"I had an awful fright," she began. "You know when we were playing 'I spy' I went into the tool-house, and I—I saw something."

"Well, what did you see?"

"O Bri!" continued the girl, lowering her voice, and the startled look appearing once more on her face, "I saw William Cole!"

"Saw William Cole!" repeated Brian in astonishment. "What on earth d'you mean? Why, William, poor fellow, is drowned, and at the bottom of the sea, hundreds of miles from here."

"I know," gasped Elsie breathlessly. "But I saw him, all the same. The light of the lamp fell right on him. He was standing quite still, looking at me. I saw him as plainly as I see you now; and—O Bri," the child continued, covering her eyes with her hands, "I'm afraid to be left alone in the dark for fear I should see him again."

Brian felt sorry for his little cousin.

"Oh, nonsense, Elsie!" he said, taking her arm after the manner of a good comrade. "Don't go imagining that you've seen a ghost, because you haven't. It was all fancy. Look here; after you'd gone indoors I went myself and looked into the tool-house to see what had frightened you, and there was nothing there. You must buck up, and make up your mind you won't give way to your fears. Now come on with me, and we'll explore the tool-house together."

It cost Elsie a great effort, but she at length allowed herself to be persuaded; and, arm in arm, the two cousins made their way to the tool-house. There was certainly no sign of poor William, but that Elsie was firmly persuaded in her own mind that she had seen him was evident enough.



"He stood there," she whispered, pointing with her finger, and shivering at the recollection. "He never moved, and never spoke, and then I let the lamp fall and ran away. You won't tell any one, will you, Brian? Remember, you've promised."

"Oh, I won't tell," answered the boy good-naturedly; "but the sooner you get rid of these fancies the better."

The curtains had been drawn and the lamp lit; it was nearly tea-time, and Jane was then laying the table.

"There, now!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormond suddenly; "I've let Henry go home without asking him to leave word at Mrs. Budd's for her not to come on Monday. How forgetful I'm getting!"

"Is it anything I can do for you, aunt?" asked Brian.

"Oh no, my dear; thank you," was the answer. "I wanted Henry to tell Mrs. Budd, the washer-woman, not to come on Monday."

"Shall I take the message for you?"

"Oh no, Brian; she lives in Bridge Lane—right on the other side of the town. If it had been nearer I would have asked you to go."

"Oh, it wouldn't take me long, aunt," answered the boy. "I'll ride on my bicycle; the lamp is trimmed; and I can have my tea when I come back."

"It's very kind of you to offer," answered Mrs. Ormond, hesitating. "I almost think I will ask you to go, if you're sure you aren't tired. I don't want to bring the poor soul all this way on Monday morning for nothing."

Brian started off at once, saying he should be back in half an hour; and his aunt and cousins sat down to tea.

"I hope father won't be later than seven," said Guy, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I want to know what's in that chest."

"Brian's been longer than he said," he remarked when, at the end of the meal, he pushed back his chair and rose from the table. "I expect he hasn't been able to find the old woman's house, or perhaps his tyre's punctured. Hullo! There's father!"

The boy's quick ears had caught the rattle of a latch-key, and immediately there was a rush into the hall. Mr. Ormond entered with the collar of his greatcoat turned up.

"Phew! it's cold," he said. "Hullo! What's the matter now?" Guy and Ida were both speaking at once.

"Father, did you put anything in Uncle Roger's box? It isn't empty now; there's something inside!"

"What d'you mean? I don't understand."

Hurriedly Ida gave the necessary explanation.

"I never put anything into the chest," said Mr. Ormond, with a puzzled look. "I locked it up, and told Henry to carry it into the tool-house."

"Well, there's something in it now!" cried Guy. "Father, lend us your keys, and let us go out and open it at once."

"Oh, nonsense!" was the answer. "Wait until Monday."

"We've been waiting all the afternoon," pleaded Ida. "Do let us have the keys!"

"Very well," laughed her father, producing a bunch from his pocket. "These are the ones. If you take a light out, don't set the place on fire."

"Won't you leave it till Brian comes back?" suggested Elsie; but her brother and sister had already started off in the direction of the yard door.

Elsie had shuddered at the very thought of going near that tool-house in the dark; but, ghost or no ghost, she meant to see that box opened. As the saying goes, she took her courage in both hands, and ran quickly after Guy and Ida.



CHAPTER XI.

UNCLE ROGER'S LEGACY.

Her brother and sister were already in the tool-house when Elsie arrived at the door. She so far conquered her fears as to enter, but could not help one timid glance round, as though she might once more be confronted with the ghost of William Cole. Dead or alive, however, there was no sign of the gardener, and nothing more terrible to be seen than her old friend the grindstone.



Guy carried a candle which he had procured from the kitchen, and which guttered and smoked in the draught.

"Do be careful with that light," said Ida. "You'll burn the place down if you don't mind what you're about."

"Oh, all right!" answered Guy, preparing to drag the chest out into the middle of the floor. "I don't think it's much heavier than usual. I do wonder what's inside."

"Well, be quick and open it!" cried his sister, taking the candle and holding it so that its light would fall into the chest when its lid was raised. "Let's see for ourselves, and then we shall know for certain."

There was a moment's delay while Guy found the proper keys. First one and then the other padlock fell with a clank on to the bricks, the iron hasps were raised, and, with a "Here goes!" Guy flung back the lid.

Once more the children leant forward and peered down into this wonderful box. Elsie was the first to speak, and all she said was "Oh!" But the tone of her voice was enough to proclaim another disappointment.

Jewellery? Bank-notes? Bags of money? What was it they beheld? None of these things, but only a bundle of papers, tied together with a piece of faded red tape.

"Well!" cried Ida, flushing with vexation, "I'll never hope for anything again!"

Guy picked up the bundle, and examined it more closely. The documents were all neatly folded, and were mostly docketed on the outside in heavy black writing. Some were of parchment; and one, he noticed, had in one corner three small red seals on a narrow strip of green ribbon.

"I wonder what these are!" said the boy. "Bah!" he added, holding the packet to his nose; "they smell musty enough. Let's take them in and show them to father."

Mr. Ormond had sat down to his tea, and seemed to have already dismissed Uncle Roger's box from his mind; the sight, however, of the children entering the room brought it back to his remembrance.

"Well," he said, jokingly, "have you found anything?"

"Nothing particular," answered Guy. "Only this old bundle of papers."

Mr. Ormond was in the act of raising his cup of tea to his lips; he paused, then lowered it without drinking.

"Papers!" he repeated, gazing at the packet with a puzzled look on his face. "What papers are they? Let me see."

"Oh, never mind about it now," said Mrs. Ormond. "Drink your tea while it's hot."

"One moment, mother," answered her husband. He untied the tape, and glanced first at one then at another of the clearly-written inscriptions on the folded documents. As he did so, the expression on his face became one of unbounded astonishment; and the children, quick to observe the change on his face, began to wonder what could be the cause of his surprise.

"You say you found these in the old box?" he asked.

"Yes, father. What are they?"

Mrs. Ormond rose from her chair at the end of the table, and came round to where her husband was sitting. She, too, had seen his look of amazement, and wondered what it could mean.

"What are they, father?" repeated Guy.

"What are they?" was the reply. "Why—why, I'll tell you what they are. This is Uncle Roger's legacy."

"Uncle Roger's legacy!" cried Ida. "D'you mean to say that all he left you, father, was that dirty old bundle of papers? Pooh! he might have kept them to himself!"

"You don't understand, Ida," was the answer, in a voice which showed that her father himself was not a little excited. "These papers are valuable."

"Oh!" cried Elsie suddenly. "Are they as valuable as bank-notes?"

"Well, yes," replied Mr. Ormond, laughing. "I think one may say they are. They are deeds and securities which represent a nice bit of property; and a good sum of money must have accumulated on some of them in twenty years. In fact, I'm not sure, Elsie, if we shan't be able to consider that promise about a pony."

There was a yell from Guy. He, Ida, and Elsie all tore round and round the room in a state of frantic excitement.

"Hurrah! hurrah for old Uncle Roger!" cried the boy.

"But, father," exclaimed Ida, pausing at length, completely out of breath, "if he meant it to be yours, why did he make you wait twenty years?"

"I'm sure I can't explain," was the reply, "more than this, that he was a curious old fellow, and often did the most eccentric things. What puzzles me more than that is to know where these papers have suddenly sprung from. You say you found them in the box. When did you first discover that it had anything inside?"

"Only this afternoon," answered Guy. "We turned it up, and heard something slide along the bottom and go bump against the end."

"Then how in the world was it that when we opened the chest the other day it was empty?"

"We thought you must have put it in," murmured Ida. "It is strange. How can it have happened?"

"D'you think they really were in the box all those years?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Undoubtedly. Where else could they have been?"

"O father," cried Ida suddenly, "I believe you knew about them all the time! You took them away yourself just to tease us. It's some joke."

"Indeed it isn't. I know no more about them than either of you children; but it's a most astonishing thing, and one I should like very much to have explained."

"Well, come out and have another look at the box," suggested Guy.

"Wait till your father's finished his tea," interposed Mrs. Ormond. "I wonder where Brian is all this time," she added. "I wish he were back. He'll be interested to hear of this discovery."

The children were so excited that they found it difficult to keep still. Guy especially wandered restlessly up and down the room as though he were a wild beast in a cage.

"I'll tell you what I believe it is," he exclaimed suddenly; "that old box has got either a false lid or a false bottom. That's where the papers were hidden, and in moving it about, the spring was somehow released, and they tumbled out."

After so many surprises, the young folks were ready to believe almost anything.

"Well, let's go out and see!" cried Ida.—"Father, you come when you've finished your tea."

Once more there was a rush to the tool-house, Guy, this time, borrowing a lamp from the kitchen, which gave a better light than the candle. Certainly this old box of Uncle Roger's seemed just the very sort of chest which one might expect to possess some concealed spring which, when touched, would disclose a secret hiding-place; but tapping and measurements inside and out proved that there was nothing in its construction which caused it to differ from any other oak chest strengthened with bands of iron.

"Well, this licks me!" exclaimed Guy, rising from his knees. "The only explanation I can give is that the thing must be enchanted."

"I should like to know what it all means," said Ida. "Perhaps father will be able to tell when he comes. I hope he won't be long."

"Fancy a pony!" cried Elsie. "D'you think he really will give us one?"

"He said he'd consider it," answered Guy; "but I expect that means 'yes.' Hurrah! I tell you what I shall do. I shall go hunting."

The speaker gave vent to his delight by hopping about on one leg; then, coming in contact with the grindstone, he put his foot on the treadle, and began to work it as fast as he could.

"The water's all dried up," he said at length, when the stone stopped. Without thinking what he was doing, he put his hand into the trough, and began poking his fingers into the sediment which had collected at the bottom. In the soft mud was something hard, and he picked it out. The boy glanced carelessly at the bit of metal, and was about to throw it away when its shape struck him as familiar.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Look what I've found!"

"What is it?" asked Ida.

"Can't you see?" was the answer. "Why, it's the little knob from the handle of that poultry-carver!"

"Then that proves Brian and I were right!" cried Elsie excitedly. "It was the carver that was being ground when I heard the stone turning that night. Mother said the knob was loose, and it must have fallen off into the water."

"Get away!" answered Guy obstinately. "It might have fallen off the knife some time when William Cole had it out here to clean, and dropped into the trough by accident. You won't get me to believe that yarn of yours, Elsie."

Elsie was about to reply, when her sister cut short the dispute by exclaiming, "Here's father!"

The carving-knife was for the moment forgotten. Mr. Ormond examined the box, turned it over first on one side then on the other, rapped the boards with his knuckles, and at length shook his head.

"I can't understand it," he said, with a puzzled smile. "It's a mystery."

"O father! don't you think we shall ever find it out?" asked Ida.

Before Mr. Ormond had time to reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard, and Brian's voice was heard calling, "Uncle!"

"Hullo! Here I am. What d'you want?"

The boy came hurrying into the tool-house; there was a curious expression on his face of excitement mingled with anxiety.

"You're wanted in the house, please, uncle—now at once."

"What for?"

"I can't explain; but please come at once. It's very important."

Mr. Ormond turned to comply with this request.

"I say," shouted Guy, anxious to be the first to break the news to his cousin, "we've found what was in the box. It was Uncle Roger's legacy—a bundle of papers."

"I know," answered Brian calmly.

"What!" cried Ida. "D'you know how they got there?" she added eagerly.

"Yes," replied the boy, wrenching himself free from Guy's grasp, and starting off to follow his uncle into the house. "I can't explain it now, but I'll tell you presently."





CHAPTER XII.

THE RIDDLE SOLVED.

When Brian started off on his aunt's errand, he little thought that carrying a simple message to a washer-woman would lead him into an altogether unexpected adventure.



Hastily putting on his short overcoat and cap, he lighted his lamp, mounted his bicycle, and went swiftly off down the road. Bridge Lane was away at the opposite side of the town, a part which he had not visited before; and he had to dismount several times to make inquiries before he finally reached the door of Mrs. Budd's cottage. Having delivered his message, he had nothing further to do than turn his machine round and ride home. At this point the thought struck him that in coming through the town he had gone a longer way than he need have done, and that a road branching off to the right would be a shorter cut back to the suburb in which his uncle's house was situated.

He rode on for ten minutes, and then slackened speed, for he began to doubt whether he was, after all, on a more direct route. Though quiet and deserted, the road was lit at intervals with gas lamps, and by their uncertain light Brian saw a man some distance on ahead, walking in the same direction as that in which he himself was going.

"I'll ask that fellow if I'm right," he muttered, and increased his pace with a vigorous thrust on the pedals.

The man did not hear the noiseless approach of the bicycle until it was close behind him; then he turned quickly as the rider slowed down and spoke.

"Can you tell me—" Brian began, but he got no further. For a moment he entirely lost control of the machine, with the result that he narrowly missed being upset in the gutter. A gas-lamp was close at hand, and in its light he had a full view of the stranger's face, and recognized him in a moment—William Cole!

Brian was, perhaps, not quite so easily frightened as Elsie; it never struck him that the figure before him was anything but flesh and blood; still, the sudden appearance on a dark road of a man whom everybody believed to have been drowned so astonished him that it was a few moments before he recovered even the use of his tongue.

He put on the brake, and jumped off his machine; but the man had already turned, and was making off hurriedly in the opposite direction.

"William! Stop a moment!"

The man paid no attention. There was a stile close at hand; he turned, jumped over it, and disappeared in the darkness.

Here was indeed a mystery; and Brian, for some reason, felt that he must discover what it meant. Leaving his bicycle propped against the lamp-post, he dashed off in pursuit. Being a fast runner, and in good training from football, he soon recovered the little advantage which the man had gained at the start, and overtook him before he had reached the opposite side of the field.

"William! What brings you here? We thought you had gone down on board the Arcadia."

For a few seconds the man seemed too much out of breath to speak; then he gasped out a confused jumble of words, which Brian could hardly understand.

"Don't you tell the master you've seen me, Mr. Brian. I was going away to-night. I know I've done wrong; but I've put it right again, and the only one who's hurt is myself."

"I don't understand you," answered Brian. "Look here," he continued, struck with a sudden thought; "you were in the tool-house at the Pines the other evening. What were you doing?"

"I'm afraid I frightened Miss Elsie," returned the man, evading the question. "I suppose she told Mr. Ormond."

"As a matter of fact, she didn't; but of course I shall tell him I've seen you when I get back. Come, William, what's the matter? What does it all mean? Are you in trouble? Because, if so, you know we'd any of us help you if we could."

To Brian's astonishment Cole made no reply, but in the darkness drew his coat sleeve across his eyes with an audible sob.



"I am in trouble, sir," he answered at length. "And it's trouble of my own making. I'm done for—ruined! That's what's the matter with me."

"Ruined!" repeated the boy. "What do you mean? Come back to where I've left my bicycle. Now that you've told me so much, you may as well let me have the whole story."

They retraced their steps in silence, Cole apparently making up his mind whether or not he should disclose the story of his misfortunes.

"I might as well make a clean breast of the matter," he muttered. "It'll all come out sooner or later. When you speak to the master, sir," he continued, "you'll say what you can for me, I hope. I'm sorry for what's past, and I've done my best to make amends."

Looking at his companion as they came once more under the light of the gas-lamp, Brian was astonished to see what a change had taken place in his appearance. He looked ill and careworn; his clothes were untidy, and his chin had evidently not been shaved for days.

"You needn't be afraid to tell me everything," said the boy. "I'm sorry if you're in a mess, and I'll do what I can to get you out of it, William."

"Thank you, sir," was the reply.

They walked slowly along the deserted road, and as they did so Cole told his story.

"It was my own fault," he began. "I got to spending my evenings with a lot of young chaps at the 'Red Horse,' and soon I was short of money. They was a betting lot, and one of 'em told me if I could lay my hand on as much as fifty pound, he'd put me on to a way of making a fortune. I needn't trouble you now, sir, with a long account of how it was to be done; but it seemed simple and easy enough, and I thought about it night and day. You know that old box, Mr. Brian—the one in the master's library at the Pines? Well, of course, I'd heard the story about it, and seen it a good many times when I was in doing odd jobs or helping with the cleaning. I'd made up my mind that there must be money inside it, and the thought came over me that if I could get out enough to carry out the plan this other fellow had proposed, I might make my fortune and go abroad. The amount of money I'd taken I'd send back to Mr. Ormond, with no name, but just a note to say it had been taken out of his box."

"But why did you pretend you were going to Australia?" asked Brian.

"I'm coming to that, sir. To avert suspicion, in case anything went wrong and it was found that the box had been tampered with, I made out I was going to emigrate, and that I should have left England the very night I was going to rob the box. Mr. Brian, I'm no better than a common thief; but I tell you solemnly, I meant to return what I took."

"But how did you open the sealed box?"

"I remembered that, sir, and for some time it puzzled me to know what to do. I'm handy with tools and that kind of thing. I knew I could pick the padlocks; but if once I'd chipped the seals off, it would be seen that the box had been opened. However, there seemed no help for it, so I decided I must risk that much. Late Friday night, or early Saturday morning, I forced back the catch of the library window, and got into the house that way. I got out the box, and was going to begin by breaking the seals, when I thought of something better. I went into the kitchen, found a carving-knife, took it out into the tool-house, and ground the blade very thin on the stone. I got some methylated spirit out of the pantry, made a flame by burning it in a tin dish, and so heated the knife. When the blade was hot enough, I was able to slip it under the seals, so that they came away whole."

"That accounts for the cork," muttered Brian.

"I got the box open," continued the man, "but only to find that it contained nothing more than a bundle of papers. I hadn't time to search them through, but I thought there might be bank-notes, or something of that kind among them, so I determined I'd take them away. I had one fright, for while I was doing this I heard the door pushed open, and Bob came into the room. Of course he knew me, and didn't bark. He must have jumped in through the window while I was in the kitchen. I chained him up again when I went away; but first I refastened the box, and warming the backs of the seals, put them in their former places, exactly as they had been before. I walked all the way to Chadstone that night, and put up at a little pub there, making out I'd come to look for work. I examined the papers, but found that they weren't of any value to me or to any one but Mr. Ormond. For several days I wandered about, hardly daring to show my face in the daytime, sleeping anywhere and half-starved, for what money I had went very fast. One thing I was determined on—that I'd return them papers; and you just about know all the rest. I came that Thursday night, found the old box out in the tool-house, picked the locks again, and put the bundle in its old place, meaning to write Mr. Ormond an anonymous letter and say where the packet was. Then Miss Elsie came to the door and run away screaming. I'd no time to escape, so I hid under a heap of old matting. I heard you come into the place, sir, but you didn't find me, and later on I crept out and made off. I hid in an old barn most of yesterday and to-day, because I was afraid Mr. Ormond would smell a rat, and set the police on my track; and now I was going to try and get something to eat and then my idea was to walk to London."

For some minutes after the narrative had concluded Brian stood hardly knowing what to say. There was no doubt that Cole had been guilty of a serious offence; yet, remembering what he had been in the past, and seeing the change in him now, together with his evidently genuine regret for what he had done, the boy could not help feeling sorry, and anxious even to render the unfortunate fellow some assistance.

"Look here, William," he said suddenly, "the very best thing you can do is to come back with me now, and make a clean breast of the matter to Mr. Ormond."

"Oh, I can't do that, sir!"

"Yes, you can. Tell him exactly what you told me. He'll forgive you, I'm sure, and he'll advise you what to do better than I can."

"He may have me sent to jail," said Cole. "Still, I would rather face it, and take the consequences."

Brian's return to the Pines has already been described, and little more remains to be told. Mr. Ormond's astonishment was as great as his nephew's had been, when he entered the library, and saw William Cole standing there, cap in hand.

As the man related his story, his former master listened with a grave face.

"I'm sorry to hear this of you, William," he said at length. "I couldn't have believed it possible. I suppose you are aware that you ran the risk of being sent to penal servitude?"

"Oh yes, that I did, sir," was the answer. "But don't give me up. Let me have another chance."

"As you returned the papers, I'm inclined to deal leniently with you," said Mr. Ormond. "I hope this may be a lesson to you to keep out of crooked ways for the future. You have a brother in the north of England, I believe? Go to him, and see if he can help you to get work away from your old surroundings. I'll lend you money for your railway fare."

Cole tried to express his thanks, but Mr. Ormond cut him short with another warning to keep to straight paths in future. This, to give the man his due, he succeeded in doing, and a few months later was able to return the sum advanced for his railway ticket.

There were no more mysteries in connection with Uncle Roger's box, while Elsie so far recovered her nerves that she soon learned to gallop round the field when the promised pony came next spring.



THE END

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Two changes have been made to the text, both in Chapter 12.

The word of was changed to off in the sentence: He put on the brake, and jumped OFF his machine (...)

The word is was changed to it in the passage: (...) but IT seemed simple and easy enough,