When Derrick got back to the inn, he found Reggie at work on his masterpiece.

"Put that away for a minute or two, Rex," he said. "I want to talk to you. Do you know how to get married?"

"You catch your bride and bridegroom, dress them carefully, place them in a church, add a parson and mix slowly and carefully. There is also another way, much more expeditious and less trouble. You obtain a fresh, fair-sized special licence——"

"That's it," said Derrick, nodding. "Be serious, Rex, if you can. I want to know all about it."

"Quite so. And you've come to the right shop," said Reggie. "A novelist knows everything, or what's the use of him! I'll tell you all about it. And so you're going to marry your true love out of hand?" he said, when he had imparted the required information. "I don't blame you. If my angel would consent to marry me, I'd marry her the first available day, hour, instant. But why this haste on your part? I should have thought Miss Grant would have stipulated for the usual fuss and flare-up, bridesmaids, wedding cake, speeches, reception, et cetera."

"She ought to have them all," said Derrick, with a sigh. "But there are reasons why we should be married at once."

"One angel the less in England," said Reggie, with a sigh. "Well, you leave it all to me. I'll fix it for you, as the Americans say. By the way, do you know my friend, Lady Gridborough?"

"I did, but I don't," said Derrick, shortly. "At least, she doesn't know me now—as you saw. No, I can't tell you. Confound it all, I'm like a man in a beastly novel, a man 'with a secret,' a mystery."

"'Beastly novel!' I forgive you the blasphemy," said Reggie, "because I treasure you. A real live man with a secret is more precious than rubies in the eyes of a novelist. There, go in and get something to eat, if you can eat; I couldn't, if I were going to marry Celia Grant."

"And I can't—eat, I mean," said Derrick, and with something between a laugh and a sigh he rose and went into the inn.



CHAPTER XXV

Heyton slept badly that night and came down to breakfast after Lord Sutcombe and Miriam had finished theirs and gone out. He was in a bad temper, cursed the footman who waited on him, and when he had drunk a cup of coffee and made pretence of eating a piece of toast, mixed himself a glass of soda and whisky and went out.

He wandered about the park, and did not come in to lunch, but when he appeared at dinner, he was more than usually cheerful and talked to Miriam and his father in the aimless and futile way with which a man talks when he is engaged in the unaccustomed task of making himself agreeable. Both Miriam and his father noticed that he was more sparing of the wine than usual, and Lord Sutcombe, who thought that Miriam had given Percy a hint, glanced at her gratefully.

"Where have you been all day, Percy?" asked Miriam, masking her indifference with a show of curiosity.

"Oh, I've been mouching about," he said. "Looking round the estate generally." He fingered his glass and glanced across at the Marquess. "They seem to look after the preserves pretty well," he said; "but I noticed that there was a gipsy encampment down by the pool. Unpleasant sort of characters to have about you. I should clear them away, father."

"I know the gipsy encampment you mean," said the Marquess; "but they are pitched on that piece of common land; it is just outside the estate, and we have no power to remove them. Besides," he added, "I've a kind of liking for them; they do no harm; and they are, well, picturesque, don't you think, Miriam?"

"That's all very well," said Heyton, with a forced laugh; "but I don't know about their doing no harm. They're most of them thieves, I should say."

"We can spare a fowl or two," said the Marquess, with a smile. "And a broken hedge is soon mended."

"Oh, if it were only the fowls," said Heyton. "But I daresay some of them would fly higher than hen-roosts. For instance, nothing would be easier than to break into the house here; and there's plenty to tempt them—plenty of silver, I mean," he added, hastily and with a furtive glance at the Marquess.

"I don't think gipsies commit burglaries," said the Marquess, in his precise way. "They would find some difficulty in getting away with their booty. It would be easy to trace them."

"All the same, I'd try to get rid of them," said Heyton, doggedly. "I saw one or two of them, evil-looking chaps, lurking about the plantation."

"Looking for wood for their fires, no doubt," said the Marquess. "But I'll speak to the steward, if you wish it; though, as I say, they are on common land and it will not be easy to turn them off."

"Well, don't blame me when it's too late," said Percy, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Departing from his usual custom, he went into the drawing-room with his father and sat there, listening to Miriam's playing and singing; and it was he who suggested bed.

"I'm a bit tired; had a long tramp to-day," he said, yawning and stretching his arms.

"You ought to walk more, Percy," remarked the Marquess. "If you'll allow me to say so, I don't think you take enough exercise. You ought to ride; but perhaps you will when the hunting begins."

"Can't afford to hunt," retorted Heyton, with an unpleasant laugh. "Horses cost money."

"You shall have some hunters," said the Marquess, with a contraction of his brow. "I had thought of speaking to you about it. We will discuss it later on."

"All right," said Heyton, ungraciously. "Well, I'm off."

He went upstairs, and Miriam and the Marquess followed him soon after. Just as she was ready for bed, Heyton opened his dressing-room door and, looking in, said:

"I'm going to sleep in here to-night, Miriam."

He had often occupied the bed in his dressing-room; generally on nights when, if the truth must be told, he had drunk too much and was ashamed that Miriam should see him.

"Very well," she said, indifferently.

He closed the door and turned the key softly, took off his things and put on a thick dressing-gown over his pyjamas; then he sat down in a chair, with his hands thrust in the dressing-gown pockets, his head sunk on his breast, his teeth gnawing his lip. He was listening intently. Presently he got up, went to the bed and disarranged the clothes, giving them the appearance of having been slept in; then he went back to his chair and sat and listened again.

The faint noises of a big household retiring to rest grew less by degrees and then ceased; and presently all was perfectly still. He sat motionless, still listening, for another hour, two; then he rose and, opening the outer door stealthily, stopped, with craned head, still listening. The silence was unbroken, and with noiseless tread, he passed along the corridor to his father's door and, with his ear to the keyhole, listened again. He could hear his father's steady, long-drawn breathing, the breathing of a man in a deep sleep.

With a gesture, as if he were controlling his nervousness, Heyton tried the handle of the door; the door was not locked and he opened it and went in. The house was lit by electricity, and a small lamp was burning beside the Marquess's bed. Heyton stole across the room, in his felt slippers, and looked down at the sleeping man for a moment; then his furtive, bloodshot eyes went towards the small table beside the bed. There was a carafe of water and a glass, the Marquess's ring and his watch and chain on the table. The chain was an old-fashioned affair, with an extra ring, and on this ring were two keys, the key of the safe and a smaller one. Heyton knew that it was the key to the jewel-case.

His hand shook so much that, for a moment or two, he was afraid to touch the chain, lest it should jingle and wake the Marquess; with an effort, Heyton controlled the shaking hand, and, after some fumbling, took the keys from the ring; as he did so, his eyes wandered apprehensively from the things he was purloining to the face on the pillow; but in reality his movements had been noiseless, and the Marquess had not awakened.

With the keys in his hand, Heyton stole into the dressing-room adjoining, and closing the door softly, turned up the electric light. At sight of the safe, his courage rose, his nerves grew more steady; he had been careful to drink very little that night, and his brain was clear. He unlocked the safe and looked inside it. There were bundles of papers tied with tape and, at the back of them, a box covered with morocco leather. Heyton's breath came fast and his eyes glistened; he had seen that box once before, and knew that it contained the Sutcombe jewels. He took it out of the safe, closed the door and had got half-way across the room when he stopped suddenly; for it had occurred to him that, if he took the box, the Marquis, if he chanced to go to the safe, would miss it: it would be safer to empty the box of its precious contents and replace it in the safe. As he had guessed, the smaller key fitted the lock of the box; he opened it and, at sight of the diamonds and the other gems, he caught his breath, his eyes dilated.

There is a mystic fascination in precious stones and, gazing at them, Heyton yielded to that fascination and forgot for a moment, as his eyes dwelt on their flashing beauty, the need which had compelled him to steal them; but presently he released himself from the spell, thrust the jewels into the capacious pockets of his dressing-gown, locked the box and replaced it in the safe. As the safe door clanged softly to, he heard, or fancied he heard, a slight noise in the adjoining bedroom; the sound, actual or only fancied, struck a sudden terror to his craven heart and he sprang towards the door leading on to the corridor. The handle turned, but the door did not open: it was locked, and the key was not in it.

The noise in the Marquess's bedroom grew more distinct, and it had now resolved itself into the sound of footsteps. Livid with terror, with the perspiration standing out on his forehead, Heyton leant against the door as if powerless to move, powerless to stand upright. The door between the dressing-room and the bedroom opened; instinctively, Heyton stretched out his hand, found the switch, and extinguished the light.

"Who is there?" came the Marquess's voice. "What is it? Who is there?"

The voice came nearer; the Marquess was now in the dressing-room. Heyton knew that his father was standing still; that, in another instant, he would be calling for assistance. But the Marquess did not speak; he made a movement, and Heyton guessed that his father was returning to the bedroom to turn up all the lights there.

With a smothered oath, the wretched man stole forward, felt for the fireplace with his foot, caught up the poker and, feeling his way round the wall, reached the bedroom door. As he did so, the Marquess reached it also and actually touched his son. Heyton drew back a pace, swung up the poker and struck at the figure he could not see; there was a cry, a choked groan, the sound of a body falling to the floor; then a death-like silence.

Shaking in every limb, the poker still grasped in his hand, Heyton leant against the wall, his other hand clinging to it, as if for support. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick a thousand times as he crouched there, staring, with protruding eyes, into the horrible darkness; then, with a gasp, as if he were suffocating, he felt his way round to the switch, and turned it on. The light fell on the figure of the Marquess, lying on its back, where he had fallen; his arms were stretched out, he was quite motionless, and a thin stream of blood was trickling from his forehead; it had already reddened his face and made a small pool on the carpet.

Heyton stood and gazed at this horrible sight, as if he were turned to stone. He was like a man who has been suddenly struck by paralysis; it seemed to him as if the whole of his legs and feet had been turned to lead, and that he should never again be able to move them, that he would be forced to remain there until the servants came and that—that horrible thing lying at his feet were discovered.

For some minutes he remained in this condition of coma, stupor; but presently, gradually, he recovered the use of his limbs, his brain began to work again, and he asked himself whether there was any reason for the terror which had obsessed him. Of compunction for the awful crime there was nothing in his mind or heart. That the man he had struck down was his own father, did not count; every fibre of his being was absorbed, to the exclusion of everything else, in the desire for his own safety. So gigantic was his selfishness, that the working of his mind was not disturbed by the enormity of the crime he had committed; he saw now that, as events had turned out, he had acted unwisely in taking the jewels from their box; and, alertly and with something like calmness, he unlocked the safe, replaced the jewels in the box and left the safe door open; he was actually turning away, leaving the jewel-case in its place, when his cupidity got the better of him and he took up the case, hid it under his dressing-gown, and went towards the bedroom door.

As he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder at the silent, blood-stained form lying on the floor; he wondered whether his father were dead or only stunned. For a moment, he wished that the blow had been fatal: he, Heyton, would be the Marquess; there would be plenty of money ready to his hand, there would be no need to steal his own jewels, he thought, with an hysterical giggle. But he could leave nothing to chance now. With another glance at the motionless figure, he stole from the room and reached his own.

The unnatural calm which had supported him during the last few minutes had deserted him by this time, and, in closing the door, he did so clumsily enough to make a sound; the sound, slight as it was, struck him with renewed terror, and, in crossing the room, he stumbled against a chair and overthrew it; and let the two keys slip from his fingers. The sound of the falling chair was loud and distinct enough to fill him with apprehension, and he stood breathless and listened, as if he expected the whole household to awake.

There was a movement in Miriam's room, and he heard her voice calling to him softly.

"Was that you, Percy?" she asked, in the tone of one just awakened from sleep.

He was silent for a moment; it seemed hours to him—then he slipped into the bed, and, with a yawn, as if she had roused him from sleep, he replied,

"What is it?"

"I don't know," she said. "I thought I heard a noise."

"Oh, that!" he said, with another yawn. "I knocked over the chair by the bed, reaching for a glass of water. For goodness' sake, go to sleep and don't bother!"

Mentally cursing his wife, Heyton closed his eyes and tried to think. Strangely enough, his lack of imagination helped him; the imaginative man, in Heyton's position, would have conjured up all the terrible possibilities which environed him; but Heyton's mind was dull and narrow, and so he was able to concentrate on actual facts and actual chances.

Up to the present, he told himself, there was absolutely nothing to connect him with the robbery and the—murder, if murder it was. He felt sure that the Marquess had not seen him in that brief moment, when the old man stood in the doorway; if he had done so, he would certainly have spoken Heyton's name; there was nothing to show that the blow had been dealt by Heyton; with the selfishness of the baser kind of criminal, he had refrained from examining the motionless figure, lest he should be stained by the blood which flowed from the wound. No; the robbery would be laid to the charge of the ordinary burglar.

Then suddenly his mind switched off with a jolt; he had forgotten that the most damning proof of his guilt was in the cabinet opposite the bed, where he had thrust it. At that very moment he was actually in possession of the stolen goods; a minute search would be made, even his own room would not be exempt. He must hide the jewel-case somewhere. But where? Then he remembered having dropped the keys, and he hunted for them; but he could not find them. He was getting confused, obfuscated: he would search for the keys in the morning: perhaps, after all, he had left them in the dressing-room.

Throughout the remaining hours of that awful night, he lay pondering the momentous question, at one moment burning with fever, at another icy cold. The dawn broke, the sun rose, the room grew hot; and the heat gave him an idea. As the clock struck six, he rose, put on his boating flannels, and, with his bath towel over his arm, opened the bedroom door. He had actually forgotten the missing keys! Such lapses are common to the criminal.

Miriam was a light sleeper—as her awaking at the noise of the falling chair had proved—she became conscious of his presence and she opened her eyes.

"Oh, what is it, Percy?" she asked, petulantly and a little nervously.

"I'm going down to the lake for a swim," he said; "it's precious hot this morning. I left my white shoes in the room."

"No, you didn't," she said, impatiently. "I saw them with your other boots in the dressing-room yesterday."

"Oh, right!" he said. "Awfully sorry to have disturbed you."

He returned to the dressing-room, arranged the long bath towel over the jewel-case, and went downstairs. He was too early, as he knew, for any of the servants to be about, and he went through the lower hall and was unbolting the outer door when he chanced to glance at the window nearest it; it was closed by a common hasp, and was without bars. With a little nod of satisfaction, he opened the window noiselessly; then went out by the door.

He was about to go through the shrubbery, towards the little wood, at the bottom of which lay the lake, but it occurred to him that some of the servants might be getting up and that any movement of his should be open and free from secrecy. So he went straight across the lawn in the sauntering fashion of a man going for a bath and enjoying the fresh, warm air; but when he entered the wood, which was enchanted ground for Derrick and Celia, he looked round him cautiously; for it was just possible that one of the gamekeepers might be about; but there was no sight or sound of anyone, and when he had gained the centre of the wood, he stopped and looked around him, and presently, after waiting a minute or two listening intently, he hid the box under a bush and covered it with the leaves of last autumn. Then, with a sense of relief, for, light as it was, the jewel-case had weighed upon him like a leaden thing, he went to the lake, slipped off his things and had his swim.

He felt better after it; more of a man, as the poor fool told himself. There was nothing to connect him with the robbery, he had got rid of the jewel-case; it was well-nigh impossible that anyone should discover it; he could remove it when the fuss was over; indeed, perhaps there would be no need to deal with the jewels; the old man might be——

It was all very plausible; but he had forgotten to take into account that long arm of coincidence which so often upsets the plans of the most astute criminal. And yet, in this case, the arm was not so very long. For Derrick had acquired a habit of early rising during the experiences in South America; the circus people were always up soon after sunrise, and at the ranch most of the people were stirring at dawn, when the air was cool and fresh. That morning, Derrick, who had slept soundly, as your happy lover should sleep, rose and, leaving the inn, had sauntered along the road until he came to the gate where Lady Gridborough had seen him and Celia. Naturally enough, he passed into the wood; of course, taking the path on which he had walked with Celia. He was thinking of her, thinking of the future, of the joy that awaited him, and in that clear, sunlit air, with the song of the birds in his ears, the difficulties with which he was beset seemed very light and unimportant. The girl he had loved was going to be his; that thought was quite enough for such a morning. He had nearly reached the centre of the wood, when he stopped to take out his pipe and pouch, and he was about to strike a match, when he saw something white passing between the trees at a little distance from him.

At first he thought it was Celia, and, with a leap of the lover's heart, he took a step forward; then he stopped short; the figure was that of a man in flannels; and a moment or two afterwards, he had recognised Heyton. The disappointment was great; he had no desire to meet Heyton; the sight of him recalled the bitter past; and Derrick stood, frowning as he watched Heyton on his way to the lake. He saw Heyton stop and look round him, and then he lost sight of him, for Heyton was bending down in the act of hiding the jewel-case. When he rose, Derrick got a clear sight of the man's face, and something in its expression impressed Derrick curiously, painfully.

Nothing stops still in this world of ours; and men must go up or down. It was evident to Derrick that Heyton had gone very much down since he had last seen him. Heyton's face had coarsened, his lips had grown looser and more sensual, there were bags under his eyes; but it was not these grosser changes which struck Derrick so much, as the expression of the man's face; it was that of one burdened by some oppression of mind or body; it seemed to Derrick that the light, prominent eyes had in them a look of fear, the look a man wears when he is hunted and driven.

And why, just before he had disappeared, had Heyton looked round him, secretively, cautiously, as if he did not wish to be seen? It was ridiculous, Derrick told himself; but it seemed to him as if Heyton were hiding something. Half-unconsciously, he made a mental note of the spot at which Heyton had made that curious pause in his progress. But Derrick did not go to it; he wanted particularly to avoid Heyton—and Miriam, everyone connected with that wretched past which still hung over him like a cloud. So he returned to the road and went straight back to the inn.

Awaiting him, he found a letter from the engineers concerning matters which needed his immediate presence in London. He had just time to snatch a hasty breakfast, left word with the landlord for Reggie that he, Derrick, was obliged to go to London but would return by the night train, and reached the station just as the train came in. He was hot and, no doubt, looked rather worried; for there was no means of letting Celia know that he had gone, or of making an appointment with her. Of course, he pictured her wandering about the wood in the hope of seeing him, and acutely imagined her disappointment.



CHAPTER XXVI

Meanwhile, Heyton returned to the Hall; walking with a certain jauntiness which was not altogether assumed; for the disposal of the jewel-case had been an immense relief. Some of the servants were now about, and to her surprise, he wished one of the maids good morning quite pleasantly; to her surprise, because Heyton's manner to his inferiors was usually anything but a pleasant one; and, while all the household was devoted to the Marquess, and would have done anything for him, his son was unpopular. As he passed along the lower hall, Heyton glanced at the window he had opened: it had not been shut. He went up the stairs and, as he entered his dressing-room, hummed the latest comic song. The breakfast hour at the Hall was half-past nine; the Marquess was called at half-past eight, but Heyton's valet had orders not to disturb his master until he rang, and, more often than not, Heyton's bell did not ring until breakfast was on the table.

Heyton threw himself down on the bed and closed his eyes with the preposterous idea of getting a little sleep; but he lay and listened, and presently he heard Miriam's maid knocking at the bedroom door; then he rose and rang for his man.

"Early this morning, eh, Simcox?" he said. "Been for a swim. Feel jolly fit. Fact is, we all lie abed too late; I've half a mind to get up for a bath in the lake every morning."

The valet grinned to himself as he answered respectfully,

"Yes, my lord. Very pleasant in the morning."

When he had half finished dressing, Heyton called to Miriam.

"I say, Miriam, what about a drive this morning? We might go over to Teynsham."

"I don't know; I'll see," she called back listlessly.

"I'll wear a tweed suit," said Heyton to his man; "I'll have the new one. And, look here, you tell the tailor to give me a little more room round the waist. I suppose I must be getting fat, eh, Simcox?"

"Oh, not fat, my lord," murmured Simcox, remonstratingly. "More—er—comfortable."

When the man had finished with him, Heyton lit a cigarette and leant back in his chair—as if he were waiting for something.

He had not to wait long.

A cry rang through the house; it was followed by others; there was the sound of rushing footsteps and voices raised in terror; his door was flung open and Simcox stood on the threshold, his face white, his eyes starting; he gaped at his master speechlessly, and Heyton gaped back at him.

"Well, what the devil is it?" he asked at last, his face red, his lips quivering. "What do you mean by rushing in, in this—idiotic fashion?"

"Oh, my lord!" gasped Simcox. "Something's—something's happened. Oh, it's awful! It's the Marquess's man—Mr. Jenkins—he's just been to call his lordship and—and—oh, my lord, it's 'orrible!"

Heyton rose, gripping the back of the chair.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"Oh, my lord, the Marquess is dead!" stammered Simcox.

"Dead!" echoed Heyton, his face livid, his whole form shaking as if with palsy.

"Well, Jenkins thinks so, my lord. If so, it's—murder."

"Murder!" echoed Heyton, his voice again hoarse.

"Yes, my lord. There's been a burglary; the safe, the safe in his lordship's dressing-room, has been broken into. Jenkins found his lordship lying on the ground—there was blood——"

The man's voice had risen by this time and it brought Miriam to the door. She looked from one to the other, the nameless terror she felt showing in her eyes.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Go—go away, Miriam," said Heyton, hoarsely. "Go back to your own room."

Disregarding his injunctions with a kind of contempt, she advanced and addressed herself to the terror-stricken valet.

"What is it, Simcox?" she asked. "I heard you say——"

"Yes, my lady, it's true," faltered Simcox, wiping the sweat from his face. "I helped Jenkins carry the Marquess into his bedroom. If his lordship isn't dead, he's as good as dead."

Swiftly, without a moment's hesitation, Miriam went past them to the Marquess's bedroom, thrusting her way through a crowd of horrified, gaping servants. The Marquess lay on the bed where they had placed him. The blood had ceased flowing, but it had stained one side of his face, had reddened a greater part of the old-fashioned night-shirt which he wore. He lay quite still, his eyes closed. She stood and looked at him, frozen with horror; then she became conscious that her husband was standing beside her.

"Is he dead?" she asked, almost inaudibly. "Who—who has done this?"

At the question, he drew back a little, and lifted his eyes from the reddened face to hers.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, almost shouted. "It's pretty plain, I should think. Didn't you hear what Simcox said? There's been a burglary; the—the safe's broken open——"

"The safe——?" she said, unconscious that she had spoken.

For a moment her eyes met his; then hers sank and she shuddered.

"Has anyone gone for the doctor?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yes, my lady," said Jenkins. "I've sent a groom for Doctor Scott; but I'm afraid——"

"Give me some water," she said tonelessly.

They brought her some and a sponge, and with a hand that was unnaturally calm, she wiped the blood from the old man's face and neck.

"Here, look here!" said Heyton, hesitatingly. "Do you think you ought to touch him, do anything till the doctor comes?"

She did not look at him, and continued her pitiful ministration. Heyton drew back from the bed, his eyes withdrawing themselves from his father's face slowly, as if fascinated.

"Has anything gone from the safe?" he asked.

"I don't know, my lord. I didn't wait to look," said Jenkins in a hushed voice.

Heyton went into the dressing-room and returned a moment later.

"If there was anything of value in the safe, it's gone," he said. "Look here!—Here, you, Simcox, what the devil are you gaping there for, like a stuck pig; why don't you send for the police?"

Simcox turned to fly, and almost ran into Mrs. Dexter, who was followed by Celia. Strangely enough Mrs. Dexter had been almost the last to hear of the calamity; a terrified servant had dashed into her room with the awful news. Celia's room was next to Mrs. Dexter's and she had heard Mrs. Dexter's cry of horror, and had darted out to learn what it meant. Mrs. Dexter went to the bed, gently and unconsciously putting Miriam aside, and bent over the motionless form.

"He is not dead," she said, in a whisper.

"Oh, thank God!" broke from Miriam's white lips, and she turned to Celia and grasped her arm. "Oh, I'm glad you've come; I'm glad you are here!" she sobbed. "I'm all alone—oh, I'm glad you are here! Do you think he is not dead?"

"Mrs. Dexter will know," said Celia, trying to control her voice. "Don't be frightened, don't get worried, Lady Heyton. Come with me!"

She took Miriam's hand and drew her into her bedroom. Miriam sank on the bed and covered her face with her hands; and for a while, there was silence; for Celia had no words at command. Presently Miriam dropped her hands from her face and looked straight before her; there was something worse than horror in her expression; there was a poignant, a vivid terror.

Celia found some eau-de-Cologne and bathed Miriam's forehead.

"You won't faint, Lady Heyton?" she said. "They will need you—you must try to bear up. He is not dead——"

"No, thank God!" murmured Miriam. "Why, it would be—murder, wouldn't it?" she asked suddenly, still staring in front of her.

"I—I don't know," said Celia. "I know no more than you do. It is a burglary, isn't it? I heard one of the servants say that the safe had been broken into."

"The safe!" echoed Miriam, in a toneless voice. "Yes, the safe—the diamonds. What is that?" she asked, with almost a scream.

"Carriage wheels: the doctor," said Celia, soothingly.

"Go—go and hear what he says," said Miriam, in a hushed whisper. "I—I want to know at once. I can't go back; I dare not!"

"No; stay here, I will come to you," said Celia. "Shall I bring Lord Heyton to you?"

"No, no!" responded Miriam, shrinking away. "No, no! Don't bring him here. I—I mean he should be there; there will be things to do——Oh, don't you understand! I don't want him here!"

"I understand," said Celia; "but you must try to be calm. There will be so much to do——"

"Calm!" cried Miriam, flinging out her arms. "Am I not calm? Do you think I'm not trying not to give way; that I'm not trying to keep sane? Go! Go!"

Celia went back to the Marquess's room. Mrs. Dexter and the doctor were bending over the bed; Heyton was standing at a little distance, watching them and gnawing his nails. Mrs. Dexter looked round as Celia entered.

"I want you, my dear," she said. "I want you to help me. He is not dead," she went on in a whisper; "he is still alive, though Doctor Scott will not give us any hope yet."

Celia assisted Mrs. Dexter in carrying out the doctor's orders; the Marquess was still unconscious; but though he looked more dead than alive, life was still present. After a time, there came a timid and subdued knock at the door. Mrs. Dexter signed to Celia to open it and she did so. It was Smith, the butler.

"The Inspector has come, Miss Grant, and is asking for Lord Heyton," he said in a tremulous voice.

Heyton turned at the sound of his name and went out.

"How is the Marquess, my lord?" asked Smith, who was deeply agitated.

"Oh, he's all right," said Heyton. "I mean, the doctor thinks he'll pull round. Here, don't make more fuss than is necessary, Smith; keep the house quiet and tell the servants to keep their mouths shut."

Smith looked at him with surprise; for Heyton's manner was scarcely that of a son whose father had nearly been done to death. The Inspector was in the hall and Heyton signed to him to follow into the library.

"This is dreadful news, my lord," said the Inspector.

"Rather!" assented Heyton. He was very pale, and his hair was dank with sweat, and his tongue moved over his lips thickly, with a restless, feverish movement. "Here, we'd better have a drink before we begin. I'm terribly upset. Only natural, eh, Inspector?—Own father, you know?—Bring in some soda and whisky," he ordered the footman who answered the bell.

"Not for me, my lord, thank you," said the Inspector, respectfully.

Heyton poured out half a glassful of whisky, made a pretence of adding soda, and swallowed the spirit.

"Absolutely upset," he said, wiping his lips on his handkerchief. "But there! I half expected it. I was telling my father only last night—or was it the night before?—about those damned gipsies on the common. I warned him; yes, I warned him."

"Gipsies, my lord?" said the Inspector. "You suspect them?"

"Who else am I to suspect?" demanded Heyton, with a sideway glance of his bloodshot eyes.

"That remains to be seen, my lord," said the Inspector quietly; "for myself, I don't think the gipsies have had any hand in this. I should like you to tell me everything you know about the affair, please, my lord."

"Certainly, Inspector," responded Heyton, promptly. "But, you see, I know precious little; in fact, I don't know anything. My man came bursting into my room this morning, and told me they'd found my father—well, as you know, lying in his dressing-room, badly knocked about; and, of course, I went straight to his room, and—that's all I know about it."

"Quite so, my lord. I should like to see the room at once."

"Come on, then," said Heyton. He was quite calm, and was quite proud of being so calm. The Inspector might look at the room as long as he liked; it wouldn't tell him anything of the truth.

They went up to the dressing-room, and the Inspector walked straight to the safe and began to look, not at its contents, but along the edge of the door. He nodded with a kind of satisfaction, and said:

"I've wired for a detective; he's more at home at this kind of case than I am."

He turned from the safe and examined the part of the floor on which the Marquess had fallen; then he caught sight of the poker and pursed his lips.

"That's what did it," he said, confidently. "The blood's still wet on it."

Heyton made as if to pick up the poker, but the Inspector caught his arm and stayed him.

"Beg pardon, my lord," he said, apologetically. "But you mustn't touch anything. We'll let everything bide as it is until the detective comes down from Scotland Yard."

He went to the window and examined it; but without touching it.

"Closed and hasped! Have you any idea how they got in, my lord; have any of the servants found a window or a door open?"

"No," replied Heyton; then he added, as if he had suddenly remembered. "Here, by George, that's strange! I mean about the window. I found one of the back windows open when I went down this morning for a swim."

"Oh!" said the Inspector. "I should like to see that window, my lord. But one moment! Was there anything of value—I mean, jewels or money or anything of that kind—in the safe?"

"Not that I'm aware of," replied Heyton, almost instantly; but he had had time to consider the question. "There may have been, of course. Not jewels, because my father kept the family diamonds at the bank."

"That's something to be thankful for, my lord," said the Inspector, with an approving shake of the head. "Quite the proper thing to do. There wouldn't be half the burglaries, if the gentry didn't leave their jewels about in the way they do. But there might have been money?"

"Oh, yes, there might," said Heyton.

The Inspector walked round the room cautiously, and presently went to the outer door.

"Is this locked, my lord?"

"I don't know," said Heyton; and, as if he had forgotten the Inspector's injunction, he tried the handle of the door before the Inspector could stop him. "It's locked," said Heyton.

"Tut, tut!" said the Inspector to himself, as if he were much annoyed by something.

"Come on," said Heyton. "I'll show you the window I found open." He was consumed by a feverish desire to get the Inspector out of the room.

They went down to the lower hall, the white-faced servants staring at them from coigns of vantage; and the Inspector glanced swiftly at the window and then at the hall.

"That's where they got in," he said. "Nothing easier. There is no door, I suppose, between the Marquess's room and the window here?"

"No," replied Heyton, moistening his lips as he stood behind the Inspector.

"And you are sure this window was open when you went out this morning, my lord? What time was that, by the way?"

"A little after six," replied Heyton. "It was deuced hot; I woke and had a fancy for a swim. There was no one about, and I opened the door, this door, for myself."

"Oh, it's plain enough," said the Inspector, nodding once or twice. "It's quite easy for them to slip this hasp back with an ordinary knife. The rest isn't difficult to guess. They must have made some noise while they were breaking into the safe; well, not 'breaking into' it, for they must have opened it with a key, because there wasn't even the mark of an ordinary chisel on the safe. You noticed that, my lord, no doubt?"

"I—I can't say I did," said Heyton; "I'm a bit upset and confused, you know."

"Yes, it was opened with a key," said the Inspector, "and that's the only part of the business that troubles me. That's a good safe, my lord; one of the first-class makers, and it couldn't have been opened with a skeleton key; in fact, with anything but the proper key or a duplicate."

"Oh?" said Heyton. "Where did they get it?"

The Inspector shook his head. "Of course, that's just the puzzle, my lord. I'm afraid we shall have to leave that to the Scotland Yard man."

As he spoke, he took out his whistle and blew sharply on it. A constable came to the door and saluted.

"Got your men placed, Brown?" asked the Inspector. "Just put another man on the drive, and give him orders that no man is to enter the lodge gates excepting the detective, when he comes."

"What's that for?" asked Heyton, as if the question were inspired by his desire to understand everything that was being done.

"I don't want a lot of people tramping over the place," said the Inspector, rather evasively.

"Oh, ah, yes," said Heyton. "Well, I'll go upstairs again. Send for me, if you want me, Inspector."

He went upstairs, paused a moment outside the Marquess's door, then went on to his own dressing-room. He listened at the door leading to the bedroom; but there was no sound. He touched the handle of the door; but he could not open it, though he knew that Miriam was in the room, and that he ought to go to her. He could not. He rang the bell, and when the valet came, Heyton told him to bring some whisky and soda. But even the draught of almost undiluted spirit could not give him sufficient courage to face his wife.

For he knew that she would remember that she had told him the diamonds were in the safe. And that he had wanted them.



CHAPTER XXVII

Mr. Jacobs, the detective from Scotland Yard, arrived at the Hall a little after four. He was a short, comfortable-looking person, with a round, almost boyish face, a pleasant smile and a pair of blue eyes, with a frank and innocent expression; in fact, anything more unlike the conventional detective beloved by the fictionist it would be difficult to imagine. The Inspector had met him at the station, and had gone over the case with meticulous care; and Mr. Jacobs, smoking placidly, had listened—well, as you and I, dear reader, would listen to a tale which had no very great interest for us. If the truth must be told, the worthy Inspector was rather disappointed; he had expected the great man to display a hawk-like acuteness and to ask a number of incisive questions; but Mr. Jacobs asked none; he said merely, when the recital was finished,

"You have done everything you could, Mr. Smith. Not a very difficult case, eh?"

"Not difficult!" repeated the Inspector, with surprise. "Have you got a clue already?"

Mr. Jacobs smiled. "Can't say yet," he replied.

As they drove up to the Hall, Heyton was seen standing just within the threshold, as if waiting for them.

"Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," whispered the Inspector.

Mr. Jacobs nodded; he did not direct a piercing glance at Heyton's pale face and bloodshot eyes, with their swollen lids; in fact, he did not appear to notice anything, as he went forward, hat in hand.

A few words of commonplace greeting were exchanged; Mr. Jacobs expressed his sympathy in a low voice, devoid of any acuteness, and Heyton drew a breath of relief, as he led the way into the library; to him it seemed that the man from Scotland Yard looked rather stupid than otherwise. Mr. Jacobs took a seat, and Heyton, of his own accord, repeated, almost word for word, the account he had given to the Inspector.

"It's my opinion," he wound up, "that you'll find the man amongst those blackguard gipsies."

"Yes, my lord?" responded the detective, interrogatively. Then he went upstairs to the dressing-room. "I think I should like to be alone in here, my lord, if you don't mind," he said.

He took the key from the Inspector, and went in, closing the door after him. When he came out, his round, innocent-looking face was grave, but revealed nothing.

"Has the Marquess recovered consciousness?" he asked.

"Not yet, I am sorry to say," replied Heyton. "They are keeping the room very quiet, and my wife will tell me the moment my father comes to."

"I should like to know, when he does so, my lord," said the detective. "Is there anyone else with him—I mean, beside the doctor and the nurse?"

"Mrs. Dexter, the housekeeper, and a young lady, Miss Grant, a kind of secretary and librarian."

"Just so," said Mr. Jacobs. "Thank you, my lord. I don't use alcohol; but I should like to have a cup of tea, if I may: great tea-drinker."

He took his cup of tea with the Inspector in the morning-room, and while he drank it, he talked to the Inspector—of the country and the crops.

"I love the country," he said. "If I had my way, I would never put foot in London again. When I retire, Inspector, I'm going to buy a little farm—if it will run to it; and London won't see me again in a hurry. Beautiful place, this; and they breed a remarkably good class of cattle. I'm rather an authority on shorthorns; shall go in for some myself, if I can afford it."

To all this the Inspector listened with amazement.

"Anything you'd like me to do, Mr. Jacobs?" he asked, in a tone that verged on exasperation. "Is there anything else you'd like to see? That window in the lower hall, for instance?"

"Thanks; I saw it as we passed through," replied Mr. Jacobs, simply. "No; I don't think there's anything I want to see. Yes; this is a beautiful house; quite a show-place. I should like to see something of it presently; but one doesn't like to intrude at such a time as this." The Inspector stared at him. "But perhaps I might go through what I suppose you'd call the state rooms—and yes, upstairs."

"I thought you would have liked to examine the whole house without loss of time," remarked the Inspector, with an aggrieved air.

"Oh, presently will do," said Mr. Jacobs; "don't want to make myself a nuisance. We might walk round the grounds."

They went out, the Inspector still confused and aggrieved by what he considered the detective's lack of business method, and Mr. Jacobs gazed round him with approval and admiration.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!" he murmured. "Where's this lake Lord Heyton spoke of? I should like to see that. In my opinion, every place of this sort ought to have a bit of water: lends such a charm to the scenery, don't you think, Inspector?"

"Oh, yes," assented the Inspector, almost with disgust. "This way."

"Ah, this is the nearest way from the house, across the lawn, of course," said Mr. Jacobs. "I suppose this is the way Lord Heyton comes when he goes for his bath. Right across the lawn, eh?"

The Inspector nodded indifferently. It seemed to him that the detective was curious about everything unconnected with the case.

They went across the lawn, the detective still dilating on the charms of a country life, and entered the wood. If they had not followed exactly the line taken by Heyton in the morning, they had touched it now and again; and when they reached the edge of the lake, Mr. Jacobs looked round in a casual way and presently seated himself on the big stone on which Heyton had sat while he dressed himself. Mr. Jacobs obviously was delighted with the lake and its surroundings; and the Inspector would not have been surprised if the great detective had proposed a swim; but he stopped short of that eccentricity and they returned to the house.

They went into the state rooms, which received Mr. Jacobs' unstinted admiration, and were crossing the hall to the little sitting-room which had been set apart for him, when Celia met them. She was very pale, and her brows were drawn together by trouble and anxiety; for a great deal of responsibility had fallen suddenly on her shoulders. Though a duly qualified nurse was in possession of the sick-room, Mrs. Dexter and Celia were assisting her; and Celia had Miriam almost entirely on her hands; for Miriam was almost in a state of collapse. Celia had expected her to break down; but there was something in Miriam's condition which puzzled Celia. She seemed not only overwhelmed by grief and anxiety, but to be possessed of a nervous terror which expressed itself in an avoidance of her husband. Lord Heyton had asked after his wife several times that day; but Miriam had refused to see him, and once, when Celia ventured to plead with her, and to try to persuade her to allow Lord Heyton to come into the room, Miriam had sprung at the door and leant with her back against it, panting, with absolute terror, and with a look of horror on her face which at once stopped all Celia's attempts at persuasion.

For a time, Miriam paced up and down the room, like one distraught, continually muttering, "Will he die? Will it be murder?" But at last Celia had succeeded in getting the hysterical woman to bed, where she lay, exhausted by her emotions. Celia was on her way to ask Doctor Scott for a sleeping draught, when she was met by the detective and the Inspector.

"Miss Grant, the librarian," murmured the Inspector; and Mr. Jacobs bowed politely.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Grant," he said. "Wish it were in happier circumstances. How is the Marquess now?"

"Still the same," replied Celia. "He is not yet conscious."

"Dear me; dear me!" murmured Mr. Jacobs, sympathetically. "Now, my dear young lady, may I ask you a favour—I don't want to trouble the doctor, he's got quite enough to do; so have you, no doubt, for that matter; but you know what doctors are?—What I want you to do, if you will be so kind, and if you should be in the room and the Marquess recovers consciousness, is to just send to me in the sitting-room here and let me know."

"I will do so," said Celia, and she passed on to the morning-room, where Doctor Scott was giving some directions to his assistant.

So suddenly had the terrible blow fallen that she had scarcely time to think of her lover. It hurt her to imagine him waiting in the wood for her, on the chance of seeing her, and to know that she could not send a message to him, could not let him know. But she told herself that, no doubt, by this time, he had heard of the terrible tragedy and would understand. She could not afford much thought for him; her hands were too full; indeed, in addition to her other responsibilities, she had, in a measure, taken Mrs. Dexter's place in the household, and had to give directions to the still scared servants.

She sent down to the village for the sleeping draught which Doctor Scott prescribed for Miriam, and as soon as she could, went upstairs again. In the corridor, she met Lord Heyton, and he looked so ill, so careworn, that, for a moment, her dislike of him was outbalanced by pity. He nodded to her, and she was about to pass on; then she paused and said:

"Have you had anything to eat, my lord? Everyone is so busy and so confused, there will be no regular meals, I am afraid."

"Oh, that's all right," he said, glancing at her furtively, and then lowering his eyes. "I'm not much in the humour for meals, as you may guess. Has my father come to, yet? Look here, that officious fool of a nurse has shut me out of the room. I wish you'd—yes, look here, just let me know when he comes to. I shall be hanging about. I say," he added, with another furtive glance at her pale face, "you're looking pretty upset yourself. I suppose they've shoved everything on to you.—And there's Miriam! What's become of her?"

"Lady Heyton is in bed—and asleep, I hope, my lord," said Celia; and reluctantly and with a touch of colour, she added, "I think it would be better not to disturb her ladyship; she—she is very much upset; very ill, indeed."

He nodded. "Not to be surprised at!" he said. "I'm feeling pretty seedy myself. Here, will you come with me and have a glass of wine?"

"No, thank you, my lord," replied Celia; and, all her dislike of him active again, she left him.

About six o'clock the watchers by the sick bed noticed a change in the Marquess. His eyelids flickered a moment, his lips moved. Celia, who was standing nearest to him, bent over him and made a sign to Mrs. Dexter and the doctor, and they hastened forward noiselessly. For some time, the stricken man struggled for speech; then one word passed his lips, almost inaudibly,

"Percy!"

Celia looked at the doctor questioningly. He nodded, and she went out. She found Heyton in the smoking-room; there was a decanter of brandy in front of him and his face was flushed; but it went white as she said, as calmly as she could,

"The Marquess has recovered consciousness; he has asked for you, my lord."

He got up and steadied himself, with one hand on the table, looking at her with a curious expression in his face: in that instant, it reminded her of the expression on that of his wife; it was one of absolute terror. But it was only momentary; he nodded and went out of the room. Celia was following him, when she caught sight of a small part of the detective's figure, just inside the sitting-room; she had forgotten him, but as she went towards him he made a sign as if he understood; indeed, he waved her away.

Mr. Jacobs waited until Celia had gone; then he went upstairs softly; in the corridor, near the Marquess's door, he met the doctor, followed by Mrs. Dexter and the nurse, coming out.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I was just going up to have another look at the dressing-room."

The doctor inclined his head. "Don't make any more noise than you can help," he said. "We have left the Marquess alone with Lord Heyton; you must do nothing to disturb them."

"Quite so; I'll go up presently," said Mr. Jacobs; and he walked down the corridor. But when the others had disappeared, he turned quickly and softly, and entered the dressing-room.

With the outer door open an inch, he watched and waited; and in a very few minutes Heyton came out of the sick-room. He was white as death, and he was shaking in every limb. The detective waited until he had heard Heyton's slow and heavy steps descend the stairs, then Mr. Jacobs went down, by the back stairs, to his sitting-room. He dined there, with the Inspector, and entertained—though that is scarcely the word—the amazed and disgusted Mr. Brown by an account of a visit Mr. Jacobs had paid to a big agricultural show in the north.

After dinner, he smoked a cigar with an air of quiet and subdued enjoyment proper to the circumstances; and a little later on, he went for a stroll. The night was hot, and Heyton had gone on to the terrace; he had had some more brandy, and was trying to smoke; but his throat and lips were too parched to permit of his doing so, and with an oath, he flung the cigar away. It fell very nearly on Mr. Jacobs' Homburg hat.

"All right, my lord," he said, as Heyton muttered a sullen apology. "I was just taking a stroll." He went up the steps, and stood beside Heyton, looking at the view with obvious admiration; then presently, he said, "I was going to ask you if you'd mind signing a paper for me, my lord. It's just a little report for Scotland Yard; scarcely necessary perhaps, but still——"

"All right," said Heyton, dully. "Here, come in here!" They entered the library by the French door.

"A beautiful room: magnificent!" murmured Mr. Jacobs. He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out on the writing-slope. "Just here, my lord, if you please; it's a kind of authorization from you to take charge of the case."

He handed Heyton a pen, and Heyton looked at the paper hazily and was about to sign, when Mr. Jacobs, in drawing the inkstand nearer, had the misfortune to upset it. The ink ran over the paper, and over Heyton's fingers.

"What the devil!" he exclaimed, angrily.

"I beg your pardon, my lord! I'm very sorry; very sorry; it was dreadfully clumsy of me. Dear, dear; it's all over your lordship's hand! Here, wipe it on this, my lord!"

In his agitation and embarrassment, Mr. Jacobs actually caught hold of Heyton's hand and pressed it on a sheet of paper.

"Tut, tut," he said. "I thought it was blotting-paper! Here it is! I really am so sorry—never did such a thing in my life before!"

"Damned clumsy of you!" growled Heyton. "I'm in a beast of a mess! Where's a cloth?"

"Pray take my handkerchief, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, offering it.

At this moment, Celia entered the room. She would have drawn back at sight of the two men; but Heyton called to her over his shoulder.

"Hi! Have you got a cloth? The ink's upset——"

She ran to a drawer and took out a clean duster; and Heyton, swearing under his breath, wiped the remainder of the ink from his fingers.

"I'd better go and wash it," he said; and he went out of the room.

"Tut, tut!" said Mr. Jacobs. "It was my fault, Miss Grant. I was reaching for the ink, to bring it nearer his lordship, when my sleeve or something caught the corner of the desk here and, before you could say 'Jack Robinson,' the mischief was done."

He seemed so greatly distressed and upset by the accident, that Celia quite felt for him.

"Oh, it is not a very great matter," she said, soothingly. "There has been no harm done."

Indeed, it did seem to her a very trivial affair, compared with the awful tragedy in which they were moving. "I will get a cloth and wipe up the ink; fortunately, it hasn't run on to the carpet."

As she spoke, she took up the sheets of writing-paper and blotting paper between her finger and thumb, intending to put them in the waste-paper basket; but, with a kind of apologetic laugh, Mr. Jacobs laid his hand on her arm, and said:

"No, don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you will. I should like to keep them as a kind of memento, as a sort of warning for the future not to be so clumsy."

With a shadow of a smile, she gave the two pieces of paper to him, and as he took them he said,

"I've got my own fingers inked. Serve me right. I'll go and wash my hands. Really, I shall never forgive myself! No wonder his lordship was angry."

"Was he?" said Celia, absently. "Yes; he was. But you must remember Lord Heyton is very much upset; when one's nerves are on the rack, the least thing, trifling though it may be——"

"Quite so; quite so," said Mr. Jacobs, with a nod of comprehension.

He was still so much upset by the accident, that he forgot to wash his hands and went straight to his sitting-room, still carrying the two sheets of paper, the evidences of his inexcusable clumsiness.



CHAPTER XXVIII

That night, Inspector Brown confided his disappointment in the ways of Scotland Yard to the wife of his bosom. He was a conscientious man; and it seemed to him that, in the face of Mr. Jacobs' obvious incapacity, it behoved him, Mr. Brown, to follow the case with renewed energy. So far as the worthy Inspector could see, Mr. Jacobs was doing absolutely nothing, save eat his meals, smoke his cigar, and stroll about the grounds and admire the scenery. Therefore, the Inspector enjoined his men to keep a careful watch; and he himself, when not in Mr. Jacobs' company, patrolled the woods and, following the clue Lord Heyton had offered him, had visited the gipsy encampment and examined the members of the tribe. He came upon nothing to rouse his suspicions of them; indeed, he hit upon no clue whatever; but he still kept up a kind of patrol and scrutinised every person who approached the Hall.

If Mr. Jacobs was aware of the Inspector's renewed vigilance, he made no remark; and whenever they were together, and the Inspector wanted to talk of the case, Mr. Jacobs politely and quite inoffensively—in fact, he always listened most respectfully—led the conversation away from the subject. Once or twice, the Inspector was absolutely on the point of asking the famous detective why on earth he was lingering at the Hall; but his courage always failed him; for, notwithstanding the detective's boyish face and innocent-looking eyes, there was something about him which inspired a kind of respect in Inspector Brown.

After that momentary glimpse of intelligence, and his interview with his son, the Marquess had relapsed into unconsciousness; but the doctor, in answer to Celia's anxious inquiries, had told her that there was a chance, just a chance, of life.

As the great house settled into its nightly silence, Derrick's train was speeding on its way. He had got through Donna Elvira's business satisfactorily, and, moreover, following Reggie's instructions, obtained his special licence; therefore, his heart was light as he sat and smoked while the express tore through the silence of the night. He reached Thexford at ten o'clock in the morning, and went straight to the inn. Reggie, he was told, was out; and Derrick made a good breakfast and, naturally enough, was drawn towards the wood. It was a hundred to one chance that Celia should be there; but he decided to take the odds. The morning was hot; it was not at all unlikely that, puzzled and perhaps alarmed by his absence, she might go to the wood. On his way, it was also natural that he should recall his sight of Heyton on the preceding morning; and, having recalled that, it was also a corollary that he should remember Heyton's mysterious proceedings.

When they occurred to Derrick, he was not very far from the spot where Heyton had disappeared for a minute or two; and Derrick sauntered towards the place and stood looking round him. He was keen-eyed, and in some of his experiences in South America he had learnt a certain amount of bush-craft; and he had no difficulty in finding the exact spot in which he had lost sight, for a moment, of Heyton.

With a feeling that was scarcely one of curiosity, he examined the ground in close proximity, and presently, he caught sight of a portion of the fringe of a bathing-towel. He took it from the thorn on which it hung, and fingered it absently; and while doing so, he noted the mark of footsteps which had trodden down the bracken in front of a certain bush. Almost at the same moment, he saw a little heap of dried leaves beneath the bush, and, mechanically, he stirred them with his foot. To his amazement, the displaced leaves revealed a box covered with morocco leather. He stood and looked down at it with that sense of incredulity which comes to all of us when we happen upon something absolutely unexpected; then he knelt down and took up the box. It was heavy and, when he shook it, it rattled softly.

He stood with the box in his hand, staring at it, and wondering whether it was the thing Heyton had concealed, and what it contained. Also another most important question was agitating him: What should he do with it? Presumably, it was Heyton's property; and should be returned to him at once. But why on earth should Heyton come out in the early morning to conceal a morocco-covered box under a bush in Thexford Woods?

To say that Derrick was suspicious is to express inadequately the feeling that suddenly assailed him. He knew that the man was a scoundrel, and as unscrupulous as he was weak; a man who could forge a cheque, and plant the blame on another, is capable of anything; and Derrick scented a mystery, a base, ignoble one, with Heyton as its centre. He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, the box in his hand, and stared frowningly before him. He could find no answer to the enigma. That he himself should march up to the Hall and restore the box to Heyton, was impossible. After all, the affair was none of his, and, perhaps, the best thing he could do would be to put the box back in its hiding-place and leave things to work themselves out. He wanted to have nothing more to do with Heyton, or any business of his. Yes; the easiest and the safest plan would be to leave the box where he had found it and have nothing more to do with it. With this more or less wise resolution, he rose and had taken a step forward, when he heard a sound behind him, felt a hand fall heavily on his shoulder, and, turning, met the stern and agitated gaze of Inspector Brown.

"I arrest you for robbery and attempted murder!" said the Inspector.

His voice, for all its sternness, shook and his face was red and working; for this was the most important moment of Inspector Brown's life, and it was little wonder that he was agitated and strung up. While the great detective from Scotland Yard was doing nothing, here had he, the Inspector, actually discovered the criminal, caught him red-handed, so to speak!

"It is no use your offering any resistance," he said, brusquely. "Three or four constables are within call; you could not possibly escape. I've had my eye upon you for some time, my man, and have taken precautions."

This assertion was not strictly true, but the Inspector almost felt it was.

Derrick stared at the red face in a kind of stupefied amazement; at last he said:

"You mean that you are charging me with stealing this thing?"

"I do," replied the Inspector; "and you may as well hand it over to me without any fuss."

"I shall be delighted to do so," said Derrick, grimly.

He had not yet realized the full significance of the Inspector's first formal words; for the moment Derrick's mind was engrossed by the sardonic irony of Fate. Here it was again! There was something really monotonous in the way in which this peculiar phase of misfortune dogged him. Was he really going to be again charged with an offence he had not committed? He opened his lips to speak; to say where he had found the box; then he remembered the words "attempted murder," and instead of giving information—which the Inspector would certainly have received with incredulity—Derrick said quietly and with a sudden pallor,

"Did I understand you to charge me with attempted murder as well as robbery?"

"I did," responded the Inspector, sternly. "The attempted murder of the Marquess of Sutcombe."

Derrick did not start, made no exclamation, but the pallor of his face increased and he gave a little nod. If this box had been stolen, the man who had hidden it was, in all probability, the thief—and attempted murderer. Percy—the Marquess's own son! Confused and bewildered as he was, Derrick had sense enough left in him to feel that he must hold his tongue.

"All right," he said, very gravely. "I should like to say——"

"If you'll take my advice, you'll say nothing," broke in the Inspector, in an official manner. "You must know as well as I do that everything you say——"

"Quite so," said Derrick. "Where are you going to take me?"

"To the lock-up at Fleckfield," replied the Inspector, much relieved in his mind now that he saw his prisoner was not going to offer any resistance, give any trouble. "You're quite right to take it quietly. As I said, we're surrounded by my men. What's this?"

"This" was Celia, coming through the wood and hastening her steps at the sound of Derrick's voice. She stopped dead short, at sight of the two men, looking from one to the other in surprise, but no alarm; then she advanced to Derrick with, "Sydney!" on her lips.

"Why, it's you, Miss Grant!" said the Inspector. "I'm glad you've come up—though this is no place for you." He paused and looked at her in a puzzled way. "But you know this man, you called him 'Sydney'?"

"What does he mean?" asked Celia, in a bewildered fashion, of Derrick. "Why does he speak like that?—Oh, what does it mean!"

"It means that the Inspector here is making a mistake, Celia," said Derrick gravely, but without any resentment. "It appears that there has been a robbery at the Hall——"

"You've heard nothing about it!" exclaimed Celia.

"No," said Derrick, quietly. "I left for London yesterday morning early; I returned this morning, saw no one, heard nothing of it."

"Oh, come now, you'd better keep silent," interrupted the Inspector. "Miss Grant, I met this gentleman"—he hesitated on the word—"with this"—he tapped the box—"in his possession. I know, from the description, that it is the missing jewel-case, and I have arrested him on the charge of robbery and attempted murder. How you seem to know him—I don't understand——"

Celia stood as if turned to stone for a moment or two; her eyes wandering from the faces of the two men to the jewel-case; then she broke out,

"Sydney, why don't you explain?—It's a mistake, Inspector, a terrible mistake! I know this gentleman; I—I am engaged to him, I am going to be his wife. It's—absurd to suspect him!—Sydney, where did you find the thing?"

"Now, Miss Grant," said the Inspector soothingly, before Derrick could reply. "Let me advise you, as I have already advised the prisoner, not to say another word. I am sorry, truly sorry that a young lady of your—position should be so intimately acquainted, should be——Dear, dear, this is very sad, Miss Grant! I think you'd better go back to the Hall. But please don't say anything to Mr. Jacobs; I will come back to him directly I have seen the prisoner locked up."

Celia was calm now; her momentary terror had given place to grief and pity for the man she loved. Not for a second did any doubt of his innocence assail her. With that almost divine intuition of true love, she knew, not only that he was innocent, but that this crime was in some way or other connected with the former one, that of the forged cheque.

"Yes, I will go back to the Hall," she said; "but you will let me speak to Mr. Green before I go?"

"Of course, I can't prevent you," said the Inspector; "but you must say what you have to say in my hearing, and, of course, I shall take note of every word."

Celia went to Derrick, put her arm round his neck and kissed him.

"I can wait, dearest," she said. "You will not let this—this weigh upon you, trouble you?"

He was silent for a moment, his lips working; but the kiss she had impressed upon him strengthened and nerved him.

"God bless you, Celia!" he murmured, very quietly. "Go now! One moment—is the Marquess dying?"

"No," she said, with a dry little sob. "He is very bad, has been dreadfully injured, but he may recover."

"Thank God!" said Derrick. "That is all I will say. Go back, now, dearest. I will write to you—if they will let me."

The two men moved on; but she stood, her hand pressed against the tree, as if for support, as if she were unable to move, her eyes following the two figures; and as she watched them, in an agony, she saw a third figure coming through the gate. For a moment she did not recognize it, then she saw that it was Mr. Clendon. She saw him stop in front of the other two men and she ran forward, calling his name, and, in another instant, she was clinging to him. The old man murmured her name soothingly, and she tried to control herself; but her voice was broken by sobs, as she said:

"Oh, Mr. Clendon, I am in great trouble. They have arrested him—the man I am going to marry——" She could get no further.

Mr. Clendon looked steadily, piercingly at Derrick; and Derrick, as if answering the look, shook his head slightly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Who is this?" demanded the Inspector, impatiently; for, naturally, he was anxious to get his prisoner under lock and key.

"I am a friend of Miss Grant's and this gentleman," said Mr. Clendon. "You need not explain, I have heard of the robbery. I am on my way to the Hall. The Marquess is—a friend of mine, an old friend. One moment," he added to the Inspector, "I want to tell this gentleman you have arrested—under a mistake, I am convinced—that I am assured of his innocence, and that I charge myself with his defence."

He held out his hand to Derrick as he spoke; the two men exchanged grips and looked into each other's eyes; and again Derrick was conscious of that peculiar thrill which he had felt when he first touched Mr. Clendon's hand.

"Thank you, sir," he said, quietly. "Will you please take care of Miss Grant—Celia? I should like you to take her away now."

"Come, my dear," said Mr. Clendon; and looking over her shoulder till Derrick had disappeared, Celia went with Mr. Clendon, her hand in his.

"Do you think you can tell me all you know about this terrible business?" he said, when she had yielded to the relief of tears and was calmer and more composed.

Celia told him all she knew, and Mr. Clendon listened with attention and in silence.

"Of course, he is innocent," she wound up. "Oh, Mr. Clendon, I'm so glad you've come; it is as if—as if you had been sent to me. A moment or two ago I felt as—as I saw him taken away—that I was left alone in the world; but I feel now that I have a friend——"

"I trust that you have, my child," he said. "Don't cry any more. Tears cost so much; and I am convinced that you need not weep for fear of your lover's safety. He has been wrongfully accused; I do not doubt that for a moment."

"You don't; I know you don't! But why?" said Celia. "The jewel-case—I know it was the jewel-case, because the bank has telegraphed to say that poor Lord Sutcombe took it from the bank, and he must have brought it here—it was in the safe, was stolen from it. And the Inspector said that he had found it in Sydney's possession. That looks so black against him. And yet—you are as convinced of his innocence as I am!"

"Yes," said Mr. Clendon, quietly, "I am convinced. I could not tell you why; let us say that it is because your lover's face is not that of a guilty man. Besides," he added, with the ghost of a smile, "a man does not walk about a wood with a stolen jewel-case under his arm—if he himself is the thief."

"Of course!" cried Celia, stopping short, her face lighting up. "No one would be such a fool—least of all Sydney," she added, more to herself than to him, "who is so clever."

"Exactly," said Mr. Clendon. "So you see, my child, you have nothing to be alarmed about. Here is the Hall!" He looked up at the noble facade with a curious expression in his face. "It is years since I have been here," he added, musingly.

"You have been here before, you know the Marquess?" said Celia. "Yes, you said so. How strange! Why, Mr. Clendon," she broke off, turning upon him, with a flush of gratitude, "I see now, I see now! It was you who got me the place here. And I never guessed it! Oh, how good you have been to me! And you hid it." Her hand pressed his.

The old man frowned slightly. "You have caught me, my dear," he said. "It was a great pleasure to me to be of assistance to you. But we have other things to think of," he added, as they passed up the steps into the hall.

The butler met them, suppressing the astonishment he felt at sight of the poorly-dressed old man in Miss Grant's company, suppressing it not only from the instincts of a well-trained servant, but because he knew, at a glance, that shabby as the bent figure was, the stranger was a gentleman.

"My name is Clendon," said Mr. Clendon. "I am an old friend of Lord Sutcombe's; and I have come down to inquire after him, to see him if it is possible."

"Certainly, sir," said the butler; and he led the way to the drawing-room. But Celia drew Mr. Clendon into the library.

"Stay with me here," she begged him. "I will go up to the Marquess's room and see if he is well enough to be told that you are here. I fear that you will not be able to see him. And you must have something to eat," she said, with womanly consideration.

"Thank you, my dear, I need nothing," he said.

As he spoke, the door was opened, none too gently, and Heyton stood on the threshold. He looked from Celia to the old man with what was intended to be a stare of haughty surprise; but was, in reality, a kind of sullen insolence.

"Oh? Who is this?" he demanded.

"A friend of your father's, Lord Heyton," said Mr. Clendon, before Celia could speak. "So old and so dear a friend that he is warranted in intruding, even at such a moment."

"Well, you are intruding, right enough, though you may be an old friend," said Heyton, thickly. "My father is very ill, dangerously ill, as you may have heard. This is no time for—for visitors."

"Forgive me," said Mr. Clendon gently, but with a calmness and dignity that impressed even the only half-sober Heyton, "but my intrusion is justified, as Lord Sutcombe will bear me out, when he knows I am here."

"Oh, well," said Heyton, with an insolent shrug of his shoulders. "I can't speak any more plainly. If you can't take a hint—but it doesn't matter; I'm quite certain that you can't see my father, even if he can be told that you are here."

"We will see," said Mr. Clendon.

Heyton looked at him for a moment, angrily and a trifle suspiciously; then he swung on his heel and went out.

"You must not mind," said Celia. "Lord Heyton is, naturally, very much upset. I should think he scarcely knows what he is saying to you."

"Very likely," assented Mr. Clendon gravely, and without any sign of resentment.

"I will go up now," said Celia; "and I will come down again to you directly."

"One moment," he said, staying her with a gesture. "Will you give me a sheet of paper and a pen and ink?"

Celia did so. Mr. Clendon wrote the letter "W" on the paper, folded it and handed it to her.

"Will you give him this, my dear? If he cannot read it, you may open it and tell him what is written on it."



CHAPTER XXIX

Celia went up to the sick-room. She saw at a glance that the Marquess's condition had improved; he was, of course, still dangerously ill, and very weak; but his eyes, as they rested on her, were perfectly intelligent and he smiled slightly as she bent over him. Then she turned away to Doctor Scott and told him of Mr. Clendon's arrival and desire to see the Marquess.

"I don't think he can do any harm, if he'll be quiet," said the doctor. "At any rate, there is not sufficient reason for refusing to show the paper to the Marquess."

Celia knelt beside the bed and conveyed gently Mr. Clendon's request for an interview.

"Mr. Clendon?" repeated the Marquess, knitting his brows. "I don't know him, my dear."

Then, slowly, she showed him the paper; but he could not read the letter on it and she told him what it was. A flush rose to the white face, and he nodded once or twice; and it seemed to Celia that the inclination of the head had in it something more than a consent to receive the visitor, an indication of some resolution, decision. She went downstairs, and told Mr. Clendon the Marquess would see him.

The old man rose, with the aid of a stick, and followed her through the hall; he looked about him, not curiously, but musingly; and he paused for a second or two before the portrait of the young man in hunting kit, the Marquess's elder brother; the pause was almost imperceptible, but Celia, remembering the scene between herself and the Marquess on the night of his arrival, noticed the pause; but the old man's face conveyed nothing and was as impassive as usual. She took him to the Marquess's room. Lord Sutcombe, at sight of his visitor, tried to rise; but fell back, stretching out his hand, murmuring,

"Wilfred!" Then he looked at the nurse and doctor. "Will you please leave us alone for a little while. This gentleman is——"

Mr. Clendon laid his hand upon his brother's arm and stopped him.

Celia went downstairs, and found Mr. Jacobs standing before the portrait of the Marquess's brother.

"Fine picture that, Miss Grant," he said. "He must have been a splendid fellow: great pity he died. Oh, yes, I know who it is," he went on, answering the question in Celia's eyes. "I've been making acquaintance with the family portraits: very fond of pictures; almost as fond as I am of cattle; but as I shan't be able to afford both, why——!"

At this moment Inspector Brown came hurriedly through the back hall; he was very hot and wiped the perspiration from his sunburnt face with a red bandana.

"I've news for you, Mr. Jacobs," he cried, as calmly as he could. "Will you come into the sitting-room; will you come at once, please: most important!"

Mr. Jacobs looked at him curiously; then beckoned to Celia.

"You come too, Miss Grant," he said. "You know shorthand—I saw some scraps of paper in your waste-paper basket. You can take any notes we want. Splendid thing, shorthand. Wish I could do it. Now then, Mr. Brown!"—as he closed the door.

"Well, to put it in a word, Mr. Jacobs, I've got our man!"

Mr. Jacobs did not start or show any glad surprise, but looked steadily at Inspector Smith, and at the same time, seemed to be listening; they could all hear Lord Heyton pacing up and down the hall.

"Mind! I don't take any great credit for it, Mr. Jacobs. It was a fluke: just a fluke. I caught him red-handed; found him in the wood with the jewel-case in his hand. Yes, actually in his hand! He must have hidden it and dug it up."

Mr. Jacobs nodded, but said nothing.

"I've got him in the lock-up," said the Inspector, with an air of satisfaction which was pardonable in the circumstances. "He went very quietly—declared his innocence, of course—well, implied it. I've got notes of what he said. And I searched him."

Mr. Jacobs nodded again, and the Inspector drew from his pocket sundry articles.

"Not much money on him—there's some loose change and this five-pound note. Strange to say—a bit curious and suspicious!—he objected strongly to my taking the note: said that it was worth more than five pounds to him; in fact, he declared that he wouldn't part with it for five thousand and begged me to take care of it and let him change it back for gold." He smiled. Celia flushed hotly, her eyes glowed as they dwelt on the note, and she stifled an exclamation. She listened with parted lips, her breath coming fast. "Something in that, eh, Mr. Jacobs? Then there are some various letters; several of them from a lady in South America, invoices and letters about engineering. Seems to have come from abroad. And here's this packet. It's sealed, as you see; and I didn't care to open it by myself; thought you and I would open it together. May be important evidence, you know."

Mr. Jacobs took up the packet, turned it over, then placed it on the table and laid his hand on it.

"Shouldn't be surprised," he said, quietly. "And so you've got him in the lock-up? What's his name?"

"Well, he calls himself 'Sydney Green': an alias, I dare say."

Mr. Jacobs nodded once more. "Very likely, I should say; very likely. Well, I congratulate you, Inspector. You've done a good morning's work. Bit of a fluke, as you say; but you've been on the close watch, haven't you? And there's something more than luck in this. By the way, you didn't find the two keys—the key of the safe and the key of the jewel-box—on him?"

"No," said Mr. Brown, easily. "Of course, he's got rid of those; and, in another hour or two, he'd have got clear off with the jewel-box. I've got that locked up in my safe. So far as I can see—of course, you can't tell—it looks as if the contents had not been disturbed; in fact, as if we'd recovered all the missing property."

"Splendid!" murmured Mr. Jacobs.

"I suppose you'll go down and see him presently?" said Mr. Brown, almost showing his impatience and irritation at the detective's phlegmatic calm. Nothing seemed to move this man.

"Presently," said Mr. Jacobs, blandly. "There's a knock at the door. Please open it, Miss Grant."

Celia did so. Mrs. Dexter stood there. She seemed very agitated.

"Will you please come upstairs, Miss Grant," she said; "and—and, yes, you two gentlemen. Something strange, terrible, has happened."

Without a word, Mr. Jacobs signed to Celia to lead the way, placing the packet in his pocket as she did so, and they followed her up to the Marquess's room. He was lying back with his eyes closed; the doctor's hand was on his pulse. Mr. Clendon was seated beside the bed, his hand on the Marquess's shoulder. Mr. Clendon looked troubled, but was quite calm.

"The Marquess has sent for you that you may hear something he has resolved to tell you," he said, in a low voice.

The Marquess opened his eyes and looked round; then they fixed themselves on Heyton, whom Mrs. Dexter had summoned, and who stood regarding the group sullenly.

"Yes," said the Marquess, feebly, but quite distinctly. "I want to tell you that this is my brother"—his hand reached for Mr. Clendon's—"my elder brother. He is Lord Sutcombe, not I. He disappeared and was supposed to have died. I knew some months ago that he was alive, but——"

"Yielding to my earnest entreaty, my command, my brother consented to conceal the fact," said Mr. Clendon, gravely.