"That wretch must have yielded to a terrible temptation," said Capel, "and the other was defending his master's goods."

"What goods?" said the doctor.

Capel was silent.

"I see, sir, there is more mystery about this than you care to explain. Was there some heavy sum of money in the late Colonel's room, and were these two men in league?"

"I don't think they were in league."

"Was any one else interested in the matter?"

"Oh, no; impossible," said Capel, half aloud. "Dr Heston, I am afraid there is a good deal of imagination in what you say. Let me try and disabuse your mind."

"I should be glad if you could."

Capel paced the room for a few minutes.

"This has taken me quite by surprise, Doctor Heston," he said. "Give me a little time to think it over. Will you keep perfectly private all that you have said to me?"

"I don't like to suspect men unjustly, and yet I'm afraid I've done wrong, in giving him time," said the doctor, as he went down. "Well, a week is not an age."

As soon as he had left, Paul Capel let his head go down upon his hands, for his brain seemed to be in a whirl—the death of Ramo—the disappearance of the fortune—the visit of the doctor.

It only wanted this latter, with the hints he had thrown out, to fire a train of latent suspicion in the young man's mind.

There was that open window that the policeman had declared had not been used. Was he wrong? Had others been in the conspiracy and turned afterwards on Ramo and Charles? They might have been in the plot. Or, again, they might have been defending their master's wealth against the wretch who had escaped with the treasure by the open window.

Those three Italians!

Had they anything to do with the matter?

The old butler! He seemed so quiet and innocent! But often beneath an air of innocency, crime found a resting place.

Then he found himself suspecting Mr Girtle, and on the face of the evidence Capel laid before himself, the case looked very black. He knew everything; he held the keys—he, the old friend and companion, had been left merely a signet ring.

"Impossible!" cried Capel, half aloud; "I might as well suspect Artis, or Miss Lawrence, or Katrine herself."

"May I come in," said a voice that sent a thrill through the thinker, and Katrine D'Enghien stood in the doorway.

"Come in? Yes," cried Capel, advancing to meet her with open hands, and moved by an impulse that he could not withstand.

"Is anything the matter," she said simply.

"Yes—no—yes, a great deal is the matter," cried Capel. "There, I must speak to you."

"Mr Capel!" she said, half in alarm.

"Forgive me if I seem impetuous," he cried, "but I am greatly troubled in mind, and I feel as if I would give anything for the sympathy of one who would listen to my troubles, and help me with her counsel."

"Surely you have all our sympathy, Mr Capel," said Katrine, innocently.

"Yes, I hope so," he cried earnestly, "but I want more than that, Katrine. You must know that I love you."

"Mr Capel!"

"Pray do not be angry with me."

"Is this a time or season to make such a declaration to me, Mr Capel?" said Katrine, softly.

"For some things—no, for other things—yes. I am in such sore need of help and counsel, such as could be given me by the woman who returned my love. No, no; don't leave me. Hear me out. As soon as I heard that will read, it filled my heart with joy, for it told me that I was rich, and that these were riches which I could share with you. Then, when the discovery was made that the treasure had been stolen, it was not the wealth that I regretted, but I despaired because it seemed that you were farther from me. But listen to me. I am trying hard to discover how this large fortune has been swept away."

Katrine's eyes glittered.

"Help me in my endeavours, and tell me this—some day if I make the discovery, and am once more in a position to ask you to be my wife—you will listen to me?"

She raised her beautiful eyes to his, and he caught her hand.

It was withdrawn, and she said softly:

"I am sorry you should think me so sordid."

"Then you love me," he cried.

"I made no such confession. The man to whom I give my hand will not be chosen for the sake of his money."

"Then I may hope?" he cried.

"Mr Capel, is it not your duty to find your fortune?"

"Yes, but let me say, our fortune," he cried.

"Mr Capel, do not speak to me again like this. I should feel that I was standing in your light if I listened now."

"But at some future time?"

She looked at him softly, and his breath went and came fast, as her speaking eyes rested on his, and he saw the damask-red deepen in her cheeks.

"Wait till that future time comes," she whispered.

"And you will help me?" he cried.

"Yes," she said, at last, "I will help you—all I can."

He would have caught her in his arms, but she raised her hand.

"I thought we were to be friends."

"Friends," he whispered. "I love you."

"It must be then as a friend," she said, in her low voice; but there was that in her look which made Capel's heart throb, while, when she extended her hand, he kissed it, without being aware that Lydia had entered the room, and drawn back, with a weary look of misery in her face that she vainly sought to hide.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

IN THE DARK.

"Look here, Kate, I'm not going back till I've had a good try here to see if something can't be made out of this affair."

Katrine D'Enghien sat in the drawing-room of the Dark House, with her eyes half closed, as if listening to the ballad Lydia was singing in a low tone in the corner of the back room, while Capel stood by turning over the leaves.

The old lawyer was in another corner at a card-table, on whose green surface lay a heap of papers and parchments, one of which he took up from time to time, and laid down, after examining it by the light of the shaded lamp.

"You said only yesterday that you were sick of this domestic cemetery," said Katrine.

"So I am, for it's doleful enough for anything here, only it makes me mad to see such a wealth of art treasures and plate belonging to this fellow Capel."

"Then it is very evident that you did not filch the old man's treasure," said Katrine.

"Yes, my dear, very evident. If I had, I should not be here."

"Unless you thought it better for the sake of throwing people off the scent," said Katrine, with a peculiar look in his face.

"I say," he cried, returning the gaze, "what do you mean? You don't think I killed those two fellows, and got the plunder, do you?"

"I don't know," she replied.

"Well, then, I didn't. I never had the chance."

"Or the brains to conceive such a coup."

"Look here," cried Artis.

"Don't speak so loud, Gerard."

"Oh, very well. But look here, Madam Clever, did you manage that bit of business?"

Katrine raised her soft, white hands.

"Don't do that," said the young man. "You make me want to kiss them."

"You would not be so foolish, now."

"I don't know. And look here, I don't like you being so thick with Capel."

"Don't you? He wants to marry me."

"I'll break his neck first."

"You will act sensibly and well, mon cher," said Katrine, "that is, if you mean that we are to be married by-and-by."

"Mean it? Of course."

"But not on a fortune of one hundred pounds each, mon cher."

"Good Heavens! No."

"Then hold your tongue, and say nothing."

"But I shall say something, if I see you working up a flirtation with that cad."

"You will say nothing, do nothing, see nothing. We cannot marry and starve."

"But tell me, Kate—honour bright—you don't care for this Capel?"

"I care for him!"

"Tell me, then, what do you mean to do?"

"Have my share of that money," said Katrine, with a peculiar hardening of her face.

"Bah! I don't believe the treasure ever existed. It was a craze on the old man's part."

"You must be careful. Don't say or do anything to annoy Paul Capel or Mr Girtle. We must stay here. It was no craze on the old man's part; maybe I can tell where the fortune is."

"What? You mean that?"

"Hush! I am working for us both."

"But tell me—"

"Hush! She has finished the song," said Katrine, leaning back and clapping her hands softly. "Thank you, thank you," she said. "Oh, what a while it is since I heard that dear old ballad."

The evening wore away till bed-time, when the butler brought in and lit the candles, according to his custom, Katrine and Lydia taking theirs, and going at once, and Gerard Artis following after partaking of a glass of soda-water, leaving the old lawyer and Capel together.

They sat in silence for some minutes, when the old lawyer said:

"I do not seem to get any nearer to the unravelling of this knot, Mr Capel."

"Do you still adhere to the opinion that the treasure was there?"

"Yes; and we shall find it soon."

"By a masterly inactivity?"

"Oh, no," replied the old man, "for I am taking steps of my own to redeem myself. I don't think those jewels can be sold, or one of those notes changed, without word being brought to me."

Capel felt won by the old man's manner. He shook hands with him warmly, and said "Good-night."

He went to the door with him, and saw the light shine on the thin, silvery hair as he went slowly up the staircase, while his candle cast a grotesque shadow on the wall. Then, as Capel listened, he heard the old man shut his chamber door, open it softly, and shut it again more loudly; while, with the great house seeming to be doubly steeped in darkness and silence, Paul Capel went back to the lounge in which he had been seated, leaving his chamber candle burning like a tiny star in the great sea of gloom, and sat back, thinking.

The candle burned lower as he thought on, ransacking his memory for some slight clue that would help him to find his lost fortune.

The candle went out.

Had he been asleep?

He could not say. He believed that he had been only thinking deeply. At all events, he was widely awake now, as he sat back listening to the heavy beating of his own heart, as he stared through the intense darkness towards the door, upon whose panel he had felt sure he had heard a soft pat, as if something had touched it.

A minute—it might have been half-an-hour, it seemed so long—and there was a faint rustling, and Paul Capel knew, as he stared through that intense darkness, that some one, or something, was coming silently towards where he sat.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"YOU HERE!"

Paul Capel was not superstitious, but a curious thrill ran through his nerves, and his first impulse was to leap up and shout, "Who's there?"

Then a thought flashed through his brain that whoever this was might have something to do with the disappearance of the treasure, and he told himself that he would wait, though the next moment he found himself frankly owning that a chill of dread had frozen his powers, and that he could not have moved to save his life.

A minute's reflection told him that it could not be a burglar. No one would come singly upon such a mission, and the marauder would have been provided with a dark lantern or matches. It must be some one in the house. The superstitious fancies were cleared away, as his heart gave a throb, with the hope that he might now find the clue to the mystery that was hanging over the place.

Thought after thought flashed through his brain, and, as they dazed him with the wild conjectures, the person, whoever it was, glided nearer and nearer, and all doubt fled, for, whoever it was, had stretched out a hand and touched the silver candlestick upon the table where he had set it down.

There was again silence, and then it seemed to Capel, as he sat there, that the nocturnal visitor had made the table a starting-point for a fresh departure in the dark, and was going from him toward the back drawing-room, in the left hand corner of which the old lawyer had sat that night.

Doubtless there are people who can weigh every act before they commit themselves to it, but the majority of us, even the most thoughtful, go on weighing a great many, and then in the most important moments of our lives forget all about the balance or the mental weights and scales, and so it was that, all in an instant, Paul Capel, unable longer to bear the mental strain, rose quickly from his seat, took two strides forward, and grasped at the intruder, exclaiming:

"Who's there?"

He touched nothing, he heard nothing, and the old chill came back for a moment or two with its superstitious suggestions; but he drew out a little silver match-box, which rattled as he opened it, shook a match into his moist hand, struck it, and the faint little star of light flashed out.

"Katrine, you here?" he exclaimed.

There were candles on an occasional table, and he lit one before the little wax match burned down, and then he remained speechless for the moment, gazing at Katrine D'Enghien, who stood within the back drawing-room, her long hair loosely knotted on her neck, her white arms outstretched before her, and half away from him. She stood motionless, as if turned to stone.

"Katrine!" he cried again.

He took a step or two towards her, his first impulse being to clasp her in his arms; but, as she stood motionless before him, draped in a long grey peignoir that swept the ground, there was something about her that repelled him, so that he stood staring at her unable to speak.

Suddenly she turned from him, and stood gazing at the corner where the piano stood, walked slowly towards it, and rested her hand upon it, remaining there motionless for a few moments till, catching up the candle, Capel went towards her, his pulses throbbing, and his temples seeming to flush as if a hot breath from a furnace had passed over them.

But before he reached her she turned slowly, and walked straight towards him, her eyes wide open, and gazing intently before her.

She would have walked right upon him, had he not given way, and then stood holding the candle, while she went deliberately to the fire-place, rested her hands upon the mantel-piece, and stood there holding one bare white foot towards the extinct fire as if to warm it.

Capel set down the candle and advanced towards her, when once more she turned and came straight towards him, and this time he took her in his arms and kissed her quickly and passionately upon her cheek and lips.

His arms dropped to his sides, though, for he felt that she was icily cold, and as involuntarily he gave place, and she walked slowly past him to the open door, out on to the broad landing, and as he caught up the candle and followed, he saw the tall grey figure go slowly on up and up the stairs, and when he followed it to the first landing it was on the one above, going slowly on to the bedroom at the end, through whose door it passed, and the lock gave a low, soft click.

Paul Capel went back into the drawing-room, feeling half stunned, and when he reached the middle of the room he paused, candle in hand, thinking.

"Asleep!" he said at last. "Asleep, and I dared to take her in my arms like that!"

Then, with an involuntary shiver, the young man turned quickly round, and went hastily up to his room, to lie till morning, tossing sleeplessly from side to side.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE TENTH NIGHT.

"It might be," thought Capel, as he dwelt upon the adventure of that night.

Katrine had descended to breakfast the next morning, and he fancied she blushed slightly as he pressed her hand; but she looked so frankly in his face that he could not but think that she was ignorant of what had taken place.

The days slipped by, and in company, by a private understanding, Capel and the old lawyer searched every article of furniture that could possibly have been made the receptacle of the lost treasure.

"I'll help you, of course, my dear sir," said the old man, "if you wish it; but I really think we shall do no good."

There had been several talks about breaking up the party, but Capel, as host, had always begged that his companions would stay, urging Mr Girtle to back him up by proposing that there should be no change until the whole of the business of the will was completed so far as the others were concerned.

"I shall find my share at last," Capel said, laughingly. "And besides, I have the house."

One afternoon, when Artis had accompanied the ladies for a drive, and the search was about to be recommenced, Mr Girtle sat down by his little table in the drawing-room and said:

"I have a little news for you, Mr Capel."

"What, have you found the clue?"

"Not yet," said the old man, quietly; "but I have found an angel."

"A what?"

"An angel. You did not know we had one in this house."

"Indeed, but I did," cried Capel.

"Ah, yes," said the old man, looking at him thoughtfully; "but I'm afraid we are not thinking of the same."

"Indeed, but we are," said Capel, warmly. "No one who has seen Miss D'Enghien—"

"Could hesitate to say that she is a very handsome woman," said the old lawyer, "but I was referring to Miss Lawrence."

"A lady for whom I entertain the most profound esteem," said Capel.

"Which will be strengthened, sir, when I tell you that she came to me and made a proposition that—"

The old lawyer's communication was checked by the announcement of a visitor for Mr Capel, and the doctor, Mr Heston, was ushered in.

His visit was not productive of much, for he had only to announce that he was more and more sure in his own mind that he was right, the result being that Capel asked him to wait before taking any further steps, and Dr Heston went away rather dissatisfied in his own mind.

"If he does not follow up my proposals," he said to himself, "I shall begin to think that he has some reason of his own for keeping the matter quiet."

The ladies returned directly the doctor had gone, and Artis, in pursuance of his instructions, made himself so agreeable to Capel that he did not leave him alone with the old lawyer, while at dinner and during the evening no opportunity was likely to occur for a private conversation.

"I'll see you directly after breakfast to-morrow morning, Mr Capel," the old man said. "I should prefer a quiet business chat with you, for the matter is important."

"I should like to have heard it at once," replied Capel, "but as you will."

Suspicion was very busy in the Dark House in those days, for the butler had found that for several nights past chamber candles had been burned down in the sockets in one of the candlesticks, which candlestick was left in the drawing-room, while a tall candlestick was afterwards taken up to the bedroom.

Preenham wanted to know why Mr Capel, "or the young master," as he termed him, should want to sit up so late, so he watched, and saw that, night after night, he stayed down in the drawing-room for hours. But he found out nothing, only that the cold struck, even through the mat, from the stone floor, and that he was chilly enough, when he went to bed in his pantry, to require a liqueur of brandy to keep off rheumatism and similar attacks.

For Capel had remained up after the others had gone, night after night; blaming himself for behaving in an unfair, unmanly spirit, but unable to control the impulse which led him to long for such another adventure as on that special night.

But after a long day, night watches grow wearisome to the most ardent lovers, and when, after nine nights spent in expectancy, there was no result—no soft, gliding step heard upon stair or floor, both Capel and Preenham grew weary, and retired to their couches like the rest.

It was on the tenth night that Capel, instead of going to bed at once, sat musing over the old lawyer's words.

Then he began thinking of the doctor's visit, and at last, taking out his watch, he saw it was close upon two.

The hour made him think of the night when he had encountered Katrine just at that time, and moved by some impulse, he knew not what, he went to his door, softly opened it, and gazed out on to the gloomy staircase, where all was silent as the grave.

No! There was the faint creak of a hinge that had been opened, and, with his heart seeming to stand still, Capel stood in the darkness listening, till, utterly wearied, he was about to close his door, when, so softly that he could hardly distinguish the sweep of the dress, something passed him, going straight to the stairs, and then he could just hear whoever it was descend.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

NOCTURNAL PROCEEDINGS.

There was not a sound to be heard as Paul Capel stole softly down in his dressing-gown, and, as he expected, the drawing-room door was closed, but not latched.

Pushing it softly, feeling certain that Katrine, if it was she, had entered there, he followed, and went on and on, till he was about in the middle of the room, and listening attentively.

He began to think that he must have been mistaken, when there was a faint rustle, and a heavy breath was drawn, the sounds coming from the lesser drawing-room.

He listened more intently, his heart beating heavily, and a strange singing in his ears.

Another sound as of something being touched.

The pen-tray on the little card-table where Mr Girtle sat and worked; and what was that?

Undoubtedly one of the keys that lay there. Another and another was touched, and as they were moved on the thin mahogany that formed the bottom of the receptacle for cards the sound seemed quite loud.

Then came a faint scraping sound, and he knew as well as if he had seen it, that a key was taken up.

Keys? Yes, there were several there which the old lawyer used. Capel recalled that the key of the plate closet had been placed there when Preenham had handed it over.

He listened, but there was no further sound. Yes; the low breathing could be heard, and it suddenly dawned upon Capel that Katrine had been approaching him—there she was close at hand. He had only to stretch forth his arms and the next instant she would have been folded to his breast.

It was a hard fight, but he had read of a sudden awakening under such conditions proving dangerous.

As he listened there was a faint rustling as the soft grey peignoir he knew so well passed over the thick carpet towards the door; and if the listener had any doubt, it was set aside by the light pat that he heard—it was a hand touching the panel.

Capel waited a minute, during which he heard the dress sweep against the edge of the door, and then the sound was quite hushed.

He knew what that meant, too; the door had been drawn to, and so he found it as he stepped lightly there, opened it, and passed out on to the great landing, where he strained his eyes upward to try and make out the graceful draped figure as it went up the winding staircase to the bedroom.

It was not so dark there, for a faint gloom—it could not be called light—fell from the great ground-glass sky-light, at the top of the winding staircase, like so much diluted darkness being poured down into a well.

That great winding staircase suddenly seemed to him full of horror, as he stood there. It had never struck him before, but now, how terrible it seemed. That balustrade was so low. Suppose, poor girl, in her sleep, she should lean over it, and fall down onto the white stones, where the black fretwork of the glistening stove could be seen like a square patch against the white slabs.

There was no reason for such fancies, but Paul Capel's hands grew wet with a cold perspiration.

"I ought to have stopped her, and awakened her at any risk," he said, as he still gazed up the great staircase; and then his heart seemed to stand still, for there was a faint click, as of a lock shot back, and it came either from on a level with where he stood, or from down below.

In an instant he realised what had happened: Katrine had been to fetch the key of the late Colonel's chamber, and had gone in there.

He hesitated a moment, and then, going close, he softly touched the door, and felt it yield.

Just then there came a faint scratching noise, and there was a gleam of light, showing him that the heavy curtain was drawn.

Then the light shone more clearly, and pressing the door a little more open, he glided through.

He was about to peer out softly, when the light was set down, he heard the soft rustle of the dress, an arm was thrust round from the far side of the curtain, and the door was carefully closed.

"The work of a spy," he said. But a slight sound attracted his attention, and his curiosity mastered all other feelings.

Gently sliding his hand into his pocket, he drew out a penknife, and cut gently downwards, making a slit a few inches in length.

This he drew slightly apart and gazed through, to see that Katrine was standing with her back to him, in the act of opening one of the large cabinets at the side of the bed.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BIRDS OF PREY.

Travellers in Mayfair will have noticed that every here and there old-fashioned, snug looking hostelries exist in out-of-the-way places— at the corner of a mews, in a private street, where they do not seem to belong; and they are generally kept by ex-butlers, who have taken wives, joined their savings, and gone into business with the brewers' help.

In the parlour of the "Four-in-Hand," Lower Maybush street, a party of gentlemen's servants were playing bagatelle upon a bad board in a very smoky atmosphere, while a knot of three men sat at one of the old, narrow, battered mahogany tables in a corner, drinking cold gin and water, and smoking bad cigars.

One was a little sharp-eyed, round-headed man, smartly dressed, and evidently rather proud of a large gilt pin in his figured silk tie. Another was tall and not ill-looking; he might have been a valet, for there was a certain imitation gentility about his cut—a valet whose master had been rather addicted to the turf, and this had been reflected on his man to the extent of trousers rather too tight, short hair, and a horseshoe pin with pearl nails. The third was rather a shabby-looking man of forty, undoubtedly a gentleman's servant out of place, carrying the sign in the front of the reason why, in the shape of a nose unduly ripened by being bathed in glasses of alcoholic drink.

"Knew him how long, did you say?" said the tall man, tapping his chin with an ivory-handled rattan-cane.

"Ten years, poor chap," said the ex-servant. "It was very horrid."

"Here, never mind that," said the brisk little man. "We don't want horrors. Touch the bell, Dick. Come, old fellow, sip up your lotion, and we'll have them filled again. That cigar don't draw. Try one of these. Here! three fours of gin cold," he cried to the landlord, and as soon as the glasses were refilled, and cigars lighted, the conversation went on, to the accompaniment of rattling balls and laughter from the bagatelle players.

"Well," said the tall man, in a low voice, "you can do as you like, my lad, but I should have thought that, hard up as you are, and I should say without much chance of getting another crib—say at present—you'd have been glad to earn a honest quid or two."

The shabby-looking man shook his head.

"Here, you're always putting on the pace too much, Dick," said the little man. "A fellow wants a little time. He's on, you see if he isn't. My respects to you, Mr Barnes. Hah! nice flavoured drop of gin that."

"You see, you know the house well," continued the tall man. "Often been, of course?"

"Oh, yes; had many a glass of wine there, when poor Charles was alive."

"Rather a bit of mystery, that," said the little man. "I put that and that together, and I set it down that he was trying the job on his own account, and muffed it."

The shabby man shuddered, and took a hearty draught of his gin and water.

"There would be only us three in the game," said the tall man softly, "and it would be share and share alike. Why, if we worked it right, it would set you up. Might take a pub on it."

"Eh?" said the shabby man.

"I say you might take a pub—and drink yourself to death," was added aside.

The little man winked at his tall companion, unobserved by the other, who looked dreamy.

"Bars at all the lower windows, eh?"

"Yes, yes. You couldn't get in there," was the quick reply.

"More ways of killing a cat than by hanging it. Look here, my lads, there's a stable to let in the mews at the back."

The shabby man looked up quickly.

"I had a look at it to-day. Any one could easily get to that window looking on the leads."

"But that's the window where—"

"Well, dead men tell no tales, and they don't get in the way. That's the place."

"Oh, no," said the shabby man.

"Bah! you're not afraid. I tell you it would be as easy as easy. You can give me a plan of the place, and all about it, and—why, it's child's play, my lad, and won't hurt anybody. Take everything out of that stable, and have a cart in the coach-house. I say—touch that bell again, old man—you are not going to let a fortune slip through your fingers, I know."

The three occupants of the corner soon after rose to go, halting half-way down the street, where the tall man said:—

"There's half a sovereign to keep the cold out till then. Twelve o'clock, mind, punctual."

The shabby man slouched away, while the little fellow rubbed his hands.

"There's half a ton of it there," he whispered.

"Think he'll stand to it?"

"No fear, now we've got him over his fright. By jingo, I'm only afraid of one thing."

"What's that?"

"That some one else will be on the job."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

ASLEEP OR AWAKE?

It was a painful, and, Paul Capel thought, a degrading position; but he blamed his passion, telling himself that it was his duty to watch her, in this sleep-walking state, lest ill should befall.

How thoroughly awake she seemed to be. Her every act was that of a person perfectly herself, and eager to find something that was hidden.

Softly and quickly she examined the cabinet, opening drawer after drawer, and taking out one after the other, to see whether there was a concealed cavity behind.

Next she knelt down before a large carved oak chest, and Capel saw how carefully she searched that, and examined top and bottom to see whether either was false.

This done, she walked to the bed, and stood pondering there. Crossing to the built-up portal, she drew the curtain aside, revealing the half-dry cement.

She shook her head, and walked to the window, where she carefully rearranged the heavy folds there, to keep the rays of light from passing out and betraying her task to any one who might be at the upper windows of some house. The act displayed the working of a brain that, if slumbering, still held a peculiar activity of an abnormal kind.

Once or twice he caught sight of Katrine's eyes, that were not as he had seen them on that other night, wide open, and staring straight before her, but bright, eager, and full of animation.

"She must be awake," he thought; and the idea was strengthened as he saw her throw herself down upon a chair, and with a peculiar action of her hands indicative of disappointment, rest her elbows on her knee, her chin upon her clenched fists, and there she bent down, her face intent, her brows knit, and looking ten years older, as the candle cast a curious shadow on her countenance.

Then the lover intervened on her behalf.

No; she could not be. To suppose that she was awake was to credit her with being deceitful—with cheating him into the belief that night that she was asleep.

He was about to spring out, throw himself at her feet, and waken her with his caresses, but a chilling feeling of repulsion stayed him. It might work mischief in the terrible fright it would give her at being awakened in that gloomy room. And besides, what a place to select for his passionate avowals. It was secret and silent, the very home for such a love as his; but there was the terrible past.

Where she was seated, but a short time back, there lay the ghastly body of the murdered man. Behind her was the bed where so recently a strange occupant was stretched, and beneath it lay that other lately discovered horror. Beyond that built-up wall was the Colonel's tomb.

Love was impossible in such a place as that; and did he want confirmation of the fact that Katrine was a somnambulist, he felt that he had it here before him. For no girl of her years would dare to come down in the dead of the night, and enter that room, haunted as it was with such terrible memories.

He stood watching her as she crouched there, looking straight before her, and as she suddenly sprang up, and went to a picture painted upon a panel in the wall, he found himself growing excited by the fancy that, perhaps, in the clairvoyant state of sleep, she might be able to discover the mystery that had baffled them all.

He stood there wrapt in his thoughts, till he saw her turn from the frame, that she had tried to move in a dozen different ways, her fingers playing here and there with marvellous quickness about the corners and prominent bits of carving, as if she expected that any one might prove to be a secret spring.

Again she tried another picture; darted to the group of statuary in the corner, and tried to lift it back, as if expecting that which she sought might be hidden beneath it; and again there was the movement, full of dejection and despair, as she stood facing him with the light full upon her eyes.

She turned away, despondently; and then started upright, with her eyes flashing, and one hand raised in the involuntary movement of one who listens intently to some sound.

Had she heard something, or was it fancy—a part of her dream?

Paul Capel thought the latter, for, light as a fawn, he saw Katrine dart across the room to where the candle stood.

The next moment they were in total darkness.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

WHAT THE SOUND WAS.

A faint rustle was plainly heard, as Capel drew aside the curtain. Then the sound ceased, but he felt that as he had taken a step to the left, Katrine must be exactly opposite to him. In another moment she would come forward and touch him, for he could not move from his position. If he stood aside she would pass him and fasten him in the room.

He listened in the intense darkness, and could just detect the short, hurried breathing of one who was excited by dread.

But as he listened in the darkness, clear now of the heavy curtain, he heard another sound—a peculiar scraping sound, that seemed to come from outside the window.

It was that which had alarmed Katrine, and made her extinguish the light.

The noise ceased. Then it was repeated, and directly after, sounding muffled by the heavy curtain, the window rattled a little in its frame, as if shaken or pressed upon by some one outside.

The panting grew louder, there was a warm breath upon Capel's cheek, and the next moment he held Katrine in his arms.

She uttered a low cry of fear, and struggled to escape.

"Hush!" he whispered. "You have nothing to fear. Are you awake?"

There was no answer; only a vigorous thrust from the hands placed upon his chest, and he felt that she was trying to open the door, trembling violently the while.

"Katrine," he whispered, "why do you not trust me? Wake up. There is nothing to fear."

He tried to clasp her in his arms again, but with a quick movement she eluded him, and as he caught at her again, it seemed as if the great curtain had been thrust into his arms, for he grasped that, and as he flung it away, the door struck him in the face, and then closed, he heard it locked, and the key withdrawn.

Then he stood listening, for the window rattled again, and he wondered that the noise he had made in his slight struggle with Katrine had not been heard by whoever was on the sill.

There was a bell somewhere in the room; but if he rang, and roused up the butler, the man would be horrified at hearing his old master's bedroom bell ringing in the dead of the night.

Even if that had not been the case, what excuse could he make? And could he explain his position to Mr Girtle without making him the confidant of all that had passed? And how could he relate to any one that Katrine had been wandering about the house in the middle of the night? What would Mr Girtle say? Would he think it was somnambulism?

No; he could not ring. It was impossible; and all the while there was that strange noise outside, muffled by the curtain.

He walked cautiously through the intense darkness towards the window, till he could touch the curtain, and then, passing to the left, he softly drew it a little inward, and looked out.

It was almost as dark out there as in; but there was a faint glow from the lamps beyond the tall houses that closed in the back, and against this he could dimly see the figure of a man, standing on the sill, while, more indistinctly and quite low down, there were the heads and shoulders of two more.

It seemed to him that the man standing on the sill was trying to pass some instrument through between the two sashes, so as to force back the window-catch.

What should he do?

Give the alarm down-stairs he could not, without compromising Katrine.

Alarm the nocturnal visitors?

That would be to give up a chance of getting hold of the clue.

What should he do?

Be a coward, or, now that the opportunity had come, make a bold effort to capture these intruders?

Three to one. Yes; but he was in the fort, and they had to attack, and could he secure one, bribery or punishment would make him tell all.

There was the sound going on at the window, which was resisting the efforts, and, with palpitating heart and heavy breathing, Capel asked himself the questions again. Should he be cowardly, or brave, and make a daring effort to gain that which was his, from the information these people could give?

There was a grating and clicking still going on as he stepped cautiously across the room, the sound guiding him to the stand where his uncle's old East India uniform and accoutrements were grouped, and the next minute his hands rested upon a pistol.

Useless, for it was old-fashioned and uncharged.

That was better! His hand touched the ivory hilt of the curved sabre.

For a time the blade refused to leave its sheath; then it gave way a little, and he drew it forth, laid the scabbard on the floor, passed his hand through the wrist-knot, and thought that he would have to strike hard, for a cavalry sabre is generally round-edged and blunt.

As he thought of this, he touched the edge of the sword with his thumb, to find that this was no regulation blade, but a keen-edged tulwar, set in an English hilt, and, armed with this, Paul Capel felt himself fully a match for those who were working away at the window, which did not yield.

Creak—Crack—Crack!

The catch flew back, and there was a pause, during which Capel drew near with the blade thrown over his left shoulder, ready for delivering the first cut at the man who entered.

Then the window glided up, the great curtain was drawn by an arm in his direction, partly covering him, and a light flashed across the room.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A BLANK ADVENTURE.

The light played on the blade of the keen-edged sword, as if it were phosphorescent, but the lambent quivering was not seen by the holder of the lantern, who hid Capel with his own hand as the light was flashed upon the bed and into the corners of the room, and then turned off.

"All right, boys," was whispered, and a man swung himself into the room. "Be quick, and shut the window."

A second man crept softly in, and the third was half in, when he slipped, threw out his hand to save himself, struck against one of his companions and drove him back against the curtain and upon Capel.

"Light! Barkers! Some one here."

Capel heard the words, saw the flash, and struck at the hand that held it.

The blade fell heavily upon the lantern and dashed it to the floor, where it went out.

Raising the sword he struck again, but as he did so, one of the men sprang at him, and the blow that fell was upon the fellow's shoulder, and with the hilt of the sword.

Capel was borne back by the man's fierce spring, his feet became entangled in the curtain and he fell heavily, with his adversary upon him.

"Quick, Morris," whispered a voice.

"No, no. Curse you. Shut the window. There's only one. Where's your matches? Quick, light the glim! Ah, would you? Lie still and bite that. You just move again and I'll pull the trigger."

The barrel of a revolver had been thrust between Capel's teeth, and as he lay back with the man on his chest, half stunned, helpless and despairing, he saw indistinctly the figure against the window, heard the sash slide down, and the darkness was complete as the curtain was drawn over the panes. Then there was the faint streak of light as a match was struck, the bull's-eye lantern was picked up and re-lit, and the bright rays once more played all about the room.

The man who held it then went to the door and listened.

"It's all right," he whispered. "You said nobody can't hear what goes on in this room. These curtains would suffocate a trumpet. Here, you," he cried to the third man, "don't stand shivering like that. Take that carving-knife out of his hand. Pull the trigger, Dick, if he stirs."

This to the man kneeling on Capel's chest.

Capel lay absolutely powerless at that moment; but, as the third fellow caught him by the wrist, the young man wrenched his head on one side, and heaved himself up, so that he partially dislodged the ruffian who held him down. At the same time he swung the sabre round, driving the third back, and striking the principal adversary so sharp a blow that he slipped aside, and Capel leaped to his feet.

At that moment the light was turned off, and there was a rush made to get beyond his reach.

Capel also took advantage of the total darkness to step back, but he held the weapon ready for a cut, should an attack be made.

As he stood there, panting, a low whisper rose from the direction of the door, and he just caught its import, "Give me the light."

There was a click directly after, and then from about the middle of the room the dazzling light of the bull's-eye shone out full upon Capel as he stood with upraised sword, while his assailants were in the dark.

"Now, then," said the voice which he recognised as that of the man who had held the pistol to his mouth, "throw down that tool."

"Give up, you scoundrel!" cried Capel. "You can't escape."

"Can't we?" said the man, between his teeth, "More can't you. Now, then, will you throw down that sword?"

"No," said Capel, furiously. "You've walked into a trap, so give up."

"Go on," said the voice of the lesser man.

At that moment there was a bright flash of light, a sharp report, and Capel felt a sensation as if he had been struck a violent blow on the left shoulder, which half spun him round, while the round, glistening disc of light seemed to have darted back to the side of the bed.

Half stunned, but full of fight, Capel turned and made for the light once more, when there was another flash, a quick shot, and this time the blow seemed to have fallen on the top of his head, and, stunned and helpless, the sword dropped from his hand, and he fell on a chair, and from that on to the floor.

"You've killed him! You've killed him!"

"Good job, too. Think I wanted my skin turned into pork crackling with that sword? Hold yer row, will yer, or—"

"We shall be taken and hung. Oh, my arm!"

"Look here, my dear pal," said the little man; "if you want to preach, just wait till this job's done. Throw the light on the door, Dick."

"I dunno which is doors and which is windows, with all these curtains. Oh, that's it, is it? Quiet, will you?"

He stood listening attentively. "It's all right. There isn't a sound."

"Let's go then, at once."

"What, empty? Not me, eh, Dick?"

"'Taint likely. Wait till I've got two more cartridges in. That's it— Now then, business."

"But this poor fellow?"

"He's not killed, only quieted. Now, then, what is there here?"

They made a hurried search of the room, but with the exception of the silver tops of the bottles of the Colonel's dressing-case, there was nothing to excite their cupidity. Then Capel's pockets were searched, but watch and purse were in his chamber, while, though the Colonel's room was full of costly objects, they were not of the portable nature that would have made them valuable to the men.

"Now then," said the tall man, quickly, "it's of no use; we must go down. Where are the keys?"

The little man took a bunch from the bag.

"But, suppose the old man's awake?" whispered the shivering ex-servant, faint from his wound.

"Well, if he is, we must persuade him to go to sleep, somehow, till we've done. Here, you come and hold the light while I hand him the keys."

The trembling man took the lantern, while his leader went down on one knee; and as his little companion handed him false keys and picklocks, he busied himself trying to open the door.

"Keep that light still, will you?" he cried menacingly. "Why, you're making it dance all over the door. I want it on the key-hole, don't I?"

Then the light shone full on the lock for a minute or two, not more, for he who held it kept turning his head to see if Capel was moving.

This brought forth a torrent of whispered oaths from both men.

"Here, let me have a try," whispered the little man. "I can open it if you'll hold this blessed glim still. I never see such a cur."

Then, in the coolest manner possible, he took the other's place, and tried key after key, picklock after picklock, and ended by throwing all into the bag with a growl of disgust.

"It's one of them stoopid patents," he cried. "Here, give us a james."

A strong steel crowbar in two pieces was screwed together, and its sharp edge inserted between the door and the post, but the great, solid mahogany door stood firm, only emitting now and then a loud crack, sharp as that given by a cart whip, as the men strained at it in turn.

"Here, let's try a saw. Centre-bit!"

A centre-bit was fitted into a stock, and a hole cut right through. Into this, after much greasing, a key-hole saw was thrust, and, not without emitting a loud noise, the work of cutting began, the sawdust falling lightly on the lion's skin; but at the end of a few seconds a dull, harsh sound told that the saw was meeting metal, and a fresh start had to be made.

For fully two hours did the men work to get through, boring and sawing in place after place, but always to find that the door was strengthened in all directions with metal plates; and at last the task was given up. "Look here," growled the leader of the party, "that bed isn't used. I want to know how that chap got in. He hasn't any key."

"Can't you get the door open, then?" said the third man, after the other had shaken his head.

"Why, don't you see we can't?"

"But we shall get nothing for our trouble."

"Nothing at all," said the tall man, quietly.

"But—"

"There, that'll do. First of all, you were so precious anxious to go. Now you know we can't get down, you're all for the job. I say, is this the room where the murder was?"

"Yes; don't talk about it."

"Why not? We haven't done another. He'll come round."

"What next, Dick?"

"Cut," was the laconic reply.

"When there's all that plate asking of us to make up a small parcel and carry it away?"

"Don't patter. Got all the tools?"

"Yes."

"Then come along."

The light was played upon Capel's insensible face for a few moments, and then, to the intense relief of the ex-servant, the lantern was placed in the bag with the burglars' tools, and the window being thrown open, one by one stole out, the last closing the window behind him, leaving Capel lying helpless and insensible in the locked-up room.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

WAITING FOR BREAKFAST.

"Such a bright cheery morning, Lydia," said Katrine, knocking at the bedroom door. "Oh, you are up. Breakfast must be ready."

The two girls descended, to find that they were first.

"Nobody down," cried Katrine, "and I am so hungry. Oh, how wicked it seems on a morning like this to keep out all the light and sunshine."

Just then, old Mr Girtle came in, looking, as usual, very quiet and thoughtful; and after a while Artis came down, looking dull and sleepy.

"Where's the boss?" he said, suddenly.

"The what?—I do not understand you," said the old lawyer.

"The master—the guardian of this tomb. Where's Capel?"

"Oh," said the old lawyer. "Possibly the fine morning may have tempted him to take a walk."

"Are we going to wait for Capel?" said Artis.

"I'm so hungry, I feel quite ashamed," said Katrine; "but I think we ought to wait."

"There is nothing to be ashamed of in a healthy young appetite, my dear young lady," said the old lawyer. "I have been reading in my room since six, and I should like to begin. I don't suppose he will be long. Mr Capel out, Preenham?"

"I think not, sir," said the butler, who was bringing in a covered dish.

"Perhaps you had better tell him that we are all assembled. He may have overslept himself."

At the end of five minutes the old butler was back to say that Mr Capel had not answered when he knocked.

"He may be ill," said Lydia anxiously, and then, catching Katrine's eye, she coloured warmly.

Preenham gave Artis a meaning look, and that gentleman followed him out.

"What is it?"

"Mr Capel hasn't been to bed all night, sir."

"Not been to bed all night, Preenham?" said the old lawyer, who had followed. "Did you let him out last night?"

"No, sir."

"Then how can he have gone out? I saw that the door was fastened after you had gone to bed, and it was still fastened when I came down at six."

"And at seven too, sir," said the butler.

"He must be in the house," said Artis. "Go and look round."

"Is Mr Capel ill?" said Katrine.

"No, no, my dear, I think not," said the old lawyer. "I'll go, too, and see."

"It is very strange," said Katrine, turning to Lydia, who looked ashy pale. "I hope nothing is the matter, dear."

She seemed so calm that Lydia took courage and returned to the breakfast-table, while, followed by the old lawyer and Preenham, Artis examined the dining-room and study, then ascended to the first floor, tried the Colonel's door, found it fast, and went on into the drawing-room.

"I tried that door," he said grimly, "because that is the chamber of horrors."

"It is locked, and the key is in my table," said the old lawyer, and then they searched the other rooms, finding Capel's watch, purse and pocketbook, and looked at each other blankly.

"He must be out," said Artis.

"No, sir; here's his hat and stick."

Artis stopped, thinking, and then bounded up the stairs again to the Colonel's door.

"I thought so," he said. "There's something wrong here. Look." He pointed to several holes through the mahogany door, the mark of a saw scoring the panels, and the reddish dust on the lion-skin mat. "Is any one here?" he cried, knocking. "I say! Is any one here? Pah! Look at that!"

He uttered a cry, almost like a woman, as he pointed to a place where the lion-skin rug did not reach, and there, dimly seen by the gloomy light thrown by the stained-glass window, was a little thread of blood that had run beneath the door.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

DOCTOR AND NURSE.

The old lawyer ran from the door with an alacrity not to be expected in one of his years, and returned directly with the key that he had found in his table.

"Give it to me," said Artis huskily, and snatching the key he tried to insert it, but his hand trembled so that he did not succeed, and the next moment he shrank away.

"Here, open that door, Preenham," he said.

"I daren't, sir, I daren't indeed. Ah, poor young man!"

"Give me the key," said the old lawyer firmly, and taking it, he tried the door, to find that the lock had been tampered with, so that it was some minutes before he could get it to move.

"Hadn't I better fetch the police, sir?" faltered the butler.

"No; stop," said the old lawyer, turning the handle. "There is some one against the door."

He pushed hard, and with some effort got it open so that he could have squeezed in.

"It is all dark," he said. "No it is the curtain," and forcing his way through, he drew back the hangings from the window.

"It's poor Capel—dead!" whispered Artis, who had followed. "Here, Preenham, come in," he cried angrily. "Oh, how horrible—poor lad!"

The lawyer saw the naked sword lying on the carpet; that the drawers and cabinet had been ransacked; and that the window was not quite shut down.

He took this in at a glance as he ran to where Capel lay close to the door, where he had dragged himself sometime during the early hours of the morn, to lie exhausted after vainly trying to raise the alarm.

"He's dead, sir, dead!" groaned the butler.

"Hush!" cried the old lawyer harshly. "He's not dead. Mr Artis, you are young and active. Quick. That doctor, Mr Heston. You know where he lives. You, Preenham, brandy. Stop. Tell the ladies Mr Capel is ill. Nothing more. Don't spread the alarm."

"Is anything very serious the matter?" said a voice at the door.

"Yes—no, my dear. Go away now," cried the old lawyer, "Mr Capel is ill."

"There is something terribly wrong again," said a deeper voice, and, white as ashes and closely followed by Katrine, Lydia came in.

She uttered a faint cry, and then wrested herself from Artis, who tried to stop her.

"No," she cried, imperiously, changed as it were in an instant from a shivering girl into a thoughtful woman. "Quick: go for help. Mr Girtle, what can I do?"

"Yes, let me help too," said Katrine. "What is it; has he tried to kill himself?"

"No," cried Lydia, turning upon her fiercely. "He was too true a man."

"I'm afraid there has been an attempt made by burglars," said the old lawyer, "and that our young friend has been trying to defend the place; but—but he was locked in here—the key was in my table—and—and—I'm afraid I'm growing very old—things seem so much confused now."

He put his hand to his head for a few moments and looked helplessly from one to the other. Then his customary sang froid seemed to have returned.

"This is not a sight for you, ladies," he said. "Pray go back."

"I am not afraid, Mr Girtle," said Katrine, with a slight shudder as she looked eagerly about the room.

For her answer, Lydia took water from the wash-stand, and began to bathe the blood-smeared face, kneeling down by Capel's side.

Just then Preenham entered with decanter and glass, the former clattering against the latter, as he poured out some of the contents.

Holding a little of the brandy to Capel's clenched teeth, Mr Girtle managed to trickle through a few drops at a time, while Lydia continued the bathing, and Katrine stood, like some beautiful statue, gazing down at them with wrinkled brow and clasped hands.

By this time, the knowledge that something was wrong had reached the women-servants, and they had both come to the door.

"No, no; keep them away, Preenham," said Mr Girtle, in answer to offers of assistance. "You go down, too, and be at the door, ready to let the doctor in."

"Yes, sir, I will," said the old butler, piteously; "but my young master—will he live?"

"Please God!" said the lawyer simply.

"But he is not dead, sir?"

"There is your answer, man," said Mr Girtle, for just then Capel uttered a low moan.

The old butler bent down on one knee, and Lydia darted at him a grateful look, as she saw him lift and press one cold hand, and then, laying it down, he rose, and went out of the room on tiptoe, raising his hands and his face towards Heaven.

"Was he stabbed—with that sword?" said Lydia, in a hoarse whisper.

"No, I think not. The doctor must soon be here," was the reply.

In fact, five minutes later there was a quick knock at the door, and Dr Heston hurried in, followed by Artis.

"Give me the room," he said quickly. "Ladies, please go."

Katrine turned slowly, and glanced at Lydia.

"I may stay, Doctor Heston," she said. "I may be of use."

"No words now," he said, sharply. "By-and-by you will be invaluable. Well there, stay."

He had thrown off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, and as Lydia bent her head and stood waiting, Katrine left the room. Then the deft-handed medico was busy with his examination.

"Head literally scored with a bullet," he said.

"Not a cut?" whispered Mr Girtle, pointing to the sword.

"Bless me, no. Scored by a bullet. An inch lower—hallo! What have we here?"

He took out a knife and cut through the clothes, where he could not draw them away from where the blood had oozed out just below the left shoulder.

"Hah! Yes! Bullet. Entered here; passed out. No! Here it is. Just below the skin."

He had raised the sufferer, and found that the bullet had passed nearly through, and was visible so near the surface that a slight cut would have given it exit.

"Nothing vital touched, I think," said the doctor, busying himself about the wound in the shoulder.

"Ah! That's right, madam. Nothing like a woman's hand, after all, about a sick man. Why, this must have happened hours ago."

The doctor chatted away, quickly, but his hands kept time with his voice. He had laid down a small case of instruments with a roll of linen, and turning from the arm once more, he rapidly clipped away the hair, and dressed the wound in the head, a wound so horrible that Artis shuddered, turned to the brandy decanter that the old butler stood holding with a helpless, dazed look, and poured out a good dram, while Lydia knelt there, very pale, but calmly holding scissors, lint or strapping, to hand as they were required.

"Now for the bullet," said the doctor in a cheerful, airy way. "Mr Artis, just lend a hand here. Or, no; you look upset. Put down that decanter, butler! This isn't a dinner-party. That's right. Now kneel down here."

He softly raised Capel, and placed him in a convenient position before turning to Lydia.

"Really, I think you would prefer to go now?"

The girl's lips seemed to tighten and she shook her head.

"As you please;" said the doctor testily. "I have no time to waste. A little back, Mr Girtle; I want all the light I can have. Yes, that's plain enough," he muttered, as with one hand resting on the injured man's shoulder where the bullet made quite a little lump, he stretched out the other, and from where it nestled in the case, fitted amongst so much purple velvet, he took out a small knife.

There was a pleasant look of satisfaction in the doctor's face, as he took out the knife, but the next moment he turned with an angry flash upon Lydia.

It was the natural instinctive act of one who loves seeking to protect the object loved. For as Dr Heston took the knife in his hand, Lydia's eyes dilated, and she leaned forward, caught the doctor's arm, and gazed at the keen little blade with dilated eyes.

"My dear young lady, are you mad?" cried the doctor, testily.

She raised her eyes to his in a look so full of appeal, that he could read it as easily as if she had given it with the interpretation of words.

He was not accustomed to argue in a case like this, but the girl's loving attempt to protect the insensible man, touched him to the heart; and dropping his sharp, imperious manner, he said gently:

"But, don't you see? It is to do him good."

Lydia's hand trembled, but she still grasped the doctor's arm.

"Come, come," he said, smiling. "You must not be alarmed. Do you want the bullet to stay in and irritate the whole length of the wound?"

She gave her head a sharp shake.

"Well, then, be sensible, my dear girl. There, get me a bit of lint," he continued, "and you shall see how easily and well I will do this. That's better. Why, taking a tooth out is ten times worse. This is a mere trifle. There, that's a brave little woman. He will not even feel it."

Lydia's hand had dropped from the doctor's arm, and she drew a long breath, watching him as if her eyes were drawn to his knife, while he bent over Capel.

In a few minutes more the patient was lifted upon the bed, and Lydia stood there with her hands clasped in dread, for it seemed ominous to her that Capel should be compelled to lie there.

"Can he not be taken up to his room?"

"No, my brave little nurse, no. It would have been extremely nice for him, but what he requires now is absolute rest and quiet. Come, come. You are too strong-minded a little woman to be superstitious. Go where you will, in old houses, there has generally been a death in some of the bedrooms; but believe me, that does not affect the living. Why, if that were the case, what should we do at the hospitals? You are going to install yourself here, then, as nurse? That's right. Let my instructions be carried out, and I'll come in again at noon."

Whispered conversation went on all through the house that day, but though there had been the attempt at burglary, Mr Girtle hesitated about calling in the police again, and on consulting the doctor, he quite agreed that it would be better not to have them there.

"It will only disturb my patient," he said, "and, depend upon it, with a light and people sitting up, the scoundrels will not come again."

"Well," said Mr Girtle, "we will not communicate with the police at present."

The doctor came in at one, and again at five; and, on leaving, looked rather serious.

"If he is not different to this at about nine, when I come in again, I'll get Sir Ronald Mackenzie to see him. I'll warn him at once that he may be wanted."

"Then you think his case serious?"

"Brain injuries always are."

At nine o'clock, when the doctor came, his manner startled Lydia, who had patiently watched the sufferer all day.

"Yes," he said; "I will have Sir Ronald's opinion. I shall be back in half-an-hour."

He left the room and hurried down-stairs, while Lydia bent down and laid her cheek against the patient's burning hand. He was delirious now, and talking loudly and rapidly.

"Yes, it is there," he kept on saying. "Count four stones from the left, press on the fifth, and it will swing around. I have it safely— do you hear?—safely."

This went on over and over again, and as Lydia listened, something, she knew not what, made her turn her head, when it seemed to her that one of the bed curtains trembled, and that, in the gloom, a hand was softly drawing one back, that the sick man's words might be more plainly heard.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HIGH WORDS.

Looking again in the direction of the hand, but telling herself that it was fancy, Lydia sat down to wait anxiously for the doctor's return, while Capel went on, talking more or less incoherently.

"You know I love you," he said softly. "Katrine—darling—you will be my wife. Let the world go its own way, what is it to us?"

Lydia's head sank lower, as the tears of misery began to fall fast.

"The treasure," he cried, suddenly. "Ha—ha—ha! Let them search for it—months—years. They will never find it. I have it safely. Here. I'll tell you."

He beckoned with his finger as he talked on, rapidly; and as Lydia raised her saddened countenance, she saw that he was gazing at vacancy and gesticulating with his free hand.

"Yes; I'll tell you," he said. "Let the fools hunt. They'll never find it. Well? Why not? It is mine. Look. You count along here—do you see—one, eight, six, now press in the key. There is a spring. Press it home and turn. The door opens and there it is. For you, dearest— the jewels are all your own."

As he went on talking rapidly, the curtain moved softly again, and this time Lydia felt that it was no trick of the light or wind, and, rising from her seat, she went softly round to the other side of the bed, took hold of the curtain and swept it aside, to leave Katrine standing there in the faint light shed by the shaded lamp.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see if I could help you."

"And glided in like a thief, to hide there, listening to his words. What is it you want to know? Was it to hear him say he loved you?" whispered Lydia, with her face full of scorn.

"I do not understand you."

"You do understand. And it was not for that. You have heard him whisper to you—no—waste upon you loving words enough."

"Really," said Katrine, who had recovered from her temporary confusion, consequent upon the abrupt discovery of her presence. "Surely, my darling little Lydia is not jealous?"

"Jealous? Of you?" said Lydia, scornfully.

"No; I am only sorry that he should have been so blind."

"To your incomparable charms?"

"No; to the character of the beautiful woman—"

"Beautiful?"

"Yes; beautiful woman, whose character—"

"How dare you!" cried Katrine, and she struck the brave girl a sharp blow across the face with her open hand.

"Beautiful as you are corrupt and cruel," said Lydia, without wincing. "I have not been blind. I have seen your efforts to lead him on—to tempt him into the belief that you loved him, when your sole thought has been of the money that was to be his."

"It is false," cried Katrine.

"It is true. I would not stoop to watch you, but I have seen enough to know you. Go back to your companion—the man who plots and plans with you to gain what you will never find, and do not—"

"Do not what?" cried Katrine, with a malignant look.

Lydia did not reply, but hurried back to where Capel was trying to raise himself up, trembling the while, as he gazed towards the window.

"Look," he said harshly. "There. Don't stop, Katrine, love. There is danger. Don't stop now."

Katrine's face wore a strange waxen hue, as she caught the sick man's hand.

The painful position was brought to an end by the coming of the doctors. Katrine's quick ear was the first to give her warning of their approach, and without another word she softly left the room, stealing away so quietly that when Dr Heston entered, ushering in the great physician, Lydia hardly realised that she was alone.

"Still the same," said Dr Heston. "Humph, yes. My dear madam, will you permit me?"

Lydia looked piteously in his face, losing her self-command the while, as Heston led her from the room, and closed the door, while as she heard it locked on the inside and the sound of the rings passing over the rod, she sank down sobbing on the lion-skin rug, burying her face in her hands, and ignorant of the fact that she was being watched.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

CAPEL'S NURSES.

"This is your doing, Dr Heston," said Mr Girtle, returning to the dining-room, indignantly, with a card in his hand.

He had been seated at lunch with the doctor, Katrine, and Artis, when Preenham had entered the room, to say that a gentleman wished to see him on important business.

"I dare say it is," said the doctor, "but what have I done?"

"We—the family—had decided to refrain from communication with the police, so as not to draw attention to the peculiar circumstances that have taken place in this house, and I agreed somewhat unwillingly, knowing Mr Capel's feelings as to what has gone before."

"Well," said the doctor, coolly, for the old man seemed to have lost his self-control.

"No, sir, it is not well. Someone has communicated with the police."

He held out the card in his hand, and Katrine winced, while Artis gave her an uneasy look.

"No work of mine, my dear sir; my hands are too full of my patient. Surely he does not say—"

"No, no," said Mr Girtle, hurriedly. "I have not seen him yet. I was so angry that I returned at once. I really beg your pardon, but all this trouble has rather taken me off my balance."

He nodded, and left the room, and Katrine glanced at the doctor.

"Over-work and anxiety, my dear madam," he said. "I shall have to give him a little advice. Now, if you will excuse me, I'll go up-stairs."

"But doctor," cried Katrine; "is Mr Capel really better?"

"It is hardly just to call him better while this delirium continues; but you know what Sir Ronald said."

He went out of the dining-room, and ascended the stairs, leaving Katrine with Artis.

"Where are you going?" said the latter.

"Up to Capel's room."

"What, again?"

"Yes," she said, "again."

"But what have you found out?"

"Wait and see."

"Wait and see? I'm sick of it all," he cried, angrily. "I feel as if I were buried alive, and to make matters worse, you're always away. Look here, I don't like your going and nursing that fellow."

"You stupid boy!" she said softly; and she turned upon him a look that made him catch her in his arms and press his lips to hers.

For a few moments she made no resistance, but seemed to be returning his caress. Then, with an angry wrench, she extricated herself from his grasp.

"How dare you!" she cried.

"How dare? Oh, come, that's good."

"You are acting like a fool!"

She sailed out of the room just as Preenham opened the door, and as he drew back for her to pass, Artis threw himself into a chair, while Katrine slowly ascended the stairs, listening intently to the low murmur of voices in the library.

A few minutes before, the quiet, grave-looking professional nurse had ascended to the sick room from the housekeeper's room, where she had just partaken of her dinner, and found, as she entered, silently, Lydia on her knees by the bedside, with a straight bar of light from the window throwing her into bold relief against the dark curtains.

The nurse advanced softly, and glanced at Capel, who seemed to be sleeping easily, and then lightly touched Lydia on the shoulder.

"Asleep, miss?" she said.

Lydia raised her white face, haggard and livid with sleeplessness and anxiety.

"No," she said softly, as she let herself sink into the low chair at the bed's head. "No, not asleep."

"But you are quite done up, miss," said the nurse. "Now, pray do go and lie down for a few hours. He is better, I'm sure of it. I do know, indeed. I've seen so much of this sort of thing. I was in the French hospitals all through the war."

"But, are you sure?"

"I'm quite certain, miss. Now, you can't go on like this. You must have rest. Take my advice, and go and have a good sleep, and then you can come and watch again."

"But if—"

"If anything happens, miss, I'll call you."

"You promise me?"

"Faithfully, miss. There, trust to me."

Lydia had risen, and she tottered as she took a step or two, when the nurse caught her in her arms, and the poor girl's strength gave way entirely now.

The nurse's confident words that Capel was getting better, robbed her of the last bond of self-control, and, as the woman tenderly supported her, and whispered a few soothing words, Lydia's head went down on the nurse's breast, and she burst into a low, passionate fit of hysterical tears.

"There, you'll be better now," whispered the nurse, as Lydia raised her piteous white face. "Now go and have a few hours' sleep."

Lydia nodded, recovered her self-command, and went to the bed, bent over and gazed earnestly in the patient's face, and then left the room.

"Poor dear!" said the nurse, after a glance at the patient, "how she does love him! Ah, miss, how you made me jump!"

"Did I, nurse?" said Katrine. "I was obliged to come in gently. How is he?"

"Better, miss, I think."

"That's well. You look very tired, nurse."

"Me, miss? Oh, dear, no."

"But your strength ought to be saved for nights. I can't watch at night—I get too sleepy; but I can now, and I'll take your place."

"Do you really wish it, miss?"

"Yes. Please," said Katrine, firmly; and the woman quietly left the room, to take no walk, but to go up to the chamber set apart for her use, and, from long habit in catching rest when it could be found, she threw herself upon her bed, and was soon breathing heavily—fast asleep.

In the adjoining room lay Lydia, with her eyes closed, hour after hour, but painfully awake. No sleep would come to her weary brain, which seemed to grow more terribly active as the time rolled on. She told herself that her love for Capel was madness. Then hope tortured her with the idea that he might turn to her, while her indignant maiden nature bade her forget him and show more pride. "But he is poor," Hope seemed to say; "his fortune is gone, and you are comparatively wealthy. Wait, and he will love you yet."

There was a hopeful smile dawning upon her lips, as she softly left her room, and went down the stairs, with a feeling of restful content in her breast, and then her heart seemed to stand still, and a horrible feeling of self-reproach attacked her as she felt that she had left her post just as some terrible crisis had been about to happen.

For there, at the door where she had crouched in agony, waiting to know the great physician's verdict, now stood Gerard Artis, gazing in as he held it partly open.

Lydia was as if turned to stone for the moment. Then the reaction came, and she quickly ran to the door, to lay her hand upon Artis's shoulder.

He turned upon her a face distorted with jealous rage, and then his countenance changed, and, indulging in a malicious laugh, he drew on one side, holding the curtain back, and pointed mockingly to the scene within.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AN ENCOUNTER.

One swift glance, and then, without noticing Artis, Lydia glided into the room.

She had seen her hope crushed, and that she must never dream again of that happy future. She had not slept, but she had left her post, and while she had been absent another had stolen that last hope.

For, after lying sleeping calmly and peacefully for an hour, Capel heaved a long sigh, and at last he opened his eyes, in a quiet, dreamy way, gazing at, but apparently not seeing, Katrine, as she knelt there in the light cast by the window.

Then she saw a look of intelligence come into his face, and he spoke in a quiet and eager, though feeble tone.

"What is it? Why—why am I here? Don't—don't speak. Yes, I know. Oh, Katrine, my love, my love!"

He raised his feeble arms, till they clasped the beautiful neck as she bent down over him, and her head rested upon his pillow, side by side with his; her soft dark hair half hid his pale cheek, and he was whispering feebly his words of gratitude, as Lydia slowly advanced into the room, and, unnoticed by either, she laid her soft, white hand upon Katrine's shoulder, gripping it with a nervous force of which she herself was ignorant.

Katrine started up, flushed, her eyes sparkling with light, and a look of triumph coming into her face, as she saw who was there.

"Mr Capel's condition will not permit of this excitement," said Lydia, in a cold, harsh voice. "Doctor Heston's orders were that he should be kept quiet."

That afternoon, when Mr Girtle entered the library, he found a plainly-dressed man awaiting him—a man who, save that he gave the idea of having once been a soldier, might have passed for anything, from a publican to an idler whose wife let lodgings, and made it unnecessary for him to toil or spin.

"Morning, sir. You had my card, I see. I've called about the attempt made here the other night."

"Attempt?"

"Yes, sir; the burglary."

"How did you know there was an attempt?"

"Oh, we get to know a little, sir. We're a body of incompetent men that every one abuses, but we find out a few things a year."

"You heard of this, then?"

"Yes, sir, and we were a bit surprised that you didn't communicate with us. Seems strange, sir."

"Strange, yes, my man, but have we not had horrors enough?"

"Yes, sir, but—"

"Well," said Mr Girtle impatiently, "you have heard of it, then? What do you wish to do?"

"See the place, sir. Who is it that nearly killed that poor fellow?"

"How did you know that some one did?"

Mr Girtle's visitor laughed a quiet little laugh.

"Oh, we know, sir. He's horribly bad."

"No; decidedly better."

"No, sir. I was at the hospital this morning, and they don't think he'll live the day. He has let it all out."

"Look here, my man, we are confusing matters," said Mr Girtle.

"Why, you've got a wounded man here?"

"Yes. There, my good fellow, I suppose you must know all, now."

"I suppose we must, sir," said the officer, with a grim smile. "Strange that you should so soon have another trouble here."

"But you have not told me your informant."

"Oh, there's no secret about it, sir. Servant chap went to the bad, and lost his character. Old friend of your footman here who was killed. He picks up with a couple of regular cracksmen, and tells all he knows about the house, and they put up the job."

"Yes, yes. I see. Well?"

"They get in, and catch a Tartar, for this chap was cut down by some one here, and his mates got him away to a wretched hole, where the people were so frightened that they gave information to the police that a man was dying on their premises. Police took him to the hospital, and when he found out how bad he was, he made a clean breast of it all. That's it, sir. Plain as A, B, C."

Mr Girtle sat looking at the officer, curiously.

"Do you think," he said at last, "that these men committed the other robbery?"

The detective's eyes twinkled, but not a muscle moved.

"I should think it about certain, sir."

"Have you got the man's companions?"

"Yes, sir, both of them, safe enough."

"Then as this man confessed one thing, I dare say he will the other. He is dying, you say?"

"Yes, sir, no doubt about it; not so much from the sword cut, as from bad health—drink, and the like."

"Then he must be seen to-day—at once, man. We may get to know from him where they have disposed of the treasure.—Such a large sum."

"Yes, sir," the officer, quietly, taking out a note-book. "Now, don't you think, sir, you being a solicitor, it would have been better to let us do our work, and you do yours?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Only this, sir, that here's another thing. You've had a tremendous robbery here before, and we've known nothing about it till this minute, when you let it all out."

Mr Girtle gave his knee an impatient blow.

"Yes, sir, you let it out. When did it happen?"

"At the time of that terrible affair in the house. You remember?"

"Yes, sir, I took a good deal of notice of it at the time, sir; but I had nothing to do with the case. So a lot of money was taken, then?"

Mr Girtle nodded.

"I am not at liberty to say more. Mr Capel would not have the search made."

"If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll give you another look in. Perhaps, to-morrow, you'll let me go over the place."

He went away hurriedly, and straight off to the hospital, where he had a long interview with the sick man, obtaining all the information from him that he could, before compelled by the poor wretch's weakness to cease the inquisition.

"A tremendous big sum, eh?" said the officer, to himself. "I should like to have the finding of that. They might be a bit generous to a man."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

MR PREENHAM'S VISITOR.

There was a kind of civil war carried on at the old house over the nursing back of Paul Capel to health. He suffered much, but a strong constitution and youth were fine odds in his favour, and he recovered, after passing the crisis, rapidly and well.

And during these days Lydia suffered a martyrdom, seeing, as she did, how Katrine took advantage of Capel's weakness to tighten his bonds.

The detective came, as he had promised, and saw the room and the window, making notes and a drawing thereof, and then going to the mews at the back, where he satisfied himself as to the means by which access had been obtained.

The evidence of Paul Capel was taken by a magistrate at his bedside, as he was certified as unfit to be moved; and in due time the law meted out its punishment upon the two criminals left; but the detective was not at peace.

The officer, who boasted of the name of Linnett, was a very sleuth-hound in his ways, and he came upon Mr Girtle at all manner of unexpected times while he was waiting for Paul Capel's return to health, and tried to get information from him, without avail.

"Must have been a bit of imagination on the old man's part," said Mr Linnett. "Some of these old fellows—half-cracked, as a rule—believe that they are extremely rich. I don't know, though. Old boy was very rich. Wonderful! What a house! That young chap might very well be satisfied with what he has got."

In this spirit the detective turned his attention to the doctor, approaching him with a bad feeling of weakness, and not being satisfied with the dictum of the divisional surgeon.

"He laughs at it, you see, sir," said Linnett, in the doctor's consulting room; "but I'm bad."

"Yes, yes. I see what is the matter with you, my man," said Heston. "I'll soon set you all right."

"Lor', what humbugs doctors are," said the detective, looking at his prescription, as he went away. "I suppose I must take this stuff, though, before I go and see him again."

"Curious thing, nature," said Heston, as soon as the detective had gone; "that man thinks he's ill, and there's nothing whatever the matter with him. Fancy, brought on from hard thought and work."

The doctor was wiser than the detective thought; but in future visits the latter obtained a good deal of information, among which was the doctor's theory that Ramo, the old Indian servant, had not died entirely from the struggle with Charles Pillar.

It was just about that time that Gerard Artis swore an oath.

That old Mr Girtle took Lydia's hand gently between his, and said tenderly:—

"No, no, my child. You must not go. I am very old, and if you were to go now, it would be like taking the light out of my life. I know all; I am not blind. But wait."

Lydia shook her head.

"If you love him, my child, wait. It may be to save him, and you would sacrifice yourself to do that."

And that Mr Linnett went out of the area of the great gloomy house, laughing to himself, and casting up his total, as he termed it.

"Ha! ha! ha!" he exclaimed; "only to think of them knocking their heads about here and there, and never so much as getting warm. Detectives are all fools, so the public say. Blind as bats. They want a better class of men."

He treated himself to a thoroughly good cigar, and rolled out the blue clouds of smoke as he strode along, wagging his umbrella behind him.

"Always through all these years running down rogues! What a temptation to a man, to make a change and go the other way. Million and a half o' money, in a shape as could be carried in a small black bag. Why, I could put my hand on it, and go and set up somewhere as a king, and never be found out. Shall I?"

It was quite dark, and Mr Linnett took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and tucking his umbrella under his arm, playfully fitted them on his own wrists.

"No," he said; "they wouldn't look well there."



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE PARTY BREAKS UP.

"Dinner over, of course, Preenham?"

"Oh, dear, yes, sir," said that worthy, taking Artis's hat and cane. "Carriage was ordered for half-past seven, and they've gone to the theatre, sir."

"Gone where?"

"Theatre, sir—Haymarket, sir."

"Why, Preenham—"

"It was Mr Girtle, sir, proposed it. Said it would be a pleasant change for everybody. The carriage was ordered, and dinner an hour sooner."

"The sky will fall next," said Artis, with a sneering laugh. "Bring me some coffee in the library, and—no, some brandy and soda and the cigars."

"Yes, sir. Miss D'Enghien's in the drawing-room, sir. Had a bad headache, and didn't go."

"Why didn't you say that at first?" cried Artis; and he went up two stairs at a time, to find Katrine in the act of throwing herself into a chair, and looking flushed and hot.

"You here?" she said, wearily.

"My darling!" he cried. "If I had only known. At last!"

He threw himself at her feet, clasped her waist, and drew her half resisting towards him, while before a minute had elapsed, her arms were resting upon his shoulders, and her eyes were half closed in a dreamy ecstasy, as she yielded to the kisses that covered her face.

Suddenly, with a quick motion, she threw him off.

"Quick—some one," she whispered.

Her ears were sharper than his, and she had heard the dull rattle of the door handle.

"I don't know what to take," she said, in a weary voice; "I suppose it will not be better before morning."

"I have taken the brandy and soda into the library, sir," said Preenham. "Would you like it brought up here?"

"To be sure," he cried. "The very thing for your headache. Bring it up, Preenham."

"You madman!" cried Katrine, angrily. "You take advantage of my weakness for you. Another moment, and we should have been discovered. No, no; keep away."

"Miss is as good as a mile."

"You grow more reckless, every day. We must be careful."

"Careful! I'm sick of being careful."

"Hush!"

The butler entered with a tray and the brandy and soda.

"Open it, sir?"

"Yes. Two. Now try that. Best thing in the world for a bad head."

The old butler withdrew as softly as he had come in, and Katrine took two or three sips from her glass, while Artis tossed his off, and then, setting it down, walked quickly to the door.

Katrine's eyes dilated, and, bending forward, she listened, and then sprang up and glided quickly across from the inner room to meet Artis half-way, and be clasped in his arms.

"What have you done?" she cried.

"Nothing."

"You have fastened the door."

"Nonsense."

"I say you have!"

"Well, suppose I have. What then?"

"You madman! Unfasten the door."

"Not I."

"I tell you that you are mad," she cried, trying to free herself. "Gerard, dear Gerard, be reasonable."

She writhed herself free and ran and turned the bolt back. He followed to refasten it, but she held him.

"Think of the consequences of our being found locked in here."

"Bah! no one will come now till after eleven, and if they did I don't care. Look here," he cried, clasping her to his breast again, "suppose this Arabian Night sort of fortune were found, do you think I am blind? You would marry this Capel."

"Well?"

"I won't have it," he cried.

"Why not?" she whispered, and her creamy arms clasped about his neck. "We are so poor, Gerard, and we must have money to live."

"Yes, but at that cost," he cried, passionately.

"Well, what then? Think! Over a million, which you should share. Gerard—dearest—you will not be so foolish, when I am so near this gigantic prize. He is my complete slave. I can do with him just what I will."

"But—Kate—I believe you would—"

He did not achieve his sentence, but responded passionately to her caresses till he felt her suddenly grow rigid in his arms, and then one arm was snatched from his neck, and, with her hand, she struck him sharply across the face.

"How dare you!" she cried.

Gerard Artis let his hands fall to his side, and Katrine darted to a tall figure in evening dress standing just inside the door, and flung herself at his knees.

"Save me!" she half shrieked, "from the insults of this man."

Paul Capel drew himself aside, and Katrine fell prostrate on the thick carpet, as he gravely opened the door.

The girl sprang to her feet and darted out of the room, while Capel, after watching her for a moment or two, closed the door, turned the bolt, and then threw his crush hat upon a table, his black wrapper over a chair, and tore off his white gloves, changing the ivory-handled malacca cane from hand to hand as he did so.

"Home soon," said Artis, with a sneer, as he slowly walked to the little table, poured out some more brandy, and gulped it down.

"Yes," replied Capel, gravely. "Thank Heaven I did come home soon. I came to spend an hour alone with the woman I loved."

"And you were forestalled," cried Artis. "Here, what are you going to do?"

"Thrash a contemptible scoundrel within an inch of his life," cried Capel; and he made a grasp at Artis's arm.

But the latter eluded him, bounded to the fire-place, and picked up the bright poker.

"Keep off," he cried, "or I'll murder you."

Cling! Jingle!

He had struck the glass lustres of the great chandelier, and the fragments fell tinkling down.

Crack! A yell of pain! A dull thud!

With a dexterous blow, Capel caught Artis's right hand with the stout cane, numbing his nerves, so that the poker fell. With a second blow, he seemed to hamstring his adversary, who staggered, and would have fallen, but for Capel's hand grasping him by the collar; and then, for two or three minutes, there was a hail of blows falling, and a terrible struggle going on. The light chairs were kicked aside, a table overturned, a vase and several ornaments swept from a cheffonier, and suppressed cries, panting noises and blows, filled the gloomy room, till, after one final stroke with the cane, Capel dashed the helpless, quivering man to the floor, and placed his foot upon his breast.

An hour later, when Preenham went up from a confidential talk with his fellow-servants to admit Mr Girtle and Lydia—back from the theatre—he found the front door open. Had he been half an hour sooner, he would have seen Katrine, fully dressed, supporting Artis down the dark stairs, and out into the darkness of the great square, where they were seen by the light of one of the street lamps to enter a cab, and then they passed out of sight.

Preenham saw nothing, and Mr Girtle and Lydia ascended to the drawing-room, the latter feeling light-hearted and happy, in spite of the evening's disappointment.

The old lawyer uttered a cry of dismay, as he saw the wreck, and that Capel was seated in a low chair, bent down, with his face buried in his hands.

"My dear boy! What is it?" he cried, as Lydia ran to his side, and her soft hand was laid or his.

"Don't touch me, woman," he almost yelled, as he sprang from his chair. "Oh," he said, softly, "it is you?"

He took and kissed her hand, and then left the room.

"Preenham, what does this mean?" cried Mr Girtle, as the butler brought in lights; and they learned the truth.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

WHERE THE TREASURE LAY.

Six months elapsed before Mr Linnett put into execution the project he had had in his mind that night when he playfully tried the handcuffs on his wrists.

He had meant business, as he termed it, the next morning, but on presenting himself at the chief office, one of his superiors sent for him, and announced an important task.

"Extradition, eh, sir? America?"

"Yes. Cross at once; put yourself in communication with the New York police, and then spare no expense. He must be found."

"When shall I start, sir?"

"Now."

Mr Linnett did start now, saying to himself as he entered a carriage for Liverpool:

"Well, they didn't set me the job. It was my own doing, and the news will keep."

So it came about that one morning, when he presented himself at the Dark House, he was saluted by Mr Preenham with:

"Why, how do you do? We thought we'd quite lost you, Mr Linnett, sir. You look quite brown."

"I've been pretty well all over America since I saw you, Mr Preenham, and now, sir, just go and give them my card and say I want to see them on very particular business."

"Have you found out anything, Mr Linnett?"

"You wait a bit, my dear sir. Just take up the card."

Mr Girtle was in the library with Paul Capel at the time, for the old man had settled down there, treating the younger as if he were a son. He had talked several times of going, but Capel begged him not to leave, and he always stayed.

"Well, Preenham, for me?"

"He said you and master, sir—the gentleman."

"Ah! Linnett. The detective. Will you see him?"

"No," said Capel, sternly. "I don't want that affair opened again."

"But my dear boy—"

"There; very well. Show him up."

The detective came in, smiling, but only to encounter a stern look in return.

"I've called, gentlemen, about that little matter of the notes and jewels that were lost."

"My good fellow," said Capel, angrily, "I will not have that matter taken up again. It is dead."

"Well, sir, the fact is, you wouldn't let me take it up; but I did it on my own account."

"You did?" said Mr Girtle.

"Yes, sir; it took me months piecing together, as I had to do it all from the outside, without seeing the place. I was sent abroad, and have only just come back. Last night, however, I took out my notes and went into it again, and I think I can say I've found the treasure."

"Found it, man?" cried Capel, interested in spite of himself. "Where? The place was thoroughly well searched."

"Oh! yes, sir, of course."

"Then you know who took it?"

"Yes, sir; that's it."

"Who was it, then?"

"Ah! come, sir, that's better."

"Yes, yes, go on," cried Capel excitedly, and at that moment it was not the treasure that filled his eyes, but the figure of a sweet, gentle girl, who had watched beside his sick bed.

"Well, the fact is, gentlemen, I very soon came to the conclusion that the great treasure had not been stolen."

"Why?" said Mr Girtle.

"No notes were put in circulation that I could find—old notes—and no valuable jewels sold."

"To be sure, yes," said Mr Girtle. "My idea."

"That wasn't worth much, gentlemen; but I felt sure from the beginning that the treasure was taken by someone on the premises."

"Not that couple, I'll swear," said Mr Girtle.

"Nor the servants," said Capel.

"There, sir, it's all in a nutshell," said Linnett, hesitating.

"Stop!" said Mr Girtle. "What terms do you propose for this information?"

"Oh, sir, I wasn't hesitating about that, but because I don't like letting it go now I've found it. It was so much trouble to find the clue, I hardly like parting with it. But here you are, sir, and if I may make terms, I may say I'm only a few pounds out of pocket—ten will cover it—but I should like it if Mr Capel here would give me that Indian knife, that kukri. I've a fancy for saving up that sort of article."

"Take the horrible thing and welcome," said Capel impatiently.

"Well, gentlemen, I pieced together all that was published, with Doctor Heston's notions, the servants' knowledge, and my own ideas."

"Well?"

"Well, gentlemen, it was that old Indian servant who took the treasure."

"Impossible!"

"Not a bit. He had the keys—he knew how to use them."

"He was as honest as the day," cried Mr Girtle.

"Exactly, sir, that's just it. Honesty made him take it."

"Absurd?" said Capel.

"Not a bit, sir, excuse me. He knew that fellow Pillar, the footman, meant it. You know he had a fight with him at the door."

"Well, granted," said Capel.

"He watched, sir, night and day, and wouldn't leave the place, and at last, when—"

"I know," said Capel, "those Italians."

"Now, you shouldn't take away people's character, sir," said the detective reproachfully. "It was that Indian. He wasn't satisfied that the secret place was safe. He was sure it would be broken open, and so that night, or the one before, he took the treasure out, and put it where he felt certain that no one would look for it."

"And where was that?" cried Capel.

The detective smiled.

"As I said, gentlemen, where no one would look for it."

"And that was?"

"In the dead man's own charge, sirs. In the coffin."

Capel and Mr Girtle sank back in their chairs.

"And if you open that vault, gentlemen, and the iron tomb, and the steel chest, you'll find it safe and sound."

"There's one more thing, sir, I should like to say, and that is about that old Indian servant. He was struck down, no doubt, or fainted after he had killed the footman, defending the treasure. I can't quite say what happened then, but it looks to me as if some one came upon the old fellow when he was lying helpless—some one who also meant to steal that treasure—and that he, or she, or whoever it was, chloroformed the old man to death. I had it on the doctor's authority that he did not die of his wounds; but this is only theory. I can't say."

It was a theory that sent a chill through Paul Capel, and he dared not put his thoughts about the fair Creole into shape.

All proved about the treasure precisely as Mr Linnett had said, for when, with much compunction, the various caskets were opened once again, there lay the two cases beneath the cloth-of-gold robe, safely in the keeping of the dead man, whereat, and for other reasons, Mr Linnett much rejoiced.

Later on, old Mr Girtle had his wish, that of giving Lydia away to the man she loved—one who often afterwards told her he wondered how he could have been so blind—blind, he said, as the old place, which was kept, in accordance with the Colonel's last commands, closed in front, but bright and gay behind, while Paul Capel used to say, "It is astonishing how much human sunshine can be got into a Dark House."

THE END.