"And in the Colonies," she explained to her husband, during a moorland ramble, "it would be absurd for me to be called 'my lady.' Mrs. Noel Lambert is good enough for me."

"Quite so, dear, if we ever do go to the Colonies."

"We must, Noel, as we have so little to live on."

"Oh, one thousand a year isn't so bad," he answered good-humoredly. "It may seem poverty to you, who have been used to millions, my darling; but all my life I have been hard up, and I am thankful for twenty pounds a week."

"You speak as though I had been wealthy all my life, Noel. But remember that I was as hard up as you before I married Hubert, poor soul."

"Then, dear, you must appreciate the fact that we can never starve. Besides I hope to make a name as a painter."

"In the Colonies?"

"Why not? Art is to be found there as in England. Change of scene does not destroy any talent one may possess. But I am not so sure, darling, if it is wise to leave England—at least until we learn who murdered Pine."

"Oh, my dear, do let us leave that vexed question alone. The truth will never become known."

"It must become known, Agnes," said Lambert firmly. "Remember that Silver and Chaldea practically accuse us of murdering your husband."

"They know it is a lie, and won't proceed further," said Agnes hopefully.

"Oh, yes, they will, and Miss Greeby also."

"Clara! Why, she is on our side."

"Indeed she is not. Your guess that she was still in love with me turns out to be quite correct. I received a letter from her this morning, which was forwarded from Kensington. She reproaches me with marrying you after the trouble she took in getting the forged letter back from Silver."

"But you told me that she said she would help you as a friend."

"She did so, in order—to use an expressive phrase—to pull the wool over my eyes. But she intended—and she puts her intention plainly in her letter—to help me in order to secure my gratitude, and then she counted upon my making her my wife."

Agnes flushed. "I might have guessed that she would act in that way. When you told me that she was helping I had a suspicion what she was aiming at. What else does she say?"

"Oh, all manner of things, more or less silly. She hints that I have acted meanly in causing you to forfeit two millions, and says that no man of honor would act in such a way."

"I see," said Mrs. Lambert coolly. "She believed that my possession of the money would be even a greater barrier to our coming together than the fact of my being married to Hubert. Well, dear, what does it matter?"

"A great deal, Agnes," replied Noel, wrinkling his brows. "She intends to make mischief, and she can, with the aid of Silver, who is naturally furious at having lost his chance of blackmail. Then there's Chaldea—"

"She can do nothing."

"She can join forces with Miss Greeby and the secretary, and they will do their best to get us into trouble. To defend ourselves we should have to explain that Garvington wrote the letter, and then heaven only knows what disgrace would befall the name."

"But you don't believe that Freddy is guilty?" asked Agnes anxiously.

"Oh, no. Still, he wrote that letter which lured Pine to his death, and if such a mean act became known, he would be disgraced forever."

"Freddy has such criminal instincts," said Mrs. Lambert gloomily, "that I am quite sure he will sooner or later stand in the dock."

"We must keep him out of it as long as we can," said Noel decisively. "For that reason I intend to leave you here and go to Garvington."

"To see Freddy?"

"Yes, and to see Chaldea, and to call on Silver, who is living in my old cottage. Also I wish to have a conversation with Miss Greeby. In some way, my dear, I must settle these people, or they will make trouble. Have you noticed, Agnes, what a number of gypsies seem to cross our path?"

"Yes; but there are many gypsies in Devonshire."

"No doubt, but many gypsies do not come to this retired spot as a rule, and yet they seem to swarm. Chaldea is having us watched."

"For what reason?" Agnes opened her astonished eyes.

"I wish to learn. Chaldea is now a queen, and evidently has sent instructions to her kinsfolk in this county to keep an eye on us."

Agnes ruminated for a few minutes. "I met Mother Cockleshell yesterday," she observed; "but I thought nothing of it, as she belongs to Devonshire."

"I believe Mother Cockleshell is on our side, dear, since she is so grateful to you for looking after her when she was sick. But Kara has been hovering about, and we know that he is Chaldea's lover."

"Then," said Mrs. Lambert, rising from the heather on which they had seated themselves, "it will be best to face Mother Cockleshell and Kara in order to learn what all this spying means."

Lambert approved of this suggestion, and the two returned to Mrs. "Anak's" abode to watch for the gypsies. But, although they saw two or three, or even more during the next few days, they did not set eyes on the Servian dwarf, or on Gentilla Stanley. Then—since it never rains but it pours—the two came together to the inn. Agnes saw them through the sitting-room window, and walked out boldly to confront them. Noel was absent at the moment, so she had to conduct the examination entirely alone.

"Gentilla, why are you spying on me and my husband?" asked Agnes abruptly.

The respectable woman dropped a curtsey and clutched the shoulder of Kara, who showed a disposition to run away. "I'm no spy, my angel," said the old creature with a cunning glint in her eyes. "It's this one who keeps watch."

"For what reason?"

"Bless you, my lady—"

"Don't call me by my title. I've dropped it."

"Only for a time, my dear. I have read your fortune in the stars, my Gorgio one, and higher you will be with money and rank than ever you have been in past days. But not with the child's approval."

"The child. What child?"

"Chaldea, no less. She's raging mad, as the golden rye has made you his romi, my sweet one, and she has set many besides Kara to overlook you."

"So Mr. Lambert and I thought. And Chaldea's reason?"

"She would make trouble," replied Mother Cockleshell mysteriously. "But Kara does not wish her to love the golden rye—as she still does—since he would have the child to himself." She turned and spoke rapidly in Romany to the small man in the faded green coat.

Kara listened with twinkling eyes, and pulling at his heavy beard with one hand, while he held the neck of his violin with the other. When Mother Cockleshell ceased he poured out a flood of the kalo jib with much gesticulation, and in a voice which boomed like a gong. Of course, Mrs. Lambert did not understand a word of his speech, and looked inquiringly at Gentilla.

"Kara says," translated the woman hurriedly, "that he is your friend, since he is glad you are the golden rye's romi. Ever since you left Lundra the child has set him and others to spy on you. She makes mischief, does the child in her witchly way."

"Ask him," said Agnes, indicating the dwarf, "if he knows who murdered my late husband?"

Gentilla asked the question and translated the reply. "He knows nothing, but the child knows much. I go back to the wood in Hengishire, my dear, to bring about much that will astonish Chaldea—curses on her evil heart. Tell the rye to meet me at his old cottage in a week. Then the wrong will be made right," ended Mother Cockleshell, speaking quite in the style of Meg Merrilees, and very grandiloquently. "And happiness will be yours. By this and this I bless you, my precious lady," making several mystical signs, she turned away, forcing the reluctant Kara to follow her.

"But, Gentilla?" Agnes hurried in pursuit.

"No! no, my Gorgious. It is not the time. Seven days, and seven hours, and seven minutes will hear the striking of the moment. Sarishan, my deary."

Mother Cockleshell hobbled away with surprising alacrity, and Mrs. Lambert returned thoughtfully to the inn. Evidently the old woman knew of something which would solve the mystery, else she would scarcely have asked Noel to meet her in Hengishire. And being an enemy to Chaldea, who had deposed her, Agnes was quite sure that Gentilla would work her hardest to thwart the younger gypsy's plans. It flashed across her mind that Chaldea herself might have murdered Pine. But since his death would have removed the barrier between Lambert and herself, Agnes could not believe that Chaldea was guilty. The affair seemed to become more involved every time it was looked into.

However, Mrs. Lambert related to her husband that same evening all that had taken place, and duly delivered the old gypsy's message. Noel listened quietly and nodded. He made up his mind to keep the appointment in Abbot's Wood the moment he received the intelligence. "And you can stay here, Agnes," he said.

"No, no," she pleaded. "I wish to be beside you."

"There may be danger, my dear. Chaldea will not stick at a trifle to revenge herself, you know."

"All the more reason that I should be with you," insisted Agnes. "Besides, these wretches are plotting against me as much as against you, so it is only fair that I should be on the spot to defend myself."

"You have a husband to defend you now, Agnes. Still, as I know you will be anxious if I leave you in this out-of-the-way place, it will be best for us both to go to London. There is a telephone at Wanbury, and I can communicate with you at once should it be necessary."

"Of course it will be necessary," said Mrs. Lambert with fond impatience. "I shall worry dreadfully to think that you are in danger. I don't wish to lose you now that we are together."

"You can depend upon my keeping out of danger, for your sake, dear," said the young man, caressing her. "Moreover, Mother Cockleshell will look after me should Chaldea try any of her Romany tricks. Stay in town, darling."

"Oh, dear me, that flat is so dingy, and lonely, and disagreeable."

"You shan't remain at the flat. There's a very pleasant hotel near Hyde Park where we can put up."

"It's so expensive."

"Never mind the expense, just now. When everything is square we can consider economy. But I shall not be easy in my mind until poor Pine's murderer is in custody."

"I only hope Garvington won't be found to be an accomplice," said Agnes, with a shiver. "Bad as he is, I can't help remembering that he is my brother."

"And the head of the Lamberts," added her husband gravely. "You may be sure that I shall try and save the name from disgrace."

"It's a dismal ending to our honeymoon."

"Let us look upon it as the last hedge of trouble which has to be jumped."

Agnes laughed at this quaint way of putting things, and cheered up. For the next few days they did their best to enjoy to the full the golden hours of love, and peace which remained, and then departed, to the unfeigned regret of Mrs. "Anak." But present pleasure meant future trouble, so the happy pair—and they were happy in spite of the lowering clouds—were forced to leave their temporary paradise in order to baffle their enemies. Miss Greeby, Chaldea, Silver, and perhaps Garvington, were all arrayed against them, so a conflict could not possibly be avoided.

Agnes took up her abode in the private hotel near the Park which Lambert had referred to, and was very comfortable, although she did not enjoy that luxury with which Pine's care had formerly surrounded her. Having seen that she had all she required, Noel took the train to Wanbury, and thence drove in a hired fly to Garvington, where he put up at the village inn. It was late at night when he arrived, so it might have been expected that few would have noted his coming. This was true, but among the few was Chaldea, who still camped with her tribe in Abbot's Wood. Whosoever now owned the property on mortgage, evidently did not desire to send the gypsies packing, and, of course, Garvington, not having the power, could not do so.

Thus it happened that while Lambert was breakfasting next morning, somewhere about ten o'clock, word was brought to him by the landlady that a gypsy wished to see him. The young man at once thought that Mother Cockleshell had called to adjust the situation, and gave orders that she should be admitted. He was startled and ill-pleased when Chaldea made her appearance. She looked as handsome as ever, but her face wore a sullen, vicious look, which augured ill for a peaceful interview.

"So you cheated me after all, rye?" was her greeting, and her eyes sparkled with anger at the sight of the man she had lost.

"Don't be a fool, girl," said Lambert, purposely rough, for her persistence irritated him. "You know that I never loved you."

"Am I so ugly then?" demanded the girl bitterly.

"That remark is beside the point," said the man coldly. "And I am not going to discuss such things with you. But I should like to know why you set spies on me when I was in Devonshire?"

Chaldea's eyes sparkled still more, and she taunted him. "Oh, the clever one that you are, to know that I had you watched. Aye, and I did, my rye. From the time you left the cottage you were under the looks of my people."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Because I want revenge," cried Chaldea, stepping forward and striking so hard a blow on the table that the dishes jumped. "You scorned me, and now you shall pay for that scorn."

"Don't be melodramatic, please. What can you do to harm me, I should like to know, you silly creature?"

"I can prove that you murdered my brother Hearne."

"Oh, can you, and in what way?"

"I have the bullet which killed him," said the gypsy, speaking very fast so as to prevent interruption. "Kara knifed it out of the tree-trunk which grows near the shrubbery. If I take it to the police and it fits your pistol, then where will you be, my precious cheat?"

Lambert looked at her thoughtfully. If she really did possess the bullet he would be able to learn if Garvington had fired the second shot, since it would fit the barrel of his revolver. So far as he was concerned, when coming to live in the Abbot's Wood Cottage, he had left all his weapons stored in London, and would be able to prove that such was the case. He did not fear for himself, as Chaldea's malice could not hurt him in this way, but he wondered if it would be wise to take her to The Manor, where Garvington was in residence, in order to test the fitting of the bullet. Finally, he decided to risk doing so, as in this way he might be able to force the girl's hand and learn how much she really knew. If aware that Garvington was the culprit, she would exhibit no surprise did the bullet fit the barrel of that gentleman's revolver. And should it be proved that she knew the truth, she would not dare to say anything to the police, lest she should be brought into the matter, as an accomplice after the fact. Chaldea misunderstood his silence, while he was thinking in this way, and smiled mockingly with a toss of her head.

"Ah, the rye is afraid. His sin has come home to him," she sneered. "Hai, you are at my feet now, my Gorgious one."

"I think not," said Lambert coolly, and rose to put on his cap. "Come with me, Chaldea. We go to The Manor."

"And what would I do in the boro rye's ken, my precious?"

Lambert ignored the question. "Have you the bullet with you?"

"Avali," Chaldea nodded. "It lies in my pocket."

"Then we shall see at The Manor if it fits the pistol."

"Hai! you have left the shooter at the big house," said the girl, falling into the trap, and thereby proved—to Lambert at least—that she was really in the dark as regards the true criminal.

"Lord Garvington has a revolver of mine," said the young man evasively, although the remark was a true one, since he had presented his cousin with a brace of revolvers some twelve months before.

Chaldea looked at him doubtfully. "And if the bullet fits—"

"Then you can do what you like," retorted Lambert tartly. "Come on. I can't wait here all day listening to the rubbish you talk."

The gypsy followed him sullenly enough, being overborne by his peremptory manner, and anxious, if possible, to bring home the crime to him. What she could not understand, for all her cleverness, was, why he should be so eager to condemn himself, and so went to The Manor on the lookout for treachery. Chaldea always judged other people by herself, and looked upon treachery as quite necessary on certain occasions. Had she guessed the kind of trap which Lambert was laying for her, it is questionable if she would have fallen into it so easily. And Lambert, even at this late hour, could not be certain if she really regarded him as guilty, or if she was only bluffing in order to gain her ends.

Needless to say, Garvington did not welcome his cousin enthusiastically when he entered the library to find him waiting with Chaldea beside him. The fat little man rushed in like a whirlwind, and, ignoring his own shady behavior, heaped reproaches on Lambert's head.

"I wonder you have the cheek to come here," he raged. "You and this beast of a girl. I want no gypsies in my house, I can tell you. And you've lost me a fortune by your selfish behavior."

"I don't think we need talk of selfishness when you are present, Garvington."

"Why not? By marrying Agnes you have made her give up the money."

"She wished to give it up to punish you," said Lambert rebukingly.

"To punish me!" Garvington's gooseberry eyes nearly fell out of his head. "And what have I done?"

Lambert laughed and shrugged his shoulders. In the face of this dense egotism, it was impossible to argue in any way. He dismissed the subject and got to business, as he did not wish to remain longer in Garvington's society than was absolutely necessary.

"This girl," he said abruptly, indicating Chaldea, who stood passively at his elbow, "has found the bullet with which Pine was shot."

"Kara found it, my boro rye," put in the gypsy quickly, and addressing Lord Garvington, who gurgled out his surprises, "in the tree-trunk."

"Ah, yes," interrupted the other. "The elm which is near the shrubbery. Then why didn't you give the bullet to the police?"

"Do you ask that, Garvington?" inquired Lambert meaningly, and the little man whirled round to answer with an expression of innocent surprise.

"Of course I do," he vociferated, growing purple with resentment. "You don't accuse me of murdering the man who was so useful to me, I hope?"

"I shall answer that very leading question when you bring out the revolver with which you shot Pine on that night."

"I only winged him," cried Garvington indignantly. "The second shot was fired by some unknown person, as was proved clearly enough at the inquest."

"All the same, I wish you to produce the revolver."

"Why?" The host looked suspicious and even anxious.

It was Chaldea who replied, and when doing so she fished out the battered bullet. "To see if this fits the barrel of the pistol which the golden rye gave you, my great one," said she significantly.

Garvington started, his color changed and he stole a queer look at the impassive face of his cousin. "The pistol which the golden rye gave me?" he repeated slowly and weighing the words. "Did you give me one, Noel?"

"I gave you a couple in a case," answered Lambert without mentioning the date of the present. "And if this bullet fits the one you used—"

"It will prove nothing," interrupted the other hurriedly, and with a restless movement. "I fired from the doorstep, and my bullet, after breaking Pine's arm, must have vanished into the beyond. The shot which killed him was fired from the shrubbery, and, it is quite easy to guess how it passed through him and buried itself in the tree which was in the line of fire."

"I want to see the pistols," said Lambert insistently, and this time Chaldea looked at him, wondering why he was so anxious to condemn himself.

"Oh, very well," snapped Garvington, with some reluctance, and walked toward the door. There he paused, and evidently awaited to arrive at some conclusion, the nature of which his cousin could not guess. "Oh, very well," he said again, and left the room.

"He thinks that you are a fool, as I do, my Gorgious," said Chaldea scornfully. "You wish to hang yourself it seems, my rye."

"Oh, I don't think that I shall be the one to be hanged. Tell me, Chaldea, do you really believe that I am guilty?"

"Yes," said the girl positively. "And if you had married me I should have saved you."

Lambert laughed, but was saved the trouble of a reply by the return of Garvington, who trotted in to lay a mahogany case on the table. Opening this, he took out a small revolver of beautiful workmanship. Chaldea, desperately anxious to bring home the crime to Lambert, hastily snatched the weapon from the little man's hand and slipped the bullet into one of the chambers. It fitted—making allowance for its battered condition—precisely. She uttered a cry of triumph. "So you did shoot the Romany, my bold one," was her victorious speech.

"Because the bullet fits the barrel of a revolver I gave to my cousin some twelve months ago?" he inquired, smiling.

Chaldea's face fell. "Twelve months ago!" she echoed, greatly disappointed.

"Yes, as Lord Garvington can swear to. So I could not have used the weapon on that night, you see."

"I used it," admitted Garvington readily enough. "And winged Pine."

"Exactly. But I gave you a brace of revolvers of the same make. The bullet which would fit one—as it does—would fit the other. I see there is only one in the case. Where is the other?"

Garvington's color changed and he shuffled with his feet. "I lent it to Silver," he said in a low voice, and reluctantly.

"Was it in Silver's possession on the night Pine was shot?"

"Must have been. He borrowed it a week before because he feared burglars."

"Then," said Lambert coolly, and drawing a breath of relief, for the tension had been great, "the inference is obvious. Silver shot Hubert Pine."



CHAPTER XVIII.

AN AMAZING ACCUSATION.

"Beng in tutes bukko!" swore Chaldea in good Romany, meaning that she wished the devil was in some one's body. And she heartily meant what she said, and cared little which of the two men's interior was occupied by the enemy of mankind, since she hated both. The girl was disappointed to think that Lambert should escape from her snare, and enraged that Garvington's production of one revolver and his confession that Silver had the other tended to this end. "May the pair of you burn in hell," she cried, taking to English, so that they could understand the insult. "Ashes may you be in the Crooked One's furnace."

Lambert shrugged his shoulders, as he quite understood her feelings, and did not intend to lower himself by correcting her. He addressed himself to his cousin and turned his back on the gypsy. "Silver shot Hubert Pine," he repeated, with his eyes on Garvington's craven face.

"It's impossible—impossible!" returned the other hurriedly. "Silver was shut up in the house with the rest. I saw to the windows and doors myself, along with the butler and footmen. At the inquest—"

"Never mind about the inquest. I know what you said there, and I am now beginning to see why you said it."

"What the devil do you mean?"

"I mean," stated the other, staring hard at him, "that you knew Silver was guilty when the inquest took place, and screened him for some reason."

"I didn't know; I swear I didn't know!" stuttered Garvington, wiping his heated face, and with his lower lip trembling.

"You must have done so," replied Lambert relentlessly. "This bullet will fit both the revolvers I gave you, and as you passed on one to Silver—"

"Rubbish! Bosh! Nonsense!" babbled the little man incoherently. "Until you brought the bullet I never knew that it would fit the revolver."

This was true, as Lambert admitted. However, he saw that Garvington was afraid for some reason, and pressed his advantage. "Now that you see how it fits, you must be aware that it could only have been fired from the revolver which you gave Silver."

"I don't see that," protested Garvington. "That bullet may fit many revolvers."

Lambert shook his head. "I don't think so. I had that brace of revolvers especially manufactured, and the make is peculiar. I am quite prepared to swear that the bullet would fit no other weapon. And—and"—he hesitated, then faced the girl, who lingered, sullen and disappointed. "You can go, Chaldea," said Lambert, pointing to the French window of the library, which was wide open.

The gypsy sauntered toward it, clutching her shawl and gritting her white teeth together. "Oh, I go my ways, my rye, but I have not done with you yet, may the big devil rack my bones if I have. You win to-day—I win to-morrow, and so good day to you, and curses on you for a bad one. The devil is a nice character—and that's you!" she screamed, beside herself with rage. "The puro beng is a fino mush, if you will have the kalo jib!" and with a wild cry worthy of a banshee she disappeared and was seen running unsteadily across the lawn. Lambert shrugged his shoulders again and turned to his miserable cousin, who had sat down with a dogged look on his fat face. "I have got rid of her because I wish to save the family name from disgrace," said Lambert quietly.

"There is no disgrace on my part. Remember to whom you are speaking."

"I do. I speak to the head of the family, worse luck! You have done your best to trail our name in the mud. You altered a check which Pine gave you so as to get more money; you forged his name to a mortgage—"

"Lies, lies, the lies of Agnes!" screamed Garvington, jumping up and shaking his fist in puny anger. "The wicked—"

"Speak properly of my wife, or I'll wring your neck," said Lambert sharply. "As to what she told me being lies, it is only too true, as you know. I read the letter you wrote confessing that you had lured Pine here to be shot by telling falsehoods about Agnes and me."

"I only lured him to get his arm broken so that I might nurse him when he was ill and get some money," growled Garvington, sitting down again.

"I am well aware of what you did and how you did it. But you gave that forged letter to Silver so that it might be passed on to Pine."

"I didn't! I didn't! I didn't! I didn't!"

"You did. And because Silver knew too much you gave him the Abbot's Wood Cottage at a cheap rent, or at no rent at all, for all I know. To be quite plain, Garvington, you conspired with Silver to have Pine killed."

"Winged—only winged, I tell you. I never shot him."

"Your accomplice did."

"He's not my accomplice. He was in the house—everything was locked up."

"By you," said Lambert quickly. "So it was easy for you to leave a window unfastened, so that Silver might get outside to hide in the shrubbery."

"Oh!" Garvington jumped up again, looking both pale and wicked. "You want to put a rope round my neck, curse you."

"That's a melodramatic speech which is not true," replied the other coldly. "For I want to save you, or, rather, our name, from disgrace. I won't call in the police"—Garvington winced at this word—"because I wish to hush the matter up. But since Chaldea and Silver accuse me and accuse Agnes of getting rid of Pine so that we might marry, it is necessary that I should learn the exact truth."

"I don't know it. I know nothing more than I have confessed."

"You are such a liar that I can't believe you. However, I shall go at once to Silver and you shall come with me."

"I shan't!" Garvington, who was overfed and flabby and unable to hold his own against a determined man, settled himself in his chair and looked as obstinate as a battery mule.

"Oh, yes, you will, you little swine," said Lambert freezingly cold.

"How dare you call me names?"

"Names! If I called you those you deserved I should have to annex the vocabulary of a Texan muledriver. How such a beast as you ever got into our family I can't conceive."

"I am the head of the family and I order you to leave the room."

"Oh, you do, do you? Very good. Then I go straight to Wanbury and shall tell what I have discovered to Inspector Darby."

"No! No! No! No!" Garvington, cornered at last, sprang from his chair and made for his cousin with unsteady legs. "It might be unpleasant."

"I daresay—to you. Well, will you come with me to Abbot's Wood?"

"Yes," whimpered Garvington. "Wait till I get my cap and stick, curse you, for an interfering beast. You don't know what you're doing."

"Ah! then you do know something likely to reveal the truth."

"I don't—I swear I don't! I only—"

"Oh, damn you, get your cap, and let us be off," broke in Lambert angrily, "for I can't be here all day listening to your lies."

Garvington scowled and ambled out of the room, closely followed by his cousin, who did not think it wise to lose sight of so shifty a person. In a few minutes they were out of the house and took the path leading from the blue door to the postern gate in the brick wall surrounding the park. It was a frosty, sunny day, with a hard blue sky, overarching a wintry landscape. A slight fall of snow had powdered the ground with a film of white, and the men's feet drummed loudly on the iron earth, which was in the grip of the frost. Garvington complained of the cold, although he had on a fur overcoat which made him look like a baby bear.

"You'll give me my death of cold, dragging me out like this," he moaned, as he trotted beside his cousin. "I believe you want me to take pneumonia so that I may die and leave you the title."

"I should at least respect it more than you do," said Lambert with scorn. "Why can't you be a man instead of a thing on two legs? If you did die no one would miss you but cooks and provision dealers."

Garvington gave him a vicious glance from his little pig's eyes, and longed to be tall, and strong, and daring, so that he might knock him down. But he knew that Lambert was muscular and dexterous, and would probably break his neck if it came to a tussle. Therefore, as the stout little lord had a great regard for his neck, he judged it best to yield to superior force, and trotted along obediently enough. Also he became aware within himself that it would be necessary to explain to Silver how he had come to betray him, and that would not be easy. Silver would be certain to make himself extremely disagreeable. Altogether the walk was not a pleasant one for the sybarite.

The Abbot's Wood looked bare and lean with the leaves stripped from its many trees. Occasionally there was a fir, clothed in dark green foliage, but for the most part the branches of the trees were naked, and quivered constantly in the chilly breeze. Even on the outskirts of the wood one could see right into the centre where the black monoliths—they looked black against the snow—reared themselves grimly. To the right there was a glimpse of gypsy fires and tents and caravans, and the sound of the Romany tongue was borne toward them through the clear atmosphere. On such a day it was easy both to see and hear for long distances, and for this reason Chaldea became aware that the two men were walking toward the cottage.

The girl, desperately angry that she had been unable to bring Lambert to book, had sauntered back to the camp, but had just reached it when she caught sight of the tall figure and the short one. In a moment she knew that Lambert and his cousin were making for Silver's abode, which was just what she had expected them to do. At once she determined to again adopt her former tactics, which had been successful in enabling her to overhear the conversation between Lambert and Lady Agnes, and, following at a respectful distance, she waited for her chance. It came when the pair entered the cottage, for then Chaldea ran swiftly in a circle toward the monoliths, and crouched down behind one. While peering from behind this shelter, she saw Silver pass the window of the studio, and felt certain that the interview, would take place in that room. Like a serpent, as she was, the girl crawled and wriggled through the frozen vegetation and finally managed to get under the window without being observed. The window was closed, but by pressing her ear close to the woodwork she was enabled to hear a great deal, if not all. Candidly speaking, Chaldea had truly believed that Lambert had shot Pine, but now that he had disproved the charge so easily, she became desperately anxious to learn the truth. Lambert had escaped her, but she thought that it might be possible to implicate his wife in the crime, which would serve her purpose of injuring him just as well.

Silver was not surprised to see his landlord, as it seemed that Garvington paid him frequent visits. But he certainly showed an uneasy amazement when Lambert stalked in behind the fat little man. Silver was also small, and also cowardly, and also not quite at rest in his conscience, so he shivered when he met the very direct gaze of his unwelcome visitor.

"You have come to look at your old house, Mr. Lambert," he remarked, when the two made themselves comfortable by the studio fire.

"Not at all. I have come to see you," was the grim response.

"That is an unexpected honor," said Silver uneasily, and his eyes sought those of Lord Garvington, who was spreading out his hands to the blaze, looking blue with cold. He caught Silver's inquiring look.

"I couldn't help it," said Garvington crossly. "I must look after myself."

Silver's smooth, foxy face became livid, and he could scarcely speak. When he did, it was with a sickly smile. "Whatever are you talking about, my lord?"

"Oh, you know, d—— you! I did give you that revolver, you know."

"The revolver?" Silver stared. "Yes, why should I deny it? I suppose you have come to get it back?"

"I have come to get it, Mr. Silver," put in Lambert politely. "Hand it over to me, if you please."

"If you like. It certainly has your name on the handle," said the secretary so quietly that the other man was puzzled. Silver did not seem to be so uncomfortable as he might have been.

"The revolver was one of a pair which I had especially made when I went to Africa some years ago," explained Lambert elaborately, and determined to make his listener understand the situation thoroughly. "On my return I made them a present to my cousin. I understand, Mr. Silver, that Lord Garvington lent you one—"

"And kept the other," interrupted the man sharply. "That is true. I was afraid of burglars, since Lord Garvington was always talking about them, so I asked him to lend me a weapon to defend myself with."

"And you used it to shoot Pine," snapped Garvington, anxious to end his suspense and get the interview over as speedily as possible.

Silver rose from his seat in an automatic manner, and turned delicately pale. "Are you mad?" he gasped, looking from one man to the other.

"It's all very well you talking," whimpered Garvington with a shiver; "but Pine was shot with that revolver I lent you."

"It's a lie!"

"Oh, I knew you'd say that," complained Garvington, shivering again. "But I warned you that there might be trouble, since you carried that letter for me, so that it might fall by chance into Pine's hands."

"Augh!" groaned Silver, sinking back into his chair and passing his tongue over a pair of dry, gray lips. "Hold your tongue, my lord."

"What's the use? He knows," and Garvington jerked his head in the direction of his cousin. "The game's up, Silver—the game's up!"

"Oh!" Silver's eyes flashed, and he looked like a rat at bay. "So you intend to save yourself at my expense. But it won't do, my lord. You wrote that letter, if I carried it to the camp."

"I have admitted to my sister and to Lambert, here, that I wrote the letter, Silver. I had to, or get into trouble with the police, since neither of them will listen to reason. But you suggested the plan to get Pine winged so that he might be ill in my house, and then we could both get money out of him. You invented the plot, and I only wrote the letter."

"Augh! Augh!" gulped Silver, unable to speak plainly.

"Do you confess the truth of Lord Garvington's statement?" inquired Lambert suavely, and fixing a merciless eye on the trapped fox.

"No—that is—yes. He swings on the same hook as I do."

"Indeed. Then Lord Garvington was aware that you shot Pine?"

"I was not! I was not!" screamed the head of the Lambert family, jumping up and clenching his hands. "I swear I never knew the truth until you brought the bullet to the library to fit the revolver."

"The—the—bullet!" stammered Silver, whose smooth red hair was almost standing on end from sheer fright.

"Yes," said Lambert, addressing him sharply. "Kara, under the direction of Chaldea, found the bullet in the trunk of the elm tree which was in the line of fire. She came with me to The Manor this morning, and we found that it fitted the barrel of Lord Garvington's revolver. At the inquest, and on unimpeachable evidence, it was proved that he fired only the first shot, which disabled Pine without killing him. The second shot, which pierced the man's heart, could only have come from the second revolver, which was, and is, in your possession, Mr. Silver. The bullet found in the tree trunk will fit no other barrel of no other weapon. I'm prepared to swear to this."

Silver covered his face with his hands and looked so deadly white that Lambert believed he would faint. However, he pulled himself together, and addressed Garvington anxiously. "You know, my lord, that you locked up the house on that night, and that I was indoors."

"Yes," admitted the other hesitating. "So far as I knew you certainly were inside. It is true, Noel," he added, catching his cousin's eye. "Even to save myself I must admit that."

"Oh, you'd admit anything to save yourself," retorted his cousin contemptuously, and noting the mistake in the wording of the sentence. "But admitting that Silver was within doors doesn't save you, so far as I can see."

"There is no need for Lord Garvington to excuse himself," spoke up Silver, attempting to enlist the little man on his side by defending him. "It was proved at the inquest, as you have admitted, Mr. Lambert, that he only fired the first shot."

"And you fired the second."

"I never did. I was inside and in bed. I only came down with the rest of the guests when I heard the firing. Is that not so, my lord?"

"Yes," admitted Garvington grudgingly. "So far as I know you had nothing to do with the second shot."

Silver turned a relieved face toward Lambert. "I shall confess this much, sir," he said, trying to speak calmly and judicially. "Pine treated me badly by taking my toy inventions and by giving me very little money. When I was staying at The Manor I learned that Lord Garvington had also been treated badly by Pine. He said if we could get money that we should go shares. I knew that Pine was jealous of his wife, and that you were at the cottage here, so I suggested that, as Lord Garvington could imitate handwriting, he should forge a letter purporting to come from Lady Agnes to you, saying that she intended to elope on a certain night. Also I told Lord Garvington to talk a great deal about shooting burglars, so as to give color to his shooting Pine."

"It was arranged to shoot him, then?"

"No, it wasn't," cried Garvington, glaring at Silver. "All we wanted to do was to break Pine's arm or leg so that he might be laid up in The Manor."

"Yes, that is so," said Silver feverishly, and nodding. "I fancied—and for this reason I suggested the plot—that when Pine was ill, both Lord Garvington and myself could deal with him in an easier manner. Also—since the business would be left in my hands—I hoped to take out some money from various investments, and share it with Lord Garvington. We never meant that Pine should be killed, but only reduced to weakness so that we might force him to give us both money."

"A very ingenious plot," said Lambert grimly and wondering how much of the story was true. "And then?"

"Then Lord Garvington wrote the letter, and when seeing Pine, I gave it to him saying that while keeping watch on his wife—as he asked me to," said Silver with an emphasis which made Lambert wince, "I had intercepted the letter. Pine was furious, as I knew he would be, and said that he would come to the blue door at the appointed time to prevent the supposed elopement. I told Lord Garvington, who was ready, and—"

"And I went down, pretending that Pine was a burglar," said Lord Garvington, continuing the story in a most shameless manner. "I opened the door quite expecting to find him there. He rushed me, believing in his blind haste that I was Agnes coming to elope with you. I shot him in the arm, and he staggered away, while I shut the door again. Whether, on finding his mistake, and knowing that he had met me instead of Agnes, he intended to go away, I can't say, as I was on the wrong side of the door. But Agnes, attracted to the window by the shot, declared—and you heard her declare it at the inquest, Noel—that Pine walked rapidly away and was shot just as he came abreast of the shrubbery. That's all."

"And quite enough, too," said Lambert savagely. "You tricky pair of beasts; I suppose you hoped to implicate me in the crime?"

"It wasn't a crime," protested Silver; "but only a way to get money. By going up to London you certainly delayed what we intended to do, since we could not carry out our plan until you returned. You did for one night, as Chaldea, who was on the watch for you, told us, and then we acted."

"Did Chaldea know of the trap?"

"No! She knew nothing save that I"—it was Silver who spoke—"wanted to know about your return. She found the letter in Pine's tent, and really believed that Lady Agnes had written it, and that you had shot Pine. It was to force you by threats to marry her that she gave the letter to me."

"And she instructed you to show it to the police," said Lambert between his teeth, "whereas you tried to blackmail Lady Agnes."

"I had to make my money somehow," said Silver insolently. "Pine was dead and Lady Agnes had the coin."

"You were to share in the twenty-five thousand pounds, I suppose?" Lambert asked his cousin indignantly.

"No; Silver blackmailed on his own. I hoped to get money from Agnes in another way—as her hard-up brother that is. And if—"

"Oh, shut up! You make me sick," interrupted Lambert, suppressing a strong desire to choke his cousin. "You are as bad as Silver."

"And Silver is as innocent as Lord Garvington," struck in that gentleman, whose face was recovering its natural color.

Lambert turned on him sharply. "I don't agree with that. You shot Pine!"

Silver sprang up with a hysterical cry. He had judged like Agag that the bitterness of death was past, but found that he was not yet safe. "I did not shoot Pine," he declared, wringing his hands. "Oh, why can't you believe me."

"Because Garvington gave you the second revolver and with that—on the evidence of the bullet—Pine was murdered."

"That might be so, but—but—" Silver hesitated, and shivered and looked round with a hunted expression in his eyes.

"But what? You may as well explain to me."

"I shan't—I refuse to. I am innocent! You can't hurt me!"

Lambert brushed aside this puny rage. "Inspector Darby can. I shall go to Wanbury this evening and tell him all."

"No; don't do that!" cried Garvington, greatly agitated. "Think of me—think of the family!"

"I think of Justice! You two beasts aren't fit to be at large. I'm off," and he made for the door.

In a moment Silver was clutching his coat. "No, don't!" he screamed. "I am innocent! Lord Garvington, say that I am innocent!"

"Oh, —— you, get out of the hole as best you can! I'm in as big a mess as you are, unless Lambert acts decently."

"Decently, you wicked little devil," said Lambert scornfully. "I only propose to do what any decent man would do. You trapped Pine by means of the letter, and Silver shot him."

"I didn't! I didn't!"

"You had the revolver!"

"I hadn't. I gave it away! I lent it!" panted Silver, crying with terror.

"You lent it—you gave it—you liar! Who to?"

Silver looked round again for some way of escape, but could see none. "To Miss Greeby. She—she—she—she shot Pine. I swear she did."



CHAPTER XIX.

MOTHER COCKLESHELL.

It was late in the afternoon when Lambert got back to the village inn, and he felt both tired and bewildered. The examination of Silver had been so long, and what he revealed so amazing, that the young man wished to be alone, both to rest and to think over the situation. It was a very perplexing one, as he plainly saw, since, in the light of the new revelations, it seemed almost impossible to preserve the name of the family from disgrace. Seated in his sitting room, with his legs stretched out and his hands in his pockets, Lambert moodily glared at the carpet, recalling all that had been confessed by the foxy secretary of Miss Greeby. That he should accuse her of committing the crime seemed unreasonable.

According to Silver, the woman had overheard by chance the scheme to lure Pine to The Manor. Knowing that the millionaire was coming to Abbot's Wood, the secretary had propounded the plan to Garvington long before the man's arrival. Hence the constant talk of the host about burglars and his somewhat unnecessary threat to shoot any one who tried to break into the house. The persistence of this remark had roused Miss Greeby's curiosity, and noting that Silver and his host were frequently in one another's company, she had seized her opportunity to listen. For some time, so cautious were the plotters, she had heard nothing particular, but after her recognition of Hearne as Pine when she visited the gypsy camp she became aware that these secret talks were connected with his presence. Then a chance remark of Garvington's—he was always loose-tongued—gave her the clue, and by threats of exposure she managed to make Silver confess the whole plot. Far from thwarting it she agreed to let them carry it out, and promised secrecy, only extracting a promise that she should be advised of the time and place for the trapping of the millionaire. And it was this acquiescence of Miss Greeby's which puzzled Lambert.

On the face of it, since she was in love with him, it was better for her own private plans that Pine should remain alive, because the marriage placed Agnes beyond his reach. Why, then, should Miss Greeby have removed the barrier—and at the cost of being hanged for murder? Lambert had asked Silver this question, but had obtained no definite answer, since the secretary protested that she had not explained her reasons. Jokingly referring to possible burglars, she had borrowed the revolver from Silver which he had obtained from Garvington, and it was this action which first led the little secretary to suspect her. Afterward, knowing that she had met Pine in Abbot's Wood, he kept a close watch on her every action to see if she intended to take a hand in the game. But Silver protested that he could see no reason for her doing so, and even up to the moment when he confessed to Lambert could not conjecture why she had acted in such a manner.

However, it appeared that she was duly informed of the hour when Pine would probably arrive to prevent the pretended elopement, and also learned that he would be hanging about the blue door. When Silver retired for the night he watched the door of her bedroom—which was in the same wing of the mansion of his own. Also he occasionally looked out to see if Pine had arrived, as the window of his room afforded a fair view of the blue door and the shrubbery. For over an hour—as he told Lambert—he divided his attention between the passage and the window. It was while looking out of the last, and after midnight, that he saw Miss Greeby climb out of her room and descend to the ground by means of the ivy which formed a natural ladder. Her window was no great height from the ground, and she was an athletic woman much given to exercise. Wondering what she intended to do, yet afraid—because of Pine's expected arrival—to leave the house, Silver watched her cautiously. She was arrayed in a long black cloak with a hood, he said, but in the brilliant moonlight he could easily distinguish her gigantic form as she slipped into the shrubbery. When Pine arrived, Silver saw him dash at the blue door when it was opened by Garvington, and saw him fall back after the first shot. Then he heard the shutting of the door; immediately afterward the opening of Lady Agnes's window, and noted that Pine ran quickly and unsteadily down the path. As he passed the shrubbery, the second shot came—at this point Silver simply gave the same description as Lady Agnes did at the inquest—and then Pine fell. Afterward Garvington and his guests came out and gathered round the body, but Miss Greeby, slipping along the rear of the shrubbery, doubled back to the shadow at the corner of the house. Silver, having to play his part, did not wait to see her re-enter the mansion, but presumed she did so by clambering up the ivy. He ran down and mingled with the guests and servants, who were clustered round the dead man, and finally found Miss Greeby at his elbow, artlessly inquiring what had happened. For the time being he accepted her innocent attitude.

Later on, when dismissed by Jarwin and in want of funds, he sought out Miss Greeby and accused her. At first she denied the story, but finally, as she judged that he could bring home the crime to her, she compromised with him by giving him the post of her secretary at a good salary. When he obtained the forged letter from Chaldea—and she learned this from Lambert when he was ill—Miss Greeby made him give it to her, alleging that by showing it to Agnes she could the more positively part the widow from her lover. Miss Greeby, knowing who had written the letter, counted upon Agnes guessing the truth, and had she not seen that it had entered her mind, when the letter was brought to her, she would have given a hint as to the forger's name. But Agnes's hesitation and sudden paleness assured Miss Greeby that she guessed the truth, so the letter was left to work its poison. Silver, of course, clamored for his blackmail, but Miss Greeby promised to recompense him, and also threatened if he did not hold his tongue that she would accuse him and Garvington of the murder. Since the latter had forged the letter and the former had borrowed the revolver which had killed Pine, it would have been tolerably easy for Miss Greeby to substantiate her accusation. As to her share in the crime, all she had to do was to deny that Silver had passed the borrowed revolver on to her, and there was no way in which he could prove that he had done so. On the whole, Silver had judged it best to fall in with Miss Greeby's plans, and preserve silence, especially as she was rich and could supply him with whatever money he chose to ask for. She was in his power, and he was in her power, so it was necessary to act on the golden rule of give and take.

And the final statement which Silver made to Lambert intimated that Garvington was ignorant of the truth. Until the bullet was produced in the library to fit the revolver it had never struck Garvington that the other weapon had been used to kill Pine. And he had honestly believed that Silver—as was actually the case—had remained in his bedroom all the time, until he came downstairs to play his part. As to Miss Greeby being concerned in the matter, such an idea had never entered Garvington's head. The little man's hesitation in producing the revolver, when he got an inkling of the truth, was due to his dread that if Silver was accused of the murder—and at the time it seemed as though the secretary was guilty—he might turn king's evidence to save his neck, and explain the very shady plot in which Garvington had been engaged. But Lambert had forced his cousin's hand, and Silver had been brought to book, with the result that the young man now sat in his room at the inn, quite convinced that Miss Greeby was guilty, yet wondering what motive had led her to act in such a murderous way.

Also, Lambert wondered what was best to be done, in order to save the family name. If he went to the police and had Miss Greeby arrested, the truth of Garvington's shady dealings would certainly come to light, especially as Silver was an accessory after the fact. On the other hand, if he left things as they were, there was always a chance that hints might be thrown out by Chaldea—who had everything to gain and nothing to lose—that he and Agnes were responsible for the death of Pine. Of course, Lambert, not knowing that Chaldea had been listening to the conversation in the cottage, believed that the girl was ignorant of the true state of affairs, and he wondered how he could inform her that the actual criminal was known without risking her malignity. He wanted to clear his character and that of his wife; likewise he wished to save the family name. But it seemed to him that the issue of these things lay in the hands of Chaldea, and she was bent upon injuring him if she could. It was all very perplexing.

It was at this point of his meditation that Mother Cockleshell arrived at the inn. He heard her jovial voice outside and judged from its tone that the old dame was in excellent spirits. Her visit seemed to be a hint from heaven as to what he should do. Gentilla hated Chaldea and loved Agnes, so Lambert felt that she would be able to help him. As soon as possible he had her brought into the sitting room, and, having made her sit down, closed both the door and the window, preparatory to telling her all that he had learned. The conversation was, indeed, an important one, and he was anxious that it should take place without witnesses.

"You are kind, sir," said Mother Cockleshell, who had been supplied with a glass of gin and water. "But it ain't for the likes of me to be sitting down with the likes of you."

"Nonsense! We must have a long talk, and I can't expect you to stand all the time—at your age."

"Some Gentiles ain't so anxious to save the legs of old ones," remarked Gentilla Stanley cheerfully. "But I always did say as you were a golden one for kindness of heart. Well, them as does what's unexpected gets what they don't hope for."

"I have got my heart's desire, Mother," said Lambert, sitting down and lighting his pipe. "I am happy now."

"Not as happy as you'd like to be, sir," said the old woman, speaking quite in the Gentile manner, and looking like a decent charwoman. "You've a dear wife, as I don't deny, Mr. Lambert, but money is what you want."

"I have enough for my needs."

"Not for her needs, sir. She should be wrapped in cloth of gold and have a path of flowers to tread upon."

"It's a path of thorns just now," muttered Lambert moodily.

"Not for long, sir; not for long. I come to put the crooked straight and to raise a lamp to banish the dark. Very good this white satin is," said Mother Cockleshell irrelevantly, and alluding to the gin. "And terbaccer goes well with it, as there's no denying. You wouldn't mind my taking a whiff, sir, would you?" and she produced a blackened clay pipe which had seen much service. "Smoking is good for the nerves, Mr. Lambert."

The young man handed her his pouch. "Fill up," he said, smiling at the idea of his smoking in company with an old gypsy hag.

"Bless you, my precious!" said Mother Cockleshell, accepting the offer with avidity, and talking more in the Romany manner. "I allers did say as you were what I said before you were, and that's golden, my Gorgious one. Ahime!" she blew a wreath of blue smoke from her withered lips, "that's food to me, my dearie, and heat to my old bones."

Lambert nodded. "You hinted, in Devonshire, that you had something to say, and a few moments ago you talked about putting the crooked straight."

"And don't the crooked need that same?" chuckled Gentilla, nodding. "There's trouble at hand, my gentleman. The child's brewing witch's broth, for sure."

"Chaldea!" Lambert sat up anxiously. He mistrusted the younger gypsy greatly, and was eager to know what she was now doing.

"Aye! Aye! Aye!" Mother Cockleshell nodded three times like a veritable Macbeth witch. "She came tearing, rampagious-like, to the camp an hour or so back and put on her fine clothes—may they cleave with pain to her skin—to go to the big city. It is true, rye. Kara ran by the side of the donkey she rode upon—may she have an accident—to Wanbury."

"To Wanbury?" Lambert looked startled as it crossed his mind, and not unnaturally, that Chaldea might have gone to inform Inspector Darby about the conversation with Garvington in the library.

"To Wanbury first, sir, and then to Lundra."

"How can you be certain of that?"

"The child treated me like the devil's calls her," said Gentilla Stanley, shaking her head angrily. "And I have no trust in her, for a witchly wrong 'un she is. When she goes donkey-wise to Wanbury, I says to a chal, says I, quick-like, 'Follow and watch her games!' So the chal runs secret, behind hedges, and comes on the child at the railway line making for Lundra. And off she goes on wheels in place of tramping the droms in true Romany style."

"What the deuce has she gone to London for?" Lambert asked himself in a low voice, but Gentilla's sharp ears overheard.

"Mischief for sure, my gentleman. Hai, but she's a bad one, that same. But she plays and I play, with the winning for me—since the good cards are always in the old hand. Fear nothing, my rye. She cannot hurt, though snake that she is, her bite stings."

The young man did not reply. He was uneasy in one way and relieved in another. Chaldea certainly had not gone to see Inspector Darby, so she could not have any intention of bringing the police into the matter. But why had she gone to London? He asked himself this question and finally put it to the old woman, who watched him with bright, twinkling eyes.

"She's gone for mischief," answered Gentilla, nodding positively. "For mischief's as natural to her as cheating is to a Romany chal. But I'm a dealer of cards myself, rye, and I deal myself the best hand."

"I wish you'd leave metaphor and come to plain speaking," cried Lambert in an irritable tone, for the conversation was getting on his nerves by reason of its prolixity and indirectness.

Mother Cockleshell laughed and nodded, then emptied the ashes out of her pipe and spoke out, irrelevantly as it would seem: "The child has taken the hearts of the young from me," said she, shaking her grizzled head; "but the old cling to the old. With them as trusts my wisdom, my rye, I goes across the black water to America and leaves the silly ones to the child. She'll get them into choky and trouble, for sure. And that's a true dukkerin."

"Have you the money to go to America?"

"Money?" The old woman chuckled and hugged herself. "And why not, sir, when Ishmael Hearne was my child. Aye, the child of my child, for I am the bebee of Hearne, bebee being grandmother in our Romany tongue, sir."

Lambert started from his seat, almost too astonished to speak. "Do you mean to say that you are Pine's grandmother?"

"Pine? Who is Pine? A Gentile I know not. Hearne he was born and Hearne he shall be to me, though the grass is now a quilt for him. Ohone! Hai mai! Ah, me! Woe! and woe, my gentleman. He was the child of my child and the love of my heart," she rocked herself to and fro sorrowfully, "like a leaf has he fallen from the tree; like the dew has he vanished into the blackness of the great shadow. Hai mai! Hai mai! the sadness of it."

"Hearne your grandson?" murmured Lambert, staring at her and scarcely able to believe her.

"True. Yes; it is true," said Gentilla, still rocking. "He left the road, and the tent, and the merry fire under a hedge for your Gentile life. But a born Romany he was and no Gorgio. Ahr-r-r!" she shook herself with disgust. "Why did he labor for gold in the Gentile manner, when he could have chored and cheated like a true-hearted black one?"

Her allusions to money suddenly enlightened the young man. "Yours is the name mentioned in the sealed letter held by Jarwin?" he cried, with genuine amazement written largely on his face. "You inherit the millions?"

Mother Cockleshell wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl and chuckled complacently. "It is so, young man, therefore can I take those who hold to my wisdom to the great land beyond the water. Ah, I am rich now, sir, and as a Gorgious one could I live beneath a roof-tree. But for why, I asks you, my golden rye, when I was bred to the open and the sky? In a tent I was born; in a tent I shall die. Should I go, Gentile, it's longing for the free life I'd be, since Romany I am and ever shall be. As we says in our tongue, my dear, 'It's allers the boro matcho that pet-a-lay 'dree the panni,' though true gypsy lingo you can't call it for sure."

"What does it mean?" demanded Lambert, staring at the dingy possessor of two millions sterling.

"It's allers the largest fish that falls back into the water," translated Mrs. Stanley. "I told that to Leland, the boro rye, and he goes and puts the same into a book for your readings, my dearie!" then she uttered a howl and flung up her arms. "But what matter I am rich, when my child's child's blood calls out for vengeance. I'd give all the red gold—and red money it is, my loved one," she added, fixing a bright pair of eyes on Lambert, "if I could find him as shot the darling of my heart."

Knowing that he could trust her, and pitying her obvious sorrow, Lambert had no hesitation in revealing the truth so far as he knew it. "It wasn't a him who shot your grandson, but a her."

"Hai!" Gentilla flung up her arms again, "then I was right. My old eyes did see like a cat in the dark, though brightly shone the moon when he fell."

"What? You know?" Lambert started back again at this second surprise.

"If it's a Gentile lady, I know. A red one large as a cow in the meadows, and fierce as an unbroken colt."

"Miss Greeby!"

"Greeby! Greeby! So your romi told me," shrieked the old woman, throwing up her hands in ecstasy. "Says I to her, 'Who's the foxy one?' and says she, smiling like, 'Greeby's her name!'"

"Why did you ask my wife that?" demanded Lambert, much astonished.

"Hai, she was no wife of yours then, sir. Why did I ask her? Because I saw the shooting—"

"Of Pine—of Hearne—of your son?"

"Of who else? of who else?" cried Mother Cockleshell, clapping her skinny hand and paddling on the floor with her feet. "Says Ishmael to me, 'Bebee,' says he, 'my romi is false and would run away with the golden rye this very night as ever was.' And says I to him, 'It's not so, son of my son, for your romi is as true as the stars and purer than gold.' But says he, 'There's a letter,' he says, and shows it to me. 'Lies, son of my son,' says I, and calls on him to play the trustful rom. But he pitches down the letter, and says he, 'I go this night to stop them from paddling the hoof,' and says I to him, 'No! No!' says I. 'She's a true one.' But he goes, when all in the camp are sleeping death-like, and I watches, and I follers, and I hides."

"Where did you hide?"

"Never mind, dearie. I hides securely, and sees him walking up and down biting the lips of him and swinging his arms. Then I sees—for Oliver was bright, and Oliver's the moon, lovey—the big Gentile woman come round and hide in the bushes. Says I to myself, says I, 'And what's your game?' I says, not knowing the same till she shoots and my child's child falls dead as a hedgehog. Then she runs and I run, and all is over."

"Why didn't you denounce her, Gentilla?"

"And for why, my precious heart? Who would believe the old gypsy? Rather would the Poknees say as I'd killed my dear one. No! no! Artful am I and patient in abiding my time. But the hour strikes, as I said when I spoke to your romi in Devonshire no less, and the foxy moll shall hang. You see, my dear, I waited for some Gentile to speak what I could speak, to say as what I saw was truth for sure. You speak, and now I can tell my tale to the big policeman at Wanbury so that my son's son may sleep quiet, knowing that the evil has come home to her as laid him low. But, lovey, oh, lovey, and my precious one!" cried the old woman darting forward to caress Lambert's hand in a fondling way, "tell me how you know and what you learned. At the cottage you were, and maybe out in the open watching the winder of her you loved."

"No," said Lambert sharply, "I was at the cottage certainly, but in bed and asleep. I did not hear of the crime until I was in London. In this way I found out the truth, Mother!" and he related rapidly all that had been discovered, bringing the narrative right up to the confession of Silver, which he detailed at length.

The old woman kept her sharp eyes on his expressive face and hugged his hand every now and then, as various points in the narrative struck her. At the end she dropped his hand and returned back to her chair chuckling. "It's a sad dukkerin for the foxy lady," said Gentilla, grinning like the witch she was. "Hanged she will be, and rightful it is to be so!"

"I agree with you," replied Lambert relentlessly. "Your evidence and that of Silver can hang her, certainly. Yet, if she is arrested, and the whole tale comes out in the newspapers, think of the disgrace to my family."

Mother Cockleshell nodded. "That's as true as true, my golden rye," she said pondering. "And I wish not to hurt you and the rani, who was kind to me. I go away," she rose to her feet briskly, "and I think. What will you do?"

"I can't say," said Lambert, doubtfully and irresolutely. "I must consult my wife. Miss Greeby should certainly suffer for her crime, and yet—"

"Aye! Aye! Aye! The boro rye," she meant Garvington, "is a bad one for sure, as we know. Shame to him is shame to you, and I wouldn't have the rani miserable—the good kind one that she is. Wait! aye, wait, my precious gentleman, and we shall see."

"You will say nothing in the meantime," said Lambert, stopping her at the door, and anxious to know exactly what were her intentions.

"I have waited long for vengeance and I can wait longer, sir," said Mother Cockleshell, becoming less the gypsy and more the respectable almshouse widow. "Depend upon my keeping quiet until—"

"Until what? Until when?"

"Never you mind," said the woman mysteriously. "Them as sins must suffer for the sin. But not you and her as is innocent."

"No violence, Gentilla," said the young man, alarmed less the lawless gypsy nature should punish Miss Greeby privately.

"I swear there shall be no violence, rye. Wait, for the child is making mischief, and until we knows of her doings we must be silent. Give me your gripper, my dearie," she seized his wrist and bent back the palm of the hand to trace the lines with a dirty finger. "Good fortune comes to you and to her, my golden rye," she droned in true gypsy fashion. "Money, and peace, and honor, and many children, to carry on a stainless name. Your son shall you see, and your son's son, my noble gentleman, and with your romi shall you go with happiness to the grave," she dropped the hand. "So be it for a true dukkerin, and remember Gentilla Stanley when the luck comes true."

"But Mother, Mother," said Lambert, following her to the door, as he was still doubtful as to her intentions concerning Miss Greeby.

The gypsy waved him aside solemnly. "Never again will you see me, my golden rye, if the stars speak truly, and if there be virtue in the lines of the hand. I came into your life: I go out of your life: and what is written shall be!" she made a mystic sign close to his face and then nodded cheerily.

"Duveleste rye!" was her final greeting, and she disappeared swiftly, but the young man did not know that the Romany farewell meant, "God bless you!"



CHAPTER XX.

THE DESTINED END.

As might have been anticipated, Lord Garvington was in anything but a happy frame of mind. He left Silver in almost a fainting condition, and returned to The Manor feeling very sick himself. The two cowardly little men had not the necessary pluck of conspirators, and now that there seemed to be a very good chance that their nefarious doings would be made public they were both in deadly fear of the consequences. Silver was in the worst plight, since he was well aware that the law would consider him to be an accessory after the fact, and that, although his neck was not in danger, his liberty assuredly was. He was so stunned by the storm which had broken so unexpectedly over his head, that he had not even the sense to run away. All manly grit—what he possessed of it—had been knocked out of him, and he could only whimper over the fire while waiting for Lambert to act.

Garvington was not quite so downhearted, as he knew that his cousin was anxious to consider the fair fame of the family. Thinking thus, he felt a trifle reassured, for the forged letter could not be made public without a slur being cast on the name. Then, again, Garvington knew that he was innocent of designing Pine's death, and that, even if Lambert did inform the police, he could not be arrested. It is only just to say that had the little man known of Miss Greeby's intention to murder the millionaire, he would never have written the letter which lured the man to his doom. And for two reasons: in the first place he was too cowardly to risk his neck; and in the second Pine was of more value to him alive than dead. Comforting himself with this reflection, he managed to maintain a fairly calm demeanor before his wife.

But on this night Lady Garvington was particularly exasperating, for she constantly asked questions which the husband did not feel inclined to answer. Having heard that Lambert was in the village, she wished to know why he had not been asked to stay at The Manor, and defended the young man when Garvington pointed out that an iniquitous person who had robbed Agnes of two millions could not be tolerated by the man—Garvington meant himself—he had wronged. Then Jane inquired why Lambert had brought Chaldea to the house, and what had passed in the library, but received no answer, save a growl. Finally she insisted that Freddy had lost his appetite, which was perfectly true.

"And I thought you liked that way of dressing a fish so much, dear," was her wail. "I never seem to quite hit your taste."

"Oh, bother: leave me alone, Jane. I'm worried."

"I know you are, for you have eaten so little. What is the matter?"

"Everything's the matter, confound your inquisitiveness. Hasn't Agnes lost all her money because of this selfish marriage with Noel, hang him? How the dickens do you expect us to carry on unless we borrow?"

"Can't you get some money from the person who now inherits?"

"Jarwin won't tell me the name."

"But I know who it is," said Lady Garvington triumphantly. "One of the servants who went to the gypsy camp this afternoon told my maid, and my maid told me. The gypsies are greatly excited, and no wonder."

Freddy stared at her. "Excited, what about?"

"Why, about the money, dear. Don't you know?"

"No, I don't!" shouted Freddy, breaking a glass in his irritation. "What is it? Bother you, Jane. Don't keep me hanging on in suspense."

"I'm sure I never do, Freddy, dear. It's Hubert's money which has gone to his mother."

Garvington jumped up. "Who—who—who is his mother?" he demanded, furiously.

"That dear old Gentilla Stanley."

"What! What! What!"

"Oh, Freddy," said his wife plaintively. "You make my head ache. Yes, it's quite true. Celestine had it from William the footman. Fancy, Gentilla having all that money. How lucky she is."

"Oh, damn her; damn her," growled Garvington, breaking another glass.

"Why, dear. I'm sure she's going to make good use of the money. She says—so William told Celestine—that she would give a million to learn for certain who murdered poor Hubert."

"Would she? would she? would she?" Garvington's gooseberry eyes nearly dropped out of his head, and he babbled, and burbled, and choked, and spluttered, until his wife was quite alarmed.

"Freddy, you always eat too fast. Go and lie down, dear."

"Yes," said Garvington, rapidly making up his mind to adopt a certain course about which he wished his wife to know nothing. "I'll lie down, Jane."

"And don't take any more wine," warned Jane, as she drifted out of the dining-room. "You are quite red as it is, dear."

But Freddy did not take this advice, but drank glass after glass until he became pot-valiant. He needed courage, as he intended to go all by himself to the lonely Abbot's Wood Cottage and interview Silver. It occurred to Freddy that if he could induce the secretary to give up Miss Greeby to justice, Mother Cockleshell, out of gratitude, might surrender to him the sum of one million pounds. Of course, the old hag might have been talking all round the shop, and her offer might be bluff, but it was worth taking into consideration. Garvington, thinking that there was no time to lose, since his cousin might be beforehand in denouncing the guilty woman, hurried on his fur overcoat, and after leaving a lying statement with the butler that he had gone to bed, he went out by the useful blue door. In a few minutes he was trotting along the well-known path making up his mind what to say to Silver. The interview did not promise to be an easy one.

"I wish I could do without him," thought the treacherous little scoundrel as he left his own property and struck across the waste ground beyond the park wall. "But I can't, dash it all, since he's the only person who saw the crime actually committed. 'Course he'll get jailed as an accessory-after-the-fact: but when he comes out I'll give him a thousand or so if the old woman parts. At all events, I'll see what Silver is prepared to do, and then I'll call on old Cockleshell and make things right with her. Hang it," Freddy had a qualmish feeling. "The exposure won't be pleasant for me over that unlucky letter, but if I can snaffle a million, it's worth it. Curse the honor of the family, I've got to look after myself somehow. Ho! ho!" he chuckled as he remembered his cousin. "What a sell for Noel when he finds that I've taken the wind out of his sails. Serve him jolly well right."

In this way Garvington kept up his spirits during the walk, and felt entirely cheerful and virtuous by the time he reached the cottage. In the thin, cold moonlight, the wintry wood looked spectral and wan. The sight of the frowning monoliths, the gaunt, frozen trees and the snow-powdered earth, made the luxurious little man shiver. Also the anticipated conversation rather daunted him, although he decided that after all Silver was but a feeble creature who could be easily managed. What Freddy forgot was that he lacked pluck himself, and that Silver, driven into a corner, might fight with the courage of despair. The sight of the secretary's deadly white and terrified face as he opened the door sufficient to peer out showed that he was at bay.

"If you come in I'll shoot," he quavered, brokenly. "I'll—I'll brain you with the poker. I'll throw hot water on you, and—and scratch out your—your—"

"Come, come," said Garvington, boldly. "It's only me—a friend!"

Silver recognized the voice and the dumpy figure of his visitor. At once he dragged him into the passage and barred the door quickly, breathing hard meanwhile. "I don't mind you," he giggled, hysterically. "You're in the same boat with me, my lord. But I fancied when you knocked that the police—the police"—his voice died weakly in his throat: he cast a wild glance around and touched his neck uneasily as though he already felt the hangman's rope encircling it.

Garvington did not approve of this grim pantomime, and swore. "I'm quite alone, damn you," he said roughly. "It's all right, so far!" He sat down and loosened his overcoat, for the place was like a Turkish bath for heat. "I want a drink. You've been priming yourself, I see," and he pointed to a decanter of port wine and a bottle of brandy which were on the table along with a tray of glasses. "Silly ass you are to mix."

"I'm—I'm—keeping up my—my spirits," giggled Silver, wholly unnerved, and pouring out the brandy with a shaking hand. "There you are, my lord. There's water, but no soda."

"Keeping up your spirits by pouring spirits down," said Garvington, venturing on a weak joke. "You're in a state of siege, too."

Silver certainly was. He had bolted the shutters, and had piled furniture against the two windows of the room. On the table beside the decanter and bottles of brandy, lay a poker, a heavy club which Lambert had brought from Africa, and had left behind when he gave up the cottage, a revolver loaded in all six chambers, and a large bread knife. Apparently the man was in a dangerous state of despair and was ready to give the officers of the law a hostile welcome when they came to arrest him. He touched the various weapons feverishly.

"I'll give them beans," he said, looking fearfully from right to left. "Every door is locked; every window is bolted. I've heaped up chairs and sofas and tables and chests of drawers, and wardrobes and mattresses against every opening to keep the devils out. And the lamps—look at the lamps. Ugh!" he shuddered. "I can't bear to be in the dark."

"Plenty of light," observed Garvington, and spoke truly, for there must have been at least six lamps in the room—two on the table, two on the mantel-piece, and a couple on the sideboard. And amidst his primitive defences sat Silver quailing and quivering at every sound, occasionally pouring brandy down his throat to keep up his courage.

The white looks of the man, the disorder of the room, the glare of the many lights, and the real danger of the situation, communicated their thrill to Garvington. He shivered and looked into shadowy corners, as Silver did; then strove to reassure both himself and his companion. "Don't worry so," he said, sipping his brandy to keep him up to concert pitch, "I've got an idea which will be good for both of us."

"What is it?" questioned the secretary cautiously. He naturally did not trust the man who had betrayed him.

"Do you know who has inherited Pine's money?"

"No. The person named in the sealed envelope?"

"Exactly, and the person is Mother Cockleshell."

Silver was so amazed that he forgot his fright. "What? Is Gentilla Stanley related to Pine?"

"She's his grandmother, it seems. One of my servants was at the camp to-day and found the gypsies greatly excited over the old cat's windfall."

"Whew!" Silver whistled and drew a deep breath. "If I'd known that, I'd have got round the old woman. But it's too late now since all the fat is on the fire. Mr. Lambert knows too much, and you have confessed what should have been kept quiet."

"I had to save my own skin," said Garvington sullenly. "After all, I had nothing to do with the murder. I never guessed that you were so mixed up in it until Lambert brought that bullet to fit the revolver I lent you."

"And which I gave to Miss Greeby," snapped Silver tartly. "She is the criminal, not me. What a wax she will be in when she learns the truth. I expect your cousin will have her arrested."

"I don't think so. He has some silly idea in his head about the honor of our name, and won't press matters unless he is forced to."

"Who can force him?" asked Silver, looking more at ease, since he saw a gleam of hope.

"Chaldea! She's death on making trouble."

"Can't we silence her? Remember you swing on my hook."

"No, I don't," contradicted Garvington sharply. "I can't be arrested."

"For forging that letter you can!"

"Not at all. I did not write it to lure Pine to his death, but only wished to maim him."

"That will get you into trouble," insisted Silver, anxious to have a companion in misery.

"It won't, I tell you. There's no one to prosecute. You are the person who is in danger, as you knew Miss Greeby to be guilty, and are therefore an accessory after the fact."

"If Mr. Lambert has the honor of your family at heart he will do nothing," said the secretary hopefully; "for if Miss Greeby is arrested along with me the writing of that letter is bound to come out."

"I don't care. It's worth a million."

"What is worth a million?"

"The exposure. See here, Silver, I hear that Mother Cockleshell is willing to hand over that sum to the person who finds the murderer of her grandson. We know that Miss Greeby is guilty, so why not give her up and earn the money?"

The secretary rose in quivering alarm. "But I'd be arrested also. You said so; you know you said so."

"And I say so again," remarked Garvington, leaning back coolly. "You'd not be hanged, you know, although she would. A few years in prison would be your little lot and when you came out I could give you say—er—er—ten thousand pounds. There! That's a splendid offer."

"Where would you get the ten thousand? Tell me!" asked Silver with a curious look.

"From the million Mother Cockleshell would hand over to me."

"For denouncing me?"

"For denouncing Miss Greeby."

"You beast!" shrieked Silver hysterically. "You know quite well that if she is taken by the police I have no chance of escaping. I'd run away now if I had the cash. But I haven't. I count on your cousin keeping quiet because of your family name, and you shan't give the show away."

"But think," said Garvington, persuasively, "a whole million."

"For you, and only ten thousand for me. Oh, I like that."

"Well, I'll make it twenty thousand."

"No! no."

"Thirty thousand."

"No! no! no!"

"Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy—oh, hang it, you greedy beast! I'll give you one hundred thousand. You'd be rich for life then."

"Would I, curse you!" Silver clenched his fists and backed against the wall looking decidedly dangerous. "And risk a life-long sentence to get the money while you take the lion's share."

"You'd only get ten years at most," argued the visitor, annoyed by what he considered to be silly objections.

"Ten years are ten centuries at my time of life. You shan't denounce me."

Garvington rose. "Yes, I shall," he declared, rendered desperate by the dread lest he should lose the million. "I'm going to Wanbury to-night to tell Inspector Darby and get a warrant for Miss Greeby's arrest along with yours as her accomplice."

Silver flung himself forward and gripped Garvington's coat. "You daren't!"

"Yes, I dare. I can't be hurt. I didn't murder the man and I'm not going to lose a pile of money for your silly scruples."

"Oh, my lord, consider." Silver in a panic dropped on his knees. "I shall be shut up for years; it will kill me; it will kill me! And you don't know what a terrible and clever woman Miss Greeby is. She may deny that I gave her the revolver and I can't prove that I did. Then I might be accused of the crime and hanged. Hanged!" cried the poor wretch miserably. "Oh, you'll never give me away, my lord, will you."

"Confound you, don't I risk my reputation to get the money," raged Garvington, shaking off the trembling arms which were round his knees. "The truth of the letter will have to come out, and then I'm dished so far as society is concerned. I wouldn't do it—tell that is—but that the stakes are so large. One million is waiting to be picked up and I'm going to pick it up."

"No! no! no! no!" Silver grovelled on the floor and embraced Garvington's feet. But the more he wailed the more insulting and determined did the visitor become. Like all tyrants and bullies Garvington gained strength and courage from the increased feebleness of his victim. "Don't give me up," wept the secretary, nearly beside himself with terror; "don't give me up."

"Oh, damn you, get out of the way!" said Garvington, and made for the door. "I go straight to Wanbury," which statement was a lie, as he first intended to see Mother Cockleshell at the camp and make certain that the reward was safe. But Silver believed him and was goaded to frenzy.

"You shan't go!" he screamed, leaping to his feet, and before Garvington knew where he was the secretary had the heavy poker in his grasp. The little fat lord gave a cry of terror and dodged the first blow which merely fell on his shoulder. But the second alighted on his head and with a moan he dropped to the ground. Silver flung away the poker.

"Are you dead? are you dead?" he gasped, kneeling beside Garvington, and placed his hand on the senseless man's heart. It still beat feebly, so he arose with a sigh of relief. "He's only stunned," panted Silver, and staggered unsteadily to the table to seize a glass of brandy. "I'll, ah—ah—ah!" he shrieked and dropped the tumbler as a loud and continuous knocking came to the front door.

Naturally in his state of panic he believed that the police had actually arrived, and here he had struck down Lord Garvington. Even though the little man was not dead, Silver knew that the assault would add to his punishment, although he might have concluded that the lesser crime was swallowed up in the greater. But he was too terrified to think of doing anything save hiding the stunned man, and with a gigantic effort he managed to fling the body behind the sofa. Then he piled up rugs and cushions between the wall and the back of the sofa until Garvington was quite hidden and ran a considerable risk of being suffocated. All the time the ominous knocking continued, as though the gallows was being constructed. At least it seemed so to Silver's disturbed fancy, and he crept along to the door holding the revolver in an unsteady grip.

"Who—who—is—"

"Let me in; let me in," said a loud, hard voice. "I'm Miss Greeby. I have come to save you. Let me in."

Silver had no hesitation in obeying, since she was in as much danger as he was and could not hurt him without hurting herself. With trembling fingers he unbolted the door and opened it, to find her tall and stately and tremendously impatient on the threshold. She stepped in and banged the door to without locking it. Silver's teeth chattered so much and his limbs trembled so greatly that he could scarcely move or speak. On seeing this—for there was a lamp in the passage—Miss Greeby picked him up in her big arms like a baby and made for the sitting-room. When, within she pitched Silver on to the sofa behind which Garvington lay senseless, and placing her arms akimbo surveyed him viciously.

"You infernal worm!" said Miss Greeby, grim and savage in her looks, "you have split on me, have you?"

"How—how—how do you know?" quavered Silver mechanically, noting that in her long driving coat with a man's cap she looked more masculine than ever.

"How do I know? Because Chaldea was hiding under the studio window this afternoon and overheard all that passed between you and Garvington and that meddlesome Lambert. She knew that I was in danger and came at once to London to tell me since I had given her my address. I lost no time, but motored down here and dropped her at the camp. Now I've come to get you out of the country."

"Me out of the country?" stammered the secretary.

"Yes, you cowardly swine, although I'd rather choke the life out of you if it could be done with safety. You denounced me, you beast."

"I had to; my own neck was in danger."

"It's in danger now. I'd strangle you for two pins. But I intend to send you abroad since your evidence is dangerous to me. If you are out of the way there's no one else can state that I shot Pine. Here's twenty pounds in gold;" she thrust a canvas bag into the man's shaking hands; "get on your coat and cap and I'll take you to the nearest seaport wherever that is. My motor is on the verge of the wood. You must get on board some ship and sail for the world's end. I'll send you more money when you write. Come, come," she stamped, "sharp's the word."

"But—but—but—"

Miss Greeby lifted him off the sofa by the scruff of the neck. "Do you want to be killed?" she said between her teeth, "there's no time to be lost. Chaldea tells me that Lambert threatens to have me arrested."

The prospect of safety and prosperity in a distant land so appealed to Silver that he regained his courage in a wonderfully short space of time. Rising to his feet he hastily drained another glass of brandy and the color came back to his wan cheeks. But for all the quantity he had drank that same evening he was not in the least intoxicated. He was about to rush out of the room to get his coat and cap when Miss Greeby laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Is there any one else in the house?" she asked suspiciously.

Silver cast a glance towards the sofa. "There's no servant," he said in a stronger voice. "I have been cooking and looking after myself since I came here. But—but—but—"

"But what, you hound?" she shook him fiercely.

"Garvington's behind the sofa."

"Garvington!" Miss Greeby was on the spot in a moment pulling away the concealing rugs and cushions. "Have you murdered him?" she demanded, drawing a deep breath and looking at the senseless man.

"No, he's only stunned. I struck him with the poker because he wanted to denounce me."

"Quite right." Miss Greeby patted the head of her accomplice as if he were a child, "You're bolder than I thought. Go on; hurry up! Before Garvington recovers his senses we'll be far enough away. Denounce me; denounce him, will you?" she said, looking at Garvington while the secretary slipped out of the room; "you do so at your own cost, my lord. That forged letter won't tell in your favor. Ha!" she started to her feet. "What's that! Who's here?"

She might well ask. There was a struggle going on in the passage, and she heard cries for help. Miss Greeby flung open the sitting-room door, and Silver, embracing Mother Cockleshell, tumbled at her feet. "She got in by the door you left open," cried Silver breathlessly, "hold her or we are lost; we'll never get away."

"No, you won't!" shouted the dishevelled old woman, producing a knife to keep Miss Greeby at bay. "Chaldea came to the camp and I learned through Kara how she'd brought you down, my Gentile lady. I went to tell the golden rye, and he's on the way here with the village policeman. You're done for."

"Not yet." Miss Greeby darted under the uplifted knife and caught Gentilla round the waist. The next moment the old woman was flung against the wall, breathless and broken up. But she still contrived to hurl curses at the murderess of her grandson.

"I saw you shoot him; I saw you shoot him," screamed Mother Cockleshell, trying to rise.

"Silver, make for the motor; it's near the camp; follow the path," ordered Miss Greeby breathlessly; "there's no time to be lost. As to this old devil—" she snatched up a lamp as the secretary dashed out of the house, and flung it fairly at Gentilla Stanley. In a moment the old woman was yelling with agony, and scrambled to her feet a pillar of fire. Miss Greeby laughed in a taunting manner and hurled another lamp behind the sofa. "You'd have given me up also, would you, Garvington?" she cried in her deep tone; "take that, and that, and that."

Lamp after lamp was smashed and burst into flames, until only one was left. Then Miss Greeby, seeing with satisfaction that the entire room was on fire and hearing the sound of hasty footsteps and the echoing of distant voices, rushed in her turn from the cottage. As she bolted the voice of Garvington screaming with pain and dread was heard as he came to his senses to find himself encircled by fire. And Mother Cockleshell also shrieked, not so much because of her agony as to stop Miss Greeby from escaping.

"Rye! Rye! she's running; catch her; catch her. Aha—aha—aha!" and she sank into the now blazing furnace of the room.

The walls of the cottage were of mud, the partitions and roof of wood and thatch, so the whole place soon burned like a bonfire. Miss Greeby shot out of the door and strode at a quick pace across the glade. But as she passed beyond the monoliths, Lambert, in company with a policeman, made a sudden appearance and blocked her way of escape. With a grim determination to thwart him she kilted up her skirts and leaped like a kangaroo towards the undergrowth beneath the leafless trees. By this time the flames were shooting through the thatched roof in long scarlet streamers and illuminated the spectral wood with awful light.