

Half an hour afterwards Simpkins softly opened the door of the room and came on tiptoe to Nancy’s side. He saw at a glance that the chief was dead. Nance was kneeling by him, her face hidden against his breast.

“Come, madam; I am dreadfully sorry, but you dare not stay here another moment,” said the man in a tone of great pity and sympathy.

At the words she raised her head and gave him a bewildered glance. She rose to her feet, staggering slightly.

“I do not wish to leave here,” she said. “I want to remain by my husband’s body.”

“Hurry, Simpkins, hurry!” said Scrivener’s voice at that moment in the doorway.

“You must not stay, madam. It is as much as our lives are worth. I must tell you something.”

“Nothing against the dead,” said Nancy, speaking in a strong full tone; “I forbid you.”

“No, we won’t mention his name,” said Simpkins. “I honour you, madam, for your loyalty. But as matters have turned out, he might, poor fellow, have met a worse fate. I won’t say any more. Whatever his faults he died true to us. Mrs. Rowton, it has been our misfortune to get into the black books of the law, and even at this moment the house is surrounded by police.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. The police have got wind of our whereabouts. They will burst into this room in a moment or two. No they cannot touch the dead, but you must leave us, madam.”

“Is your name Simpkins?” inquired Nance suddenly.

“Yes, madam.”

“Then I have a message for you from my husband. He said that you knew of the whereabouts of his nephew, Murray Cameron. His last injunction to me was to find the boy. I must find him. Will you help me?”

“Yes,” said Scrivener, who came forward at that moment. “We’ll both help you, lady. We do not want the boy any more. Our School is broken up after to-night. Go at once, Mrs. Rowton. I know your hotel. Your husband’s nephew will join you there before the morning. Go now.”

A sudden noise was heard downstairs—the trampling of feet.

“Heavens! we are lost,” cried Scrivener. “Go, madam; they cannot touch your dead; but if you do as he wishes, you will leave us now.”

“Yes, I will go,” said Nance. “But one moment first.”

She fell on her knees by the body of her husband, and bending down printed a long kiss on the cold lips. In doing so she noticed that the lips themselves were smooth and undisfigured. There was no mark.

Scrivener was true to his word, and early the following morning Murray Cameron was restored to his friends. Crossley, aided by Jacob Short, had given the alarm to the police, and the Silver School was broken up for ever.

Nance returned for one night to Rowton Heights—it was just before she and Murray started to begin a new life in Australia—her object was to secure a certain box.

“I do not know what it contains,” she reflected, “but if it means revenge, I would rather break my vow to the dead than use it now!”

She packed it carefully, and, half way between England and the New World, dropped it into deep water. Thus its secret was never revealed.

But afterwards a dying man in Paris made a strange confession. He declared to the priest who absolved him that for years he had belonged to a notorious gang of burglars in London, who went by the name of the Silver School. He himself was known by the sobriquet of Spider. Amongst the queer friendships of his life was one with the gentleman leader of that gang, a man called Silver. The likeness between the two was remarkable, and there was an occasion when, for purposes of his own, it came into Spider’s head to personate Silver. He did so in order to take the life of a young Englishman with whom he had quarrelled in a Parisian café. The Englishman had discovered one of his most important secrets, and Spider, with the ruthlessness of his class, resolved to silence him in the only effectual way. In order to divert suspicion entirely from himself, he used a cipher and hieroglyphic, the secret of which Rowton had once confided to him.

“On my lips,” said the dying man, “you will find the mark of a death’s head and arrows which was tattooed there years ago. You may use this confession after my death.”

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- A SON OF ISHMAEL.

- CONTENTS.

- CHAPTER I. DR. FOLLETT’S SECRET

- CHAPTER II. HIS WILLING BRIDE.

- CHAPTER III. THE PACKET ON THE UPPER SHELF.

- CHAPTER IV. AT THE BUNGALOW.

- CHAPTER V. A WILD WOOER.

- CHAPTER VI. LONG JOHN.

- CHAPTER VII. THE WEDDING NIGHT.

- CHAPTER VIII. AT THE OPERA HOUSE.

- CHAPTER IX. THE ROSE-COLOURED BEDROOM AND THE NEW MAID.

- CHAPTER X. THE BOY ON THE HEARTH.

- CHAPTER XI. THE QUEEN ANNE WING AND GARDEN.

- CHAPTER XII. SILVER.

- CHAPTER XIII. LONG JOHN.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE BUTLER’S PANTRY.

- CHAPTER XV. LEAH.

- CHAPTER XVI. THE LADY IN THE WOOD.

- CHAPTER XVII. CROSSLEY.

- CHAPTER XVIII. THE TORN LETTER AND THE MARK.

- CHAPTER XIX. THE SILVER SCHOOL.

- CHAPTER XX. A BLACK DIAMOND.

- CHAPTER XXI. THE RATS IN THE QUEEN ANNE WING.

- CHAPTER XXII. THE MAN WITH THE MARK.

- CHAPTER XXIII. DAME ROWTON.

- CHAPTER XXIV. THE BLACK DIAMOND AGAIN.

- CHAPTER XXV. KIDNAPPED.

- CHAPTER XXVI. A “PLANT.”

- CHAPTER XXVII. INVISIBLE INK.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. HESTER.

- CHAPTER XXIX. “CALL ME DAWSON.”

- CHAPTER XXX. MRS. LARKINS.

- CHAPTER XXXI. A SUMMONS.

- CHAPTER XXXII. A RED TRACK.

- CHAPTER XXXIII. “IF NOT, LIE TO HIM.”

- CHAPTER XXXIV. A TOAST.

- CHAPTER XXXV. WAGES.

- CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN.

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