"I should think you could do that well enough," he said in the same low, mumbled tones.

"No," she answered. "I can only see some very untidy hair and a pair of eyes—not very nice eyes, rather frightening eyes. I should like to see the rest of your face some day so as to know what it's like."

"Perhaps you shall—some day," he said.

"Is that a threat?" she asked. "It sounded like one."

"Perhaps," he answered.

She laughed lightly and turned away.

"You make me very curious," she said. "But then, you've always done that."

She went back to her seat by her mother, and he walked on moodily to the house.

Mrs. Dawson said to Ella:

"How can you talk to that man, my dear? I think he looks perfectly dreadful—hardly like a human being."

"I was just telling him he ought to shave himself," said Ella. "I told him I should like to know what he was really like."

"I shall ask father," said Mrs. Dawson sternly, "to make it a condition of his employment here."



CHAPTER XVII. A DECLARATION

Dunn knew very well that he ought to give immediate information to the authorities of what had happened.

But he did not. He told himself that nothing could help poor John Clive, and that any precipitate action on his part might still fatally compromise his plans, which were now so near completion.

But his real reason was that he knew that if he came forward he would be very closely questioned, and sooner or later forced to tell the things he knew so terribly involving Ella.

And he knew that to surrender her to the police and proclaim her to the world as guilty of such things were tasks beyond his strength; though, to himself, with a touch of wildness in his thoughts, he said that no proved and certain guilt should go unpunished even though his own hand—It was a train of ideas he did not pursue.

"Charley Wright first and now John Clive," he said to himself. "But the end is not yet."

Again he would not let his thoughts go on but checked them abruptly.

In this dark and troubled mood he went out to busy himself with the garden, and all the time he worked he watched with a sort of vertigo of horror where Ella sat in the sunshine by her mother's side, her white hands moving nimbly to and fro upon her needlework.

It was not long, however, before the tragedy of the wood was discovered, for Clive had been seen to go in that direction, and when he did not return a search was made that was soon successful.

The news was brought to Bittermeads towards evening by a tradesman's boy, who came up from the village to bring something that had been ordered from there.

"Have you heard?" he said to Dunn excitedly. "Mr. Clive's been shot dead by poachers."

"Oh—by poachers?" repeated Dunn.

"Yes, poachers," the boy answered, and went on excitedly to tell his tale with many, and generally very inaccurate, details.

But that the crime had been discovered and instantly set down to poachers was at least certain, and Dunn realized at once that the adoption of this simple and apparently plausible theory would put an end to all really careful investigation of the circumstances and make the discovery of the truth highly improbable.

For the idea that the murder was the work of poachers would, when once adopted, fill the minds of the police and of every one else, and no suspicion would be directed elsewhere.

By the tremendous relief he felt, Dunn understood how heavy had been the burden of fear and apprehension that till now had oppressed him.

If he had not found that handkerchief—if he had not secured that letter—why, by now the police would be at Bittermeads.

"All the same," he thought. "No one who is guilty shall escape through me."

But what this phrase meant, and what he intended to do, he would not permit himself to think out clearly or try to understand.

The boy, having told his story, hurried off to spread the news elsewhere to more appreciative ears, for, he thought disgustedly, it might have been just nothing at all for all the interest the gardener at Bittermeads had shown.

As soon as he was gone, Dunn went across to the house, and going up to the window of the drawing-room where Ella and her mother were having tea, he tapped on the pane.

Ella looked up and saw him, and came at once to open the window, while from behind Mrs. Dawson frowned in severe disapproval of what she considered a great liberty.

"Mr. Clive has been shot," Dunn said abruptly. "They say poachers did it. He was killed instantly."

Ella did not seem at first to understand. She looked puzzled and bewildered, and did not seem to grasp the full import of his words.

"What—what do you say?" she asked. "Mr. Clive—Who's killed?"

Dunn thought to himself that her acting was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.

It was extraordinary that she should be able to make that grey pallor come over her cheeks as though the meaning of what he said were only now entering her mind; wonderful that she should be able so well to give the idea of a great horror and a great doubt coming slowly into her startled eyes.

"Mr. Clive?" she said again.

"Yes, he's been killed," Dunn said. "By poachers, apparently."

"What is that? What is that man saying?" shrilled Mrs. Dawson from behind. "Mr. Clive—John—why, he was here yesterday."

Dunn turned his back and walked away. He heard Ella call after him, but he would not look back because he feared what he might do if he obeyed her call.

With an odd buzzing in his ears, with the blood throbbing through his brain as though something must soon break there, he walked blindly on, and as he came to the gate of Bittermeads he saw a motor-car coming up the road.

It was Deede Dawson's car, and he was driving it, and by his side sat a sulkily-smiling stranger, his air that of one not sure of his welcome, but determined to enforce it, in whom, with a quick start, Dunn recognized his burglar, the man whose attempt to break into Bittermeads he had frustrated, and whose place he had taken.

He put up his hand instinctively for them to stop, and Deede Dawson at once obeyed the gesture.

Dunn noticed that the smile upon his lips was more gentle and winning than ever, the look in his eyes more dark and menacing.

"Well, Dunn, what is it?" he said as pleasantly as he always spoke. "Mr. Allen," he added to his companion, "this is my man, Dunn, I told you about, my gardener and chauffeur, and a very industrious steady fellow—and quite trustworthy."

He seemed to lay a certain emphasis on the last two words, and Allen put his head on one side and looked at Dunn with an odd, mixture of familiarity, suspicion, hesitation, and an uncertain assumption of superiority, but with no hint of recognition showing.

"Glad to hear it," he said. "You always want to know whom you can trust."

"Mr. Clive has been murdered," Dunn said abruptly. "Poachers, it is said. Did you know?"

"We heard about it as we came through the village," answered Deede Dawson. "Very sad, very dreadful. It will be a great shock to poor Ella, I fear. Take the car on to the garage, will you?" he added.

He drove on up the drive, and at the front door they alighted and entered the house together. Dunn followed, and getting into the car, drove it to the garage, where he busied himself cleaning it. As he worked he wondered very much what was the meaning of this sudden appearance on terms of friendship with Deede Dawson of this man Allen, whom he had last seen trying to break into the house at night.

Was Allen an accomplice of Deede Dawson, or a dupe, or, more probably, a new recruit?

At any rate, to Dunn it seemed that the crisis he had expected and prepared for was now fast approaching, and he told himself that if he had failed in Clive's case, those others he was working for he must not fail to save.

"Looks as if Dawson's plans were nearly ready," he said to himself. "Well, so are mine."

He finished his work and shutting the garage door, he was turning away when he saw Ella coming towards him.

She was extremely pale, and her eyes seemed larger than ever, and very bright against the deathly whiteness of her cheeks.

She was wearing a blouse that was cut a little low, and he notice with a kind of terror how soft and round was her throat, like a column of pale and perfect ivory.

He hoped she would not speak to him, for he thought perhaps he could not bear it if she did, but she halted near by, and said:

"This is very dreadful about poor Mr. Clive."

"Very," he answered moodily.

"Why should poachers kill him?" she asked. "Why should they want to?"

"I don't know," he answered, watching not her but her soft throat, where he could see a pulse fluttering. "Perhaps it wasn't poachers," he added.

She started violently, and gave a quick look that seemed to make yet more certain the certainty he already entertained.

"Who else could it be?" she asked in a low voice.

He did not answer.

After what seemed a long time she said:

"You asked me a question once—do you remember?"

He shook his head.

"Why don't you speak? Why can't you speak?" she cried angrily. "Why can't you say something instead of just shaking your head?"

"You see, I've asked you so many questions," he said slowly. "Perhaps I shall ask you some more some day—which question do you mean?"

"I mean when you asked me if I had ever met any one who spoke in a very shrill, high whistling sort of voice? Do you remember?"

"Yes," he said. "You wouldn't tell me."

"Well, I will now," she said. "I did meet a man once with a voice like that. Do you remember the night you, came here that I drove away in the car with a packing-case you carried downstairs?"

"Do I—remember?" he gasped, for that memory, and the thought of how she had driven away into the night with, that grisly thing behind her on the car had never since left his mind by night or by day.

"Yes," she exclaimed impatiently. "Why do you keep staring so? Are you as stupid as you choose to look? Do you remember?"

"I remember," he answered heavily. "I remember very well."

"Well, then, the man I took that packing-case to had a voice just like that—high and shrill, whistling almost."

"I thought as much," said Dunn. "May I ask you another question?"

She nodded.

"May I smoke?"

She nodded again with a touch of impatience.

He took a cigarette from his pocket and put it in his mouth and lighted a match, but the match, when he had lighted it, he used to put light to a scrap of folded paper with writing on it, like a note.

This piece of paper he used to light his cigarette with and when he had done so he watched the paper burn to an ash, not dropping it to the ground till the little flame stung his fingers.

The ash that had fallen he ground into the path where they stood with the heel of his boot.

"What have you burned there?" she asked, as if she suspected it was something of importance he had destroyed.

In fact it was the note that had fallen from dead John Clive's hand wherein Ella had asked him to meet her at the oak where he had met his death.

That bit of paper would have been enough, Dunn thought, to place a harsh hempen noose about the soft white throat he watched where the little pulse still fluttered up and down. But now it was burnt and utterly destroyed, and no one would ever see it.

At the thought he laughed and she drew back, very startled.

"Oh, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing in all the world except that I love you."



CHAPTER XVIII. ROBERT DUNN'S ENEMY

When he had said this he went a step or two aside and sat down on the stump of a tree. He was very agitated and disturbed for he had not in the very least meant to say such a thing, he had not even known that he really felt like that.

It was, indeed, a rush and power of quite unexpected passion that had swept him away and made him for the moment lose all control of himself. Ella showed much more composure. She had become extraordinarily pale, but otherwise she did not appear in any way agitated.

She remained silent, her eyes bent on the ground, her only movement a gesture by which she rubbed softly and in turn each of her wrists as though they hurt her.

"Well, can't you say something?" he asked roughly, annoyed by her persistent silence.

"I don't see that there's anything for me to say," she answered.

"Oh, well now then," he muttered; quite disconcerted.

She raised her eyes from the ground, and for the first time looked full at him, in her expression both curiosity and resentment.

"It is perfectly intolerable," she said with a heaving breast. "Will you tell me who you are?"

"I've told you one thing," he answered sullenly, his eyes on fire. "I should have thought that was enough. I'll tell you nothing more."

"I think you are the most horrid man I ever met," she cried. "And the very, very ugliest—all that hair on your face so that no one can see anything else. What are you like when you cut it off?"

"Does that matter?" he asked, in the same gruff and surly manner.

"I should think it matters a good deal when I ask you," she exclaimed. "Do you expect any one to care for a man she has never seen—nothing but hair. You hurt my wrists awfully that night," she added resentfully. "And you've never even hinted you're sorry."

His reply was unexpected and it disconcerted her greatly and for the first time, for he caught both her wrists in his hands and kissed them passionately where the cords had been.

"You mustn't do that, please don't do that," she said quickly, trying to release herself.

Her strength was nothing to his and he stood up and put his arm around her and strained her to him in an embrace so passionate and powerful she could not have resisted it though she had wished to.

But no thought of resistance came to her, since for the moment she had lost all consciousness of everything save the strange thrill of his bright, clear eyes looking so closely into hers, of his strong arms holding her so firmly.

He released her, or rather she at last freed herself by an effort he did not oppose, and she fled away down the path.

She had an impression that her hair would come down and that that would make her look a fright, and she put up her hands hurriedly to secure it. She never looked back to where he stood, breathing heavily and looking after her and thinking not of her, but of two dead men whom he had seen of late.

"Shall I make the third?" he wondered. "I do not care if I do, not I."

The path Ella had fled by led into another along which when she reached it she saw Deede Dawson coming.

She stopped at once and began to busy herself with a flower-bed overrun with weeds, but she could not entirely conceal her agitation from her stepfather's cold grey eyes.

"Oh, there you are, Ella," he said, with all that false geniality of his that filled the girl with such loathing and distrust. "Have you seen Dunn? Oh, there he is, isn't he? I wanted to ask you, Ella, what do you think of Dunn?"

She glanced over her shoulder towards where Dunn stood, and she managed to answer with a passable air of indifference.

"Well, I suppose," she said, "that he is quite the ugliest man I ever saw. Of course, if he cut all of that hair off—"

Deede Dawson laughed though his eyes remained as hard and cold as ever.

"I shall have to give him orders to shave," he said. "Your mother was telling me I ought to the other day, she said it didn't look respectable to have a man about with all that hair on his face. Though I don't see myself why hair isn't respectable, do you?"

"It looks odd," answered Ella carelessly.

Deede Dawson laughed again, and walked on to where Dunn was standing waiting for him. With his perpetual smile that his cold and evil eyes so strangely contradicted, he said to him:

"Well, what have you and Ella been talking about?"

"Why do you ask?" growled Dunn.

"Because she looks upset," answered Deede Dawson. "Oh, don't be shy about it. Shall I give you a little good advice?"

"What?"

"Never shave."

"Why not?"

"Because that thick growth of hair hiding your face gives you an air of mystery and romance no woman could possibly resist. You're a perpetual puzzle, and to pique a woman's curiosity is the surest way to interest her. Why, there are plenty of women who would marry you simply to find out what is under all that hair. So never you shave."

"I don't mean to."

"Unless, of course, you have to—for purposes of disguise, for example."

"I thought you were hinting that the beard itself was a disguise," retorted Dunn.

"Removing it might become a better one," answered Deede Dawson. "You told me once you knew this part fairly well. Do you know Wreste Abbey?"

Dunn gave his questioner a scowling look that seemed full of anger and suspicion.

"What about it if I do?" he asked.

"I am asking if you do know it," said Deede Dawson.

"Yes, I do. Well?"

"It belongs to Lord Chobham, doesn't it?"

Dunn nodded.

"Old man, isn't he?"

"I'm not a book of reference about Lord Chobham," answered Dunn. "If you want to know his age, you can easily find out, I suppose. What's the sense of asking me a lot of questions like that?"

"He has no family, and his heir is his younger brother, General Dunsmore, who has one son, Rupert, I believe. Do you know if that's so?"

"Look here," said Dunn, speaking with a great appearance of anger. "Don't you go too far, or maybe something you won't like will happen. If you've anything to say, say it straight out. Or there'll be trouble."

Deede Dawson seemed a little surprised at the vehemence of the other's tone.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Don't you like the family, or what's upsetting you?"

Dunn seemed almost choking with fury. He half-lifted one hand and let it fall again.

"If ever I get hold of that young Rupert Dunsmore," he said with a little gasp for breath. "If ever I come face to face with him—man to man—"

"Dear me!" smiled Deede Dawson, lifting his eyebrows. "I'm treading on sore toes, it seems. What's the trouble between you?"

"Never you mind," replied Dunn roughly. "That's my business. But no man ever had a worse enemy than he's been to me."

"Has he, though?" said Deede Dawson, who seemed very interested and even a little excited. "What did he do?"

"Never you mind," Dunn repeated. "That's my affair, but I swore I'd get even with him some day and I will, too."

"Suppose," said Deede Dawson. "Suppose I showed you a way?"

Dunn did not answer at first, and for some moments the two men stood watching each other and staring into each other's eyes as though each was trying to read the depths of the other's soul.

"Suppose," said Deede Dawson very softly. "Suppose you were to meet Rupert Dunsmore—alone—quite alone?"

Still Dunn did not answer, but somehow it appeared that his silence was full of a very deadly significance.

"Suppose you did—what would you do?" murmured Deede Dawson again, and his voice sank lower with each word he uttered till the last was a scarce-audible whisper.

Dunn stopped and picked up a hoe that was lying near by. He placed the tough ash handle across his knee, and with a movement of his powerful hands, he broke the hoe across.

The two smashed pieces he dropped on the ground, and looking at Deede Dawson, he said:

"Like that—if ever Rupert Dunsmore and I meet alone, only one of us will go away alive." And he confirmed it with an oath.

Deede Dawson clapped him on the shoulder, and laughed.

"Good!" he cried. "Why, you're the man I've been looking for for a long time. The fact is, Rupert Dunsmore played me a nasty trick once, and I want to clear accounts with him. Now, suppose I show him to you—?"

"You do that," said Dunn, and he repeated the oath he had sworn before. "You show him to me, and I'll take care he never troubles any one again."

"That's the way I like to hear a man talk," cried Deede Dawson. "Dunsmore has been away for a time on business I can make a guess at, but he is coming back soon. Should you know him if you saw him?"

"Should I know him?" repeated Dunn contemptuously. "Should I know myself?"

"That's good," said Deede Dawson again. "By the way, perhaps you can tell me, hasn't Lord Chobham a rather distant cousin, Walter Dunsmore, living with him as secretary or something of the sort—quite a distant relative, I believe, though in the direct line of succession?"

"Very likely," said Dunn indifferently. "I think so, but I don't care anything about the rest of them. It's only Rupert Dunsmore I have anything against."



CHAPTER XIX. THE VISIT TO WRESTE ABBEY

It was a little later when Deede Dawson returned to the subject of Wreste Abbey.

"Lord Chobham has a very valuable collection of plate and jewellery and so on, hasn't he?" he asked.

"Oh, there's plenty of the stuff there," Dunn answered. "Why?"

"Oh, I was thinking a visit might be made fairly profitable," Deede Dawson said carelessly, for the first time definitely throwing off his mask of law-abiding citizen under which he lived at Bittermeads.

"It would be a risky job," answered Dunn, showing no surprise at the suggestion. "The stuff's well guarded, and then, that's not what I'm thinking about—it's meeting Rupert Dunsmore, man to man, and no one to come between us. If that ever happens—"

Deede Dawson nodded reassuringly.

"That'll be all right," he said. "So you shall, I promise you that. But we might as well kill two birds with one stone and clear a bit of profit, too. I've got to live, like any one else, and I haven't five thousand a year of my own, so I get my living out of those who have, and I don't see who has any right to blame me. Mind, if there was any money in chess, I should be a millionaire, but there isn't, and if a man can make a fortune on the Stock Exchange, which takes no more thought or skill than auction-bridge, why shouldn't I make a bit when I can? There's the 'D. D.' gambit I've invented, people will be studying and playing for centuries, but it'll never bring me a penny for all the brain-work I put into it, and so I've got to protect myself, haven't I?"

"It's what I do with less talk about it," answered Dunn contemptuously. "Why, I've guessed all that from the first when you weren't so all-fired keen on seeing me in gaol, as most of your honest, hard-working lot, who only do their swindling in business-hours, would have been. And I've kept my eyes open, of course. It wasn't hard to twig you did a bit on the cross yourself. Well, that's your affair, but one thing I do want to know—how much does Miss Cayley know?"

For all his efforts he could not keep his anxiety entirely out of his voice as he said this, and recognizing that thereby he had perhaps risked rousing some suspicion in the other's mind, he added:

"And her mother—the young lady and her mother, how much do they know?"

"Oh," answered Deede Dawson, with his false laugh and cold-watchful eyes. "My wife knows nothing at all, but Ella's the best helper I've ever had. She looks so innocent, she can take in any one, and she never gives the show away, she acts all the time. A wonderful girl and useful—you'd hardly believe how useful."

Dunn did not answer. It was only by a supreme effort that he kept his hands from Deede Dawson's throat. He did not believe a word of what the other said, for he knew well the utter falseness of the man. None the less, the accusation troubled him and chilled him to the heart, as though with the touch of the finger of death.

"You remember that packing-case," Deede Dawson added. "The one you helped me to get away from here the night you came. Well, she knew what was in it, though you would never have thought so, to look at her, would you?"

His cold eyes were very intent and keen as he said this, and Dunn thought to himself that it had been said more to test any possible knowledge or suspicion of his own than for any other reason. With a manner of only slight interest, he answered carelessly:

"Did she? Why? Wasn't it your stuff? Had it been pinched? But she was safe enough, the police would never stop a smart young lady in a motor-car, except on very strong evidence."

"Perhaps not," agreed Deede Dawson. "That's one reason why Ella's so useful. But I've been thinking things out, and trying to make them work in together, and I think the first thing to do is for you to drive Allen and Ella over to Wreste Abbey this afternoon, so that they may have a good look around."

"Oh, Miss Cayley and Allen," Dunn muttered.

The new-comer, Allen, had been making himself very much at home at Bittermeads since his arrival, though he had not so far troubled to any great extent either Ella in the house or Dunn outside. His idea of comfort seemed to be to stay in bed very late, and spend his time when he did get up in the breakfast-room in the company of a box of cigars and a bottle of whisky.

The suggestion that he and Ella should pay a visit together to Wreste Abbey was one that greatly surprised Dunn.

"All right," he said. "This afternoon? I'll get the car ready."

"This is the afternoon the Abbey is thrown open to visitors, isn't it?" asked Deede Dawson. "Allen and Ella can get in as tourists, and have a good look round, and you can look round outside and get to know the lie of the land. There won't be long to wait, for Rupert Dunsmore will be back from his little excursion before long, I expect."

He laughed in his mirthless way, and walked off, and Dunn, as he got the car ready, seemed a good deal preoccupied and a little worried.

"How can he know that Rupert Dunsmore is coming back?" he said to himself. "Can he have any way of finding out things I don't know about? And if he did, how could he know—that? Most likely it's only a guess to soothe me down, and he doesn't really know anything at all about it."

After lunch, Allen and Ella appeared together, ready for their expedition. Ella looked her best in a big motoring coat and a close-fitting hat, with a long blue veil. Allen was, for almost the first time since his arrival, shaved, washed and tidy.

He looked indeed as respectable as his sinister and forbidding countenance would permit, and though Deede Dawson had made him as smart as possible, he had permitted him to gratify his own florid taste in adornment, so that his air of prosperity and wealth had the appearance of being that of some recently-enriched vulgarian whose association with a motor-car and a well-dressed girl of Ella's type was probably due to the fact that he had recently purchased them both out of newly-acquired wealth.

Dunn wore a neat chauffeur's costume, with which, however, his bearded face did not go too well. He felt indeed that their whole turn-out was far too conspicuous considering the real nature of their errand, and far too likely to attract attention, and he wondered if Deede Dawson's subtle and calculating mind had not for some private reason desired that to be so.

"He is keeping well in the background himself," Dunn mused. "He may reckon that if things go wrong—in case of any pursuit—it's a good move perhaps in a way, but he may find an unexpected check to his king opened on him."

The drive was a long one, and Ella noticed that though Dunn consulted his map frequently, he never appeared in any doubt concerning the way.

A little before three they drove into the village that lay round the park gates of Wreste Abbey.

Motors were not allowed in the park, so Dunn put theirs in the garage of the little hotel, that was already almost full, for visiting day at Wreste Abbey generally drew a goodly number of tourists, while Ella and Allen, in odd companionship, walked up to the Abbey by the famous approach through the chestnut avenue.

Allen was quiet and surly, and much on his guard, and very uncomfortable in Ella's company, and Ella herself, though for different reasons was equally silent.

But the beauty of the walk through the chestnut avenue, and of the vista with the great house at the end, drew from her a quick exclamation of delight.

"How beautiful a place this is," she said aloud. "And how peaceful and how quiet."

"Don't like these quiet places myself," grumbled Allen. "Don't like 'em, don't trust 'em. Give me lots of traffic; when everything's so awful quiet you've only got to kick your foot against a stone or drop a tool, and likely as not you'll wake the whole blessed place."

"Wake," repeated Ella, noticing the word, and she repeated it with emphasis. "Why do you say 'wake'?"



CHAPTER XX. ELLA'S WARNING

Ella did not say anything more, and in their character of tourists visiting the place, they were admitted to the Abbey and passed on though its magnificent rooms, where was stored a collection rich and rare even for one of the stateliest homes of England.

"What a wonderful place!" Ella sighed wistfully. Yet she could not enjoy the spectacle of all these treasures as she would have done at another time, for she was always watching Allen, who hung about a good deal, and seemed to look more at the locks of the cases that held some of the more valuable of the objects shown than at the things themselves, and generally spent fully half the time in each room at the window, admiring, the view, he said; but for quite another reason, Ella suspected.

"I shall speak when I get back," she said to herself, pale and resolute. "I don't care what happens; I don't care if I have to tell mother—perhaps she knows already. Anyhow, I shall speak."

Having come to this determination, she grew cheerful and more interested apparently in what they were seeing, as well as less watchful of her companion. When, presently, they left the house to go into the gardens, it happened that they noticed an old gentleman walking at a little distance behind a gate marked "Private," and leaning on the arm of a tall, thin, clean-shaven man of middle-age.

"Lord Chobham, the old gentleman," whispered a tourist, who was standing near. "I saw him once in the House of Lords. That's his secretary with him, Mr. Dunsmore, one of the family; he manages everything now the old gentleman is getting so feeble."

Ella walked on frowning and a little worried, for she thought she had seen the secretary before and yet could not remember where. Soon she noticed Dunn, who had apparently been obeying Deede Dawson's orders to look round outside and get to know the lie of the land.

He seemed at present to be a good deal interested in Lord Chobham and his companion, for he went and leaned on the gate and stared at them so rudely that one or two of the other tourists noticed it and frowned at him. But he took no notice, and presently, as if not seeing that the gate was marked "Private," he pushed it open and walked through.

Noticing the impertinent intrusion almost at once, Mr. Dunsmore turned round and called "This is private."

Dunn did not seem to hear, and Mr. Dunsmore walked across to him with a very impatient air, while the little group of tourists watched, with much interest and indignation and a very comforting sense of superiority.

"He ought to be sent right out of the grounds," they told each other. "That's the sort of rude behaviour other people have to suffer for."

"Now, my man," said Mr. Dunsmore sharply, "this is private, you've no business here."

"Sorry, sir; beg pardon, I'm sure," said Dunn, touching his hat, and as he did so he said in a sharp, penetrating whisper: "Look out—trouble's brewing—don't know what, but look out, all the time."

He had spoken so quickly and quietly, in the very act of turning away, that none of the onlookers could have told that a word had passed, but for the very violent start that Walter Dunsmore made and his quick movement forward as if to follow the other. Immediately Dunn turned back towards him with a swift warning gesture of his hand.

"Careful, you fool, they're looking," he said in a quick whisper, and in a loud voice: "Very sorry, sir; beg pardon—I'm sure I didn't mean anything."

Walter Dunsmore swung round upon his heel and went quickly back to where Lord Chobham waited; and his face was like that of one who has gazed into the very eyes of death.

"Lord in Heaven," he muttered, "it's all over, I'm done." And his hand felt for a little metal box he carried in his waistcoat pocket and that held half a dozen small round tablets, each of them a strong man's death.

But he took his hand away again as he rejoined his cousin, patron, and employer, old Lord Chobham.

"What's the matter, Walter?" Lord Chobham asked. "You look pale."

"The fellow was a bit impudent; he made me angry," said Walter carelessly. He fingered the little box in his waistcoat pocket and thought how one tablet on his tongue would always end it all. "By the way, oughtn't Rupert to be back soon?" he asked.

"Yes, he ought," said Lord Chobham severely. "It's time he married and settled down—I shall speak to his father about it. The boy is always rushing off somewhere or another when he ought to be getting to know the estate and the tenants."

Walter Dunsmore laughed.

"I think he knows them both fairly well already," he said. "Not a tenant on the place but swears by Rupert. He's a fine fellow, uncle."

"Oh, you always stick up for him; you and he were always friends," answered Lord Chobham in a grumbling tone, but really very pleased. "I know I'm never allowed to say a word about Rupert."

"Well, he's a fine fellow and a good friend," said Walter, and the two disappeared into the house by a small side-door as Dunn pushed his way through the group of tourists who looked at him with marked and severe disapproval.

"Disgraceful," one of them said quite loudly, and another added: "I believe he said something impudent to that gentleman. I saw him go quite white, and look as if he were in two minds about ordering the fellow right out of the grounds." And a third expressed the general opinion that the culprit looked a real ruffian with all that hair on his face. "Might be a gorilla," said the third tourist. "And look what a clumsy sort of walk he has; perhaps he's been drinking."

But Dunn was quite indifferent to, and indeed unaware of this popular condemnation as he made his way back to the hotel garage where he had left their car. He seemed rather well pleased than otherwise as he walked on.

"Quite a stroke of luck for once," he mused, and he smiled to himself, and stroked the thick growth of his untidy beard. "It's been worth while, for he didn't recognize me in the least, and had quite a shock, but, all the same, I shan't be sorry to shave and see my own face again."

He had the car out and ready when Ella and Allen came back. Allen at once made an excuse to leave them, and went into the hotel bar to get a drink of whisky, and when they were alone, Ella, who was looking very troubled and thoughtful, said to Dunn,

"We saw Lord Chobham in the garden with a gentleman some one told us was a relative of his, a Mr. Walter Dunsmore. Did you see them?"

"Yes," answered Dunn, a little surprised, and giving her a quick and searching look from his bright, keen eyes. "I saw them. Why—"

"I think I've seen the one they said was Mr. Walter Dunsmore before, and I can't think where," she answered, puckering her brows. "I can't think—do you know anything about him?"

"I know he is Mr. Walter Dunsmore," answered Dunn slowly, "and I know he is one of the family, and a great friend of Rupert Dunsmore's. Rupert Dunsmore is Lord Chobham's nephew, you know, and heir, after his father, to the title and estates. His father, General Dunsmore, brought him and Walter up together like brothers, but recently Walter has lived at the Abbey as Lord Chobham's secretary and companion. The general likes to live abroad a good deal, and his son Rupert is always away on some sporting or exploring expedition or another."

"It's very strange," Ella said again. "I'm sure I've seen Walter Dunsmore before but I can't think where."

Allen came from the bar, having quenched his thirst for the time being, and they started off, arriving back at Bittermeads fairly early in the evening, for Dunn had brought them along at a good rate, and apparently remembered the road so well from the afternoon that he never once had occasion to refer to the map.

He took the car round to the garage, and Allen and Ella went into the house, where Allen made his way at once to the breakfast-room, searching for more whisky and cigars, while Ella, after a quick word with her mother to assure her of their safe return, went to find Deede Dawson.

"Ah, dear child, you are back then," he greeted her. "Well, how have you enjoyed yourself? Had a pleasant time?"

"It was not for pleasure we went there, I think," she said listlessly.

He looked up quickly, and though his perpetual smile still played as usual about his lips, his eyes were hard and daunting as they fixed themselves on hers. Before that sinister stare her own eyes sank, and sought the little travelling set of chessmen and board that were before him.

"See," he said, "I've just brought off a mate. Neat isn't it? Checkmate."

She looked up at him, and her eyes were steadier now.

"I've only one thing to say to you," she said. "I came here to say it. If anything happens at Wreste Abbey I shall go straight to the police."

"Indeed," he said, "indeed." He fingered the chessmen as though all his attention were engaged by them. "May I ask why?" he murmured. "For what purpose?"

"To tell them," she answered quietly, "what I—know."

"And what do you know?" he asked indifferently. "What do you know that is likely to interest the police?"

"I ought to have said, perhaps," she answered after a pause, "what I suspect."

"Ah, that's so different, isn't it?" he murmured gently. "So very different. You see we all of us suspect so many things."

She did not answer, for she had said all she had to say and she was afraid that her strength would not carry her further. She began to walk away, but he called her back.

"Oh, how do you think your mother is today?" he asked. "Do you know, her condition seems to me quite serious at times. I wonder if you are overanxious?"

"She is better—much better!" Ella answered, and added with a sudden burst of fiercest, white-hot passion: "But I think it would be better if we had both died before we met you."

She hurried away, for she was afraid of breaking down, and Deede Dawson smiled the more as he again turned his attention to his chessmen, taking them up and putting them down in turn.

"She's turning nasty," he mused. "I don't think she'll dare—but she might. She's only a pawn, but a pawn can cause a lot of trouble at times—a pawn may become a queen and give the mate. When a pawn threatens trouble it's best to—remove it."

He went out and came back a little late and busied himself with a four-move chess problem which absorbed all his attention, and which he did not solve to his satisfaction till past midnight. Then he went upstairs to bed, but at the door of his room he paused and went on very softly up the narrow stairs that led to the attics above.

Outside the one in which Dunn slept, he waited a little till the unbroken sound of regular breathing from within assured him that the occupant slept.

Cautiously and carefully he crept on, and entered the one adjoining, where he turned the light of the electric flashlight he carried on a large, empty packing-case that stood in one corner.

With a two-foot rule he took from his pocket he measured it carefully and nodded with great satisfaction.

"A little smaller than the other," he said to himself. "But, then, it hasn't got to hold so much." He laughed in his silent, mirthless way, as at something that amused him. "A good deal less," he thought. "And Dunn shall drive."

He laughed again, and for a moment or two stood there in the darkness, laughing silently to himself, and then, speaking aloud, he called out:

"You can come in, Dunn."

Dunn, whom a creaking board had betrayed, came forward unconcernedly in his sleeping attire.

"I saw it was you," he remarked. "At first I thought something was wrong."

"Nothing, nothing," answered Deede Dawson. "I was only looking at this packing-case. I may have to send one away again soon, and I wanted to be sure this was big enough. If I do, I shall want you to drive."

"Not Miss Cayley?" asked Dunn.

"No, no," answered Deede Dawson. "She might be with you perhaps, but she wouldn't drive. Night driving is always dangerous, I think, don't you?"

"There's things more dangerous," Dunn remarked.

"Oh, quite true," answered Deede Dawson. "Well, did you enjoy your visit to Wreste Abbey?"

"No," answered Dunn roughly. "I didn't see Rupert Dunsmore, and it wouldn't have been any good if I had with all those people about."

"You're too impatient," Deede Dawson smiled. "I'm getting everything ready; you can't properly expect to win a game in a dozen moves. You must develop your pieces properly and have all ready before you start your attack. As soon as I'm ready—why, I'll act—and you'll have to do the rest."

"I see," said Dunn thoughtfully.



CHAPTER XXI. DOUBTS AND FEARS

In point of fact Dunn had not been asleep when Deede Dawson came listening at his door. Of late he had slept little and that little had been much disturbed by evil, haunting dreams in which perpetually he saw his dead friend, Charley Wright, and dead John Clive always together, while behind them floated the pale and lovely face of Ella, at whom the two dead men looked and whispered to each other.

In the day such thoughts troubled him less, for when he was under the influence of Ella's gentle presence, and when he could watch her clear and candid eyes, he found all doubt and suspicion melting away like snow beneath warm sunshine.

But in the silence of the night they returned, returned very dreadfully, so dreadfully that often as he lay awake in the darkness beads of sweat stood upon his forehead and he would drive his great hands one against the other in his passionate effort to still the thoughts that tormented him. Then, in the morning again, the sound of Ella's voice, the merest glimpse of her grave and gracious personality, would bring back once more his instinctive belief in her.

The morning after Deede Dawson had paid his visit to the attic there was news, however, that disturbed him greatly, for Mrs. Barker, the charwoman who came each morning to Bittermeads, told them that two men in the village—notorious poachers—had been arrested by the police on a charge of being concerned in Mr. Clive's death.

The news was a great shock to Dunn, for, knowing as he thought he did, that the police were working on an entirely wrong idea, he had not supposed they would ever find themselves able to make any arrest. As a matter of fact, these arrests they had made were the result of desperation on the part of the police, who unable to discover anything and entirely absorbed by their preconceived idea that the crime was the work of poachers, had arrested men they knew were poachers in the vague hope of somehow discovering something or of somehow getting hold of some useful clue.

But that Dunn did not know, and feared unlucky chance or undesigned coincidence must have appeared to suggest the guilt of the men and that they were really in actual danger of trial and conviction. He had, too, received that morning, through the secret means of communication he kept open with an agent in London, conclusive proof that at the moment of Clive's death Deede Dawson was in town on business that seemed obscure enough, but none the less in town, and therefore undoubtedly innocent of the actual perpetration of the murder.

Who, then, was left who could have fired the fatal shot?

It was a question Dunn dared not even ask himself but he saw very plainly that if the proceedings against the two arrested men were to be pressed, he would be forced to come forward before his preparations were ready and tell all he knew, no matter at what cost.

All the morning he waited and watched for his opportunity to speak to Ella, who was in a brighter and gayer mood than he had ever seen her in before.

At breakfast Deede Dawson had assured her that he could not conceive what were the suspicions she had referred to the night previously, and while he would certainly have no objection to her mentioning them at any time, in any quarter she thought fit if anything happened at Wreste Abbey—and would indeed be the first to urge her to do so—he, for his part, considered it most unlikely that anything of the sort she seemed to dread would in fact occur.

"Not at all likely," he said with his happy, beaming smile that never reached those cold eyes of his. "I should say myself that nothing ever did happen at Wreste Abbey, not since the Flood, anyhow. It strikes me as the most peaceful, secluded spot in all England."

"I'm very glad you think so," said Ella, tremendously relieved and glad to hear him say so, and supposing, though his smooth words and smiles and protestations deceived her very little, that, at any rate, what she had said had forced him to abandon whatever plans he had been forming in that direction.

Her victory, as it seemed to her, won so easily and containing good promise of further success in the future, cheered her immensely, and it was in almost a happy mood that she went unto the garden after lunch and met Dunn in a quiet, well-hidden corner, where he had been waiting and watching for long.

His appearance startled her—his eyes were so wild, his whole manner so strained and restless, and she gave a little dismayed exclamation as she saw him.

"Oh, what's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well? You look—"

She paused for she did not know exactly how it was he did look; and he said in his harshest, most abrupt manner,

"Do you remember Charley Wright?"

"Why do you ask?" she said, puzzled. "Is anything wrong?"

"Do you remember John Clive?" he asked, disregarding this. "Have you heard two men have been arrested for his murder?"

"Mrs. Barker told me so," she answered gravely. He came a little nearer, almost threateningly nearer.

"What do you think of that?" he asked.

She lifted one hand and put it gently on his arm. The touch of it thrilled him through and through, and he felt a little dazed as he watched it resting on his coat sleeve. She had become very pale also and her voice was low and strained as she said,

"Have you had suspicions too?"

He looked at her as if fascinated for a moment, and then nodded twice and very slowly.

"So have I," she sighed in tones so low he could scarcely hear them.

"Oh, you, you also," he muttered, almost suffocating.

"Yes," she said. "Yes—perhaps the same as yours. My stepfather," she breathed, "Mr. Deede Dawson."

He watched her closely and moodily, but he did not speak.

"I was afraid—at first," she whispered. "But I was wrong—quite wrong. It is as certain as it can be that he was in London at the time."

From his pocket Dunn took out the handkerchief of hers that he had found near the body of the dead man.

"Is this yours?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Yes, where did you get it?"

He did not answer, but he lifted his hands one after the other, and put them on her shoulder, with the fingers outspread to encircle her throat. It seemed to him that when she acknowledged the ownership of the handkerchief she acknowledged also the perpetration of the deed, and he became a little mad, and he had it in his mind that the slightest, the very slightest, pressure of his fingers on that soft, round throat would put it for ever out of her power to do such things again. Then for himself death would be easy and welcome, and there would be an end to all these doubts and fears that racked him with anguish beyond bearing.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, making no attempt to resist or escape.

Ever so slightly the pressure of his hands upon her throat strengthened and increased. A very little more and the lovely thing of life he watched would be broken and cold for ever. Her eyes were steady, she showed no sign of fear, she stood perfectly still, her hands loosely clasped together before her. He groaned, and his arms fell to his side, helpless. Without the slightest change of expression, she said:

"What were you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered. "Do you ever go mad? I do, I think. Perhaps you do too, and that explains it. Do you know where Charley Wright is?"

"Yes," she answered directly. "Why? Did you know him, then?"

"You know where he is now?" Dunn repeated.

She nodded quietly.

"I heard from him only last week," she said.

"I am certainly mad or you are," he muttered, staring at her with eyes in which such wonder and horror showed that it seemed there really was a touch of madness there.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"You heard from him last week," he said again, and again she answered:

"Yes—last week. Why not?"

He leaned forward, and before she knew what he intended to do he kissed her pale, cool cheek.

Once more she stood still and immobile, her hands loosely clasped before her. It might have been that he had kissed a statue, and her perfect stillness made him afraid.

"Ella," he said. "Ella."

"Why did you do that?" she said, a little wildly now in her turn. "It was not that you were going to do to me before."

"I love you," he muttered excusingly.

She shook her head.

"You know too little of me; you have too many doubt and fears," she said. "You do not love me, you do not even trust me."

"I love you all the same," he asserted positively and roughly. "I loved you—it was when I tied your hands to the chair that night and you looked at me with such contempt, and asked me if I felt proud. That stung, that stung. I loved you then."

"You see," she said sadly, "you do not even pretend to trust me. I don't know why you should. Why are you here? Why are you disguised with all that growth of hair? There is something you are preparing, planning. I know it. I feel it. What is it?"

"I told you once before," he answered, "that the end of this will be Deede Dawson's death or mine. That's what I'm preparing."

"He is very cunning, very clever," she said. "Do you think he suspects you?"

"He suspects every one always," answered Dunn. "I've been trying to get proof to act on. I haven't succeeded. Not yet. Nothing definite. If I can't, I shall act without. That's all."

"If I told him even half of what you just said," she said, looking at him. "What would happen?"

"You see, I trust you," he answered bitterly.

She shook her head, but her eyes were soft and tender as she said:

"It wasn't trust in me made you say all that, it was because you didn't care what happened after."

"No," he said. "But when I see you, I forget everything. Do you love me?"

"Why, I've never even seen you yet," she exclaimed with something like a smile. "I only know you as two eyes over a tangle of hair that I don't believe you ever either brush or comb. Do you know, sometimes I am curious."

He took her hand and drew her to sit beside him on the bench under a tree near by. All his doubts and fears and suspicions he set far from him, and remembered nothing save that she was the woman for whom yearned all the depths of his soul as by pre-ordained decree. And she, too, for man, to her strange, aloof, mysterious, but dominating all her life as though by primal necessity.

When they parted, it was with an agreement to meet again that evening, and in the twilight they spent a halcyon hour together, saying little, feeling much.

It was only when at last she had left him that he remembered all that had passed, that had happened, that he knew, suspected, dreaded, all that he planned and intended and would be soon called upon to put into action.

"She's made me mad," he said to himself, and for a long time he sat there in the darkness, in the stillness of the evening, motionless as the tree in whose shade he sat, plunged in the most profound and strange reverie, from which presently his quick ear, alert and keen even when his mind was deep in thought, caught the light and careful sound of an approaching footstep.

In a moment he was up and gliding through the darkness to meet who was coming, and almost at once a voice hailed him cautiously.

"There you are, Dunn," Deede Dawson said. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Tomorrow or next day we shall be able to strike; everything is ready at last, and I'll tell you now exactly what we are going to do."

"That's good news," said Dunn softly.

"Come this way," Deede Dawson said, and led Dunn through the darkness to the gate that admitted to the Bittermeads grounds from the high road.

Here he paused, and stood for a long time in silence, leaning on the gate and looking out across the road to the common beyond. Close beside him stood Dunn, controlling his impatience as best he could, and wondering if at last the secret springs of all these happenings was to be laid bare to him.

But Deede Dawson seemed in no hurry to begin. For a long time he remained in the same attitude, silent and sombre in the darkness, and when at last he spoke it was to utter a remark that quite took Dunn by surprise.

"What a lovely night," he said in low and pensive tones, very unlike those he generally used. "I remember when I was a boy—that's a long time ago."

Dunn was too surprised by this sudden and very unexpected lapse into sentiment to answer. Deede Dawson went on as if thinking to himself:

"A long time—I've done a lot—seen a lot since then—too much, perhaps—I remember mother told me once—poor soul, I believe she used to be rather proud of me—"

"Your mother?" Dunn said wondering greatly to think this man should still have such memories.

But Deede Dawson seemed either to resent his tone or else to be angry with himself for giving way to such weakness. In a voice more like his usual one, he said harshly and sneeringly:

"Oh, yes, I had a mother once, just like everybody else. Why not? Most people have their mothers, though it's not an arrangement I should care to defend. Now then, Ella was with you tonight; you and she were alone together a long time."

"Well," growled Dunn, "what of it?"

"Fine girl, isn't she?" asked Deede Dawson, and laughed.

Dunn did not speak. It filled him with such loathing to hear this man so much as utter Ella's name, it was all he could do to keep his hands motionless by his side and not make use of them about the other's throat.

"She's been useful, very useful," Deede Dawson went on meditatively. "Her mother had some money when I married her. I don't mind telling you it's all spent now, but Ella's a little fortune in herself."

"I didn't know we came to talk about her," said Dunn slowly. "I thought you had something else to say to me."

"So I have," Deede Dawson answered. "That's why I brought you here. We are safe from eavesdroppers here, in a house you can never tell who is behind a curtain or a door. But then, Ella is a part of my plans, a very important part. Do you remember I told you I might want you to take a second packing-case away from here in the car one night?"

"Yes, I remember," said Dunn slowly. "I remember. What would be in it? The same sort of thing that was in—that other?"

"Yes," answered Deede Dawson. "Much the same."

"I shall want to see for myself," said Dunn. "I'm a trustful sort of person, but I don't go driving about the country with packing-cases late at night unless I've seen for myself what's inside."



CHAPTER XXII. PLOTS AND PLAYS

"Very wise of you," yawned Deede Dawson. "That's just what Ella said—what's that?"

For instinctively Dunn had raised his hand, but he lowered it again at once.

"Oh, cut the cackle," he said impatiently. "Tell me what you want me to do, and make it plain, very plain, for I can tell you there's a good deal about all this I don't understand, and I'm not inclined to trust you far. For one thing, what are you after yourself? Where do you come in? What are you going to get? And there's another thing I want to say. If you are thinking of playing any tricks on me don't do it, unless you are ready to take big risks. There's only one man alive who ever made a fool of me, and his name is Rupert Dunsmore, and I don't think he's today what insurance companies call a good risk. Not by any manner of means." He paused to laugh harshly. "Let's get to business," he said. "Look here, how do I know you mean all you say about Rupert Dunsmore? What's he to you?"

"Nothing," answered Deede Dawson promptly. "Nothing. But there's some one I'm acting for to whom he is a good deal."

"Who is that?" Dunn asked sharply.

"Do you think I'm going to tell you?" retorted the other, and laughed in his cold, mirthless manner. "Perhaps you aren't the only one who owes him a grudge."

"That's likely enough, but I want to know where I'm standing," said Dunn. "Is this unknown person you say you are acting for anxious to bring about Rupert Dunsmore's death?"

"I'm not answering any questions, so you needn't ask them," replied Deede Dawson.

"But I will tell you that there's something big going on. Or I shouldn't be in it, I don't use my brains on small things, you know. If it comes off all right, I—" He paused, and for once a thrill of genuine emotion sounded in his voice. "Thousands," he said abruptly. "Yes, and more—more. But there's an obstacle—Rupert Dunsmore. It's your place to remove him. That'll suit you, and it'll mean good pay, as much as you like to ask for in reason. And Ella, if you want her. The girl won't be any use to me when this is over, and you can have her if you like. I don't think she'll object from what I can see—not that it would matter if she did. So there you are. Put Rupert Dunsmore out of the way and it'll be the best day's work you've ever done, and you shall have Ella into the bargain—if you claim her. Makeweight."

He began to laugh again and Dunn laughed, too, for while he was not sure what it was that amused Deede Dawson, there were certain aspects of all this that bore for him a very curious and ironic humour.

"All right," he said. "You bring me face to face with Rupert Dunsmore and you won't have to grumble about the result, for I swear only one of us will go away alive. But how are you going to do it?"

"I've my plan, and it's simple enough," answered Deede Dawson. "Though I can tell you it took some working out. But the simplest problem is always the best, whether in life or in chess." Again he indulged in a low and guarded outburst of his thin, mirthless laughter before he continued: "I suppose you know Rupert Dunsmore is one of those restless people who are never content except when wandering about in some out of the way place or another, as often as not no one having the least idea of his whereabouts. Then he turns up unexpectedly, only to disappear again when the whim takes him. Lately he has been away on one of these trips, but I happen to know he is coming back almost at once—what's the matter?"

"I was only wondering how you knew that," answered Dunn, who had given a sudden start.

"Oh, I know, never mind how," Deede Dawson said. "I know that tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock he will be waiting by the side of Brook Bourne Spring in Ottom's Wood, near General Dunsmore's place. Which is as out of the way and quiet and lonely a spot as you could wish for."

"And you have information that he will be there?" Dunn said incredulously. "How can you possibly be sure of that?"

"Never mind how," answered Deede Dawson. "I am sure. That's enough. My information is certain."

"Oh, it is, is it?" Dunn muttered. "You are a wonderful man, Mr. Dawson. You know everything—or nearly everything. You are sure of everything—or nearly everything—but suppose he changes his mind at the last moment and doesn't come after all?"

"He won't," answered Deede Dawson. "You be there and you'll find him there all right."

"Well, perhaps," said Dunn slowly. "But what I want to know is why you are so sure? There's a good deal hangs on your being right, you know."

"I only wish I was as certain of everything else," Deede Dawson said.

"Oh, all right," exclaimed Dunn. "I suppose you know and you may be right."

"I am," Deede Dawson assured him. "Listen carefully now, there mustn't be any blunders. You are to make an early start tomorrow. I don't want you to take the car for fear of its being seen and identified. You must take the train to London and then another train back immediately to Delsby. From Delsby you'll have an eighteen-mile walk through lonely country where you aren't likely to meet any one, and must try not to. The less you are seen the better. You know that for yourself, and for your own sake you'll be careful. You'll have no time to spare, but you will be able to get to the place I told you of by four all right—no earlier, no later. You must arrange to be there at four exactly. You may spoil all if you are too early. Almost as soon as you get there, Rupert Dunsmore will arrive. You must do the rest for yourself, and then you must strike straight across country for here. You can look up your routes on the map. There will be less risk of attracting attention if you come and go by different ways. You ought to be here again some time in the small hours. I'll let you in, and you'll have cleared your own score with Rupert Dunsmore and earned more money than you ever have had in all your life before. Now, can I depend on you?"

"Yes—yes," answered Dunn, over whom there had come a new and strange sense of unreality as he stood and listened to cold-blooded murder being thus calmly, coolly planned, as though it were some afternoon's pleasure trip that was being arranged, so that he hardly knew whether he did, in fact, hear this smooth, low, unceasing voice that from the darkness at his side laid down such a bloody road for his feet to travel.

"Oh, yes, you can depend on me," he said. "But can I depend on you, when you say Rupert Dunsmore will be there at that time and that place?"

It was a moment or two before Deede Dawson answered, and then his voice was very low and soft and confident as he said:

"Yes, you can—absolutely. You see, I know his plans."

"Oh, do you?" Dunn said as though satisfied. "Oh, well then, it's no wonder you're so sure."

"No wonder at all," agreed Deede Dawson. "There's just one other thing I can tell you. Some one else will be there, too, at Brook Bourne Spring in Ottam's Wood."

"Who's that?" asked Dunn sharply.

"The man," said Deede Dawson, "who is behind all this—the man you and I are working for—the man who's going to pay us, even better than he thinks."

"He—he will be there?" repeated Dunn, drawing a deep, breath.

"Yes, but you won't see him, and it wouldn't help you if you did," Deede Dawson told him. "Most likely he'll be disguised—a mask, perhaps; I don't know. Anyhow, he'll be there. Watching. I'm not suggesting you would do such a thing as never go near the place, loaf around a bit, then come back and report Rupert Dunsmore out of the way for good, draw your pay and vanish, and leave us to find out he was as lively and troublesome as ever. I don't think you would do that, because you sounded as if you meant what you said when you told me he was your worst enemy. But it's just as well to be sure, and so we mean to have a witness; and as it's what you might call a delicate matter, that witness will most likely be our employer himself. So you had better do the job thoroughly if you want your pay."

"I see you take your precautions," remarked Dunn. "Well, that's all right, I don't mind."

"You understand exactly what you've got to do?" Deede Dawson asked.

Dunn nodded.

"What about Allen?" he asked. "Does he take any part in this show?"

"He and I are planning a little visit to Wreste Abbey rather early the same night, during the dinner-hour most likely," answered Deede Dawson carelessly. "We can get in at one of the long gallery windows quite easily, Allen says. He kept his eyes open that day you all went there. It may be helpful to give the police two problems to work on at once; and besides, big as this thing is, there's a shortage of ready money at present. But our little affair at Wreste Abbey will have nothing to do with you. You mind what you've got to do, and don't trouble about anything else. See?"

"I see," answered Dunn slowly. "And if you can arrange for Rupert Dunsmore to be there at that time all right, I'll answer for the rest."

"You needn't be uneasy about that," Deede Dawson said, and laughed. "You see, I know his plans," he repeated, and laughed again; and still laughing that chill, mirthless way of his, he turned and walked back towards the house.

Dunn watched him go through the darkness, and to himself he muttered:

"Yes, but I wonder if you do."



CHAPTER XXIII. COUNTER-PLANS

The hour was late by now, but Dunn felt no inclination for sleep, and there was no need for him to return indoors as yet, since Deede Dawson, who always locked up the house himself, never did so till past midnight. Till the small hours, very often he was accustomed to sit up absorbed in those chess problems, the composing and solving of which were his great passion, so that, indeed, it is probable that under other circumstances he might have passed a perfectly harmless and peaceful existence, known to wide circles as an extraordinarily clever problemist and utterly unknown elsewhere.

But the Fate that is, after all, but man's own character writ large, had decreed otherwise. And the little, fat, smiling man bending over his travelling chess board on which he moved delicately to and fro the tiny red and white men of carved ivory, now and again removing a piece and laying it aside, had done as much with as little concern to his fellow creatures from the very beginning of his terrible career.

Outside, leaning on the gate where Deede Dawson had left him, Dunn was deep in thought that was not always very comforting, for there was very much in all this laid out for him to accomplish that he did not understand and that disturbed him a good deal.

A careful, cautious "Hist!" broke in upon his thoughts, and in an instant he stiffened to close attention, every nerve on the alert.

The sound was repeated, a faint and wary footstep sounded, and in the darkness a form appeared and stole slowly nearer.

Dunn poised for a moment, ready for attack or retreat, and then all at once his tense attitude relaxed.

"You, Walter," he exclaimed. "That's good! But how did you get here? And how did you know where I was?"

The new-comer drew a little nearer and showed the tall, thin form of Walter Dunsmore to whom Dunn had spoken at Wreste Abbey.

"I had to come," he murmured. "I couldn't rest without seeing you. You upset me the other day, saying what you did. Isn't it very dangerous your being here? Suppose Deede Dawson—"

"Oh, if he suspected, there would soon be an end of me," answered Dunn grimly. "But I think I'm going to win—at least, I did till tonight."

"What's happened?" the other asked sharply and anxiously.

"He has been telling me his plans," answered Dunn. "He has told me everything—he has put himself entirely in my power—he has done what I have been waiting and hoping for ever since I came here. He has given me his full confidence at last, and I never felt more uneasy or less certain of success than I do at this moment."

"He has told you—everything?" Walter Dunsmore asked. "Everything, except who is behind it all," answered Dunn. "I asked him who he was acting for, and he refused to say. But we shall know that tomorrow, for he told me something almost as good—he told me where this employer would be at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. So then we shall have him, unless Deede Dawson was lying."

"Of course, it all depends on finding that out," remarked Walter thoughtfully. "Finding out his identity."

"Yes, that's the key move to the problem," Dunn said. "And tomorrow we shall know it, if Deede Dawson was speaking the truth just now."

"I should think he was," said Walter slowly. "I should think it is certain he was. You may depend on that, I think."

"I think so, too," agreed Dunn. "But how did you find out where I was?"

"You know that day you came to Wreste Abbey? There was some fellow you had with you who told the landlord of the Chobham Arms, so I easily found out from him," answered Walter.

"Anyhow, I'm glad you're here," Dunn said. "I was wondering how to get in touch with you. Well, this is Deede Dawson's plan in brief. Tomorrow, at four in the afternoon, Rupert Dunsmore is to be killed—and I've undertaken to do the deed."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Walter, starting.

"I've promised that if Deede Dawson will bring me face to face with Rupert Dunsmore, I'll murder him," answered Dunn, laughing softly.

"A fairly safe offer on your part, isn't it?" observed Walter. "At least, unless there's any saving clause about mirrors."

"Oh, none," answered Dunn. "I told Deede Dawson Rupert Dunsmore was my worst enemy, and that's true enough, for I think every man's worst enemy is himself."

"I wish I had none worse," muttered Walter.

"I think you haven't, old chap," Dunn said smilingly. "But come across the road. It'll be safer on the common. Deede Dawson is so cunning one is never safe from him. One can never be sure he isn't creeping up behind."

"Well, I daresay it's wise to take every precaution," observed Walter. "But I can't imagine either him or any one else getting near you without your knowledge."

Robert Dunn,—or rather, Rupert Dunsmore, as was his name by right of birth—laughed again to himself, very softly in the darkness.

"Perhaps not," he said. "But I take no chances I can avoid with Deede Dawson. Come along."

They crossed the road together and sat down on the common at an open spot, where none could well approach them unheard or unseen. Dunn laid his hand affectionately on Walter's shoulder as they settled themselves.

"Old chap," he said. "It was good of you to come here. You've run some risk. It's none too safe near Bittermeads. But I'm glad to see you, Walter. It's a tremendous relief after all this strain of doubt and watching and suspicion to be with some one I know—some one I can trust—some one like you, Walter."

In the darkness, Walter put out his hand and took Dunn's and held it for a moment.

"I have been anxious about you," he said. Dunn returned the pressure warmly.

"I know," he said. "Jove, old chap, it's good to see you again. You don't know what it's like after all this long time, feeling that every step was a step in the dark, to be at last with a real friend again."

"I think I can guess," Walter said softly.

Dunn shook his head.

"No one could," he said. "I tell you I've doubted, distrusted, suspected till I wasn't sure of my own shadow. Well, that's all over now. Tomorrow we can act."

"Tell me what I'm to do," Walter Dunsmore said.

"There's a whole lot I don't understand yet," Dunn continued slowly. "I suppose it was that that was making me feel so jolly down before you came. I don't feel sure somehow—not sure. Deede Dawson is such a cunning brute. He seems to have laid his whole hand bare, and yet there may be cards up his sleeve still. Besides, his plan he told me about seems so bald. And I don't understand why he should think he is so sure of what I—I mean, of what Rupert—it's a bit confusing to have a double identity—is going to do. He says he is sure Rupert Dunsmore is to be at the Brook Bourne Spring tomorrow at four. He says his information is certain, and that he has full knowledge of what Rupert Dunsmore is going to do, which is more than I have. But what can it be that's making him so sure?"

"That's probably simple enough," said Walter. "You said you suspected there was a leakage from Burns & Swift's office, and you told Burns to make misleading statements about your movements occasionally when he was dictating his letters. Well, I expect this is one."

"That may be; only Deede Dawson seems so very sure," answered Dunn. "But what's specially important is his saying that his employer, whoever it is, who is behind all this, will be there too."

"A meeting? Is that it?" exclaimed Walter.

"No, that's not the idea," answered Dunn. "You see, the idea is that Rupert Dunsmore will be there at four, and that I'm to be there in ambush to murder myself. Whoever is behind all this will be there too—to see I carry out my work properly. And that gives us our chance."

"Oh, that's good," exclaimed Walter. "We shall have him for certain."

"That's what I want you to see to," said Dunn. "I want you to have men you can trust well hidden all round, ready to collar him. And I want you to have all the roads leading to Ottam's Wood well watched and every one going along them noted. You understand?"

"That's quite easy," declared Walter. "I can promise not a soul will get into Ottam's Wood without being seen, and I'll make very sure indeed of getting hold of any one hiding anywhere near Brook Bourne Spring. And once we've done that—once we know who it is—"

"Yes," agreed Dunn. "We shall be all right then. That is the one thing necessary to know—the key move to the problem—the identity of who it is pulling the strings. He must be a clever beggar; anyhow, I mean to see him hang for it yet."

"I daresay he's clever," agreed Walter. "He is playing for big stakes. Anyhow, we'll have him tomorrow all right; that seems certain—at last."

"At last," agreed Dunn, with a long-drawn sigh. "Ugh! it's all been such a nightmare. It's been pretty awful, knowing there was some one—not able to guess who. Ever since you discovered that first attempt, ever since we became certain there was a plot going on to clear out every one in succession to the Chobham estates—and that was jolly plain, though the fools of police did babble about no evidence, as if pistol bullets come from nowhere and poisoned cups of tea—"

"Ah, I was to blame there, that was my fault," said Walter. "You see, we had no proof about the shooting, and when I had spilt that tea, no proof of poison either. I shall always regret that."

"A bit of bad luck," Dunn agreed. "But accidents will happen. Anyhow, it was clear enough some one was trying to make a jolly clear sweep. It may be a madman; it may be some one with a grudge against us; it may be, as poor Charley thought, some one in the line of succession, who is just clearing the way to inherit the title and estates himself. I wish I knew what made Charley suspicious of Deede Dawson in the first place."

"You don't know that?" Walter asked.

"No, he never told me," answered Dunn. "Poor Charley, it cost him his life. That's another thing we must find out—where they've hidden his body."

"He was sure from the first," remarked Walter, "that it was a conspiracy on the part of some one in the line of succession?"

"Yes," agreed Dunn. "It's likely enough, too. You see, ever since that big family row and dispersion eighty years ago, a whole branch of the family has been entirely lost sight of. There may be half a dozen possible heirs we know nothing about. Like poor John Clive. I daresay if we had known of his existence we should have begun by suspecting him."

"There's one thing pretty sure," remarked Walter. "If these pleasant little arrangements did succeed, it would be a fairly safe guess that the inheritor of the title and estates was the guilty person. It might be brought home to him, too."

"Perhaps," agreed Dunn dryly. "But just a trifle too late to interest me for one. And I don't mean to let the dad or uncle be sacrificed if I can help it. I failed with Clive, poor fellow, but I don't mean to again, and I don't see how we can. Deede Dawson has exposed his hand. Now we can play ours."

"But what are you going to do?" Walter asked. "Are you going to follow out his instructions?"

"To the letter," Dunn answered. "We are dealing with very wary, suspicious people, and the least thing might make them take alarm. The important point, of course, is the promise that Deede Dawson's employer will be at Brook Bourne Spring tomorrow afternoon. That's our trump card. Everything hangs on that. And to make sure there's no hitch, I shall do exactly what I've been told to do. I expect I shall be watched. I shall be there at four o'clock, and ten minutes after I hope we shall have laid hands on—whoever it is."

Walter nodded.

"I don't see how we can fail," he said.

CHAPTER XXIV. AN APHORISM

"No," Dunn agreed after a long pause. "No, I don't see myself how failure is possible; I don't see what there is to go wrong. All the same, I shan't be sorry when it's all over; I suppose I'm nervous, that's the truth of it. But Deede Dawson's hardly the sort of man I should have expected to lay all his cards on the table so openly."

"Oh, I think that's natural enough," answered Walter. "Quite natural—he thinks you are in with him and he tells you what he wants you to do. But I don't quite see the object of your visit to the Abbey the other day. You gave me the shock of my life, I think. I hadn't the least idea who you were—that beard makes a wonderful difference."

Dunn laughed quietly.

"It's a good disguise," he admitted. "I didn't quite know myself first time I looked in a mirror. We went to the Abbey to prepare for a burglary there."

"Oh, is that on the cards, too?" exclaimed Walter. "I didn't expect that."

"Yes," answered Dunn. "My own idea is that Deede Dawson sees an opportunity for making a bit on his own. After all of us are disposed of and his friend has got the title and estates, he won't dare to prosecute of course, and so Deede Dawson thinks it a good opportunity to visit the Abbey and pick up any pictures or heirlooms or so-so he can that it would be almost impossible to dispose of in the ordinary way, but that he expects he will be able to sell back at a good price to the new owner of the property. I think he calculates that that gentleman will be ready to pay as much as he is asked. I don't know, but I think that's his idea from something he said the other day about the uselessness of even good stuff from a big house unless you knew of a sure market, or could sell it back again to the owner."

"Jolly clever idea if it works all right," said Walter slowly. "I can see Mr. Deede Dawson is a man who needs watching. And I suppose we had better be on the look-out at the Abbey tomorrow night?"

"Evening," corrected Dunn. "It's planned for the dinner-hour."

"Right," said Walter. "We shall see some crowded hours tomorrow, I expect. Well, it's like this, as I understand it—we had better be sure everything is quite clear. Their idea is that you will meet and murder Rupert Dunsmore, who they have no notion is really your own self, at Brook Bourne Spring at four tomorrow afternoon, and the unknown somebody who is behind all this business will be in hiding there to make sure you do your work properly. Our idea is to watch all the roads leading to Ottam's Wood and to have men in ambush near the spring to seize any one hiding there at that time. Then we shall know who is at the bottom of all these plots and shall be able to smash the whole conspiracy. In addition, Deede Dawson and this other man you speak of, Allen, are going to break into the Abbey tomorrow evening and we are to be ready for them and catch them in the act?"

"Yes," said Dunn, "that's the idea; you can manage all right?"

"Oh, yes," answered Walter. "It's all simple enough—you've planned it out so jolly well there's nothing much left for me to do. And I don't see what you're nervous about; there's nothing that can go wrong very well—your plans are perfect, I think."

"It's easy enough to make plans when you know just what the other side are going to do," observed Dunn. "There's one point more. Miss Cayley—I mentioned her in one of the notes I sent you through Burns."

"Yes, I remember—Deede Dawson's step-daughter," said Walter. "I suppose she is in it?"

"She is not; she knows nothing," declared Dunn vehemently.

"But it was she who took away poor Charley's body, wasn't it?" asked Walter. "But for that you would have had evidence enough to act on at once, wouldn't you?"

"She did not know what she was doing," Dunn replied. "And now she is in danger herself. I am convinced Deede Dawson is growing afraid of her, he dropped hints; I'm sure he is planning something, perhaps he means to murder her as well. So besides these other arrangements I want to see that there's a trustworthy man watching here. I don't anticipate that there's any immediate danger—it's almost certain that if he means anything he will wait till he sees how this other business is turning out. But I want some one trustworthy to be at hand in case of need. You will see to that?"

"Oh, yes, I can spare Simmonds; I'll send him," answered Walter. "Though, I must say, my dear chap, I don't think I should trouble much about that young lady. But it can be easily managed, in fact everything you want me to do is easy enough; I only wish some of it was a bit difficult or dangerous."

"You're a good chap, Walter," said Dunn, putting his hand on the other's shoulder again. "Well, I think it's all settled now. I tell you I'm looking forward a good deal to four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I feel as if I would give all I possess to know who it is."

"Don't make that offer," Waiter said with a smile, "or the fates may accept it."

"I feel as though there's only one thing in the world I want one half so much," Dunn said. "As to know who this—devil is."

"Devil?" repeated Walter. "Well, yes, devil's a word like any other."

"I think it's justified in this case," said Dunn sternly. "Poor Charley Wright dead! One thing I can't understand about that is how they got him back here when you saw him in London when you did. But they're a cunning lot. They must have worked it somehow. Then Clive. I feel to blame for Clive's death—as if I ought to have managed better and saved him. Now there's this other devilry they are planning. I tell you, Walter, I feel the whole world will be a sweeter place after four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"At any rate," said Walter, "I think we may be sure of one thing—after four o'clock tomorrow afternoon you will know all—all." He paused and repeated, slightly varying the phrase: "Yes, after four o'clock tomorrow afternoon you will know everything—everything." He added in a brisker tone: "There's nothing else to arrange?"

"No," said Dunn, "I don't think so, and I had better go now or Deede Dawson will be suspecting something. He'll want to know what I've been stopping out so late for. Good-bye, old chap, and good luck."

They shook hands.

"Good-bye and good luck, Rupert, old man," Walter said. "You may depend on me—you know that."

"Yes, I do know that," Dunn answered.

They shook hands again, and Dunn said: "You've hurt your hand. It's tied up. Is it anything much?"

"No, no," answered Walter with a little laugh. "A mere scratch. I scratched it on a bit of wood, a lid that didn't fit properly."

"Well, good-bye and good luck," Dunn said again, and they parted, Walter disappearing into the darkness and Dunn returning to the house.

Deede Dawson heard him enter, and he came to the door of the room in which he had been sitting.

"Oh, there you are," he said. "Been enjoying the night air or what? You've been a long time."

"I've been thinking," Dunn muttered in the heavy, sulky manner he always assumed at Bittermeads.

"Not weakening, eh?" asked Deede Dawson.

"No," answered Dunn. "I'm not."

"Good," Deede Dawson exclaimed. "There's a lot to win, and no fear of failure. I don't see that failure's possible. Do you?"

"No," answered Dunn. "I suppose not."

"The mate's sure this time," Deede Dawson declared. "It's our turn to move, and whatever reply the other side makes, we're sure of our mate next move. By the way, did you ever solve that problem I showed you the other day?"

"Yes, I think so," answered Dunn. "It was a long time before I could hit on the right move, but I managed it at last, I think."

"Come and show me, then," said Deede Dawson, bustling back into his room and beginning to set up the pieces on his travelling chess-board. "This was the position, wasn't it? Now, what's your move?"

Dunn showed him, and Deede Dawson burst into a laugh that had in it for once a touch of honest enjoyment.

"Yes, that would do it, but for one thing you haven't noticed," he said. "Black can push the pawn at KB7 and make it, not a queen, but a knight, giving check to your king and no mate for you next move."

"Yes, that's so," agreed Dunn. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Unexpected, eh? Making the pawn a knight?" smiled Deede Dawson. "But in chess, and in life, it's the unexpected you have to look out for."

"That's quite an aphorism," said Dunn. "It's true, too."

He went up to bed, but did not sleep well, and when at last he fell into a troubled slumber, it seemed to him that Charley Wright and John Clive were there, one on each side of him, and that they had come, not because they sought for vengeance, but because they wished to warn him of a doom like their own that they could see approaching but he could not.

Toward's morning he got an hour's sound rest, and he was down stairs in good time. He did not see Ella, but he heard her moving about, so knew that she was safe as yet; and Deede Dawson gave him some elaborate parting instructions, a little money, and a loaded revolver.

"I don't know that I want that," said Dunn. "My hands will be all I need once I'm face to face with Rupert Dunsmore."

"That's the right spirit," said Deede Dawson approvingly. "But the pistol may be useful too. You needn't use it if you can manage without, but you may as well have it. Good-bye, and the best of luck. Take care of yourself, and don't lose your head or do anything foolish."

"Oh, you can trust me," said Dunn.

"I think I can," smiled Deede Dawson. "I think I can. Good-bye. Be careful, avoid noise and fuss, don't be seen any more than you can help, and if you shoot, aim low."

"There's a vade mecum for the intending assassin," Dunn thought grimly to himself, but he said nothing, gave the other a sullen nod, and started off on his strange and weird mission of murdering himself. He found himself wondering if any one else had ever been in such a situation. He did not suppose so.



CHAPTER XXV. THE UNEXPECTED

To the very letter Dunn followed the careful and precise instructions given him by Deede Dawson, for he did not wish to rouse in any way the slightest suspicion or run the least risk of frightening off that unknown instigator of these plots who was, it had been promised him, to be present near Brook Bourne Spring at four that afternoon.

Even the thought of Ella was perhaps less clear and vivid to his mind just now than was his intense and passionate desire to discover the identity of the strange and sinister personality against whom he had matched himself.

"Very likely it's some madman," he thought to himself. "How in the name of common sense can he expect to inherit the title and estates quietly after such a series of crimes as he seems to contemplate? Does he think no one will have any suspicion of him when he comes forward? Even if he is successful in getting rid of all of us in this way, how does he expect to be able to reap his reward? Of course he may think that there will be no direct evidence if he manages cleverly enough, and that mere suspicion he will be able to disregard and live down in time, but surely it will be plain enough that 'who benefits is guilty'? The whole thing is mad, fantastic. Why, the mere fact of any one making a claim to the title and estates would be almost enough to justify a jury in returning a verdict of guilty."

But though his thoughts ran in this wise all the time he was journeying to London, and though he repeated them to himself over and over again, none the less there remained an uneasy consciousness in his mind that perhaps these people had plans more subtle than he knew, and that even this difficulty of making their claim without bringing instant suspicion on themselves they had provided for.

It was late in the year now, but the day was warm and very calm and fine. At the London terminus where he alighted he had a strong feeling that he was watched, and when he took the train back to Delsby he still had the idea that he was being kept under observation.

He felt he had been wise in deciding to carry out Deede Dawson's instructions so closely, for he was sure that if he had failed to do so in any respect alarm would have been taken at once, and warning telegrams gone flying on the instant to all concerned. Then that self-baited trap at Brook Bourne Spring, wherein he hoped to see his enemy taken, would remain unapproached, and all his work and risk would have gone for nothing.

When he alighted at his destination he was a little before time, and so he got himself something to eat at a small public-house near the station before starting on his fifteen-mile walk across country. Though he was not sure, he did not think any one was observing him now. Most likely his movements up to the present had appeared satisfactory, and it had not been thought necessary to watch him longer.

But he was careful to do nothing to rouse suspicion if he were still being spied upon, and after he had eaten and had a smoke he started off on his long tramp.

Even yet he was careful, and so long as he was near the village he made a show of avoiding observation as much as possible. Later on, when he had made certain he was not being followed, he did not trouble so much, though he still kept it in mind that any one he met or passed might well be in fact one of Deede Dawson's agents.

He walked on sharply through the crisp autumn air, and in other circumstances would have found the walk agreeable enough. It was a little curious that as he proceeded on his way his chief preoccupation seemed to shift from his immediate errand and intense eagerness to discover the identity of his unknown foe, with whom he hoped to stand face to face so soon, to a troubled and pressing anxiety about Ella.

Up till now he had not thought it likely that she was in the least real danger. He knew Simmonds, the man Walter had promised to put on watch at Bittermeads, and knew him to be capable and trustworthy. None the less, his uneasiness grew and strengthened with every mile he traversed, till presently her situation seemed to him the one weak link in his careful plans.

That the trap the unknown had so carefully laid for himself to be taken in, would assuredly and securely close upon him, Dunn felt certain enough. Walter would see to that. Sure was it, too, that the enterprise Deede Dawson had planned for himself and Allen at the Abbey must result in their discomfiture and capture. Walter would see to that also. But concerning Ella's position doubt would insist on intruding, till at last he decided that the very moment the Brook Bourne Spring business was satisfactorily finished with he would hurry at his best speed to Bittermeads and make sure of her safety.

Absorbed in these uneasy thoughts, he had insensibly slackened speed, and looking at his watch he saw that it was two o'clock, and that he was still, by the milestone at the roadside, eight miles from his destination.

He wished to be there a little before the time arranged for him by Deede Dawson, and he increased his pace till he came to a spot where the path he had to take branched off from the road he had been following. At this spot a heavy country lad was sitting on a gate by the wayside, and as Dunn approached he clambered heavily down and slouched forward to meet him.

"Be you called Robert Dunn, mister?" he asked.

Dunn gave him a quick and suspicious look, much startled by this sudden recognition in so lonely a spot.

"Yes, I am," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "Why?"

"If you are, there's this as I'm to give you," the lad answered, drawing a note from his pocket.

"Oh, who gave you that?" Dunn asked, fully persuaded the note contained some final instructions from Deede Dawson and wondering if this lad were one of his agents in disguise, or merely some inhabitant of the district hired for the one purpose of delivering the letter.

But the lad's drawled reply disconcerted him greatly.

"A lady," he said. "A real lady in a big car, she told me to wait here and give you this. All alone she was, and drove just like a man."

He handed the letter over as he spoke, and Dunn saw that it was addressed to him in his name of Robert Dunn in Ella's writing. He blinked at it in very great surprise, for there was nothing he expected less, and he did not understand how she knew so well where he would be or how she had managed to get away from Bittermeads uninterfered with by Deede Dawson.

His first impulse was to suspect some new trap, some new and cunning trap that, perhaps, the unconscious Ella was being used to bait. Taking the letter from the boy, he said:

"How did you know it was for me?"

"Lady told me," answered the boy grinning. "She said as I was to look out for a chap answering to the name of Robert Dunn, with his face so covered with hair you couldn't see nothing of it no more'n you can see a sheep's back for wool. 'As soon as I set eye on 'ee,' says I, 'That's him,' I says, and so 'twas."

He grinned again and slouched away and Dunn stood still, holding the letter in his hand and not opening it at first. It was almost as though he feared to do so, and when at last he tore the envelope open it was with a hand that trembled a little in spite of all that he could do. For there was something about this strange communication and the means adopted to deliver it to him that struck him as ominous in the extreme. Some sudden crisis must have arisen, he thought, and it appeared to him that Ella's knowledge of where to find him implied a knowledge of Deede Dawson's plans that meant she was either his willing and active agent and accomplice, or else she had somehow acquired a knowledge of her stepfather's proceedings that must make her position a thousand times more critical and dangerous than before.