"You've seen him since?" I asked. "He's been in here?"

"No—not since last night," she answered. "And Hollins not since this morning when he brought me some food—I've not wanted for that," she went on, with a laugh, pointing to things that had been set on the table. "And he said, then, that about midnight, tonight, I'd hear the key turned, and after that I was free to go, but I'd have to make my way home on foot, for he wasn't wanting me to be in Berwick again too soon."

"Aye!" I said, shaking my head. "I'm beginning to see through some of it! But, Maisie, you'll be a good girl, and just do what I tell you?—and that's to stay where you are until I fetch you down. For there's more dreadfulness below—where Sir Gilbert may be, Heaven knows, but Hollins is lying murdered on the stair; and if I didn't see him murdered, I saw him take his last breath!"

She, too, shook a bit at that, and she gripped me tighter.

"You're not by yourself, Hugh?" she asked anxiously. "You're in no danger?"

But just then Chisholm called up the stair of the turret, asking was Miss Dunlop safe, and I bade Maisie speak to him.

"That's good news!" said he. "But will you tell Mr. Hugh to come down to us?—and you'd best stop where you are yourself, Miss Dunlop—there's no very pleasant sight down this way. Have you no idea at all who did this?" he asked, as I went down to him. "You were with him?"

"Man alive, I've no more idea than you have!" I exclaimed. "He was making off somewhere in yon car that's below—he threatened me with the loss of my life if I didn't agree to let him get away in peace, and he was going down the stairs to the car when it happened. But I'll tell you this: Miss Dunlop says Sir Gilbert was here last night!—and it was he and Hollins imprisoned her above there—frightened she'd let out on them if she got away."

"Then the Glasgow tale was all lies?" he exclaimed. "It came from this man, too, that's lying dead—it's been a put-up thing, d'ye think, Mr. Hugh?"

"It's all part of a put-up thing, Chisholm," said I. "Hadn't we better get the man in here, and see what's on him? And what made you come here yourselves?—and are there any more of you about?"

"We came asking some information at the house," he answered, "and we were passing round here, under the wall, on our way to the road, when we heard that car throbbing, and then saw your bit of a light. And that's a good idea of yours, and we'll bring him into this place and see if there's aught to give us a clue. Slip down," he went on, turning to the other man, "and bring the headlights off the car, so that we can see what we're doing. Do you think this is some of Sir Gilbert's work, Mr. Hugh?" he whispered when we were alone. "If he was about here, and this Hollins was in some of his secrets—?"

"Oh, don't ask me!" I exclaimed. "It seems like there was nothing but murder on every hand of us! And whoever did this can't be far away—only the night's that black, and there's so many holes and corners hereabouts that it would be like searching a rabbit-warren—you'll have to get help from the town."

"Aye, to be sure!" he agreed. "But we'll take a view of things ourselves, first. There may be effects on him that'll suggest something."

We carried the body into the room when the policeman came up with the lamps from the car, and stretched it out on the table at which Hollins and I had sat not so long before; though that time, indeed, now seemed to me to belong to some other life! And Chisholm made a hasty examination of what there was in the man's pockets, and there was little that had any significance, except that in a purse which he carried in an inner pocket of his waistcoat there was a considerable sum of money in notes and gold.

The other policeman, who held one of the lamps over the table while Chisholm was making this search, waited silently until it was over, and then he nodded his head at the stair.

"There's some boxes, or cases, down in yon car," he remarked. "All fastened up and labelled—it might be worth while to take a look into them, sergeant. What's more, there's tools lying in the car that looks like they'd been used to fasten them up."

"We'll have them up here, then," said Chisholm. "Stop you here, Mr. Hugh, while we fetch them—and don't let your young lady come down while that's lying here. You might cover him up," he went on, with a significant nod. "It's an ill sight for even a man's eyes, that!"

There were some old, moth-eaten hangings about the walls here and there, and I took one down and laid it over Hollins, wondering while I did this office for him what strange secret it was that he had carried away into death, and why that queer and puzzled expression had crossed his face in death's very moment. And that done, I ran up to Maisie again, bidding her be patient awhile, and we talked quietly a bit until Chisholm called me down to look at the boxes. There were four of them—stout, new-made wooden cases, clamped with iron at the corners, and securely screwed down; and when the policemen invited me to feel the weight, I was put in mind, in a lesser degree, of Gilverthwaite's oak-chest.

"What do you think's like to be in there, now, Mr. Hugh?" asked Chisholm. "Do you know what I think? There's various heavy metals in the world—aye, and isn't gold one of the heaviest?—it'll not be lead that's in here! And look you at that!"

He pointed to some neatly addressed labels tacked strongly to each lid—the writing done in firm, bold, print-like characters:

John Harrison, passenger, by S.S. Aerolite. Newcastle to Hamburg.

I was looking from one label to the other and finding them all alike, when we heard voices at the foot of the stair, and from out of them came Superintendent Murray's, demanding loudly who was above.



CHAPTER XXXVI

GOLD

There was quite a company of men came up the stair with Murray, crowding, all of them, into the room, with eyes full of astonishment at what they saw: Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Gavin Smeaton, and a policeman or two, and—what was of more interest to me—a couple of strangers. But looking at these more closely, I saw that I had seen one of them before—an elderly man, whom I recognized as having been present in court when Carter was brought up before the magistrates; a quiet, noticing sort of man whom I remembered as appearing to take great and intelligent interest in the proceedings. And he and the other man now with him seemed to take just as keen an interest in what Chisholm and I had to tell; but while Murray was full of questions to both of us, they asked none. Only—during that questioning—the man whom I had never seen before quietly lifted the hanging which I had spread over Hollins's dead body, and took a searching look at his face.

Mr. Lindsey drew me aside and pointed at the elderly man whom I remembered seeing in the police court.

"You see yon gentleman?" he whispered. "That's a Mr. Elphinstone, that was formerly steward to old Sir Alexander Carstairs. He's retired—a good many years, now, and lives the other side of Alnwick, in a place of his own. But this affair's fetched him into the light again—to some purpose!"

"I saw him in the court when Carter was before the bench, Mr. Lindsey," I remarked.

"Aye!—and I wish he'd told me that day what he could have told!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey under his breath. "But he's a cautious, a very cautious man, and he preferred to work quietly, and it wasn't until very late tonight that he came to Murray and sent for me—an hour, it was, after you'd gone home. The other man with him is a London detective. Man! there's nice revelations come out!—and pretty much on the lines I was suspecting. We'd have been up here an hour ago if it hadn't been for yon storm. And—but now that the storm's over, Hugh, we must get Maisie Dunlop out of this; come up, now, and show me where she is—that first, and the rest after."

We left the others still grouped around the dead man and the boxes which had been brought up from the car, and I took Mr. Lindsey up the stairs to the room in the turret which had served Maisie for a prison all that weary time. And after a word or two with her about her sore adventures, Mr. Lindsey told her she must be away, and he would get Murray to send one of the policemen with her to see her safe home—I myself being still wanted down below. But at that Maisie began to show signs of distinct dislike and disapproval.

"I'll not go a yard, Mr. Lindsey," she declared, "unless you'll give me your word that you'll not let Hugh out of your sight again till all this is settled and done with! Twice within this last few days the lad's been within an inch of his life, and they say the third time pays for all—and how do I know there mightn't be a third time in his case? And I'd rather stay by him, and we'll take our chances together—"

"Now, now!" broke in Mr. Lindsey, patting her arm. "There's a good half-dozen of us with him now, and we'll take good care no harm comes to him or any of us; so be a good lass and get you home to Andrew—and tell him all about it, for the worthy man's got a bee in his bonnet that we've been in some way responsible for your absence, my girl. You're sure you never set eyes on Sir Gilbert again after he and Hollins stopped you?" he asked suddenly, as we went down the stair. "Nor heard his voice down here—or anywhere?"

"I never saw him again, nor heard him," answered Maisie. "And till Hugh came just now, I'd never seen Hollins himself since morning and—Oh!"

She had caught sight of the still figure stretched out in the lower room, and she shrank to me as we hurried her past it and down to the gateway below. Thither Murray followed us, and after a bit more questioning he put her in a car in which he and some of the others had come up, and sent one of his men off with her; but before this Maisie pulled me away into the darkness and gripped me tight by the arm.

"You'll promise me, Hugh, before ever I go, that you'll not run yourself into any more dangers?" she asked earnestly. "We've been through enough of that, and I'm just more than satisfied with it, and it's like as if there was something lurking about—"

She began to shiver as she looked into the black night about us—and it was indeed, although in summer time, as black a night as ever I saw—and her hand got a tighter grip on mine.

"How do you know yon bad man isn't still about?" she whispered. "It was he killed Hollins, of course!—and if he wanted to kill you yon time in the yacht, he'll want again!"

"It's small chance he'll get, then, now!" I said. "There's no fear of that, Maisie—amongst all yon lot of men above. Away you go, now, and get to your bed, and as sure as sure I'll be home to eat my breakfast with you. It's my opinion all this is at an end."

"Not while yon man's alive!" she answered. "And I'd have far rather stayed with you—till it's daylight, anyway."

However, she let me put her into the car; and when I had charged the policeman who went with her not to take his eyes off her until she was safe in Andrew Dunlop's house, they went off, and Mr. Lindsey and I turned up the stair again. Murray had preceded us, and under his superintendence Chisholm was beginning to open the screwed-up boxes. The rest of us stood round while this job was going on, waiting in silence. It was no easy or quick job, for the screws had been fastened in after a thoroughly workmanlike fashion, and when he got the first lid off we saw that the boxes themselves had been evidently specially made for this purpose. They were of some very strong, well-seasoned wood, and they were lined, first with zinc, and then with thick felt. And—as we were soon aware—they were filled to the brim with gold. There it lay—roll upon roll, all carefully packed—gold! It shone red and fiery in the light of our lamps, and it seemed to me that in every gleam of it I saw devils' eyes, full of malice, and mockery, and murder.

But there was one box, lighter than the rest, in which, instead of gold, we found the valuable things of which Hollins had told Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe and myself when he came to us on his lying mission, only the previous midnight. There they all were—the presents that had been given to various of the Carstairs baronets by royal donors—carefully packed and bestowed. And at sight of them, Mr. Lindsey looked significantly at me, and then at Murray.

"He was a wily and a clever man, this fellow that's lying behind us," he muttered. "He pulled our hair over our eyes to some purpose with his tale of Lady Carstairs and her bicycle—but I'm forgetting," he broke off, and drew me aside. "There's another thing come out since you left me and Smeaton tonight," he whispered. "The police have found out something for themselves—I'll give them that credit. That was all lies—lies, nothing but lies!—that Hollins told us,—all done to throw us off the scent. You remember the tale of the registered letter from Edinburgh?—the police found out last evening from the post folks that there never was any registered letter. You remember Hollins said Lady Carstairs went off on her bicycle? The police have found out she never went off on any bicycle—she wasn't there to go off. She was away early that morning; she took a train south from Beal station before breakfast—at least, a veiled woman answering her description did,—and she's safe hidden in London, or elsewhere, by now, my lad!"

"But him—the man—Sir Gilbert, or whoever he is?" I whispered. "What of him, Mr. Lindsey?"

"Aye, just so!" he said. "I'm gradually piecing it together, as we go on. It would seem to me that he made his way to Edinburgh after getting rid of you, as he thought and hoped—probably got there the very next morning, through the help of yon fisherman at Largo, Robertson, who, of course, told us and the police a pack of lies!—and when he'd got the last of these securities from Paley, he worked back here, secretly, and with the help of Hollins, and has no doubt kept quiet in this old tower until they could get away with that gold! Of course, Hollins has been in at all this—but now—who's killed Hollins? And where's the chief party—the other man?"

"What?" I exclaimed. "You don't think he killed Hollins, then?"

"I should be a fool if I did, my lad," he answered. "Bethink yourself!—when all was cut and dried for their getting off, do you think he'd stick a knife in his confederate's throat? No!—I can see their plan, and it was a good one. Hollins would have run those cases down to Newcastle in a couple of hours; there'd have been no suspicion about them, and no questions which he couldn't answer—he'd have gone across to Hamburg with them himself. As for the man we know as Sir Gilbert, you'll be hearing something presently from Mr. Elphinstone yonder; but my impression is, as Maisie never saw or heard of him during the night and day, that he got away after his wife last night—and with those securities on him!"

"Then—who killed Hollins?" I said in sheer amazement. "Are there others in at all this?"

"You may well ask that, lad," he responded, shaking his head. "Indeed, though we're nearing it, I think we're not quite at the end of the lane, and there'll be a queer turning or two in it, yet, before we get out. But here's Murray come to an end of the present business."

Murray had finished his inspection of the cases and was helping Chisholm to replace the lids. He, Chisholm, and the detective were exchanging whispered remarks over this job; Mr. Elphinstone and Mr. Gavin Smeaton were talking together in low voices near the door. Presently Murray turned to us.

"We can do no more here, now, Mr. Lindsey," he said, "and I'm going to lock this place up until daylight and leave a man in the gateway below, on guard. But as to the next step—you haven't the least idea in your head, Moneylaws, about Hollins's assailant?" he went on, turning to me. "You heard and saw—nothing?"

"I've told you what I heard, Mr. Murray," I answered. "As to seeing anything, how could I? The thing happened on the stair there, and I was in this corner unlocking the inner door."

"It's as big a mystery as all the rest of it!" he muttered. "And it's just convincing me there's more behind all this than we think for. And one thing's certain—we can't search these grounds or the neighbourhood until the light comes. But we can go round to the house."

He marched us all out at that, and himself locked up the room, leaving the dead man with the chests of gold; and having stationed a constable in the gateway of the old tower, he led us off in a body to the habited part of the house. There were lights there in plenty, and a couple of policemen at the door, and behind them a whole troop of servants in the hall, half dressed, and open-mouthed with fright and curiosity.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE DARK POOL

As I went into that house with the rest of them, I had two sudden impressions. One was that here at my side, in the person of Mr. Gavin Smeaton, was, in all probability, its real owner, the real holder of the ancient title, who was coming to his lawful rights in this strange fashion. The other was of the contrast between my own coming at that moment and the visit which I had paid there, only a few evenings previously, when Hollins had regarded me with some disfavour and the usurper had been so friendly. Now Hollins was lying dead in the old ruin, and the other man was a fugitive—and where was he?

Murray had brought us there to do something towards settling that point, and he began his work at once by assembling every Jack and Jill in the house and, with the help of the London detective, subjecting them to a searching examination as to the recent doings of their master and mistress and the butler. But Mr. Lindsey motioned Mr. Elphinstone, and Mr. Gavin Smeaton, and myself into a side-room and shut the door on us.

"We can leave the police to do their own work," he remarked, motioning us to be seated at a convenient table. "My impression is that they'll find little out from the servants. And while that's afoot, I'd like to have that promised story of yours, Mr. Elphinstone—I only got an idea of it, you know, when you and Murray came to my house. And these two would like to hear it—one of them, at any rate, is more interested in this affair than you'd think or than he knew of himself until recently."

Now that we were in a properly lighted room, I took a more careful look at the former steward of Hathercleugh. He was a well-preserved, shrewd-looking man of between sixty and seventy: quiet and observant, the sort of man that you could see would think a lot without saying much. He smiled a little as he put his hands together on the table and glanced at our expectant faces—it was just the smile of a man who knows what he is talking about.

"Aye, well, Mr. Lindsey," he responded, "maybe there's not so much mystery in this affair as there seems to be once you've got at an idea. I'll tell you how I got at mine and what's come of it. Of course, you'll not know, for I think you didn't come to Berwick yourself until after I'd left the neighbourhood—but I was connected with the Hathercleugh estate from the time I was a lad until fifteen years ago, when I gave up the steward's job and went to live on a bit of property of my own, near Alnwick. Of course, I knew the two sons—Michael and Gilbert; and I remember well enough when, owing to perpetual quarrelling with their father, he gave them both a good lot of money and they went their several ways. And after that, neither ever came back that I heard of, nor did I ever come across either, except on one occasion—to which I'll refer in due course. In time, as I've just said, I retired; in time, too, Sir Alexander died, and I heard that, Mr. Michael being dead in the West Indies, Sir Gilbert had come into the title and estates. I did think, once or twice, of coming over to see him; but the older a man gets, the fonder he is of his own fireside—and I didn't come here, nor did I ever hear much of him; he certainly made no attempt to see me. And so we come to the beginning of what we'll call the present crisis. That beginning came with the man who turned up in Berwick this spring."

"You mean Gilverthwaite?" asked Mr. Lindsey.

"Aye—but I didn't know him by that name!" assented Mr. Elphinstone, with a sly smile. "I didn't know him by any name. What I know is this. It must have been about a week—certainly not more—before Gilverthwaite's death that he—I'm sure of his identity, because of his description—called on me at my house, and with a good deal of hinting and such-like told me that he was a private inquiry agent, and could I tell him something about the late Michael Carstairs?—and that, it turned out, was: Did I know if Michael was married before he left England, and if so, where, and to whom? Of course, I knew nothing about it, and as the man wouldn't give me the least information I packed him off pretty sharply. And the next thing I heard was of the murder of John Phillips. I didn't connect that with the visit of the mysterious man at first; but of course I read the account of the inquest, and Mr. Ridley's evidence, and then I began to see there was some strange business going on, though I couldn't even guess at what it could be. And I did nothing, and said nothing—there seemed nothing, then, that I could do or say, though I meant to come forward later—until I saw the affair of Crone in the newspapers, and I knew then that there was more in the matter than was on the surface. So, when I learnt that a man named Carter had been arrested on the charge of murdering Crone, I came to Berwick, and went to the court to hear what was said when Carter was put before the magistrates. I got a quiet seat in the court—and maybe you didn't see me."

"I did!" I exclaimed. "I remember you perfectly, Mr. Elphinstone."

"Aye!" he said with an amused smile. "You're the lad that's had his finger in the pie pretty deep—you're well out of it, my man! Well—there I was, and a man sitting by me that knew everybody, and before ever the case was called this man pointed out Sir Gilbert Carstairs coming in and being given a seat on the bench. And I knew that there was a fine to-do, and perhaps nobody but myself knowing of it, for the man pointed out to me was no Sir Gilbert Carstairs, nor any Carstairs at all—not he! But—I knew him!"

"You knew him!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "Man!—that's the first direct bit of real illumination we've had! And—who is he, then, Mr. Elphinstone?"

"Take your time!" answered Mr. Elphinstone. "We'll have to go back a bit: you'll put the police court out of your mind a while. It's about—I forget rightly how long since, but it was just after I gave up the stewardship that I had occasion to go up to London on business of my own. And there, one morning, as I was sauntering down the lower end of Regent Street, I met Gilbert Carstairs, whom I'd never seen since he left home. He'd his arm in mine in a minute, and he would have me go with him to his rooms in Jermyn Street, close by—there was no denying him. I went, and found his rooms full of trunks, and cases, and the like—he and a friend of his, he said, were just off on a sort of hunting-exploration trip to some part of Central America; I don't know what they weren't going to do, but it was to be a big affair, and they were to come back loaded up with natural-history specimens and to make a pile of money out of the venture, too. And he was telling me all about it in his eager, excitable way when the other man came in, and I was introduced to him. And, gentlemen, that's the man I saw—under the name of Sir Gilbert Carstairs—on the bench at Berwick only the other day! He's changed, of course—more than I should have thought he would have done in fifteen years, for that's about the time since I saw him and Gilbert together there in Jermyn Street,—but I knew him as soon as I clapped eyes on him, and whatever doubt I had went as soon as I saw him lift his right hand to his moustache, for there are two fingers missing on that hand—the middle ones—and I remembered that fact about the man Gilbert Carstairs had introduced to me. I knew, I tell you, as I sat in that court, that the fellow there on the bench, listening, was an impostor!"

We were all bending forward across the table, listening eagerly—and there was a question in all our thoughts, which Mr. Lindsey put into words.

"The man's name?"

"It was given to me, in Jermyn Street that morning, as Meekin—Dr. Meekin," answered Mr. Elphinstone. "Gilbert Carstairs, as you're aware, was a medical man himself—he'd qualified, anyway—and this was a friend of his. But that was all I gathered then—they were both up to the eyes in their preparations, for they were off for Southampton that night, and I left them to it—and, of course, never heard of them again. But now to come back to the police court the other day: I tell you, I was—purposely—in a quiet corner, and there I kept till the case was over; but just when everybody was getting away, the man on the bench caught sight of me—"

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, looking across at me. "Ah! that's another reason—that supplements the ice-ax one! Aye!—he caught sight of you, Mr. Elphinstone—"

"And," continued Mr. Elphinstone, "I saw a queer, puzzled look come into his face. He looked again—looked hard. I took no notice of his look, though I continued to watch him, and presently he turned away and went out. But I knew he had recognized me as a man he had seen somewhere. Now remember, when Gilbert Carstairs introduced me to this man, Gilbert did not mention any connection of mine with Hathercleugh—he merely spoke of me as an old friend; so Meekin, when he came into these parts, would have no idea of finding me here. But I saw he was afraid—badly afraid—because of his recognition and doubt about me. And the next question was—what was I to do? I'm not the man to do things in haste, and I could see this was a black, deep business, with maybe two murders in it. I went off and got my lunch—and thought. At the end of it, rather than go to the police, I went to your office, Mr. Lindsey. And your office was locked up, and you were all away for the day. And then an idea struck me: I have a relative—the man outside with Murray—who's a high-placed officer in the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard—I would go to him. So—I went straight off to London by the very next South express. Why? To see if he could trace anything about this Meekin."

"Aye!" nodded Mr. Lindsey admiringly. "You were in the right of it, there—that was a good notion. And—you did?"

"Not since the Jermyn Street affair," answered Mr. Elphinstone. "We traced him in the medical register all right up to that point. His name is Francis Meekin—he's various medical letters to it. He was in one of the London hospitals with Gilbert Carstairs—he shared those rooms in Jermyn Street with Gilbert Carstairs. We found—easily—a man who'd been their valet, and who remembered their setting off on the hunting expedition. They never came back—to Jermyn Street, anyway. Nothing was ever heard or seen of them in their old haunts about that quarter from that time. And when we'd found all that out, we came straight down, last evening, to the police—and that's all, Mr. Lindsey. And, of course, the thing is plain to me—Gilbert probably died while in this man's company; this man possessed himself of his letters and papers and so on; and in time, hearing how things were, and when the chance came, he presented himself to the family solicitors as Gilbert Carstairs. Could anything be plainer?"

"Nothing!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "It's a sure case—and simple when you see it in the light of your knowledge; a case of common personation. But I'm wondering what the connection between the Gilverthwaite and Phillips affair and this Meekin has been—if we could get at it?"

"Shall I give you my theory?" suggested Mr. Elphinstone. "Of course, I've read all there's been in the newspapers, and Murray told me a lot last night before we came to you, and you mentioned Mr. Ridley's discovery,—well, then, I've no doubt whatever that this young gentleman is Michael Carstairs' son, and therefore the real owner of the title and estates! And I'll tell you how I explain the whole thing. Michael Carstairs, as I remember him—and I saw plenty of him as a lad and a young man—was what you'd call violently radical in his ideas. He was a queer, eccentric, dour chap in some ways—kindly enough in others. He'd a most extraordinary objection to titles, for one thing; another, he thought that, given a chance, every man ought to make himself. Now, my opinion is that when he secretly married a girl who was much below him in station, he went off to America, intending to put his principles in practice. He evidently wanted his son to owe nothing to his birth; and though he certainly made ample and generous provision for him, and gave him a fine start, he wanted him to make his own life and fortune. That accounts for Mr. Gavin Smeaton's bringing-up. But now as regards the secret. Michael Carstairs was evidently a rolling stone who came up against some queer characters—Gilverthwaite was one, Phillips—whoever he may have been—another. It's very evident, from what I've heard from you, that the three men were associates at one time. And it may be—it's probably the case—that in some moment of confidence, Michael let out his secret to these two, and that when he was dead they decided to make more inquiries into it—possibly to blackmail the man who had stepped in, and whom they most likely believed to be the genuine Sir Gilbert Carstairs. Put it this way: once they'd found the documentary evidence they wanted, the particulars of Michael's marriage, and so on, what had they to do but go to Sir Gilbert—as they thought him to be—and put it to him that, if he didn't square them to keep silence, they'd reveal the truth to his nephew, whom, it's evident, they'd already got to know of as Mr. Gavin Smeaton. But as regards the actual murder of Phillips—ah, that's a mystery that, in my opinion, is not like to be solved! The probability is that a meeting had been arranged with Sir Gilbert—which means, of course, Meekin—that night, and that Phillips was killed by him. As to Crone—it's my opinion that Crone's murder came out of Crone's own greed and foolishness; he probably caught Meekin unawares, told what he knew, and paid the penalty."

"There's another possible theory about the Phillips murder," remarked Mr. Gavin Smeaton. "According to what you know, Mr. Elphinstone, this Meekin is a man who has travelled much abroad—so had Phillips. How do we know that when Meekin and Phillips met that night, Meekin wasn't recognized by Phillips as Meekin—and that Meekin accordingly had a double incentive to kill him?"

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "Capital theory!—and probably the right one. But," he continued, rising and making for the door, "all the theories in the world won't help us to lay hands on Meekin, and I'm going to see if Murray has made out anything from his search and his questioning."

Murray had made out nothing. There was nothing whatever in the private rooms of the supposed Sir Gilbert Carstairs and his wife to suggest any clue to their whereabouts: the servants could tell nothing of their movements beyond what the police already knew. Sir Gilbert had never been seen by any of them since the morning on which he went into Berwick to hear the case against Carter: Lady Carstairs had not been seen since her departure from the house secretly, two mornings later. Not one of all the many servants, men or women, could tell anything of their master or mistress, nor of any suspicious doings on the part of Hollins during the past two days, except that he had been away from the house a good deal. Whatever share the butler had taken in these recent events, he had played his part skilfully.

So—as it seemed—there was nothing for it but to look further away, the impression of the police being that Meekin had escaped in one direction and his wife in another, and that it had been their plan that Hollins should foregather with them somewhere on the Continent; and presently we all left Hathercleugh House to go back to Berwick. As we crossed the threshold, Mr. Lindsey turned to Mr. Gavin Smeaton with a shrewd smile.

"The next time you step across here, sir, it'll be as Sir Gavin Carstairs!" he said. "And we'll hope that'll not long be delayed!"

"I'm afraid there's a good deal to do before you'll be seeing that, Mr. Lindsey," answered the prospective owner. "We're not out of the wood yet, you know."

We certainly were not out of the wood—so far as I was concerned, those last words might have been prophetic, as, a little later, I was inclined to think Maisie's had been before she went off in the car. The rest of them, Mr. Lindsey and his group, Murray and his, had driven up from Berwick in the first conveyances they could get at that time of night, and they now went off to where they had been waiting in a neighbouring shed. They wanted me to go with them—but I was anxious about my bicycle, a nearly new machine. I had stowed it away as securely as I could under some thick undergrowth on the edge of the woods, but the downpour of rain had been so heavy that I knew it must have soaked through the foliage, and that I should have a nice lot of rust to face, let alone a saturated saddle. So I went away across the park to where I had left it, and the others drove off to Berwick—and so both Mr. Lindsey and myself broke our solemn words to Maisie. For now I was alone—and I certainly did not anticipate more danger.

But not only danger, but the very threatening of death was on me as I went my way. We had stayed some time in Hathercleugh House, and the dawn had broken before we left. The morning came clear and bright after the storm, and the newly-risen sun—it was just four o'clock, and he was nicely above the horizon—was transforming the clustering raindrops on the firs and pines into glistening diamonds as I plunged into the thick of the woods. I had no other thought at that moment but of getting home and changing my clothes before going to Andrew Dunlop's to tell the news—when, as I crossed a narrow cut in the undergrowth, I saw, some distance away, a man's head slowly look out from the trees. I drew back on the instant, watching. Fortunately—or unfortunately—he was not looking in my direction, and did not catch even a momentary glance of me, and when he twisted his neck in my direction I saw that he was the man we had been talking of, and whom I now knew to be Dr. Meekin. And it flashed on me at once that he was hanging about for Hollins—all unconscious that Hollins was lying dead there in the old tower.

So—it was not he who had driven that murderous knife into Hollins's throat!

I watched him—myself securely hidden. He came out of his shelter, crossed the cut, went through the belt of wood which I had just passed, and looked out across the park to the house—all this I saw by cautiously edging through the trees and bushes behind me. He was a good forty yards away from me at that time, but I could see the strained, anxious expression on his face. Things had gone wrong—Hollins and the car had not met him where he had expected them—and he was trying to find out what had happened. And once he made a movement as if he would skirt the coppices and make for the tower, which lay right opposite, but with an open space between it and us—and then he as suddenly drew back, and began to go away among the trees.

I followed him, cautiously. I had always been a bit proud of what I called my woodcraft, having played much at Red Indians as a youngster, and I took care to walk lightly as I stalked him from one brake to another. He went on and on—a long way, right away from Hathercleugh, and in the direction of where Till meets Tweed. And at last he was out of the Hathercleugh grounds, and close to the Till, and in the end he took to a thin belt of trees that ran down the side of the Till, close by the place where Crone's body had been found, and almost opposite the very spot, on the other bank, where I had come across Phillips lying dead; and suddenly I saw what he was after. There, right ahead, was an old boat, tied up to the bank—he was making for it, intending doubtless to put himself across the two rivers, to get the north bank of the Tweed, and so to make for safety in other quarters.

It was there that things went wrong. I was following cautiously, from tree to tree, close to the river-bank, when my foot caught in a trail of ground bramble, and I went headlong into the brushwood. Before I was well on my feet, he had turned and was running back at me, his face white with rage and alarm, and a revolver in his hand. And when he saw who it was, he had the revolver at the full length of his arm, covering me.

"Go back!" he said, stopping and steadying himself.

"No!" said I.

"If you come a yard further, Moneylaws, I'll shoot you dead!" he declared. "I mean it! Go back!"

"I'm not coming a foot nearer," I retorted, keeping where I was. "But I'm not going back. And whenever you move forward, I'm following. I'm not losing sight of you again, Mr. Meekin!"

He fairly started at that—and then he began looking on all sides of me, as if to find out if I was accompanied. And all of a sudden he plumped me with a question.

"Where is Hollins?" he asked. "I'll be bound you know!"

"Dead!" I answered him. "Dead, Mr. Meekin! As dead as Phillips, or as Abel Crone. And the police are after you—all round—and you'd better fling that thing into the Till there and come with me. You'll not get away from me as easily now as you did yon time in your yacht."

It was then that he fired at me—from some twelve or fifteen yards' distance. And whether he meant to kill me, or only to cripple me, I don't know; but the bullet went through my left knee, at the lower edge of the knee-cap, and the next thing I knew I was sprawling on all-fours on the earth, and the next—and it was in the succeeding second, before even I felt a smart—I was staring up from that position to see the vengeance that fell on my would-be murderer in the very instant of his attempt on me. For as he fired and I fell, a woman sprang out of the bushes at his side, and a knife flashed, and then he too fell with a cry that was something between a groan and a scream—and I saw that his assailant was the Irishwoman Nance Maguire, and I knew at once who it was that had killed Hollins.

But she had not killed Meekin. He rose like a badly wounded thing—half rose, that is, as I have seen crippled animals rise, and he cried like a beast in a trap, fighting with his hands. And the woman struck again with the knife—and again he sank back, and again he rose, and ... I shut my eyes, sick with horror, as she drove the knife into him for the third time.

But that was nothing to the horror to come. When I looked again, he was still writhing and crying, and fighting blindly for his life, and I cried out on her to leave him alone, for I saw that in a few minutes he would be dead. I even made an effort to crawl to them, that I might drag her away from him, but my knee gave at the movement and I fell back half-fainting. And taking no more notice of me than if I had been one of the stocks and stones close by, she suddenly gripped him, writhing as he was, by the throat, and drawing him over the bank as easily as if he had been a child in her grasp, she plunged knee-deep into the Till and held him down under the water until he was drowned.

There was a most extraordinary horror came over me as I lay there, powerless to move, propped up on my elbow, watching. The purposeful deliberation with which the woman finished her work; the dead silence about us, broken only by an occasional faint lapping of the river against its bank; the knowledge that this was a deed of revenge—all these things produced a mental state in me which was as near to the awful as ever I approached it. I could only lie and watch—fascinated. But it was over at last, and she let the body go, and stood watching for a moment as it floated into a dark pool beneath the alders; and then, shaking herself like a dog, she came up the bank and looked at me, in silence.

"That was—in revenge for Crone," I managed to get out.

"It was them killed Crone," she answered in a queer dry voice. "Let the pollis find this one where they found Crone! You're not greatly hurt yourself—and there's somebody at hand."

Then she suddenly turned and vanished amongst the trees, and, twisting myself round in the direction to which she had pointed, I saw a gamekeeper coming along. His gun was thrown carelessly in the crook of his arm, and he was whistling, gaily and unconcernedly.

I have a perpetual memento of that morning in my somewhat crippled knee. And once, two years ago, when I was on business in a certain English town, and in a quarter of it into which few but its own denizens penetrate, I met for one moment, at a slum corner, a great raw-boned Irishwoman who noticed my bit of a limp, and turned her eyes for an instant to give me a sharp look that won as sharp an answer. And there may have been mutual understanding and sympathy in the glance we thus exchanged—certainly, when it had passed between us, we continued on our separate ways, silent.

THE END