At length he ceased abruptly, and proceeded to untie the knots round the bale. Then, after the manner of a sailor who is working out of sight with a life-line, he jerked the rope, which immediately began to ascend rapidly and with irregularity. Coil after coil ran easily away, and at last the frayed end passed into the darkness above Christian's head. He stood there watching it, and when it had disappeared he burst into a low hoarse laugh which suddenly broke off into a sickening gurgle, and he fell sideways and backwards on to the box, clutching at it with his nerveless fingers.

When he recovered his faculties his first sensation was one of great cold. The breeze had freshened with the approach of dawn, and blowing full upon him as he lay bathed in perspiration, the effect was like that of a refrigerator. He moved uneasily, and found that he was lying on the stone ledge outside the box, from which he had fallen. After a moment, he rose rapidly to his feet as if desirous of dismissing the memory of his own collapse, and turned his attention to the bundle. Beneath the rough covering of canvas, which was not sewn but merely lashed round, it was easy enough to detect the shape of the case.

"What luck—what wonderful luck," he muttered, as he groped round the surface of the bundle.

Indeed it seemed as if everything had arranged itself for his special benefit and advantage.

The three men whose duty it had been to lower the case coiled up their rope and started off on foot inland, after telling the sentinel stationed at the head of the little path to rejoin his boat. This the man was only too willing to do at once. He was a semi-superstitious Breton of no great intelligence, who vastly preferred being afloat in his unsavoury yawl to climbing about unknown rocks in the dark. On the beach, he found his two comrades, to whom he gruffly imparted the information that they were to go on board.

"Had the 'monsieur' said nothing else?"

"No, the 'monsieur' said nothing else."

The Breton intellect is not, as a rule, acute. Like sheep the three men proceeded to carry up from the water's edge Stanley's boat, which was required to carry the heavy case, their own dinghy being too small. This done, they rowed off silently to the yawl, which was rolling lazily in the trough of the sea, a quarter of a mile from the shore. Once on board they were regaled with some choice French profanity from the lips of a large man in a sealskin cap and a dirty woollen muffler. This gentleman they addressed as the "patron," and, with clumsy awe, informed him that they had waited at the same spot as before, but nothing had come, until at length Hoel Grall arrived with instructions from the "monsieur" to go on board. Whereupon further French profanity, followed by unintelligible orders, freely interlarded with embellishments of a forcible tenor.

As the yawl swung slowly round and stood out to sea, Christian turned to climb up Bury Bluff. He found that he had in reality made very little progress in descending. Before leaving the case, he edged it by degrees nearer to the base of the ledge, which would render it invisible from the beach. The ascent was soon accomplished, and after a cautious search he concluded that no one was about, so set off home at a rapid pace.

Before he reached the Hall the light of coming day was already creeping up into the eastern sky. All nature was stirring, refreshed with the balmy dew and coolness of the night. Far up in the higher branches of the Weymouth pines, the wrens were awake, calling to each other with tentative twitter, and pluming themselves the while for another day of sunshine and song.

Like a thief Christian hurried on, and creeping into his bedroom window, was soon sleeping the dreamless, forgetful sleep of youth.

By seven o'clock he was awake with all the quick realisation of a Londoner. In the country men wake up slowly, and slowly gather together their senses after an all-sufficing sleep of ten hours. In cities, five, four, or even three are sufficient for the unfatigued body and the restless mind. Men wake up quickly, and are at once in full possession of their faculties. It is, after all, a mere matter of habit.

Christian had slept sufficiently. He rose quite fresh and strong, and presently sat down, coatless to write.

Page after page he wrote, turning each leaf over upon its face as it was completed—never referring back, never hesitating, and only occasionally raising his pen from the paper. Line after line of neat, small writing, quite different from what his friends knew in letters or on envelopes, flowed from his pen. It was his "press" handwriting, plain, rapid, and as legible as print. The punctuation was attended to with singular care: the commas broad and heavy, the colons like the kisses in a child's letter, round and black. Once or twice he smiled as he wrote, and occasionally jerked his head to one side critically as he re-read a sentence.

In less than two hours it was finished. He rose from his seat, and walked slowly to the window. Standing there he gazed thoughtfully across the bare, unlovely tableland towards the sea. He had written many hundreds of pages, all more or less masterly; he had read criticisms upon his own work saying that it was good; and yet he knew that the best—the best he had ever written—lay upon the table behind him. Then he turned and shook the loose leaves together symmetrically. Pensively he counted them. He was young and strong; the world and life lay before him, with their infinite possibilities—their countless opportunities to be seized or left. He looked curiously at the written pages. The writing was his own; the form of every letter was familiar; the heavy punctuation and clean, closely written lines such as the compositor loved to deal with; and while he turned the leaves over he wondered if ever he would do better, for he knew that it was good.



CHAPTER XII

A WARNING WORD

As the breakfast-bell echoed through the house Christian ran downstairs. He met Hilda entering the open door with the letters in her hand.

"Down already?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," she replied incautiously, "I wished to get the letters early."

"And, after all, there is nothing for you?"

"No," she replied. "No, but—"

She stopped suddenly and handed him two letters, which he took slowly, and apparently forgot to thank her, saying nothing at all. There was a peculiar expression of dawning surprise upon his face, and he studied the envelopes in his hand without reading a word of the address. Presently he raised his eyes and glanced at Hilda. She was holding a letter daintily between her two forefingers, cornerwise, and with little puffs of her pouted lips was spinning it round, evidently enjoying the infantile amusement immensely.

He dropped his letters into the pocket of his jacket, and stood aside for her to pass into the house; but she, abruptly ceasing her windmill operations, looked at him with raised eyebrows and stood still.

"Well?" she said interrogatively.

"What?"

"And Mr. Trevetz's answer—I suppose it is one of those letters?"

"Oh yes!" he replied. "I had forgotten my promise."

He took the letters from his pocket, and looked at the addresses again.

"One is from Trevetz," he said slowly, "and the other from Mrs. Strawd."

"Nothing from Mr. Bodery?" asked she indifferently.

He had taken a pencil from his pocket, and, turning, he held Trevetz's letter against the wall while he wrote across it. Without ceasing his occupation, and in a casual way, he replied:—

"No, nothing from Mr. Bodery; so I am free as yet."

"I am very glad," she murmured conventionally.

"And I," he said, turning with a polite smile to hand her the letter.

She took the envelope, and holding it up in both hands examined it critically.

"M-a-x," she read; "how badly it is written! Max—Max Talma—is that it?"

"Yes," he answered gravely, "that is it."

With a little laugh and a shrug of her shoulders she proceeded to open the envelope. It contained nothing but the sketch made upon the fly-leaf of a novel. Christian was watching her face. She continued to smile as she unfolded the paper. Then she suddenly became grave, and handed the open sketch to him. At the foot was written:—

"Max Talma—look out! Avoid him as you would the devil!

"In haste, C.T."

Christian read it, laughed carelessly, and thrust the paper into his pocket. "Trevetz writes in a good forcible style," he said, turning to greet Molly, who came, singing, downstairs at this moment. For an instant her merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, almost anxious look as she caught sight of her sister and Christian standing together.

"Are you just down?" she asked carelessly.

"Yes," answered Christian, still holding her hand.

"I have just come down."

As usual the day's pleasure was all prearranged. A groom rode to the station at Christian's request with a large envelope on which was printed Mr. Bodery's name and address. This was to be given to the guard, who would in his turn hand it to a special messenger at Paddington, and the editor of the Beacon would receive it by four o'clock in the afternoon.

The day was fine, with a fresh breeze, and the programme of pleasure was satisfactorily carried out. But with sunset the wind freshened into a brisk gale, and heavy clouds rolled upwards from the western horizon. This was the first suggestion of autumn, the first sigh of dying summer. The lamps were lighted a few minutes earlier that night, and the family assembled in the drawing-room soon after dark, although the windows were left open for those who wished to pass in and out.

Mrs. Carew's grey head was, as usual, bent over some simple needlework, while Molly sat near at hand. According to her wont she also was busy, while around her the work lay strewed in picturesque disorder. Sidney was reading in his own room—reading for a vague law examination which always appeared to have been lately postponed till next October.

Christian was seated at the piano, playing by snatches and turning over the brown leaves of some very old music, unearthed from a lumber-room by Mrs. Carew for his benefit. He waited for no thanks or comment; sometimes he read a few bars only, sometimes a page. He appeared to have forgotten that he had an audience. Presently he rose, leaving the music in disorder. Hilda had been called away some time before by an old village woman requiring medicaments for unheard-of symptoms. Christian looked slowly round the room, then raising his hand he dexterously caught a huge moth which had flown past his face.

As he crossed the room towards the open window, with a view of liberating the moth, a low whistle reached his ear. The refrain was that of the familiar "retraite." Hilda had evidently gone out to the moat by another door. Bowing his head, he passed between the muslin curtains and disappeared in the darkness. The sound of his footsteps died away almost immediately amidst the rustle of branch and leaf already crisp with approaching change.

It was Stanley's bed-time. Mechanically, Molly kissed her brother, continuing to work thoughtfully.

In a few minutes the door opened and Hilda entered the room. She came up to the table, and standing there with her hands resting upon some pieces of Molly's work, she gave a graphic description of the old woman's complaints and maladies. She stood quite close to Molly, and told her story to Mrs. Carew merrily, failing to notice that her sister had ceased sewing, and was listening with a surprised look in her eyes. When the symptoms had been detailed and laughed over, Hilda turned quietly and passed out into the garden. With fearless familiarity she ran lightly down the narrow pathway towards the moat, but no signal-whistle greeted her. The leaves rustled and whispered overhead; the water lapped and gurgled at her feet, but there was no sign or sound of life.

Silent and motionless she stood, a tall fair form clad in white, amidst the universal, darkness. So silent and so still that it might have been the shade of some fair maid of bygone years mourning the loss of her true knight, who in all the circumstances of war had crossed that same moat never to return.

Presently a sudden feeling of loneliness, a new sense of fear, came over Hilda. All around was so forbidding. The water at her feet was so black and mysterious. She gave a soft low whistle identical with that which had called Christian out twenty minutes before, but it remained unanswered, and through the rustling leaves she sped towards the house. From the open window a glow of rosy light shone forth upon the flowers, imparting to all alike a pallid pink, and dimly defining the grey tree-trunks across the lawn. As Hilda stepped between the curtains, the servants entered the drawing-room in solemn Indian file for evening prayers.

Mrs. Carew looked up from the Bible which lay open before her, and said to Hilda:—

"Where is Christian?"

"I don't know, mother; he is not in the garden," answered the girl, crossing the room to her own particular chair.

Sidney rose from his seat, and going to the window, sent his loud clear whistle away into the night. His broad figure remained motionless for some minutes, almost filling up the window; then he silently resumed his seat.

Mrs. Carew smoothed down the silken book-marker, and began reading in a low voice. It is to be feared that the Psalmist's words of joy were not heard with understanding ears that night. A short prayer followed; softly and melodiously Mrs. Carew asked for blessings upon the bowed heads around her, and the servants left the room.

"Have you not seen Christian since you went to see Mrs. Sender, Hilda?" asked Molly, at once.

"No," replied Hilda, arranging the music into something like order upon the piano.

"He went out about half an hour ago, in answer to your whistle."

Hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, but checked herself, and resumed her task of setting the music in order.

"How could I whistle," she asked gently, "when I was in the kitchen doling out medicated cotton-wool to Mrs. Sender?"

Molly looked puzzled.

"Did you whistle, Sidney?" she asked.

"I—no; I was half-asleep over a law-book in my own room."

"I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time," suggested Mrs. Carew reassuringly, as she sat down to work again.

"But what about the whistle; are you sure you heard it, Molly?" asked Hilda, speaking rather more quickly than was habitual with her. She walked towards the window and drew aside the curtain, keeping her back turned towards the room.

"Yes," answered Molly uneasily. "Yes—I heard it, and so did he, for he went out at once."

Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way to his sisters' conversation. With a heavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. He stood for some moments immediately behind Hilda without touching her. Then he raised his hand and with gentle, almost caressing pressure round her waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. He was a singularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he considered the weakness of a caress. Fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between himself and Hilda there existed a peculiar unspoken sympathy.

In the ordinary way he would have mumbled—

"Le'mme out!"

On this occasion he touched her waist gently, and the caress almost startled her. It seemed like a confession that he shared the vague anxiety which she concealed so well.

With the charity of maternal love, which is by no means so blind as is generally supposed, Mrs. Carew often said of Sidney that he invariably rose to the occasion; and Mrs. Carew's statements were as a rule correct. His slowness was partly assumed; his indifference was a mere habit. The assumption of the former saved him infinite worry and responsibility; the habit of indifference did away with the necessity of coming to a decision upon general questions. This state of mind may, to townsmen, be incomprehensible. Certain it is that such as are in that condition are not found among the foremost dwellers in cities. But in the country it is a different matter. Such cases are only too common, and (without breath of disparagement) they are usually to be found in households where one man finds himself among several women—be the latter mother and sisters, or wife and sisters-in-law.

The man may be a thorough sportsman, he may be an excellent landlord and a popular squire, but within his own doors he is overwhelmed. Chivalry bids him give way to the wishes and desires of some woman or other, and if he be a sportsman he is necessarily chivalrous. When one is tired after a long day in the saddle or with a gun, it is so much easier to acquiesce and philosophically persuade oneself that the matter is not worth airing an adverse opinion over. This is the beginning, and if any beginning can look forward to great endings it is that of a habit.

It would appear that Sidney Carew's occasion had come at last, for once outside the window he changed to a different being. The lazy slouch vanished from his movements, his eyes lost their droop, and he held his head erect.

He made his way rapidly to the stable, and there, without the knowledge of the grooms, he obtained a large hurricane-lamp, lighted it, and returned towards the house. From the window Hilda saw him pass down a little path towards the moat, with the lamp swinging at his side, while the shadows waved backwards and forwards across the lawn.

The mind is a strange storehouse. However long a memory may have been warehoused there, deep down beneath piles of other remembrances and conceits, it is generally to be found at the top when the demand comes, ready for use—for good or evil. A dim recollection was resuscitated in Sidney's mind. An unauthenticated nursery tale of a departing guest leaving with a word of joy upon his lips and warm comfort in his heart, turning from the glowing doorway and walking down the little pathway straight into the moat.

Christian, however, was an excellent swimmer; he knew every inch of the pathway, every stone round the moat. That he should have been drowned in ten feet of clear water, with an easy landing within ten yards, seemed the wildest impossibility. Of course such things have happened, but Christian Vellacott was essentially wide awake, and unlikely to come to mishap through his own carelessness. Of all these things Sidney thought as he walked rapidly towards the moat, and in particular he pondered over Molly's statement that she had heard Hilda whistle. This had met with flat denial from Hilda, and Sidney, with brotherly candour, could only arrive at the conclusion that Molly had been mistaken. He would not give way to the least suggestion of anxiety even in his own mind. After all Christian would probably come in with some simple explanation and a laugh for their fears. It often happens thus, as we must all know. The moments so long and dreary for the watcher, whose imagination gains more and more power as the time passes, slip away unheeded by the awaited, who treats the matter with a laugh or, at the most, a few conventional words of sympathy.

Sidney stood at the edge of the water and threw the beams of light across the rippling surface. Mechanically he followed the ray as it swept from end to end of the moat, and presently, without heeding, he turned his attention to the stones at his feet. A gleam of reflected light caught his passing gaze, and he stooped to examine the cause more closely.

The smooth stonework was wet; in fact the water was standing in little pools upon it. Round these there were circles of dampness, showing that evaporation was taking place. The water had not lain there long. A man falling into the moat would have thrown up splashes such as these; in no other way could they be plausibly accounted for. Sidney stood erect. Again he held the lamp over the gleaming water, half fearing to see something. His lips had quite suddenly become dry and parched, and there was an uncomfortable throb in his throat. Suddenly he heard a rustle behind him, and before he could draw back Hilda was at his side. She slipped her hand through his arm, and by the slightest pressure drew him away from the moat.

"You know—Sid—he could swim perfectly," she said persuasively.

He made no answer, but walked slowly by her side, swinging the lamp backwards and forwards as a schoolboy swings his satchel. Thus he gained time to moisten his lips and render speech possible.

Together they went round the grounds, but no sign or vestige of Christian did they discover. A pang of remorse came to Hilda as she touched her brother's strong arm. Ever since Christian's arrival she remembered that Sidney had been somewhat neglected, or only remembered when his services were required. Christian had indeed been attentive to him, but Hilda felt that their friendship was not what it used to be. The young journalist in his upward progress had left the slow-thinking country squire behind him. All they had in common belonged to the past; and, for Christian, the past was of small importance compared to the present. She recollected that during the last fortnight everything had been arranged with a view to giving pleasure to herself, Molly, and Christian, without heed to Sidney's inclinations. By word or sign he had never shown his knowledge of this; he had never implied that his existence or opinion was of any great consequence. She remembered even that such pleasures as Christian had shared with Sidney—pleasures after his own heart, sailing, shooting, and fishing—had been undertaken at Christian's instigation or suggestion, and eagerly welcomed by Sidney.

And now, at the first suspicion of trouble, she turned instinctively to her brother for the help and counsel which were so willingly and modestly accorded.

"Sidney," she said, "did he ever speak to you of his work?"

"No," he replied slowly; "no, I think not."

"He has been rather worried over those disturbances in Paris, I think, and—and—I suppose he has never said anything to you about Signor Bruno?"

"Signor Bruno!" said Sidney, repeating the name in some surprise. "No, he has never mentioned his name to me."

"He does not like him——"

"Neither do I."

"But you never told me—Sid!"

"No," he replied simply: "there was nothing to be gained by it!"

This was lamentably true, and Hilda felt that it was so, although her brother had no thought of posing as a martyr.

"Christian," she continued softly, "distrusted him for some reason. He knows something of his former life, and told me a short time ago that Bruno was not his name at all. This morning Christian received a letter from Carl Trevetz, whom we knew in Paris, you will remember, saying that Signor Bruno's real name was Max Talma, also warning Christian to avoid him."

"Is this all you know?" asked Sidney, in a peculiarly quiet tone.

"That is all I know," she replied. "But it has struck me that—that this may have something to do with Signor Bruno. I mean—is it not probable that Christian may have discovered something which caused him to go away suddenly without letting Bruno know of his departure?"

Sidney thought of the water at the edge of the moat. The incident might prove easy enough of explanation, but at the moment it was singularly unreconcilable with Hilda's comforting explanation. And again, the recollection of the signal-whistle heard by Molly was unwelcome.

"Yes," he replied vaguely. "Yes, it may."

He was, by nature and habit, a slow thinker, and Hilda was running away from him a little; but he was, perhaps, surer than she.

"I am convinced, Sidney," she continued, "that Christian connects Signor Bruno in some manner with the disturbances in France. It seems very strange that an old man buried alive in a small village should have it in his power to do so much harm."

"A man's power of doing harm is practically unlimited," he said slowly, still wishing to gain time.

"Yes, but he has always appeared so childlike and innocent."

"That is exactly what I disliked about him," said Sidney.

"Then do you think he has been deliberately deceiving us all along?" she asked.

"Not necessarily," was the tolerant reply. "You must remember that Christian is essentially a politician. He does not suspect Bruno of anything criminal; his suspicions are merely political; and it may be that Bruno's doings, whatever they appear to be now, may in the future be looked upon as the actions of a hero. Politics are impersonal, and Signor Bruno is only known to us socially."

Hilda could not see the matter in this light. No woman could have been expected to do so.

"I suppose," she said presently, "that Signor Bruno is a political intriguer."

"I expect so," replied her brother.

They were walking slowly up the broad path towards the house, having given up the idea of searching for Christian or calling him.

"Then," continued Sidney, "you think it is likely that he has gone off to see Bruno, or to watch him?"

"I think so."

"That is the only reasonable explanation I can think of," he said gravely and doubtfully, for he was still thinking of the moat.

They entered the house, and to Mrs. Carew and Molly their explanation was imparted. It was received somewhat doubtfully, especially by Molly. However, the farce had to be kept up—and do we not act in similar comedies every day?



CHAPTER XIII

A NIGHT WATCH

Cheerfulness is, thank goodness, infectious. The watchers at the Hall that night made a great show of light-heartedness. Sidney had risen to the occasion. He laughed at the idea of anything serious having happened to Christian, and his confidence gradually spread and gained new strength. Molly, however, was apparently beyond its influence. With her perpetual needle-work in her hands she sat beneath the lamp and worked rapidly. Occasionally she glanced towards Hilda, but contributed nothing to the explanations forthcoming from all quarters.

Hilda was also working; slowly, however, and with marvellous care. She was engaged upon a more artistic production than ever came from Molly's work-basket. Once she consulted Mrs. Carew about the colour of a skein of wool, but otherwise showed no inclination to avoid topics in any manner connected with Christian, despite the fact that these were obviously distasteful to her family. In all that she said, indifference was blended in a singular way with imperturbable cheerfulness.

Thus they waited until after midnight, pretending bravely to work and read as if there were no such feeling as suspense in the human heart. Then Mrs. Carew persuaded the young people to go to bed. She had letters to write, and would not be ready for hours. If Christian did not appear by the time that she was sleepy, she would wake Sidney. After all, she acted her part better than they. She was old at it—they were new. She was experienced in stage-craft and made her points skilfully; above all, she did not over-act.

The three young people kissed their mother and left the room, assuring each other of their conviction that they would find Christian at the breakfast table next morning. Molly's room was at the head of the stairs. With a smile and a nod she closed her door while Hilda and Sidney walked slowly down the long passage together. Arrived at the end, Sidney kissed his sister. She turned the handle of her door and stood with her back to him for a few moments without entering the room, as if to give him an opportunity of speaking if he had aught to say. He stood awkwardly behind her, gazing mechanically at her hair, which reflected the light from the candle that he was holding all awry, while the wax dripped upon the carpet.

"It will be all right, Hilda," he said unevenly, "never fear!"

"Yes, dear, I know it will," she replied.

And then she passed into the room without closing the door, and he walked on with loudly-creaking shoes.

Hilda crossed her room and set the candle upon the dressing-table. She waited there till Sidney's footsteps had ceased, and then she turned and walked uprightly to the door, which she closed. She looked round the room with a strange, vacant look in her eyes, and then she made her way unsteadily towards the bed, where she lay staring at the wavering candle and its reflection in the mirror behind until daylight came to make its flame grow pale and yellow.

There were four watchers in the house that night. Downstairs, Mrs. Carew sat by the shaded lamp in her upright armchair. She was not writing, but had re-opened the large black Bible. Molly was courting sleep in vain, having resolutely blown out her candle. Sidney made no pretence. He was fully dressed, and seated at his rarely-used writing-table. Before him lay a telegraph-form bearing nothing but the address—

C.C. BODERY, Beacon Office, Fleet St., London.

He was gazing mechanically at the blank spaces waiting to be filled in, and through his mind was passing and repassing the same question that occupied the thoughts of his mother and sisters. What could be the explanation of the whistle heard by Molly? The want of this alone sufficed to overthrow the most ingenious of consolatory explanations. All four looked at it from different points of view, and to each the signal-whistle calling Christian into the garden was an insurmountable barrier to every explanation.

Before it was wholly light Hilda moved wearily to the window. She threw it open, and sat with arms resting on the sill and her chin upon her hands, mechanically noting the wonders of the sunrise. A soft white mist was rising from the thick pasture, wholly obscuring the sea and filling the atmosphere with a damp chill. Seated there in her thin evening dress, she showed no sign of feeling the cold. At times physical pain is almost a pleasure. The glistening damp rested on every blade of grass, on every leaf and twig, while the many webs stood whitely against the shadows, some hanging like festoons from tree to tree, others floating out in mid-air without apparent reason or support. In and among the branches lingered little secret deposits of mist waiting the sun's warmth to melt them all away.

The suppressed creak of Sidney's door attracted Hilda's attention, but she did not move, merely turning to look at her own door as her brother passed it with awkward caution. A dull instinct told her that he was going to the moat again. Presently he passed beneath her window and across the dewy lawn, leaving a trailing mark upon the grass. The whole picture seemed suddenly to be familiar to her. She had lived through it all before—not in another life, not in years gone by, not in a dream, but during the last few hours.

The air was very still, and she could hear the clank of the chain as Sidney unmoored the old punt, rarely used except by the gardener to clean the moat when the weeds died down in autumn. The quiet was rendered more remarkable by the suddenness of its advent. All night it had been blowing a wild gale, which dropped at dawn, and from the soft land the mist rose instantly.

Prompted by a vague desire to be doing something, Hilda presently turned from the window, and, after a moment's indecision, chose from the shelf a novel fresh from the brain of the king of writers. With it she returned to her low chair and listlessly turned over the leaves for some moments. She raised her head and sought in vain the tiny form of a lark trilling out his morning hymn far up in the blue sky. Then she resolutely commenced to read uninterruptedly.

She read on until Sidney's firm step upon the gravel beneath the window roused her. A minute later he knocked softly at her door. The water was glistening on his rough shooting-boots as he entered the room, and upon the brown leather gaiters there was a deeper shade showing where the wet grass had brushed against his legs. His honest, immobile face showed but little surprise at the sight of Hilda still in evening dress, but she saw that he noticed it.

She rose from her low chair and laid aside the book, but no sort of greeting passed between them.

"I have been all round again," he said quietly, "by daylight, and—and of course there is no sign."

She nodded her head, but did not speak.

"I have been thinking," he continued somewhat shyly, "as to what is to be done. First of all, no one must be told. Mother, Molly, you, and I know it, and we must keep it to ourselves. We will tell Stanley that Christian has gone off suddenly in connection with his work, and the same excuse will do for the neighbours and servants. I will telegraph this morning to Mr. Bodery, the editor of the Beacon, and await his instructions. I think that is all that we can do in the meantime."

She was standing close to him, with one hand on the table, resting upon the closed volume of "Vanity Fair," but instead of looking at her brother she was gazing calmly out of the window.

"Yes," she murmured, "I think that is all that we can do in the meantime."

Sidney moved awkwardly as if about to leave the room, but hesitated still.

"Have you nothing to suggest?" he asked. "Do you think I am acting rightly?"

She was still looking out of the window—still standing motionless near the table with her hand upon Thackeray's "Vanity Fair."

"Yes," she replied; "everything you suggest seems wise and prudent."

"Then will you see mother and Molly in their rooms and forewarn them to say nothing—nothing that may betray our anxiety?"

"Yes, I will see them."

Sidney walked heavily to the door. Grasping the handle, he turned round once more.

"It is nearly half-past seven," he said, with more confidence in his tone, "and Mary will soon be coming to awake you. It would not do for her to see you in that dress."

Hilda turned and raised her eyes to his face.

"No," she said, with a sudden smile; "I will change it at once."



CHAPTER XIV

FOILED

When Mr. Bodery opened the door of the room upon the second floor of the tall house in the Strand that morning, he found Mr. Morgan seated at the table surrounded by proof-sheets, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves tucked up. The subeditor of the Beacon was in reality a good hard worker in his comfortable way, and there was little harm in his desire that the world should be aware of his industry.

"Good morning, Morgan," said the editor, hanging up his hat.

"Morning," replied the other genially, but without looking up. Before Mr. Bodery had seated himself, however, the sub-editor laid his hand with heavy approval upon the odoriferous proof-sheet before him, and looked up.

"This article of Vellacott's is first-rate," he said. "By Jove! sir, he drops on these holy fathers—lets them have it right and left. The way he has worked out the thing is wonderful, and that method of putting everything upon supposition is a grand idea. It suggests how the thing could be done upon the face of it, while the initiated will see quickly enough that it means to show how the trick was in reality performed—ha, ha!"

"Yes," replied Mr. Bodery absently. He was glancing at the pile of letters that lay upon his desk. There were among them one or two telegrams, and these he put to one side while he took up each envelope in succession to examine the address, throwing it down again unopened. At length he turned again to the telegrams, and picked up the top one. He was about to tear open the envelope when there was a sharp knock at the door.

"'M'in!" said Mr. Morgan sharply, and at the same moment the silent door was thrown open. The diminutive form of the boy stood in the aperture.

"Gentleman to see you, sir," he said, with great solemnity.

"What name?" asked Mr. Bodery.

"Wouldn't give his name, sir—said you didn't know it, sir."

Even this small office-boy was allowed his quantum of discretionary power. It rested with him whether an unknown visitor was admitted or politely dismissed to a much greater extent than any one suspected. Into his manner of announcing a person he somehow managed to convey his opinion as to whether it was worth the editor's time to admit him or not, and he invariably received Mr. Bodery's "Tell him I'm engaged" with a little nod of mutual understanding which was intensely comprehensive.

On this occasion, his manner said, "Have him in have him in, my boy, and you will find it worth your while'"

"Show him in," said Mr. Bodery.

The nameless gentleman must have been at the door upon the boy's heels, for no sooner had the words left Mr. Bodery's lips than a tall, dark form slid into the room. So noiseless and rapid were this gentleman's movements that there is no other word with which to express his mode of progression.

He made a low bow, and shot up erect again with startling rapidity. He then stood quietly waiting until the door had closed behind the small boy, who, after having punctiliously expectorated upon a silver coin which had found its way into the palm of his hand, proceeded to slide down the balustrade upon his waistcoat.

It often occurred that strangers addressed themselves to Mr. Morgan when ushered into the little back room, under the impression that he was the editor of the Beacon. Not so, however, this tall, clean-shaven person. He fixed his peculiar light-blue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with a slight inclination, said suavely—

"This, sir, is, I believe, your printing day?"

"It is, sir, and a busy day with us," replied the editor, with no great warmth of manner.

"Would it be possible now," inquired the stranger conversationally, "at this late hour, to remove a printed article and substitute another?"

At these words Mr. Morgan ceased making some pencil notes with which he was occupied, and looked up. He met the stranger's benign glance and, while still looking at him, deliberately turned over all the proof-sheets before him, leaving no printed matter exposed to the gaze of the curious.

Mr. Bodery had in the meantime consulted his watch.

"Yes," he replied, with dangerous politeness. "There would still be time to do so if necessary—at the sacrifice of some hundredweight of paper."

"How marvellously organised your interesting paper must be!"

Dead silence. Most men would have felt embarrassed, but no sign of such feeling was forthcoming from any of the three. It is possible that the dark gentleman with the sky-blue eyes wished to establish a sense of embarrassment with a view to the furtherance of his own ends. If so, his attempt proved lamentably abortive. Mr. Bodery sat with his plump hands resting on the table, and looked contemplatively up into the stranger's face. Mr. Morgan was scribbling pencil notes on a tablet.

"The truth is," explained the stranger at length, "that a friend of mine, who is unfortunately ill in bed this morning—"

(Mr. Bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, though he listened attentively.)

" ... has received a telegram from a gentleman who I am told is on the staff of your journal—Mr. Vellacott. This gentleman wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article he has sent to you. He states that he will re-write the article, with certain alterations, in time for next week's issue."

Mr. Bodery's face was pleasantly illegible.

"May I see the telegram?" he asked politely.

"Certainly!"

The stranger produced and handed to the editor a pink paper covered with faint black writing.

"You will see at the foot this—Mr. Vellacott's reason for not wiring to you direct. He wished my friend to be here before the printers got to work this morning; but owing to this unfortunate illness—"

"I am afraid you are too late, sir," interrupted Mr. Bodery briskly. "The press is at work—"

"My friend instructed me," interposed the stranger in his turn, "to make you rather a difficult proposition. If a thousand pounds will compensate for the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray the expense of paper spoilt—I—I have that amount with me."

Mr. Bodery did not display the least sign of surprise, merely shaking his head with a quiet smile. Mr. Morgan, however, laid aside his pencil, and placed his elbow upon the proof-sheets before him.

The stranger then stepped forward with a sudden change of manner.

"Mr. Bodery," he said, in a low, concentrated voice, "I will give you five hundred pounds for a proof copy of Mr. Vellacott's article."

A dead silence of some moments' duration followed this remark. Mr. Morgan raised his head and looked across the table at his chief. The editor made an almost imperceptible motion with his eyebrows in the direction of the door.

Then Mr. Morgan rose somewhat heavily from his chair, with a hand upon either arm, after the manner of a man who is beginning to put on weight rapidly. He went to the door, opened it, and, turning towards the stranger, said urbanely:

"Sir—the door!"

This kind invitation was not at once accepted.

"You refuse my offers?" said the stranger curtly, without deigning to notice the sub-editor.

Mr. Bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he was cutting open the envelopes, one by one, with a paper-knife, without, however, removing the contents. He looked up.

"To-morrow morning," he said, "you will be able to procure a copy from any stationer for the trifling sum of sixpence."

Then the stranger walked slowly past Mr. Morgan out of the room.

"A curse on these Englishmen!" he muttered, as he passed down the narrow staircase. "If I could only see the article I could tell whether it is worth resorting to stronger measures or not. However, that is Talma's business to decide, not mine."

Mr. Morgan closed the door of the small room and resumed his seat. He then laughed aloud, but Mr. Bodery did not respond.

"That's one of them," observed Mr. Morgan comprehensively.

"Yes," replied the editor, "a dangerous customer. I do not like a blue-chinned man."

"I was not much impressed with his diplomatic skill."

"No; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. No doubt his information was of the scantiest, and—we are not chickens, Morgan."

"No," said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh. He turned to the revision of the proof-sheets again, while the editor began opening and reading his telegrams.

"This is a little strong," exclaimed Mr. Morgan, after a few moments of silence, broken only by the crackle of paper. "Just listen here:—

"'It simply comes to this—the General of the Society of Jesus is an autocrat in the worst sense of the word. He holds within his fingers the wires of a vast machine moving with little friction and no noise. No farthest corner of the world is entirely beyond its influence; no political crisis passes that is not hurried on or restrained by its power. Unrecognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, the vast Society does its work. It is not for us who live in a broad-minded, tolerant age to judge too harshly. It is not for us to say that the Jesuits are unscrupulous and treacherous. Let us be just and give them their due. They are undoubtedly earnest in their work, sincere in their belief, true to their faith. But it is for us to uphold our own integrity. We are accused—as a nation—of stirring up the seeds of rebellion, of crime and bloodshed in the heart of another country. Our denial is considered insufficient; our evidence is ignored. There remains yet to us one mode of self-defence. After denying the crime (for crime it is in humane and political sense) we can turn and boldly lay it upon those whom its results would chiefly benefit: the Roman Catholic Church in general—the Society of Jesus in particular. We have endeavoured to show how the followers of Ignatius Loyola could have brought about the present crisis in France; the extent to which they would benefit by a religious reaction is patent to the most casual observer; let the Government of England do the rest.'"

Mr. Bodery was, however, not listening. He was staring vacantly at a telegram which lay spread out upon the table.

"What is the meaning of this?" he exclaimed huskily.

The sub-editor looked up sharply, with his pen poised in the air. Then Mr. Bodery read:

"Is Vellacott with you? Fear something wrong. Disappeared from here last night."

Mr. Morgan moved in his seat, stretching one arm out, while he pensively rubbed his clean-shaven chin and looked critically across the table.

"Who is it from?" he asked.

"Sidney Carew, the man he is staying with."

They remained thus for some moments; the editor looking at the telegram with a peculiar blank expression in his eyes; Mr. Morgan staring at him while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with outspread finger and thumb. In the lane beneath the window some industrious housekeeper was sweeping her doorstep with aggravating monotony; otherwise there was no sound.

At length Mr. Morgan rose from his seat and walked slowly to the window. He stood gazing out upon the smoke-begrimed roofs and crooked chimneys. Between his lips he held his pen, and his hands were thrust deeply into his trouser pockets. It was on that spot and in that attitude that he usually thought out his carefully written weekly article upon "Home Affairs." He was still there when the editor touched a small gong which stood on the table at his side. The silent door instantly opened, and the supernaturally sharp boy stood on the threshold grimly awaiting his orders.

"Bradshaw."

"Yess'r," replied the boy, closing the door. His inventive mind had conceived a new and improved method of going downstairs. This was to lie flat on his back upon the balustrade with a leg dangling on either side. If the balance was correct, he slid down rapidly and shot out some feet from the bottom, as he had, from an advantageous point of view on Blackfriars Bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot from a Thames warehouse into the barge beneath. If, however, he made a miscalculation, he inevitably rolled off sideways and landed in a heap on the floor. Either result appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and exhilaration. On this occasion he performed the feat with marked success.

"Guv'nor's goin' on the loose—wants the railway guide," he confided to a small friend in the printing interest whom he met as he was returning with the required volume.

"Suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then," remarked the black-fingered one with fine sarcasm. Whereupon there followed a feint—a desperate lunge to one side, a vigorous bob of the head, and a resounding bang with the railway guide in the centre of the sarcastic youth's waistcoat.

Having executed a strategic movement, and a masterly retreat up the stairs, the small boy leant over the banisters and delivered himself of the following explanation:

"I 'it yer one that time. Don't do it agin. Good morning, sir."

Mr. Bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, stopped, looked rapidly down a column, and, without raising his eyes from the railway guide, tore a telegraph form from the handle of a drawer at his side. Then he wrote in a large clear style:

"Will be with you at five o'clock. Invent some excuse for V.'s absence. On no account give alarm to authorities."

The sharp boy took the telegram from the editor's hand with an expression of profound respect upon his wicked features.

"Go down to Banks," said Mr. Bodery, "ask him to let me have two copies of the foreign policy article in ten minutes."

When the silent door was closed, Mr. Morgan wheeled round upon his heels, and gazed meditatively at his superior.

"Going down to see these people?" he asked, with a jerk of his head towards the West.

"Yes, I am going by the eleven-fifteen."

"I have been thinking," continued the sub-editor, "we may as well keep the printing-office door locked to-day. That slippery gentleman with the watery eyes meant business, or I am very much mistaken. I'll just send upstairs for Bander to go on duty at the shop door to-day as well as to-morrow; I think we shall have a big sale this week."

Mr. Bodery rose from his seat and began brushing his faultless hat.

"Yes," he replied; "do that. It would be very easy to get at the machinery. Printers are only human!"

"Machinery is ready enough to go wrong when nobody wishes it," murmured Mr. Morgan vaguely, as he sat down at the table and began setting the scattered papers in order.

Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to Christian Vellacott's forethought.

The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were already there.

"I say, Bodery," said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, "it seems to me that you are taking much too serious a view of this matter. Vellacott is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck me that he was very well able to take care of himself."

"I have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means of justification. A fanatic is always dangerous."

"A sincere fanatic," suggested the sub-editor.

"Exactly so; and a sincere fanatic in the hands of an agitator is the very devil. That is whence these fellows got their power. Half of them are fanatics and the other half hypocrites."

Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plump hand, which the subeditor grasped.

"I hope," said the latter, "that you will find Vellacott at the station to meet you—ha, ha!"

"I hope so."

"If," said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to the door—"if he turns up here, I will wire to Carew and to you, care of the station-master."



CHAPTER XV

BOOKS

The London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded up his newspapers, reached down his bag from the netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the Beacon had enjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite broiling sun and searching dust. He knew the possibilities of a first-class smoking-carriage—how to regulate the leeward window and chock off the other with a wooden match borrowed from the guard.

He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a man past the forties, and a moment later Sidney Carew was at his side.

"Mr. Bodery?"

"The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew?"

"Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't inconvenience you?"

"Not at all," replied the editor, breaking his return ticket.

"D——n!" said Sidney suddenly.

He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He was one of those men who are usually too slack to burthen their souls with a refreshing expletive.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mr. Bodery gravely.

"There is a man," explained Sidney hurriedly, "getting out of the train who is coming to stay with us. I had forgotten his existence. Don't look round!"

Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round. Nine out of ten country-bred people would have indulged in a stare.

"Is this all your luggage?" continued Sidney abruptly. He certainly was rising.

"Yes."

"Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll have to get a fly, and that means ten minutes' start if the porter is not officious and mulls things."

They hurried out of the station and clambered into the dog-cart. Sidney gathered up the reins.

"Hang it," he exclaimed. "What bad luck! There is a fly waiting. It is never there when you want it."

Mr. Bodery looked between the shafts.

"You need not be afraid of that fly," he said.

"No—come up, you brute!"

Mr. Bodery turned carelessly to put his bag in the back of the cart.

"Let him have it," he exclaimed in a low voice. "Your friend sees you, but he does not know that you have seen him. He is pointing you out to the station-master."

As he spoke the cart swung round the gate-post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's right hand felt for the whip-socket.

"There," he said, "we are safe. I think I can manage that fly."

Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust-cloth over his chubby knees.

"Now," he said, "tell me all about Vellacott."

Sidney did so.

He gave a full and minute description of events previous to Christian Vellacott's disappearance, omitting nothing. The relation was somewhat disjointed, somewhat vague in parts, and occasionally incoherent. The narrator repeated himself—hesitated—blurted out some totally irrelevant fact, and finished up with a vague supposition (possessing a solid basis of truth) expressed in doubtful English. It suited Mr. Bodery admirably. In telling all about Vellacott, Sidney unconsciously told all about Mrs. Carew, Molly, Hilda, and himself. When he reached the point in his narration telling how Vellacott had been attracted into the garden, he became extremely vague and his style notably colloquial. Tell the story how he would, he felt that he could not prevent Mr. Bodery from drawing his own inferences. Young ladies are not in the habit of whistling for youthful members of the opposite sex. Few of them master the labial art, which perhaps accounts for much. Sidney Carew was conscious that his style lacked grace and finish.

Mr. Bodery did draw his own inferences, but the countenance into which Sidney glanced at intervals was one of intense stolidity.

"Well, I confess I cannot make it out—at present," he said; "Vellacott has written to us only on business matters. We publish to-morrow a very good article of his purporting to be the dream of an overworked attache. It is very cutting and very incriminating. The Government cannot well avoid taking some notice of it. My only hope is that he is in Paris. There is something brewing over there. Our Paris agent wired for Vellacott this morning. By the way, Mr. Carew, is there a monastery somewhere in this part of the country?"

"Down that valley," replied Sidney, pointing with his whip.

"In Vellacott's article there is mention of a monastery—not too minutely described, however. There are also some remarkable suppositions respecting an old foreigner living in seclusion. Could that be the man you mentioned just now—Signor Bruno?"

"Hardly. Bruno is a harmless old soul," replied Sidney, pulling up to turn into the narrow gateway.

There was no time to make further inquiries.

Sidney led the way into the drawing-room. The ladies were there.

"My mother, Mr. Bodery—my sister; my sister Hilda," he blurted out awkwardly.

Mrs. Carew shook hands, and the two young ladies bowed. They were all disappointed in Mr. Bodery. He was too calm and comfortable—also there was a suggestion of cigar smoke in his presence, which jarred.

"I am sorry," said the Londoner, with genial self-possession, "to owe the pleasure of this visit to such an unfortunate incident."

Molly felt that she hated him.

"Then you have heard nothing of Christian?" said Mrs. Carew.

"Nothing," replied Mr. Bodery, removing his tight gloves. "But it is too soon to think of getting anxious yet. Vellacott is eminently capable of taking care of himself—he is, above all things, a journalist. Things are disturbed in Paris, and it is possible that he has run across there."

Mrs. Carew smiled somewhat incredulously.

"It was a singular time to start," observed Hilda quietly.

Mr. Bodery turned and looked at her.

"Master mind in this house," he reflected.

"Yes," he admitted aloud.

He folded his gloves and placed them in the pocket of his coat. The others watched him in silence.

"Do you take sugar and cream?" inquired Hilda sweetly, speaking for the second time.

"Please—both. In moderation."

"I say," interrupted Sidney at this moment, "the Vicomte d'Audierne is following us in a fly. He will be here in five minutes."

Mrs. Carew nodded. She had not forgotten this guest.

"The Vicomte d'Audierne," said Mr. Bodery, with considerable interest, turning away from the tea-table, cup in hand. "Is that the man who got out of my train?"

"Yes," replied Sidney; "do you know him?"

"I have heard of him." Mr. Bodery turned and took a slice of bread and butter from a plate which Hilda held.

At this moment there was a rumble of carriage wheels.

"By the way," said the editor of the Beacon, raising his voice so as to command universal attention, "do not tell the Vicomte d'Audierne about Vellacott. Do not let him know that Vellacott has been here. Do not tell him of my connection with the Beacon."

The ladies barely had time to reconsider their first impression of Mr. Bodery when the door was thrown open, and a servant announced M. d'Audierne.

He who entered immediately afterwards—with an almost indecent haste—was of middle height, with a certain intrepid carriage of the head which appeals to such as take pleasure in the strength and endurance of men. His face, which was clean shaven, was the face of a hawk, with the contracted myope vision characteristic of that bird. It is probable that from the threshold he took in every occupant of the room.

"Mrs. Carew," he said in a pleasant voice, speaking almost faultless English, "after all these years. What a pleasure!"

He shook hands, turning at the same time to the others.

"And Sid," he said, "and Molly—wicked little Molly. Never mind—your antecedents are safe. I am silent as the grave."

This was not strictly true. He was as deep, and deeper than the resting-place mentioned, but his method was superior to silence.

"And Hilda," he continued, "thoughtful little Hilda, who was always too busy to be naughty. Not like Molly, eh?"

"Heavens! How old it makes one feel!" he exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Carew.

The lady laughed.

"You are not changed, at all events," she said. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Bodery—the Vicomte d'Audierne."

The two men bowed.

"Much pleasure," said the Frenchman.

Mr. Bodery bowed again in an insular manner, which just escaped awkwardness, and said nothing.

Then Molly offered the new-comer some tea, and the party broke up into groups. But the Vicomte's personality in some subtle manner pervaded the room. Mr. Bodery lapsed into monosyllables and felt ponderous. Monsieur d'Audierne had it in his power to make most men feel ponderous when the spirit moved him in that direction.

As soon as tea was finally disposed of Mrs. Carew proposed an adjournment to the garden. She was desirous of getting Mr. Bodery to herself.

It fell to Hilda's lot to undertake the Frenchman. They had been great friends once, and she was quite ready to renew the pleasant relationship. She led her guest to the prettiest part of the garden—the old overgrown footpath around the moat.

As soon as they had passed under the nut-trees into the open space at the edge of the water, the Vicomte d'Audierne stopped short and looked round him curiously. At the same time he gave a strange little laugh.

"Hein—hein—c'est drole," he muttered, and the girl remembered that in the old friendship between the brilliant, middle-aged diplomatist and the little child they had always spoken French. She liked to hear him speak his own language, for in his lips it received full justice: it was the finest tongue spoken on this earth. But she did not feel disposed just then to humour him. She looked at him wonderingly as his deep eyes wandered over the scene.

While they stood there, something—probably a kestrel—disturbed the rooks dwelling in the summits of the still elms across the moat, and they rose simultaneously in the air with long-drawn cries.

"Ah! Ah—h!" said the Vicomte, with a singular smile.

And then Hilda forgot her shyness.

"What is it?" she inquired in the language she had always spoken to this man.

He turned and walked beside her, suiting his steps to hers, for some moments before replying.

"I was not here at all," he said at length, apologetically; "I was far away from you. It was impolite. I am sorry."

He intended that she should laugh, and she did so softly. "Where were you?" she inquired, glancing at him beneath her golden lashes.

Again he paused.

"There is," he said at length, "an old chateau in Morbihan—many miles from a railway—in the heart of a peaceful country. It has a moat like this—there are elms—there are rooks that swing up into the air like that and call—and one does not know why they do it, and what they are calling. Listen, little girl—they are calling something. What is it? I think I was there. It was impolite—I am sorry, Miss Carew."

She laughed again sympathetically and without mirth; for she was meant to laugh.

He looked back over his shoulder at times as if the calling of the rooks jarred upon his nerves.

"I do not think I like them—" he said, "now."

He was not apparently disposed to be loquacious as he had been at first. Possibly the rooks had brought about this change. Hilda also had her thoughts. At times she glanced at the water with a certain shrinking in her heart. She had not yet forgotten the moments she had passed at the edge of the moat the night before. They walked right round the moat and down a little pathway through the elm wood without speaking. The rooks had returned to their nests and only called to each other querulously at intervals.

"Has it ever occurred to you, little girl," said the Vicomte d'Audierne suddenly, "to doubt the wisdom of the Creator's arrangements for our comfort, or otherwise, here below?"

"I suppose not," he went on, without waiting for an answer, which she remembered as an old trick of his. "You are a woman—it is different for you."

The girl said nothing. She may have thought differently; one cannot always read a maiden's thoughts.

They walked on together. Suddenly the Vicomte d'Audierne spoke.

"Who is this?" he said.

Hilda followed the direction of his eyes.

"That," she answered, "is Signor Bruno. An old Italian exile. A friend of ours."

Bruno came forward, hat in hand, bowing and smiling in his charming way.

Hilda introduced the two men, speaking in French.

"I did not know," said Signor Bruno, with outspread hands, "that you spoke French like a Frenchwoman."

Hilda laughed.

"Had it," she said, with a sudden inspiration, "been Italian, I should have told you."

There was a singular smile visible, for a moment only, in the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne, and then he spoke.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "learnt most of it from me. We are old friends."

Signor Bruno bowed. He did not look too well pleased.

"Ah—but is that so?" he murmured conversationally.

"Yes; I hope she learnt nothing else from me," replied the Vicomte carelessly.

Hilda turned upon him with a questioning smile.

"Why?"

"I do not imagine, little girl," replied d'Audierne, "that you could learn very much that is good from me."

Hilda gave a non-committing little laugh, and led the way through the nut-trees towards the house. The Vicomte d'Audierne followed, and Signor Bruno came last. When they emerged upon the lawn in view of Mrs. Carew and Mr. Bodery, who were walking together, the Vicomte dropped his handkerchief. Signor Bruno attempted to pick it up, and there was a slight delay caused by the interchange of some Gallic politeness.

Before the two foreigners came up with Hilda, who had walked on, Signor Bruno found time to say:

"I must see you to-night, without fail; I am in a very difficult position. I have had to resort to strong measures."

"Where?" inquired the Vicomte d'Audierne, with that pleasant nonchalance which is so aggravating to the People.

"In the village, any time after nine; a yellow cottage near the well."

"Good!"

And they joined Hilda Carew.



CHAPTER XVI

FOES

It is only when our feelings are imaginary that we analyse them. When the real thing comes—the thing that only does come to a few of us—we can only feel it, and there is no thought of analysis. Moreover, the action is purely involuntary. We feel strange things—such things as murder—and we cannot help feeling it. We may cringe and shrink; we may toss in our beds when we wake up with such thoughts living, moving, having their being in our brains—but we cannot toss them off. The very attempt to do so is a realisation, and from consciousness we spring to knowledge. We know that in our hearts we are thieves, murderers, slanderers; we know that if we read of such thoughts in a novel we should hold the thinker in all horror; but we are distinctly conscious all the time that these thoughts are our own. This is just the difference existing between artificial feelings and real: the one bears analysis, the other cannot.

Hilda Carew could not have defined her feelings on the evening of the arrival of Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte d'Audierne. She was conscious of the little facts of everyday existence. She dressed for dinner with singular care; during that repast she talked and laughed much as usual, but all the while she felt like any one in all the world but Hilda Carew. At certain moments she wondered with a throb of apprehension whether the difference which was so glaringly patent to herself could possibly be hidden from others. She caught strange inflections in her own voice which she knew had never been there before—her own laughter was a new thing to her. And yet she went on through dinner and until bedtime, acting this strange part without break, without fault—a part which had never been rehearsed and never learnt: a part which was utterly artificial and yet totally without art, for it came naturally.

And through it all she feared the Vicomte d'Audierne. Mr. Bodery counted for nothing. He made a very good dinner, was genial and even witty in a manner befitting his years and station. Mrs. Carew was fully engaged with her guests, and Molly was on lively terms with the Vicomte; while Sidney, old Sidney—no one counted him. It was only the Vicomte who paused at intervals during his frugal meal, and looked across the table towards the young girl with those deep, impenetrable eyes—shadowless, gleamless, like velvet.

When bedtime at length arrived, she was quite glad to get away from that kind, unobtrusive scrutiny of which she alone was aware. She went to her room, and sitting wearily on the bed she realised for the first time in her life the incapacity to think. It is a realisation which usually comes but once or twice in a lifetime, and we are therefore unable to get accustomed to it. She was conscious of intense pressure within her brain, of a hopeless weight upon her heart, but she could define neither. She rose at length, and mechanically went to bed like one in a trance. In the same way she fell asleep.

In the meantime Mr. Bodery, Sidney Carew, and the Vicomte d'Audierne were smoking in the little room at the side of the porch. A single lamp with a red shade hung from the ceiling in the centre of this room, hardly giving enough light to read by. There were half-a-dozen deep armchairs, a divan, and two or three small tables—beyond that nothing. Sidney's father had furnished it thus, with a knowledge and appreciation of Oriental ways. It was not a study, nor a library, nor a den; but merely a smoking-room. Mr. Bodery had lighted an excellent cigar, and through the thin smoke he glanced persistently at the Vicomte d'Audierne. The Vicomte did not return this attention; he glanced at the clock instead. He was thinking of Signor Bruno, but he was too polite and too diplomatic to give way to restlessness.

At last Mr. Bodery opened fire from, as it were, a masked battery; for he knew that the Frenchman was ignorant of his connection with one of the leading political papers of the day. It was a duel between sheer skill and confident foreknowledge. When Mr. Bodery spoke, Sidney Carew leant back in his chair and puffed vigorously at his briar pipe.

"Things," said the Englishman, "seem to be very unsettled in France just now."

The Vicomte was engaged in rolling a cigarette, and he finished the delicate operation before looking up with a grave smile.

"Yes," he said. "In Paris. But Paris is not France. That fact is hardly realised in England, I think."

"What," inquired Mr. Bodery, with that conversational heaviness of touch which is essentially British, "is the meaning of this disturbance?"

Sidney Carew was enveloped in a perfect cloud of smoke.

For a moment—and a moment only—the Vicomte's profound gaze rested on the Englishman's face. Mr. Bodery was evidently absorbed in the enjoyment of his cigar. The smile that lay on his genial face like a mask was the smile of a consciousness that he was making himself intensely pleasant, and adapting his conversation to his company in a quite phenomenal way.

"Ah!" replied the Frenchman, with a neat little shrug of bewilderment. "Who can tell? Probably there is no meaning in it. There is so often no meaning in the action of a Parisian mob."

"Many things without meaning are not without result."

Again the Vicomte looked at Mr. Bodery, and again he was baffled.

"You only asked me the meaning," he said lightly. "I am glad you did not inquire after the result; because there I should indeed have been at fault. I always argue to myself that it is useless to trouble one's brain about results. I leave such matters to the good God. He will probably do just as well without my assistance."

"You are a philosopher," said Mr. Bodery, with a pleasant and friendly laugh.

"Thank Heaven—yes! Look at my position. Fancy carrying in France to-day a name that is to be found in the most abridged history. One needs to be a philosopher, Mr. Bodery."

"But," suggested the Englishman, "there may be changes. It may all come right."

The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water with vicious emphasis.

"If it began at once," he said, "it would never be right in my time. Not as it used to be. And in the meantime we are in the present—in the present France is governed by newspaper men."

Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some of his smoke had gone astray.

Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic.

"Yes," he said calmly, "that really seems to be the case."

"And newspaper men," pursued the Vicomte, "what are they? Men of no education, no position, no sense of honour. The great aim of politicians in France to-day is the aggrandisement of themselves."

Mr. Bodery yawned.

"Ah!" he said, with a glance towards Sidney.

Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps he was deceived by the yawn. At all events, he rose and expressed a desire to retire to his room. He was tired, he said, having been travelling all the previous night.

Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he rose and shook hands without displaying any intention of following the Vicomte's example.

Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for the Vicomte d'Audierne that this gentleman spoke.

"By the way," he said, "who is this person—this Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father's." Sidney was lighting the tall candles that stood upon the dressing-table, and the combined illumination showed with remarkable distinctness the reflection of his face in the mirror. From whence he stood the Frenchman could see this reflection.

"He is the friend of a great friend of mine; that is how we know him," replied Sidney, prizing up the wick of a candle. He was still rising to the occasion—this dull young Briton. Then he turned. "Christian Vellacott," he said; "you knew his father?"

"Ah, yes: I knew his father."

Sidney was moving to the door without any hurry, and also without any intention of being deterred.

"His father," continued the Vicomte, winding his watch meditatively, "was brilliant. Has the son inherited any brain?"

"I think so. Good night."

"Good night."

When the door was closed the Vicomte looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

"The Reverend Father Talma will have to wait till to-morrow morning," he said to himself. "I cannot go to him to-night. It would be too theatrical. That old gentleman is getting too old for his work."

In the meantime, Sidney returned to the little smoking-room at the side of the porch. There he found Mr. Bodery smoking with his usual composure. The younger man forbore asking any questions. He poured out for himself some whisky, and opened a bottle of soda-water with deliberate care and noiselessness.

"That man," said Mr. Bodery at length, "knows nothing about Vellacott."

"You think so?"

"I am convinced of it. By the way, who is the old gentleman who came to tea this afternoon?"

"Signor Bruno, do you mean?"

"I suppose so—that super-innocent old man with the white hair who wears window-glass spectacles."

"Are they window-glass?" asked Sidney, with a little laugh.

"They struck me as window-glass—quite flat. Who is he—beyond his name, I mean?"

"He is an Italian refugee—lives in the village."

Mr. Bodery had taken his silver pencil from his waistcoat pocket, and was rolling it backwards and forwards on the table. This was indicative of the fact that the editor of the Beacon was thinking deeply.

"Ah! And how long has he been here?"

"Only a few weeks."

Mr. Bodery looked up sharply.

"Is that all?" he inquired, with an eager little laugh.

"Yes."

"Then, my dear sir, Vellacott is right. That old man is at the bottom of it. This Vicomte d'Audierne, what do you know of him?"

"Personally?"

"Yes."

"He is an old friend of my father's. In fact, he is a friend of the family. He calls the girls by their Christian names, as you have heard to-night."

"Yes; I noticed that. And he came here to-day merely on a friendly visit?"

"That is all. Why do you ask?" inquired Sidney, who was getting rather puzzled.

"I know nothing of him personally—except what I have learnt to-day. For my own part, I like him," answered Mr. Bodery. "He is keen and clever. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. But, politically speaking, he is one of the most dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an active Royalist, and a staunch worker for the Church party. I don't know much about French politics—that is Vellacott's department. But I know that if he were here, and knew of the Vicomte's presence in England, he would be very much on the alert."

"Then," asked Sidney, "do you connect the presence of the Vicomte here with the absence of Vellacott?"

"There can be little question about it, directly or indirectly. Indirectly, I should think, unless the Vicomte d'Audierne is a scoundrel."

Sidney thought deeply.

"He may be," he admitted.

"I do not," pursued Mr. Bodery, with a certain easy deliberation, "think that the Vicomte is aware of Vellacott's existence. That is my opinion."

"He asked who you were—if you were a friend of my father's."

"And you said—"

"No! I said that you were a friend of a friend, and mentioned Vellacott's name. He knew his father very well."

"Were you"—asked Mr. Bodery, throwing away the end of his cigar and rising from his deep chair—"were you looking at the Vicomte when you answered the question?"

"Yes."

"And there was no sign of discomfort—no flicker of the eyelids, for instance?"

"No; nothing."

Mr. Bodery nodded his head in a businesslike way, indicative of the fact that he was engaged in assimilating a good deal of useful information.

"There is nothing to be done to-night," he said presently, as he made a movement towards the door, "but to go to bed. To-morrow the Beacon will be published, and the result will probably be rather startling. We shall hear something before to-morrow afternoon."

Sidney lighted Mr. Bodery's candle and shook hands.

"By the way," said the editor, turning back and speaking more lightly, "if any one should inquire—your mother or one of your sisters—you can say that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. Good night."



CHAPTER XVII

A RETREAT

It was quite early the next morning when the Vicomte d'Audierne left his room. As he walked along the still corridor and down the stairs it was noticeable that he made absolutely no sound, without, however, indulging in any of those contortions which are peculiar to late arrivals in church. It would seem that Nature had for purposes of her own made his footfall noiseless—if, by the way, Nature can be credited with any purpose whatever in her allotment of human gifts and failings.

In the hall he found a stout cook armed for assault upon the front-door step.

"Good morning," he said. "Can you tell me the breakfast-hour? I forgot to inquire last night."

"Nine o'clock, sir," replied the servant, rather taken aback at the thought of having this visitor dependent upon her for entertainment during the next hour and a half.

"Ah—and it is not yet eight. Never mind. I will go into the garden. I am fond of fruit before breakfast."

He took his hat and lounged away towards the kitchen-garden which lay near the moat.

"And now," he said to himself, looking round him in a searching way, "where is this pestilential village?"

The way was not hard to find, and as the church clock struck eight the Vicomte d'Audierne opened the little green gate of the cottage where Signor Bruno was lodging.

The old gentleman must have been watching for him; for he opened the door before the Vicomte reached it.

He turned and led the way into a little room on the right hand of the narrow passage. A little room intensely typical: china dogs, knitted antimacassars of a brilliant tendency, and horse-hair covered furniture. There was even the usual stuffy odour as if the windows, half-hidden behind muslin curtains and scarlet geraniums, were never opened from one year's end to another.

Signor Bruno closed the door before speaking. Then he turned upon his companion with something very like fury glittering in his eyes.

"Why did you not come last night?" he asked. "I am left alone to contend against one difficulty on the top of another. Read that!"

He drew from his pocket a thin and somewhat crumpled sheet of paper, upon which there were two columns of printed matter.

"That," he said, "cost us two thousand francs." The Vicomte d'Audierne read the printed matter carefully from beginning to end. He had approached the window because the light was bad, and when he finished he looked up for a few minutes, out of the little casement, upon the quiet village scene.

"The Beacon," he said, turning round, "what is that?"

"A leading weekly newspaper."

"Published—?

"To-day," snapped Signor Bruno.

The Vicomte d'Audierne made a little grimace.

"Who wrote this?" he inquired.

"Christian Vellacott, son of the Vellacott, whom you knew in the old days."

"Ah!"

There was something in the Vicomte's expressive voice that made Signor Bruno look at him sharply with some apprehension.

"Why do you say that?"

The Vicomte countered with another question.

"Who is this Mr. Bodery?"

He gave a little jerk with his head in the direction of the house he had just left.

"I do not know."

"I was told last night that he was a friend of this Christian Vellacott—a protector."

The two Frenchmen looked at each other in silence. Signor Bruno was evidently alarmed—his lips were white and unsteady. There was a smile upon the bird-like face of the younger man, and behind his spectacles his eyes glittered with an excitement in which there was obviously no fear.

"Do you know," he asked in a disagreeably soft manner, "where Christian Vellacott is?"

Across the benevolent old face of Signor Bruno here came a very evil smile.

"You will do better not to ask me that question," he replied, "unless you mean to run for it—as I do."

The Vicomte d'Audierne looked at his companion in a curious way.

"You had," he said, "at one time no rival as a man of action—"

Signor Bruno shrugged his shoulders.

"I am a man of action still."

The Vicomte folded the proof-sheet carefully, handed it back to his companion, and said:

"Then I understand that—there will be no more of these very clever articles?"

Bruno nodded his head.

"I ask no questions," continued the other. "It is better so. I shall stay where I am for a few days, unless it grows too hot—unless I think it expedient to vanish."

"You have courage?"

"No; I have impertinence—that is all. There will be a storm—a newspaper storm. The embassies will be busy; in the English Parliament some pompous fool will ask a question, and be snubbed for his pains. In the Chambre the newspaper men will rant and challenge each other in the corridors; and it will blow over. In the meantime we have got what we want, and we can hide it till we have need of it. Your Reverence and I have met difficulties together before this one."

But Signor Bruno was not inclined to fall in with these optimistic views.

"I am not so sure," he said, "that we have got what we want. There has been no acknowledgment of receipt of the last parcel—in the usual way—the English Standard."

"What was the last parcel?"

"Fifty thousand cartridges."

"But they were sent?"

"Yes; they were despatched in the usual way; but, as I say, they have not been acknowledged. There may have been some difficulty on the other side. Our police are not so easy-going as these coastguard gentlemen."

"Well," said the aristocrat, with that semi-bantering lightness of manner which sometimes aggravated, and always puzzled, his colleagues, "we will not give ourselves trouble over that: the matter is out of our hands. Let us rather think of ourselves. Have you money?"

"Yes—I have sufficient."

"It is now eight o'clock—this newspaper—this precious Beacon is now casting its light into some dark intellects in London. It will take those intellects two hours to assimilate the information, and one more hour to proceed to action. You have, therefore, three hours in which to make yourself scarce."

"I have arranged that," replied the old man calmly. "There is a small French potato-ship lying at Exmouth. In two hours I shall be one of her crew."

"That is well. And the others?"

"The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross by this morning's boat from Southampton to Cherbourg. You see how much I have had to do."

"I see also, my friend, how well you have done it."

"And now," said Signor Bruno, ignoring the compliment, "I must go. We will walk away by the back garden across the fields. You must remember that you may have been seen coming here."

"I have thought of that. One old man saw me, but he did not look at me twice. He will not know me again. And your landlady—where is she?"

"I have sent her out on a fool's errand."

As they spoke they left the little cottage by the back door, as Signor Bruno had proposed, through the little garden, and across some low-lying fields. Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to the left, while the Vicomte d'Audierne kept to the right.

"We shall meet, I suppose," were the last words of the younger man, "in the Rue St. Gingolphe?"

"Yes—in the Rue St. Gingolphe."

For so old a man the pace at which Signor Bruno breasted the hill that lay before him was somewhat remarkable. The Vicomte d'Audierne, on the other hand, was evidently blessed with a greater leisure. He looked at his watch and strolled on through the dew-laden meadows, wrapt in thought as in a cloak that hid the sweet freshness of the flowery hedgerows, that muffled the broken song of the busy birds, that killed the scent of ripening hay. Thus these two singular men parted—and it happened that they were never to meet again. These little things do happen. We meet with gravity; we part with a smile; perhaps we make an appointment; possibly we speak of the pleasure that the meeting seems to promise: and the next meeting is put off; it belongs to the great postponement.

Often we part with an indifferent nod, as these two men parted amidst the sylvan peace of English meadow on that summer morning. They belonged to two different stations in life almost as far apart as two social stations could be, even in a republic. They were not, in any sense of the word, friends; they were merely partners, intensely awake, as partners usually are, to each other's shortcomings.

The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought no more of Signor Bruno from the moment that he raised his hat and turned. A few moments later his thoughts were evidently far away.

"The son of Vellacott," he muttered, as he took a cigarette from a neat silver case. "How strange! And yet I am sorry. He might have done something in the world. That article was clever—very clever—curse it! He cannot yet be thirty. But one would expect something from the son of a man like Vellacott."

It was not yet nine o'clock when the Vicomte entered the dining-room by the open window. Only Hilda was there, and she was busy with the old leather post-bag. Among the letters there were several newspapers, and the Vicomte d'Audierne's expression underwent a slight change on perceiving them. His thin, mobile lips were closely pressed, and his chin—a very short one—was thrust forward. Behind the gentle spectacles his eyes assumed for a moment that singular blinking look which cannot be described in English, for it seemed to change their colour. In his country it would have been called glauque.

"Ah, Hilda!" he said, approaching slowly, "do I see newspapers? I love a newspaper!"

She handed him the Times enveloped in a yellow wrapper, upon which was printed her brother's name and address.

"Ah," he said lightly, "the Times—estimable, but just a trifle opaque. Is that all?"

His eyes were fixed upon two packets she held in her hand.

"These are Mr. Bodery's," she replied, looking at him with some concentration.

"And what newspaper does Mr. Bodery read?" asked the Frenchman, holding out his hand.

She hesitated for a moment. His position with regard to her was singular, his ascendency over her had never been tried. It was an unknown quantity; but the Vicomte d'Audierne knew his own power.

"Let me look, little girl," he said quietly in French.

She handed him the newspapers, still watching his face.

"The Beacon," he muttered, reading aloud from the ornamented wrapper, "a weekly journal."

He threw the papers down and returned to the Times, which he unfolded.

"Tell me, Hilda," he said, "is Mr. Bodery connected with this weekly journal, the Beacon?"

Her back was turned towards him. She was hanging up the key of the post-bag on a nail beside the fireplace.

"Yes," she replied, without looking round.

"Is he the editor?"

"Yes."

The Vicomte d'Audierne turned the Times carelessly.

"Ah!" he muttered, "the phylloxera has appeared again."

For some time he appeared to be absorbed in this piece of news, then he spoke again.

"I knew something of a man who writes for that newspaper—the Beacon. I knew his father very well."

"Yes."

The Vicomte glanced at her.

"Christian Vellacott," he said.

"We know him also," she answered, moving towards the bell. He made a step forward as if about to offer to ring the bell for her, but she was too quick.

When the butler entered the room, Hilda reminded him of some small omission in setting out the breakfast-table. The item required was in the room, and the man set it upon the table with some decision and a slightly aggrieved cast of countenance.

The Vicomte d'Audierne raised his eyes, and then he looked very grave. He was a singular man in many ways, but those who worked with him were aware of one peculiarity which by its prominence cast others into the shade. He possessed a very useful gift rarely given to men—the gift of intuition. It was dangerous to think when the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne were upon one's face. He had a knack of knowing one's thoughts before they were even formulated. He looked grave—almost distressed—on this occasion, because he knew something of which Hilda herself was ignorant. He knew that she was engaged to be married to one man while she loved another.



CHAPTER XVIII

AN EMPTY NEST

In the middle of breakfast a card was handed to Sidney Carew. He glanced at it, nodded his head as a signal to the servant that he need not wait, and slipped the card into his pocket. Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte d'Audierne were watching him.

Presently he rose from the table and left the room. Mrs. Carew became suddenly lively, and the meal went on unconcernedly. It was not long before Sidney came back.

"Do you want," he said to his mother, "some tickets for a concert at Brayport on the 4th of next month?"

"What sort of a concert?"

Sidney consulted the tickets.

"In aid," he read, "of an orphanage—the Police Orphanage."

"We always take six tickets," put in Miss Molly, and her mother began to seek her pocket.

"Mr. Bodery," said Sidney, at this moment, "you have nothing to eat. Let me cut you some ham."

He moved towards the sideboard, but Mr. Bodery rose from his seat.

"I prefer to carve it myself," he replied, proceeding to do so.

Sidney held the plate. They were quite close together, and Hilda was talking persistently and gaily to the Vicomte d'Audierne.

"The London police are here already," whispered Sidney; "shall I say anything about Vellacott?"

"No," replied Mr. Bodery, after a moment's reflection.

"I am going to ride over to Porton Abbey with them now."

"Right," replied the editor, returning to the table with his plate.

Sidney left the room again, and the Vicomte d'Audierne detected the quick, anxious glance directed by Hilda at his retreating form. A few minutes later young Carew rode away from the house in company with two men, while a fourth horseman followed closely.

He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, grizzled man, with the bearing of a soldier, while his second companion was fair and gentle in manner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, District Inspector of Police; the civilian was the keenest detective in London.

"Of course," said this man, who sat his hired horse with perfect confidence. "Of course we are too late, I know that."

He spoke softly and somewhat slowly; his manner was essentially that of a man accustomed to the entire attention of his hearers.

"The old Italian," he continued, "who went under the name of Signor Bruno, disappeared this morning. It is just possible that he will succeed in getting out of the country. It all depends upon who he is."

"Who do you suppose he is?" asked Captain Pharland. He was an upright old British soldier, and felt ill at ease in the society of his celebrated confrere.

"I don't know," was the frank reply; "you see this is not a criminal affair, it is entirely political; it is hardly in my line of country."

They rode on in silence for a space of time, during which Captain Pharland lighted a cigar and offered one to his companions. Sidney accepted, but the gentleman from London refused quietly, and without explanation. It was he who spoke first.

"Mr. Carew," he said, "can you tell me when this monastery was first instituted at Porton Abbey?"

"Last autumn."

The thin flaxen eyebrows went up very high, until they were lost to sight beneath the hat brim.

"Did they—ah—deal with the local tradesmen?"

"No," replied Sidney, "I think not. They received all their stores by train from London."

"And you have never seen any of the monks?"

"No, never."

The fair-haired gentleman gave a little upward jerk of the head and smiled quietly for his own satisfaction.

He did not speak again until the cavalcade reached Porton Abbey. The old place looked very peaceful in the morning light, standing grimly in the midst of that soft lush grass which only grows over old habitations.

One side of the long, low building was in good repair, while the other half had been allowed to crumble away. The narrow Norman windows had been framed with unpainted wood and cheap glass. The broad doorway had been partly filled in with unseasoned deal, and an inexpensive door had been fitted up.

The bell-knob was of brass, new and glaring in the morning sun. The gentleman from London, having alighted, took gently hold of this and rang. A faint tinkle rewarded him. It was the peculiar sound of a bell ringing in an empty house. After a moment's pause he wrenched the bell nearly out of its socket, and a long peal was the result. At last this ceased, and there was no sound in the house. The fair man looked back over his shoulder at Captain Pharland.

"Gone!" he said tersely.

Then he took from his breast pocket a little bar in the shape of a lever. He introduced the bent end of this between the door and the post, just above the keyhole, and gave a sharp jerk. There was a short crack like that made by the snapping of cast iron, and the door flew open.