"Light more this way, matey," he growled, in an ill-used tone. "That'll do. Steady, please. I don't want to look at the 'inges."

"There you are, then. Well, is it a pick? or a saw-out?"

"Pick," said the man, swinging his bag down on to the floor and opening it by drawing out the hammer.

There was a faint jingle as the bag was opened, and its owner looked up in a protesting way.

"Can't work if you make a Jacky Lantern game of it, matey. I want to see."

The light of the lantern was directed into the bag, revealing a stock, a box of centre bits, a keyhole saw, and a couple of bunches of attenuated keys, some of which were merely a steel wire turned at right angles at the end.

"Nice, respectable looking character this, gentlemen," said the sergeant dryly. "Supposed to be an honest man; but if a 'tec' got hold of him with a bag like that he'd have to say a great deal before anyone would believe him. That one do, my lad?"

"No, too big," said the workman huskily, and he began to whistle softly as he coolly selected another hook-like skeleton key from his bunch; while Guest stood watching the pair with a strange feeling of nervousness increasing upon him, caused partly by the weird aspect of the scene, with all in darkness save the round patch of light on the old drab-painted oaken door, in which glow the fingers of the workman were busily engaged, as if they were part of some goblin performance, and were quite distinct from any body to which they should have belonged.

He began wondering, too, whether there really was any cause for their operations—whether poor old Brettison really did lie dead in the dusty room beyond the double doors which held them at bay—dust to dust, the mortal frame of the gentle old naturalist slowly decaying into the atoms by which he was surrounded; and whether it was not something like sacrilege to interfere with so peaceful a repose.

And all the time the little steel pick was probing about among the wards of the lock with a curious clicking sound, above which Guest could hear the intermittent, harsh breathing of his friend, who watched the illuminated door with a stern, fixed gaze.

The second pick was after a time withdrawn.

"No good?" said the sergeant.

"Not a bit," growled the man, and he held his bunch of keys up to the glass of the bull's-eye lantern.

"Don't worry, old chap," said the sergeant. Then, turning to Guest:

"Look a nice, respectable lot, we do, sir," he said. "If one of your neighbours was to see us he'd be slipping off to fetch all the police he could find, to see what we were about."

"Wish you'd hold that there light still," growled his follower. "Who's to find a pick with your bobbing it about like that?"

"All right. Don't get shirty, my lad;" and then, as a fresh pick was selected, and the man began operating again, the sergeant placed his hand beside his mouth, after directing the light full on the keyhole, and whispered to Guest:

"I'm afraid you're right, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"What you thought, sir. There's somebody lying in there, sure as sure, or my mate here wouldn't turn like he has."

"Oh, nonsense!" whispered Guest uneasily.

"No, sir; it's right enough. He's like a good dog; has a kind of feeling when there's something wrong."

"There you go again," growled the operator. "Keyhole ain't on the ceiling, mate, nor yet on the floor."

"Oh, all right."

"But it ain't all right. I've got only two hands, or I'd hold the blessed bulls-eye myself."

"There you are, then; will that do?"

"Do? Why, of course it will," growled the fellow. "I don't ask much. If you can't hold a lantern, let one of the gentlemen."

"Something's rusty," said the sergeant.

"No, it ain't that," said the man, taking the remark literally. "Look's 'ily enough, but it's such a rum un—sort of a double trouble back-fall. I don't know what people are about, inventing such stupid locks. 'Patent,' they calls 'em, and what for? Only to give a man more trouble. All locks can be opened, if you give your mind to it, whether you've got a key or no. It's only a case of patience. That's got him!" he said exultantly, and a thrill ran through Guest. "No, it ain't; that blessed tumbler's gone down again. But, as I was a-saying," he continued, as he resumed his operations, "a man who knows his business can open a lock sooner or later, so why ain't they all made simple and ha' done with it?"

"If talking would pick a lock," said the sergeant jocularly, "that one would have flown open by now."

"And if chucking the light of a bull's-eye everywheres but how a man wants it would ha' done it, we should ha' been inside ten minutes ago. Like to have a try yourself, pardner?"

"No, no; go on," said the sergeant sternly; and the man sighed and selected a fresh pick, one so slight and small that it seemed to be too fragile for the purpose, as it flashed in the light while being inserted.

Then ensued a few minutes of clicking and scratching before there came a faint click, and a sigh of satisfaction from the workman.

"There you are!" he said, as he drew the door toward him, the paint cracking where it had stuck, and a faint creak coming from one hinge, while there floated out toward them a puff of dense, thick air, suggestive of an ancient sarcophagus and the dust of ages and decay.

Then there was a sharp, scampering noise, and, as Stratton stood peering forward into the dark room, where a faint halo of light spread like a nimbus about the head of a portrait on the further wall, the workman said, half nervously, half as if to keep up his courage:

"Rats!"



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A SEARCH FOR THE HORROR.

The sound ceased on the instant as its cause passed through some hole in the panelling, and Stratton uttered a low gasping sigh, and caught hold of Guest's arm with a grip which felt as if it was the grasp of a skeleton.

"Are you faint?" whispered the young barrister. "Let me take you back to your room."

"If the gentleman feels queer, sir, he'd better not go on with it," said the sergeant, also in a low voice, as if impressed by the place. "He isn't used to it; we are."

"Yes," said the workman. "Not our first case, eh, pardner?"

But even he spoke below his breath.

"No, I'll stay," said Stratton more firmly. "I have been ill, officer, and it has left me weak."

"Then don't try it, sir. You can leave it to us."

"Go on," said Stratton, after drawing a long, gasping breath; "I am quite right now."

"Spoken like an Englishman, sir," said the sergeant. "Party's likeness, gents?" he said, as the light shone full on the oil-painting across the room; the face of the grey, benevolent-looking man seeming to gaze at them reproachfully.

"Yes, my old friend's portrait," said Stratton, with a sigh.

"Better let me go first, sir," said the sergeant, pressing before Stratton, who was about to enter, but he was too late. Stratton took a step forward, caught his foot against something, and nearly fell headlong into the room.

"Mind my tools, please," growled the workman, stooping to pick up his bag, which had lain in the darkness of the opening; and then all stepped cautiously into the well-furnished room, which was, in almost every respect, a repetition of Stratton's, only reversed, and a good deal encumbered with large, open cases full of bulky folios, containing series of pressed and dried plants. These hid a great deal of the panelling and carving, save on the right, where, on either side of the beautiful old fireplace, were two low doors, formerly the entrances to the passages which connected the room with Stratton's when they were part of a suite.

Away to the left was another door, matching those by the fireplace—that leading into the botanist's bed-chamber; and wherever a space was left on the panelling, there was a portrait, in an old tarnished gilt frame, of some ancestor, each—dimly seen though it was—as the sergeant made the light play round the walls—bearing a striking resemblance to that which faced them.

"Looks as if he was watching us," said the workman huskily; and he placed a piece of tobacco in his mouth, making Guest start as he closed the brass box from which he had extracted it with a loud snap.

"Yes," said the sergeant, in a whisper, as if to himself, and he made the light of his bull's-eye play from easy-chair to couch, and then all about the floor; "I always wondered how they managed them eyes."

Everything looked in order, with one exception. The thick Turkey carpet and heavy rug were exactly as they had been laid; the fireplace showed the coal, wood, and paper neatly laid; and the chairs were all duly ranged in their places; but the sergeant's light rested upon the table— a heavy, oblong affair, with four massive carven legs—a part of whose top was bare, for the thick green cloth cover, with bullion braiding at the border, had been half dragged off, and lay in folds from the top to floor, only kept from gliding right off by the heavy lamp, and looking as if it had been hastily dragged down to cover something by the table, or caught by someone's foot when passing hastily to the door.

The sergeant made his light play on the dark folds for a few moments, and then jerked it away.

"Do you gentlemen mean to stop?" he said, speaking now a little more rapidly.

There was no reply and the man stepped forward to the table, raised one corner of the cloth quickly, and then swung it right up and steadily lowered it again, while Guest uttered a sigh of relief, for there was nothing visible but the heavy legs of the table.

"Enough to deceive any man," said the sergeant, who then stopped and listened, walked back, and softly closed both doors.

"May as well be private, gentleman," he said. "Eh?"

This last to the workman, who had muttered something in a low voice.

"I says I could ha' swore he was there."

"So could I, Jemmy," replied the sergeant, as he made the light play round the room again, and let it rest upon the chamber-door.

"There is nothing, you see," said Stratton, rather quickly.

"Haven't done yet, sir," replied the sergeant. Then, in a low voice to Guest—"I'm pretty well used to this sort o' thing, sir, but 'pon my soul I feel as if I should like to turn that picture round. It's just as if it was watching me. There, let's get it over."

The man had, in spite of his being accustomed to scenes of horror, seemed as if it were necessary to string himself up. He had gone to the table finally to lift the cover, and that had used up a certain amount of nerve force. He was forced to make a call on nature for a further supply.

He strode across to the chamber-door, threw it open, and walked in, the others following and standing just inside, as he made the light play round a well-furnished bedroom where everything was exactly in its place—the bed made, dressing table in perfect order, and a couple of cupboards displaying nothing within but sundry clothes hanging from pegs.

"Arn't in here," said the sergeant, after a final look round. "Been no struggle—no sign of anyone having been took ill. Don't like one thing, Jem," he added.

"Well," said the man, "if you mean, pardner, that everything looks too tidy, and as if things had been straightened up all but the table-kiver, that's just what I was a-thinking."

"Right," said the sergeant; "that was the one thing forgotten or left in the hurry."

"Oh, no," said Guest quickly. "I see we have raised a false alarm."

"Maybe, sir," said the sergeant firmly, "but I'm not satisfied yet. Let's go back in the other room, please. I want to know what that table-cover means. Hallo! What's this?" he said sharply, as he stooped down and picked up a piece of composition candle, gnawed nearly all away. "Where's the candlestick?"

"Here," said Guest, pointing to where a little old-fashioned candlestick lay by a stand containing folios of dried plants.

"Well, sir, that was knocked down," said the sergeant.

"We are wasting time," said Stratton firmly. "See if that lock is uninjured, my man, so that the door will close."

"Stop a bit, sir, please," said the sergeant; "we haven't done yet."

He stepped at once to the panelled door on the left of the fireplace, turned the handle, threw it open, and made his light play in the long, deep, narrow closet, one side of which was filled from floor to ceiling by a rack laden with books of pressed plants.

"Looks as if it had once been a passage," said the sergeant, "oak panels right over the ceiling. Well, nobody there," he continued, as he backed out and closed the door.

"That will do," said Stratton, speaking more firmly now.

"My friend and I made a mistake. We are much obliged for all you have done, and—"

"Not quite done, sir," said the sergeant grimly; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace, took hold of the handle of the closed-up door, left to make both sides match, and tried to turn it, but it was fast.

Stratton turned ghastly, but he was in the shade.

"No cupboard there," said Guest sharply.

The sergeant turned quickly, and his light flashed across the faces of the two friends. He saw Stratton's wild look, and he tapped on the panel.

"No cupboard, sir? Sounds hollow, too."

Guest caught sight of his friend's face at the same moment, and his pulses leaped; a confused mist of memories flooded his brain, and something made him keep silence, though, had he been asked, he could not have explained why.

"I should say there is a cupboard here," continued the sergeant, turning back to examine it. "Fastened up, but been a cupboard like the other, of course."

Guest glanced at Stratton again in the gloom, but he could see nothing now, with the light averted, only hear his heavy breathing, which was faintly stertorous, as if from exertion.

"Let me see, gentlemen, you live in the next chambers?"

Stratton was silent, while Guest met the officer's eye, and involuntarily answered: "Yes."

"Do they back on to there?"

"Yes; part of the old suite," said Guest, answering, as it were, against his will.

"I'll trouble you to take me in there for a moment, please," said the man decisively.

Stratton drew a deep breath, and without a word led the way out into the passage and round to his own door.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

RUN TO EARTH.

"What the dickens does it all mean?" thought Guest wonderingly, as he followed into Stratton's chambers, with a strange feeling of expectancy exciting him. Something was going to happen, he felt sure, and that something would be connected with his friend. And now he began to regret bitterly having urged on the quest. It had had the effect of rousing Stratton for the moment, but he looked horrible now, and Guest asked himself again, what did it mean?

The sergeant looked sharply round Stratton's room, and noted where the chamber lay; but his attention was at once riveted upon the fireplace with its two doors, and he walked to the one on the right, seized the handle, and found it fast.

"Yes," he said, "been open once, but closed, I should say, for many years."

"Want it opened, pardner?" said his companion.

"Not that one," said the sergeant meaningly; and he went to the door on the left, Stratton watching him fixedly the while, and Guest, in turn, watching his friend, with a sense of some great trouble looming over him, as he wondered what was about to happen.

"Hah! yes," said the sergeant, who began to show no little excitement now; "fellow door sealed up, too."

Guest started and glanced quickly at his friend, who remained drawn up, silent and stern, as a man would look who was submitting to a scrutiny to which he has objected.

The sergeant shook the door, but it was perfectly fast, and the handle immovable.

"Some time since there was a way through here," he said confidently; and, as he spoke, Guest again gazed at Stratton, and thought of how short a time it was since he had been in the habit of going to that closet to fetch out soda water, spirits, and cigars.

What did it mean? What could it mean, and why did not Stratton speak out and say: "The closet belongs to this side of the suite."

But no; he was silent and rigid, while the sense of a coming calamity loomed broader to mingle with a cloud of regrets.

He was trying to think out some means of retiring from the scrutiny, as the sergeant turned to his companion and said a few words in a low tone—words which Guest felt certain meant orders to force open the closet door, which, for some reason, Stratton had fastened up, when the sergeant spoke out:

"Now, gentlemen, please, we'll go back to the other chambers."

Guest drew a deep breath, full of relief, for the tension was, for the moment, at an end.

He followed with Stratton, whose eyes now met his; and there was such a look of helplessness and despair in the gaze that Guest caught his friend's arm.

"What is it, old fellow?" he whispered; but there was no reply, and, after closing the door, they followed into Brettison's room, where the sergeant stood ready for them with his companion.

As they entered, the man closed the door and said sharply:

"You're right, gentlemen; there has been foul play."

A cold sweat burst out over Guest's brow, and his hair began to cling to his temples. He once more glanced at Stratton, but he did not move a muscle; merely stood listening, as if surprised at the man's assertion.

"There have always been two cupboards here, made out of these two old passages, and this one has been lately fastened up."

"No, no," said Stratton, in a low, deep tone.

"What, sir! Look here," cried the man, and he shook one of the great panels low down in the door, and the other higher. "What do you say to that? Both those have been out quite lately."

Stratton bent forward, looking startled, and then stepped close up to the door, to see for himself if the man was correct.

The lower panel was certainly loose, and could be shaken about a quarter of an inch each way, but that seemed to be all; and looking relieved he drew back.

"Nonsense!" he said. "Absurd!"

Guest looked at him sharply, for the voice seemed to be that of a stranger.

"Not very absurd, sir," replied the sergeant. "This door was made two or three hundred years ago, I should say, and the old oak is shrunken and worm-eaten. I could easily shove that panel out, but there's no need. Here, Jem, try and open the lock the regular way."

Stratton's lips parted, but he said no word; and, as the second man strode up to the door with his tools, the sergeant went on:

"I thought it was a mare's nest, sir, and even now I don't like to speak too fast; but it looks to me as if the poor gentleman had been robbed and murdered, and whoever did it has hidden the body in here."

A curious cry escaped from Stratton's lips, and he gazed fiercely at the officer.

"That's it, sir," said the man. "It's a startler for you, I know, living so close, but I'm afraid it's true. Well, Jem, what do you make of it?"

Guest looked as if he had received a mental blow, as idea after idea flashed through his mind. Stratton's manner suggested it—his acts of late, the disappearance of Brettison on the wedding day, the large sum of money on the table, the mad horror and despair of the man ever since—it must be so; and he felt that here was the real key to all his friend's strange behaviour.

He wiped the cold moisture from his brow, and stared at Stratton, but his friend was standing rigid and determined, watching the actions of the two men, and Guest had hard work to suppress a groan, as he felt that his companion would owe to him the discovery and the punishment that would follow.

Just then Stratton turned and saw that he was being watched; but, as if all attempts at concealment were hopeless, he smiled faintly at his friend and then turned away.

The workman had not made any reply, and the sergeant spoke again as a large picklock was thrust into the keyhole again and again.

"Rusted up?"

"Ay, and eaten away; there hasn't been a key used in that lock in our time, pardner. But stop a minute; more ways of killing a cat than hanging of her. Let's have a look."

He began to examine the edge of the door, and then turned sharply round.

"Look here," he said; and then taking hold of the antique door knob, he lifted it and the whole of the front bar or rail came away—a piece of narrow wood six feet long.

"Split away from the tenons," he said; and the sergeant uttered an ejaculation, full of eager satisfaction.

"There, gentleman," he said, pointing. "One—two—three—four bright new screws. What do you say now?"

There they were plain enough, close to the door frame, and Guest uttered a low sigh as he supported himself by the back of a chair.

"Out with 'em, Jem," cried the sergeant excitedly, and, a large screw-driver being produced from the tool bag, the screws were attacked, and turned easily, the man rapidly withdrawing them and laying them one by one on the mantel-shelf.

"They haven't been in very long," he muttered, raising one to his nose. "Been rubbed in paraffin candle, I should say."

He began turning another, while the sergeant gave Guest the lantern to hold while he went and picked up the piece of candle they had found at first.

"Not all teeth marks, gentlemen," he said; "the candle was used to ease those screws."

There was a pause then, for the man was at work on the last screw, and as he turned, Guest arrived at the course he should pursue. Stratton was ignoring the fact that the closet belonged to his room; he must, for his own sake, do the same. He could not give evidence against his friend; for there it was plain enough now, and if Stratton had been guilty of Brettison's death, he was being bitterly punished for his crime.

The last screw fell on the floor, and was picked up and placed with the others. Then the man stood with his screw-driver in his hand.

"Prize it open?" he said. The sergeant nodded, and on forcing the edge of the screw-driver in the crack between the inner half of the bar and the jamb, it acted as a lever, and the door gave with a faint creak, but as soon as it was a couple of inches open the man drew back.

"Your job now," he said.

The sergeant stepped forward; Stratton stood firm, as if carved in stone, and Guest closed his eyes, feeling sick, and as if the room was turning round, till a sharp ejaculation made him open his eyes again to see that the sergeant had entered with his lantern, and was making it play over the panels of the inner side of the farther door.

"That's the old door leading into the place, I suppose, sir?" he said.

"Yes."

Guest started again, the voice sounded so strange, but he was gaining courage, for there was the familiar dark bathroom, viewed from the other end, with the cigar box on the shelf close to the door in company with the spirit-stand. Beneath the shelf there were three large four-gallon tins, which were unfamiliar, and suggested petroleum or crystal oil; there was a mackintosh hung on a peg, looking very suggestive; an alpenstock in a corner, with a salmon and trout rod. Guest saw all this at a glance, and his spirits rose, for there was no ghastly scene upon which to gaze.

Then his spirits sank to zero again, for there was the oblong of the inclosed bath occupying the left of the long, narrow place, and only just leaving room for anyone to pass.

He shuddered, and at that moment the sergeant took hold of the edge of the mahogany lid to raise it, but without success.

"Fast," muttered the latter; and he held the light to the glistening French-polished mahogany cover, looking from place to place. "Here you are, Jem," he said, in a low tone; "four more screws, and only just put in."

The other man uttered a low growl, and entered with his screw-driver; moistened his hands and the tool creaked on the top of a screw, and then entered the cross slit with a loud snap. The next minute the first screw was being withdrawn.

"Pretty badly put in," said the man. "Didn't have a carpenter here."

He worked away, making the old place vibrate a little with his efforts, and to Guest the whole business was horribly suggestive of taking off the lid from a coffin; but he was firmer now, as he stood behind Stratton, who drew a deep breath, now and then like a heavy sigh, but neither stirred from his position by the door they had entered, nor spoke.

All at once there was a sharp rap on the lid of the bath, which acted like a sounding-board, and the man at work started back in alarm.

"All right, Jem," said the sergeant; "you jarred it down from the shelf."

As he spoke he snatched up what he evidently looked upon as evidence; for it was a large gimlet, evidently quite new, and its long spiral glistened in the light of the lantern.

"Thought somebody throwed it," growled the man, as he resumed his task of withdrawing the screws till the last was out, and placed close to the bath, on the floor.

"Sure that's all?" said the sergeant.

The man ran his finger along the edge of the bath lid, uttered a grunt, and drew back toward the door by which he had entered.

"Lift up the lid, man—lift up the lid," said the sergeant, directing the lantern so that the grain of the new-looking wood glistened and seemed full of golden and ruddy brown depths of shadow, among which the light seemed to play.

"Do you hear?" he said. "Lift up the lid."

The man made no answer, but ran his hand over his moist forehead, and still backed toward the door, where Stratton and Guest were standing. Then, as they drew aside to let him pass:

"Precious hot in there," he growled.

"Look here, Jem," said the sergeant; "don't leave a fellow in the lurch. Come on."

Thus adjured, the man turned back and held out his hand.

"It ain't my work," he said in a hoarse whisper; "I've done my bit. But I'll hold the light for you, if you like."

The sergeant passed the lantern to his companion, who took it, and so reversed its position, the rays from the bull's-eye being directed toward the sergeant, and, consequently, Stratton and Guest were in the shadow, out of which the latter peered forward with his heart beating violently, and as he leaned forward he touched Stratton's arm.

He shuddered and shrank back, being conscious that Stratton grasped the reason, for a low sigh escaped him; but he did not stir, and, in spite of his feeling of repulsion, Guest felt compelled to press forward again to witness the horror about to be unveiled.

"Turn the light more down," whispered the sergeant; and, in spite of the low tone in which they were uttered, the words sounded loudly in Guest's ears.

"Now for it," muttered the officer; and, as if forcing himself to act, he flung up the bath lid so that it struck against the panelled side of the place with a sharp rap, and set free a quantity of loose plaster and brickwork to fall behind the wainscot with a peculiar, rustling sound that sent a shudder through the lookers-on.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE BLIND LEAD.

As that horrible, rustling sound behind the wainscot was heard, the two hardened men in the old passage shrank away to door and end, while a cold sweat bedewed Guest's face, and his breath felt laboured. Then there was a reaction. Old memories flashed through his brain, and he seized Stratton's arm.

"Old friends," he muttered. "I can't forsake him now."

The arm he gripped felt rigid and cold, but Stratton made no movement, no sign, and at that moment they saw the sergeant flash the light down into the sarcophagus-like receptacle; for, thanks to the manufacturers, our baths are made as suggestive of a man's last resting-place as they can be designed.

There was utter silence then for a moment. Then the sergeant uttered a low whistle and exclaimed:

"Well, I am blessed!"

"Ain't he there?" said the workman, from the door.

"Come and look, Jem."

Jem went in slowly, looked down in the bath, which was lit up by the rays from the lantern, and then uttered a low, chuckling sound, while Guest tried to make out the meaning of the strange expression, dimly seen, on his friend's face.

For Stratton's eyes showed white circles about the irises, as he now leaned forward to gaze into the bath.

Guest was the last to look into the white enamelled vessel, one-third full of what seemed to be water, but from the peculiar odour which rose from the surface, evidently was not.

Stratton was silent; and in the strange exultation he felt on seeing that all the horrors he had imagined were vain and empty, Guest shouted:

"Bah! What cock-and-bull stories you policemen hatch!"

The sergeant, who had been regularly taken aback, recovered himself at this.

"Come, sir," he cried; "I like that. You come to us and say your friend's missing, and you think that he is lying dead in his chambers. 'All right,' we say—"

"Wrong," cried Guest with a laugh, which sounded strange and forced.

"So it is, sir—wrong," said the sergeant. "We come and do our duty, and I follow up the scent as clear as clear, right up to this spot; and I put it to you gents, as gentlemen, oughtn't your friend to have been murdered and a-lying there?"

"Well," said Guest, with another forced laugh, as he glanced uneasily at Stratton; "it did look suspicious, and you worked it all up so theatrically that I was a little impressed."

"Theatrical! Impressed, sir! Why, it was all as real to me; and I say again your friend ought to be lying there. What do you say, Jem?"

"Cert'nly."

"But he is not," said Guest sharply; "and it has all been a false alarm, you see, and I'm very, very glad."

"Course you are, sir, and so are we," said Jem huskily. "Don't 'pologise. Don't make a bit o' diffrens to us. We're paid all the same."

"Of course," cried Guest, keeping up the position of leader, for Stratton stood gazing down into the bath like one in a dream. "There, sergeant, we are very much obliged, and it's all right; so your man had better screw down the bath lid again."

"But it isn't all right, sir," said the sergeant testily, and he gave his ear a scratch. "I don't like giving up just for a check."

Guest shivered.

"I've got as far as here, and I put it to you; the gentleman ought to have been in that thing, and he isn't."

"That's plain enough," said Guest hurriedly.

"Then where is he?"

"In the country, I suppose, collecting."

"That's your opinion, sir. P'r'aps your friend'll speak. What do you say, sir?"

"Nothing," said Stratton, with an effort.

"There is nothing to say," said Guest sharply.

"Queer for this place to have all been screwed up—both, the door and the bath."

"Oh, no; I see why," said Guest quickly. "Bad smells, perhaps, from the waste pipe—sewer gas."

"Don't smell like bad gas," said Jem, sniffing about and ending by dipping a finger in the bath, and holding it to his nose, after which he gave a peculiar grunt.

"Well?"

"Sperrits."

"Nonsense, man!" cried Guest. "What! That?"

"That's sperrits, sure enough, sir," said the man, dipping his finger in the bath again. "Open that there lantern, pardner."

The sergeant obeyed, and his companion thrust in his finger, for it to be enveloped directly with a bluish flame.

"Mind what you're doing," said the sergeant hastily, "or we shall have the whole place a-fire."

"All right, pardner. Sperrits it is, and, I should say, come in them cans."

He gave one of the great tins a tap with his toe, and it sent forth a dull, metallic sound.

"Very likely," said Guest. "Our friend is a naturalist, and uses spirits to preserve things in."

"Look ye here," said the workman oracularly, and he worked one hand about as he spoke. "I don't purfess to know no more than what's my trade, which is locks and odd jobs o' that sort. My pardner here'll tell you, gents, that I'll face anything from a tup'ny padlock up to a strong room or a patent safe; but I've got a thought here as may be a bright 'un, or only a bit of a man's nat'ral fog. You want to find this gent, don't you?"

"Yes," said Guest; and the tone of that "yes" suggested plainly enough, "no."

"What have you got in that wooden head of yours now, Jem?" growled the sergeant.

"Wait a minute, my lad, and you'll hear."

"There's no occasion for us to stop here," said Guest hurriedly.

"On'y a minute, sir, and then I'll screw down the lid. What I wanted to say, gents, is: haven't we found the party, after all?"

"What!" cried Guest. "Where?"

"Here, sir. I don't understand sperrits—beer's my line; but what I say is: mayn't the gent be in there, after all, in slooshun—melted away in the sperrits, like a lump o' sugar in a man's tea?"

"No, he mayn't," said the sergeant, closing the lid with a bang. "Don't you take no notice of him, gentlemen; he's handled screws till he's a reg'lar screw himself."

"But what I say is—"

"Hold your row, and don't make a fool of yourself, mate. Get your work done, and then go home and try experiments with a pint o' paraffin and a rat."

The man uttered a growl, and attacked the bath lid angrily, screwing it down as the light was held for him, and then going with the others into the sitting room, where he soon restored the old door to its former state, there being no sign, when he had finished, of its having been touched.

Then, after a glance round, with Brettison's portrait still seeming to watch them intently, the outer door was closed, and the little party returned to Stratton's chambers, where certain coins were passed from hand to hand, evidently to the great satisfaction of the two men, for Jem began to chuckle and shake his head.

"Well," said the sergeant; "what now?"

"I was thinking, pardner, about baths."

"Yes, yes," said Guest hurriedly; "but that will do."

"Yes, sir, I'm going; but there's your gents as goes and breaks the ice in the Serpentine, and them as goes to be cooked in a hoven, and shampooed; and you pull your strings and has it in showers, and your hot waters and cold waters; but this gent seems to have liked his stronger than anyone I ever knowed afore. I say, pardner, that's having your lotion, and no sham."

"Pooh!" said the sergeant.

"Look here," said Guest quickly, and he slipped another sovereign into the sergeant's hand, "this has all been a foolish mistake. I was too hasty."

"Only did your duty, sir," replied the man. "It was quite right, and I'm glad, for all concerned, that it was a mistake."

"You understand, then; we don't want it to be talked about in the inn, or—or—anywhere, in fact."

"Don't you be afraid about that, sir," said the man quietly. "I don't wonder at you. It did look suspicious, but that's all right, sir. Good-night, gentlemen both."

"But your man?"

"Close as a nut, sir; aren't you, Jem?"

"Rather," said that personage, with a growl. "Night, sir."

He slipped out, and the sergeant followed. As Guest was closing the door upon him, he whispered:

"Quite upset your friend, sir. Why, he turned ghastly; couldn't have looked worse if we'd found the—"

"Exactly. Bad health," said Guest hurriedly. "Good-night."

And he closed both doors; and then, with a peculiar sensation of shrinking, turned to face Stratton where he stood by the fireplace.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

GUEST'S SUGGESTION.

Stratton did not move, but stood as if lost in thought, while involuntarily Guest's eyes were directed toward the door on his left.

A key had always been visible, in old times, by the handle—a key about which Guest had bantered his friend and cut jokes in which the spirit-stand and Mrs Brade's name were brought into contact. But there was no key there now, and he recalled how Stratton had endeavoured to keep him away from that door. A trifle then, but looking singularly suggestive now.

A dozen little facts began to grow and spread into horrors, all pointing to the cause of Stratton's sudden change, and strengthening Guest's ideas that there must have been a quarrel on the morning appointed for the wedding, possibly connected with money matters, and then in a fit of rage and excitement—disappointment, perhaps, at not willingly receiving the help he had anticipated—a blow had been struck, one that unintentionally had proved fatal.

All Guest's ideas set in this direction, and once started everything fitted in exactly, so that at last he felt perfectly convinced that his friend had killed Brettison and in some way disposed of the body.

For a moment he was disposed to cast the ideas out as utterly absurd and improbable, but the ideas would flow back again; and, try how he would to find some better solution of the puzzle, there seemed to be only that one way.

Stratton stood there by the fireplace, pale, haggard, and wrapped in thought, apparently utterly unconscious of his friend's presence, till Guest took a step or two forward and rested his hand upon the table.

Here he remained for a few minutes, trying to think out his course. For he felt now full of a guilty knowledge, and in that knowledge, if he did not make it known, a sharer—an accomplice—in a murder. For so the law and the world would judge it. And then there was Edie!

A shiver of dread and misery ran through him as her bright little face crossed his mind, and he saw that by keeping silence till the discovery—for that must come—he would be so implicated that he would share his friend's arrest; and, even if matters did not turn out serious with him as far as the law was concerned, his position with the admiral's family would be the same as Stratton's—everything would be at an end—his love affair like that of the miserable man before him; the man who now turned to him with a scared, horrified, hunted look in his eyes, startled by Guest's advance.

It was time to speak, Guest thought, but the words would not come at first, and he could only gaze wildly at the wretched being before him, and think of their old schooldays together, then of their first fresh manhood, and always together, sharing purses, pleasures, troubles, full confidence always till this trouble had come.

For the moment he hated and loathed the man before him; but the feeling was momentary. Stratton would not wilfully have thrust himself into such a position. He felt that there must be something more than he knew, and, softening down, he said huskily:

"Well, Stratton, what have you to say?"

There was no answer. Stratton gazed at him with a far-off, fixed stare, full of helpless misery, which drew his friend far nearer in heart, and he spoke more freely now.

"Come," he said; "speak out. In spite of everything, I am your old friend. I want to help you. Will you trust me?"

"Trust you? Yes," said Stratton slowly.

"Tell me, then, everything, beginning from the morning when you were to be married."

Stratton slowly shook his head.

"Come, man; this is no time for reticence. Tell me all," cried Guest excitedly; and he spoke in a hoarse whisper, and glanced to door and window, as if afraid of being overheard.

There was the same desponding movement.

"Am I not worthy of your confidence? I tell you I am ready to share it—ready to help you if you will only be honest with me, and tell me frankly everything."

There was no reply.

"Stratton, old fellow," cried Guest piteously, "you must speak. I do not believe that you could have been intentionally guilty."

Stratton glanced at him quickly, but the eager look died out.

"I tell you that you are injuring me as well as yourself. You have blighted your life; for God's sake don't blight mine, too."

"What—what do you mean?" cried Stratton, who started as if stung at his friend's reference to his future, and when the appeal came, took a step or two forward.

"That, knowing what I do, compelled from our old associations to be silent, I cannot—dare not go near her again."

"Guest!"

"I have said it. How can I take her innocent hand?"

"Because you know nothing," cried Stratton excitedly; "because you shall know nothing. One is enough to bear a crime, if crime it was."

"Ah! You confess!" cried Guest; "then you did—kill him."

Stratton made no reply, but looked firmly and sorrowfully in his eyes.

"I knew it—I was sure—your manner betrayed you when we were in that room. I see all, now. You closed that door."

"I will not be dragged into any confession," said Stratton fiercely. "It is my secret, and I will tell it to none. I have a right to keep my own counsel. You have a right to denounce me if you like. If you speak, you can force me to no greater punishment than I suffer now."

"Then it is all true?" groaned Guest. "You killed him, and hid him there?"

Stratton uttered a mocking laugh.

"That door!" said Guest huskily. "Twice over you have stopped me from going there. Your manner has been that of a guilty man, and I am forced to share the knowledge of your crime."

"No," said Stratton, speaking now with a look of calm contempt; "you share no knowledge—you shall share no knowledge. You say I killed him and hid him there; where are your proofs? You have brought in the police, and they have searched. What have you found? Again, I say, where are your proofs?"

Guest looked at him wildly, and his lips parted, but he uttered no sound.

"Let me rest, my good fellow, let me rest. You are warring against your own happiness in trying to pry into matters that are naught to you. I will not blight your future, Percy Guest, by letting you share any secrets of mine. There, good-night. I want to be alone."

Guest tried to recommence the argument, and to master the man who looked so pitifully weak, but somehow the other's will was too powerful, and he had to yield, leaving the chambers at last with a shudder of horror, and feeling that he could never take Stratton by the hand again.

For the man seemed changed. There was a mocking, almost triumphant, look in his eyes as he took the lamp from the table, and followed Guest out on to the landing to stand there, holding the light over the massive balustrade for his friend to descend.

As Guest reached the bottom, he looked up, and there, by the light which fell full upon Stratton's face, was the strange, mocking air intensified, and with a shiver he hurried across the inn, feeling that the mystery had deepened instead of being cleared.

His intention was to hurry back to his own chambers, feeling that it was impossible for him to go near Bourne Square, knowing what he did, but the yearning for one to share his knowledge proved too strong.

"And I promised that she should share every secret," he said to himself. "Whom am I to trust if I don't trust her!"

The result was that, with his brain in a whirl of excitement, and hardly knowing what he did, he leaped into the first cab, and urged the man to drive fast, while he sank back into the corner, and tried to make plans.

"I won't tell her," he decided at last. "I'll see the admiral, and he will advise me what to do."

He altered his mind directly. "It will be betraying poor Malcolm," he thought; but swayed round again directly after.

"I ought to tell him," he said. "It is a duty. He stood to him almost in the position of a father, and, for Myra's sake, ought to know; and Heaven knows I want someone to advise me now."

He changed his plans half a dozen times before he reached the square; but that of telling the admiral under a pledge of secrecy was in the ascendant when the cab drew up at the door.

It was opened by Andrews.

"The admiral in?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, but he's asleep in the library. Miss Myra is in her chamber, sir—not very well to-night, but Miss Edith is in the drawing room."

Guest went upstairs, and, upon entering, Edie rushed at him, when all his plans went for naught.

"Oh, how long you have been," she panted, as she caught his hands. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"Have you found out anything?"

"Yes."

"Is it dreadful?"

"Too dreadful to tell you, dearest," he replied sadly.

"Then I won't know," she said, with a sob. "Oh, my poor, darling Myra! She will die of a broken heart, I know, I know."

Guest tried to comfort her, and she grew more calm.

"It was good and honest of you to come straight to me, to tell me, Percy," she said, submitting to his embraces; and Guest felt horribly guilty, and wished he had not come. "It is dreadful, you say?"

"Terrible, little one," he whispered.

"Too terrible for me to know? Then I must not hear it, I suppose?"

"No."

"But you know it, Percy," she said piteously; "it's too terrible, then, for you."

"I have been trying hard to find out the cause of his conduct."

"And you have found it out now?"

"Yes; and I'd give anything to be as ignorant as I was yesterday."

"Oh, but, Percy, dear," she whispered excitedly, "I must know that."

"I cannot—I dare not tell you."

"Not tell me—and you said you loved me!"

"As I do with all my heart."

"Then you cannot keep anything from me."

"I'll tell your uncle, and ask his opinion first."

"No, no, Percy. I must know now—I must, indeed. No matter how terrible, you cannot keep it from me."

"But it is like betraying the man whom I'd give anything to save."

"Save? Save from what?"

"Don't press me, dearest," he said tenderly. "Trust me that it is best for you not to know."

"Percy, dear," she said gently, as she laid her hand upon his arm; "you can trust me. I always knew there must be something very terrible to make Mr Stratton behave toward poor Myra as he did, and you and I have been plotting and planning to find it out, in the hope that it would prove to be a trouble we could bridge over, and bring them together again. You have discovered it all then at last?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

"I cannot—I dare not."

Edie was silent for a few moments, as she sat gazing straight before her into the dimly lit back drawing room, her eyes suffused with tears, as she at last said in a whisper:

"You asked me the other day if I would be your wife."

"And you promised me an answer when I knew all," said Guest, cutting the ground from beneath his feet.

"And now you know, and I'll tell you," she said, hardly above her breath. "Yes, Percy, some day when we have made poor Myra happy."

"Then it will never be," he said despairingly.

"Let me judge," she whispered. And he told her all.

"But—but I don't quite understand," she faltered; "you think, then—oh, it is too horrible—you think, then, he had killed poor Mr Brettison, his friend?"

"Yes," said Guest slowly and thoughtfully. "It must have been that. I cannot see a doubt."

"Ah!"

They started to their feet at the piteous sigh which came from the back drawing room, and it was followed by a heavy fall.

Myra had entered in time enough to hear the terrible charge, and for her life seemed to be at an end.

————————————————————————————————————

Meanwhile Stratton had stood motionless, gazing down into the dark pit formed by the staircase, with the light of the lamp he held shining full on his haggard face, made more painful by the smile which contracted the lower parts of his countenance, till the last echo of his friend's steps died out, when he turned slowly and walked into his room, closing and fastening both doors.

Then his whole manner changed.

He rushed to the table, set down the lamp so that the glass shade rattled and nearly flew out of the holder; then, crossing quickly to a cabinet, he took out a decanter and glass, poured out a heavy draught of brandy, and gulped it down.

The glass almost dropped from his hand to the table, and he clasped his brow, to stand staring before him fighting to recall his thoughts.

Twice over he threw his head back, and shook it as if something compressed his brain and confused him. Then the stimulant he had taken began to act, and he went to a drawer and took out a new screw-driver, with which, after seeing that the blinds were down and the curtains drawn over the window, he crossed to the door on the left of the fireplace; but only to turn away again, and take up the lamp and place it on a stand, so that it should light him in the work he had in hand.

He was alert and eager now, as, with deft touches, he forced the screw-driver under a piece of moulding at the top and front edge of the door, wrenched them off, and bared some half dozen screw-heads. These he rapidly turned and withdrew, laying them down one by one till all were out, when, from an inner pocket, he took out a key, unlocked the door, threw it open, and went into the bathroom, lamp in hand.

Placing it on the polished lid, he rapidly toiled on till these screws were taken out in turn, when, lifting the lamp with his left hand, he threw up the lid with his right, and stood staring down into the bath with a shudder, which rapidly passed away.

The lid fell with a heavy, dull sound, and, with a curious, wondering look, he turned and went slowly back to his table, set down the lamp, caught it up again, and walked into the bathroom, where he again set down the lamp, tore a fly-leaf from a letter in his pocket, folded it into a spill, and lit it at the lamp chimney.

"Will it burn slowly or explode at once?" he said, with a reckless laugh. "Let's see!" and once more he threw up the lid.



CHAPTER FORTY.

FOR HIS SAKE.

Edie rushed to her cousin where she lay prone on the carpet, her face turned toward the shaded lamp, which threw its soft light upon her face, and, even then, in her horror, the girl thought it had never looked so beautiful before; while, as Guest, full of remorse, joined her, he felt ready to bite out his tongue in impotent rage against himself for a boyish babbler in making known to two gentlewomen his fearful discovery at the chambers.

"Shall I ring?" he said excitedly; and he was half-way to the bell before Edie checked him.

"Ring? No; you absurd man!" she cried impatiently. "Lock the doors. Nobody must know of this but us. Here, quick, water."

Guest was hurrying to obey the businesslike little body's orders about the doors when she checked him again.

"No, no; it would make matters worse. Nobody is likely to come till uncle leaves the library. Water. Throw those flowers out of that great glass bowl."

Guest obeyed, and bore the great iridescent vessel, from which he had tossed some orchids, to her side.

"That's right. Hold it closer. Poor darling! My dearest Myra, what have you done to have to suffer all this terrible pain?"

There were drops other than the cold ones to besprinkle the white face Edie had lifted into her lap, as she sat on the floor, bending down from time to time to kiss the marble forehead and contracted eyelids as she spoke.

"Percy, dear," she said, as he knelt by her, helpful, but, in spite of the trouble, full of mute worship for the clever little body before him.

His eyes met hers, and flashed their delight, as the second word seemed to clinch others which she had spoken that night.

"This is all a secret. Even uncle must not know yet till we have had a long talk with aunt. She can be quite like a lawyer in giving advice."

"But, Edie!"

"No, no; we can have no hesitation. What I say is right. I'm very fond of Malcolm Stratton; and, if he has done this dreadful thing, his punishment must not come through us."

"You're a little Queen of Sheba," he whispered passionately.

"Hush! That's not behaving like Solomon. Be wise, please. O Myra, Myra! Stop; there are some salts on the chimney-piece in the front room. No, no; stay! She is coming to."

For Myra turned her head slightly on one side, and muttered a few incoherent words in a low, weary tone; and at last opened her eyes to let them rest on Guest's face as he knelt by her.

There was no recognition for a few moments, as she lay back, gazing dreamily at him. Then thought resumed its power in her brain, and her face was convulsed by a spasm.

Starting up, she caught his arm.

"Is it all true?" she cried, in a low, husky whisper.

Guest gave her a pitying, appealing look, but he did not speak.

"Yes, it must be true," she said, as she rose to her feet, and stood supporting herself by Guest's arm, while Edie held her hand. "You have not told anyone?" she said eagerly.

"No; I came here as soon as I knew."

"Where is Mr Stratton?"

"At his chambers."

"And you, his friend, have left him at such a time?"

"It was at his wish," said Guest gently; "his secret is safe with me."

"Yes. He trusts you. I trust you. Percy Guest, Edie, even if he is guilty, he must be saved. No, no, it could not be guilt. I must not be weak now. He may be innocent, and the law can be so cruel. Who knows what may be the cause!"

She pressed her hands to her temples for a few moments, and then the power to think grew clearer.

"Go to him—from me. Tell him I bid him leave England at once. Leave with him, if you can be of help. Stop. He is not rich. Edie, all the money you have. Mr Guest, take this, too, and I will get more. Now go, and remember that you are his friend. Write to me and Edie, and we will send; but, though all is over, let me know that his life is safe."

Guest caught the hand she extended with her purse and Edie's, kissed it reverently, and closed the fingers tightly round the purses, and gently thrust them from him.

"What!" Myra cried passionately; "you refuse?"

"I want to help you both," he replied gravely.

"O Percy!" cried Edie, with the tears starting to her eyes, and her tone of reproach thrilled him.

"Don't speak to me like that," he said. "You mean well, but to do what you say is to condemn him at once in everybody's sight. It is all so foreign to my poor friend's nature that, even knowing what I do, I cling to the belief in his innocence."

"Yes; he must be innocent," cried Myra. "He could not be what you say."

"Then should I be right in taking money and your message, saying to him, though not in words—'Fly for your life, like a hunted criminal'? I could not do it. Myra, Edie—think, pray, what you are urging. It would be better advice to him to say—'Give yourself up, and let a jury of your fellow-countrymen decide.'"

"No, no," cried Myra; "it is too horrible. You do not know; you cannot see what he is suffering—what his position is. I must act myself. It cannot, it cannot be true!"

"Myra!" whispered Edie, clinging to her.

"What? And you side against me, too?"

"No, no, dear! How can you speak such cruel words? You know I would do anything for your sake."

Half-mad with mental agony, Myra repulsed her with a bitter laugh.

"Anything but this," she cried. "There it is, plain enough. He speaks, and you cry 'Hearken! is he not wise.' He says, 'Let him be given up to justice for the mob to howl at him and say he must die.' Die? Oh, no, no, no, it is too horrible! He must—he shall be saved!"

In her agony she made a rush for the door, but before she was half-way there, she tottered, and would have fallen but for Guest's ready arm. He caught her just in time, and bore her to a couch, where she lay back sobbing hysterically for a few moments, but only to master her emotion, draw her cousin to her breast, and kiss her again and again before holding out her hand to Guest.

"Forgive me!" she whispered. "These long months of suffering have made me weak—half-mad. My lips spoke, not my heart. You are both wiser than I am. Help me, and tell me what to do."

"I will help you, and help him, in every way I can," said Guest gently, as he held the thin white hand in his. "Now let me talk coolly to you— let us look the matter plainly in the face, and see how matters stand. I am speaking now as the lawyer, not as the friend—yes, as the friend, too; but our feelings must not carry us away."

Myra struggled with her emotion, and pressed the hand which held hers firmly.

Guest was silent for a few moments and stood as if collecting his thoughts and reviewing his position.

"There is no need for taking any immediate steps," he said. "The scene that took place to-night was forced on by my precipitancy, and the danger to Stratton has passed away. To-morrow I will see him again, and perhaps he will be more ready to take me into his confidence, for there is a great deal more to learn, I am sure."

"It is not so bad as you imagined."

"After what took place to-night I can't say that," Guest replied sadly; "but there are points I have not yet grasped. An accident—a fit of passion—a great deal more than I have yet learned."

"Then go to him to-night," said Myra eagerly. "I will go with you. He shall not think that all who love forsake him in the hour of his need."

"Myra!"

"I cannot help it," she cried, springing up. "Did I not go to him when that suspicion clung to him—that he was treacherous and base? Even then in my heart I felt it could not be true. Yes, I know what you say; he has tacitly confessed to this dreadful crime, but we do not know all. I saw that Malcolm Stratton could not be base. If he has taken another's life, I know, I feel all the horror; but he has not been false or treacherous to the woman he loved, and it was on account of this horror that he shrank back that day. To insult—to treat me with contempt? No; to spare me, Edie; and my place is at his side."

"No, not now," said Guest firmly. "I will go back to-night. Trust me, please, and have faith in my trying to do what is for the best."

There was a few moments' silence, and then Myra spoke again faintly, but with more composure.

"Yes, we trust you, Mr Guest. Don't think any more about what I said. Come to me again soon with news. I shall be dying for your tidings. Yes," she said, with a weary sigh, as she clung to his hand, "dying for your news. Only promise me this; that you will not deceive me in any way. If it is good or bad, you will come."

"You must know," said Guest quietly, "sooner or later. I will come and tell you everything."

"Then go now—go to him."

"Your father? He will think it strange that I have been and gone without seeing him."

"No; you have been to see us. I will tell him everything when we are alone. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Guest hurried back to the inn, but all was dark there; and, on going on to Sarum Street, he knocked at the door in vain.

"I can do no more," he said; and he went slowly back to his own rooms.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

AT FAULT.

It was from no dread of the consequences likely to ensue that Malcolm Stratton paused with the burning paper in his hand. He knew that he had but to drop it into the clear fluid beneath, for this to burst out into a dancing crater of blue and orange flames. He knew, too, that the old woodwork with which the antique place was lined would rapidly catch fire, and that in a short time the chambers would be one roaring, fiery furnace, and the place be doomed before the means of extinction could arrive. He had no fear for self, for he felt that there would be time enough to escape if he wished to save his life. But he did not drop the blazing paper; letting it burn right to his fingers, and then crushing it in his hand.

"There is no reason," he muttered, as he turned slowly back to his room. "It would be madness now; there is nothing to conceal."

He sank into his chair, and sat back thinking and trying to piece together all that had passed since the day when, full of life, joy, and eagerness, he was ready to hurry off to the church. But his long confinement, with neglect of self, and the weary hours he had passed full of agony and despair, had impaired his power of arranging matters in a calm, logical sequence, and he had to go twice to his bedroom to bathe his burning head.

There was one point at which he sought to arrive—his present position, and what he should do next. It came to him at last, and then he worked himself up to the grasping of the facts, till a mist came over his brain, and all glided away, leaving his mind blank.

For it was all one terrible confusion, mainly due to the fearful mental strain to which he had been exposed during the past few hours; and at last he sat there holding his throbbing brow, feeling that he could think of everything but the one point to which he strove.

At one moment Guest's horrified face was before him, and in a puzzled way he felt that his friend had left him with the idea that he had slain Brettison, and that he ought to have made that portion of his trouble clear to him; but at that time it was as if he were fettered by the horrors of a nightmare-like dream.

But he waved these thoughts aside. They were as nothing to the terrible perplexity he had to master, and the first step toward that mastery was to find Brettison, whom he had last seen on the morning appointed for the wedding, wishing him happiness and every good thing which could fall to a bridegroom's lot.

And now? What did it all mean? How could he clear up the chaos which bade fair to wreck his brain. Brettison could not have returned; and yet how strange it all was! What could he do?

One thing shone out, however, clearly; and that was the knowledge that he could come back here and stay without being haunted by the presence of a great horror close at hand. He even began to grasp the fact that, for a long time past, he had been needlessly shunning his rooms and living away in a morbid state, always dreading discovery; and opening his doors at every visit, fully expecting to find himself face to face with the police, waiting to trap him in his lair.

How he had suffered! How he had stolen to his chambers at night, creeping up to his door furtively, and, after entering, examining the closet, and making sure that it had not been tampered with and opened in his absence.

It had been a terrible period of agony, such as had turned him old before his time; and now he had discovered that his suffering and dread had been vain and empty; that he had stayed away from the inn for naught, unless all this was imagination; another of the horrible nightmare dreams by which he had been haunted ever since that dreadful day.

At last he grew calmer, and felt able to look matters in the face. The great horror had passed away, and in so passing it had roused him to action. There was work to do, a strange complication to solve; and he settled in his own mind how that was to be done.

He must find Brettison at once; and the great question was: Where could he be?

Here was a grand difficulty at once. Where would a man like Brettison be likely to sojourn?—a man who ranged through the length and breadth of the country in pursuit of his specimens.

In an ordinary way. But what would he be doing now and what had he done?

Stratton shuddered, and pictured a strange scene, one upon which he dare not dwell; and, leaping up, he took matches and a candle with the intention of going to his friend's room to try and pick up the clue there; but by the time he reached his door he was face to face with the first obstacle. Brettison's door was locked again, and, without re-summoning the help they had had that evening, entrance was impossible.

Taking the lamp he entered the bath-closet to try the old door at the end; but this was firmly screwed up again, and unless he broke through one of the panels, entrance was impossible that way.

Stratton returned to his chair, hesitating to take so extreme a course; and sitting down he tried to think out a likely place for Brettison to have gone.

As he thought, he called to mind various places where he knew him to have stayed in the past; and selecting one at haphazard—an old-world place in Kent—he determined to start for there at once, perfectly aware of the wildness of the scheme and how easily he might spend his life in such a chase, but there was nothing else to be done. He could trust no one—get no help. It must be his own work entirely. Brettison was master of his secret, and there could be no rest for him until the old man was found.

He started at once, hurrying away from his carefully closed-up chambers by the northern gate, so that he should not be seen at the porter's lodge, and was half-way to the station when a thought assailed him, which made him turn back, suffering all the agony of a guilty man in dread of discovery.

Brettison could not have taken that body away from the chambers; such a task was impossible without discovery. It must, after all, be hidden somewhere within his rooms.

He turned into an embayment over a pier of the bridge he was crossing, and sat down to think. He knew Brettison's rooms so well—as well as his own. Where could the body be concealed?

He mentally wandered from one room to the other, and paused in a little pantry-like place, peering into each nook and corner, and searching every article of furniture likely to contain a bulky object; but all in vain.

Then he recalled the fact that the police officer—a man of experience— had searched carefully and given the matter up. Still Brettison must have practiced a great deal of cunning for his friend's sake, and there was no knowing what he might have done. There were the floors of the rooms—boards might have been taken up, and concealment made between the joists; or there was the wainscot; some panel might have been taken out in front of a recess, and the body placed there.

But Stratton shook his head, and his chin went down upon his chest in despair. There were sufficient reasons, for Brettison not choosing such a hiding-place as that. Detection in a short time was certain.

"Seems impossible," thought Stratton; "but he must have taken it away."

"Hadn't you better go home?" said a gruff voice.

Stratton looked up, to find a burly policeman had stopped by his side, and was watching him keenly.

"Go—go home?" stammered Stratton.

"Yes, sir; that's what I said. You don't look well, and when people come and sit down here, feeling as you do, they sometimes lets their feelings get the better of 'em and jump off. Next moment they're sorry for it, and call for help, often enough when no help can come. You go home, sir, and have a day or two in bed. You'll come out again like a new man."

Stratton frowned.

"You are making a mistake," he said quietly. "I had no such thought as you imagine."

"Glad of it, sir. You'll excuse me. You know that sort of thing happens here so often that we're obliged to keep a sharp lookout."

Stratton's mind was made up once more, and he hastened off to the station, caught a later train, and in two hours was down in the old village, with its quaint ivy-covered hostelry and horse-trough ornamented with the mossy growth that dotted the boles of the grand old forest trees around.

The landlady met him with a smile of welcome which faded after his questions.

Oh, yes, she remembered Mr Brettison, and his green tin candle-box and bright trowel very well. He was the gentleman who used to bring home weeds in his umbrella; but it was a long time since he had been down there. It was only a week ago that she was saying to her master how she wondered that that gentleman had not been down for so long. But wouldn't he come in and have some refreshment?

No, Stratton would not come in and have some refreshment, for he went back to town instantly.

This was an example of many such blind ventures; all carried out in the face of the feeling of despair which racked him; and the time glided on, with hope goading him to fresh exertions in the morning, despair bidding him, in the darkness of the night, give up, and accept his fate.

In course of time, Stratton visited every place in England that he could recall as one of Brettison's haunts, but always with the same result; and then in a blind, haphazard way, he began to wander about town.

The consequence was that he was rarely at his rooms, and letter after letter was left for him by Guest, who reiterated his demands to see him, and asked for appointments in vain.

But, in spite of the constant checks to which he was subjected, the desire to find his old friend only increased; and, after sitting half the night thinking what to do next, Stratton would snatch a few hours' sleep, and start off again, feeling sure that he had hit upon the right clue at last.

For there was always some place that he had not searched. The greater museums and institutes he had visited again and again, and at all hours, hoping to find the old man buried in some book, or closely examining some specimen; but the minor places only came to mind by degrees, and day succeeded day in which he went about, haggard and weary-eyed, always looking for the slight, grey old man from whom he had parted on what was to have been his wedding day.

And all the time he had a kind of presentiment that the old man was aware of the search being carried on after him, and was, consequently, hiding away, but, perhaps, keeping an eye upon his proceedings.

It was impossible to give up, for he felt that the old man must at any cost be found; and at last he spent his days wandering dreamily about the streets, trying to solve the difficulty—watching the passers-by, and asking himself whether there were any means he had left untried— whether there was any friend or acquaintance he could question as to his whereabouts.

But Brettison had no friends or acquaintances, as far as he knew. He had been to his solicitor, who smiled, and said that his client was, in all probability, studying mosses or lichens in the Alps, and would come back some day; to his banker, who was reticent at first, and then, upon seeing his visitor's anxiety, readily stated that his cheques had been cashed quite lately, which proved him to be about, but where he could not say.

Everything seemed to have been done, but still day after day Stratton traversed London streets in a never wearying search, trusting to chance to help him, though perfectly aware that he might go on for years and never meet the man he sought.

Chance did aid him at last; for one day he had turned out of Fleet Street to go northward, and as he passed along the broad highway— wishing that he could explain everything to Guest and bring other wits to his help, instead of fighting the weary battle in silence alone—he suddenly stepped out into the road to cross to the other side, to an old bookseller's shop, where the man made a specialty of natural history volumes. It was a shop where he and Brettison had often spent an hour picking out quaint works on their particular subjects, and he was thinking that possibly the man might have seen Brettison and be able to give him some information, when there was the rattle of wheels, a loud shout, and he sprang out of the way of a fast driven hansom.

The driver yelled something at him in passing, by no means complimentary; but Stratton hardly heard it. He stood, rooted to the spot, gazing after the cab; for, in the brief moment, as he started away, he had caught sight of the pale, worn face of Brettison, whose frightened, scared gaze had met his. Then he had passed without making a sign, and Stratton was gazing after the cab in speechless horror, for upon the roof, extending right across, and so awkwardly placed that the driver half stood in his seat and rested his hands upon it with the reins, was a large, awkward-looking deal box, evidently heavy, for the cab was tilted back and the shafts rose high, as if the balance was enough to hoist the horse from the pavement.

At last! And that scared look of the pale-faced man, and the strange, heavy case on the cab-roof, with every suggestion of haste, while he stood there in the middle of the road as if a victim to nightmare, till the quickly driven vehicle was too far off for him to read the number.

Suddenly the power to move came back, and, dashing forward in the middle of the road, Stratton shouted to the man to stop.

"He won't stop—not likely," growled another cabman, who had seen Stratton's escape. "Shouldn't loaf across the—Here, sir," he cried suddenly, as a thought flashed across his brain. "Hi! guv'nor; jump in—I'll ketch him for you."

He whipped his horse up alongside of Stratton, who caught at the idea, and, seizing the side of the cab, sprang in.

"Quick! Five shillings if you keep that cab in sight."

The wide road was open, and pretty free from vehicles, and the horse went fast, but the cab in which Brettison was seated had a good start, reached the cross street, and entered the continuation of that which he was pursuing. Stratton's man drove up as a number of vehicles were crowding to go east and west, and the flow of those from north and south was stopped by a stalwart policeman; while raging at the sudden check, Stratton ground his teeth with rage.

"All right, sir," came down through the little trap in the roof; "he'll let us go acrost directly, and I'll ketch up the cab in no time."

They were not arrested much above a minute, but the interval was sufficient to give Brettison's cab a good start, and when leave was given to go, the case on the roof was invisible, and the question arose in Stratton's mind—which way had it gone? into one of the station yards, or straight on over the bridge into South London?

He raised himself a little to peer over the horse's head, but he could see nothing, and turning round, he thrust up the trap.

"Faster—faster!" he cried. "You must overtake it. Faster!"

"All right, sir," shouted the man hoarsely; and crack! crack! went the long heavy whip on one and then on the other side of the well-bred but worn-out screw between the shafts.

The result was a frantic plunge forward, and though the driver dragged at and worked the bit savagely, the horse tore on at a gallop for about fifty yards, with the cab swaying from side to side; then the tiny flash of equine fire died out, and the horse's knees gave way. Down it went with a crash. Stratton was dashed forward heavily against the curved splash-board, to which he clung, and the next thing he saw was the driver rising from somewhere beside the horse, that lay quite still now on its side, while shouts, the faces of people who crowded up, and the vehicles that passed on either side, all seemed dim, confused, and distant. Then bells of a curiously sharp, quick tone were ringing loudly in his ears.

"Hurt, sir?"

"Yes—no; I think not. Quick, stop that cab," said Stratton huskily; but, as he spoke, he knew it was in a confused way, and that for his life he could not have explained what cab.

"It's far enough off by this time, sir," said a voice beside, him, "and if you ain't hurt, I am. Never went in training for a hacrobat. Here, Bobby, help us up with the fiery untamed steed. That's the second time he's chucked me over the roof. Wait a moment, sir, and I'll drive you on; we may ketch 'em yet. Don't do a man out of his fare."

"Too late," was all Stratton could think of then. "I could not overtake it now."

And in a dim, misty way he seemed to be watching Brettison hurrying away with that heavy, awkward case which contained—

"Yes," he muttered with a shudder, "it must be that."



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

BY A RUSE.

Such a chance did not come in Stratton's way again. "If I had drunk that when Guest came and interrupted me—when was it? Two years and more ago," sighed Stratton one night, "what an infinity of suffering I should have been spared. All the hopes and disappointments of that weary time, all the madness and despair of the morning when that wretched convict came, all my remorse, my battles with self, the struggles to conceal my crime—all—all spared to me; for I should have been asleep."

A curious doubting smile crossed his face slowly at these thoughts; and, resting his cheek upon his hand, with the light full upon his face, he gazed straight before him into vacancy.

"How do I know that?" he thought. "Could I, a self-murderer, assure myself that I should have sunk into oblivion like that—into a restful sleep, free from the cares I had been too cowardly to meet and bear? No, no, no; it was not to be. Thank God! I was spared from that."

"But mine has been a cruel lot," he continued; "stroke after stroke that would have been kinder had they killed; for the misery has not been mine alone. I could have borne it better if it had been so. Poor Myra—poor girl! Yours has been a strange fate, too."

And his thoughts were filled by her pain-wrung features, and wild, appealing look last time they met, when she had clung to him there, and appealed to him to forget the past, for she would forgive everything and take him to her heart and face with him the whole world.

He shuddered.

"Poor, blind, loving heart! ready to kiss the hand wet with her husband's blood." It was too horrible—too terrible to bear.

He hid his face in his hands for a few minutes, but grew calmer as he went on reviewing the past; and from time to time a slight shiver ran through him, as he thought of what he had done, and the mad plan he had made to utterly conceal his crime by fire.

"But that's all past now," he said at last, with a sigh of relief. "That horror has been taken from my load, and I will, as a man, fight hard to meet whatever comes. Heaven knows my innocence, and will find me strength to bear it all; and, perhaps, some day, give me—give her forgetfulness and rest."

He looked sharply up and listened, for he fancied that he heard a sound; but a step faintly beating on the paving outside seemed to accord with it, and he went on musing again about Brettison, wondering where he could be, and how he could contrive to keep hidden away from him as he did.

"If we could only meet," he said, half aloud—"only stand face to face for one short hour, how different my future might be."

"No," he said aloud, after a thoughtful pause, "how can I say that? L'homme propose et Dieu dispose. We are all bubbles on the great stream of life."

He half started from his chair, listening again, for he felt convinced that he heard a sound outside his doors, and going across, he opened them softly and looked out, but the grim, ill-lit staircase and the hall below were blank and silent, and satisfied that he had been mistaken, he went back to his seat to begin musing again, till once more there was a faint sound, and as he listened he became conscious of a strange, penetrating odour of burning.

Stratton's face grew ghastly with the sudden emotion that had attacked him, and for a few moments he sat trembling, and unable to stir from his seat.

"At last!" he said in a whisper; "at last!" and, conscious that the time had come for which he had longed and toiled so hard, he felt that the opportunity was about to slip away, for he would be unable to bear the encounter, if not too much prostrated by his emotion to rise from his seat.

It was only a trick of the nerves, which passed off directly; and he rose then, firm and determined, to cross gently to first one and then the other door by his mantelpiece, where he stood, silent and intent, breathing deeply.

Yes; there was no doubt now. He was inhaling the penetrating, peculiar odour of strong tobacco; and at last Brettison must have returned, and be sitting there smoking his eastern water-pipe.

Stratton drew softly back, as if afraid of being heard, though his steps were inaudible on the thick carpet, and he stood there thinking.

"If I go," he said to himself, "he will not answer my knock." And feeling now that Brettison might have been back before now unknown to him, he tried to think out some plan by which he could get face to face with his friend.

A thought came directly, and it seemed so childish in its simplicity that he smiled and was ready to give it up; but it grew in strength and possibility as he looked round and took from a table, where lay quite a little heap that had been thrust into his letter-box from time to time, four or five unopened circulars and foolscap missives, whose appearance told what they were; and armed with these he opened his doors softly and passed out, drawing the outer door to, and then stole on tiptoe downstairs and out into the dimly lit square.

"He will not notice that it is so late," he said to himself, as he looked up and saw just a faint gleam of light at Brettison's window, where the drawn curtain was not quite closed.

Stratton paused for a moment, and drew a long breath before attempting to act the part upon which he had decided. Then, going on some twenty or thirty yards, he turned and walked back with a heavy, decided, businesslike step, whistling softly as he went, right to the entry, where, still whistling, he ascended the stairs to his door, thrust in and drew out a letter-packet thrice, making the metal flap of the box rattle, gave a sharp double knock, and then crossed the landing and went the few steps, whistling still, along the passage to Brettison's door. Here he thrust in, one by one, three circulars, with a good deal of noise, through the letter-flap, gave the customary double knock, went on whistling softly, and waited a moment or two; and then, as he heard a faint sound within, gave another sharp double rap, as a postman would who had a registered letter, or a packet too big to pass through the slit.

The ruse was successful, and with beating heart Stratton stood waiting a little on one side, as there was the click and grate of the latch, and the door was opened a little way.

That was enough. Quick as lightning, Stratton seized and dragged it wide, to step in face to face with Brettison, who started back in alarm and was followed up by his friend, who closed both doors carefully, and then stood gazing at the bent, grey-headed, weak old man, who had shrunk back behind the table, whereon the pipe stood burning slowly, while the unshaded lamp showed a dozen or so of freshly opened letters on the table, explaining their owner's visit there.

Stratton did not speak, but gazed fiercely at the trembling old man, who looked wildly round as if for some weapon to defend himself, but shook his head sadly, and, with a weary smile, came away from his place of defence.

"Your trick has succeeded, sir," he said quietly. "Seventy-two! Has the time come? I ought not to fear it now."

Stratton uttered a harsh sound—half-gasp, half-cry.

"Well," continued Brettison, who looked singularly aged and bent since they had last stood face to face, "you have found me at last."

Stratton's lips parted, but no sound came; his emotion was too great.

"It will be an easy task," said Brettison, with a piteous look at Stratton. "No sounds are heard outside these chambers—not even pistol shots."

There was an intense bitterness in those last words which made the young man shrink, and as Brettison went on, "I shall not struggle against my fate," he uttered a cry of bitterness and rage.

"Sit down!" he said fiercely. "Why do you taunt me like this? You have been here before from time to time. Why have you hidden from me like this?"

"I have my reasons," said Brettison slowly. "Why have you come?"

"You ask me that!"

"Yes. You have hunted me for months now, till my life has been worthless. Have you come to take it now?"

"Why should I take your life?"

"To save your own. You believe I heard or witnessed—that."

He paused before uttering the last word, and pointed to the door on his left.

Stratton could not suppress a shudder; but, as he saw the peculiar way in which the old man's eyes were fixed upon his, a feeling of resentment arose within him, and his voice sounded strident and harsh when he spoke again.

"I had no such thoughts," he said. "You know better, sir. Come, let us understand one another. I am reckless now."

"Yes," said Brettison coldly.

"Then, if you have any fear for your life, you can call for help; that is, for someone to be within call to protect you, for what we have to say must be for our ears alone."

Brettison did not answer for a few moments, during which time he watched the other narrowly.

"I am not afraid, Malcolm," he said; and he seated himself calmly in his chair. Then, motioning to another, he waited until Stratton was seated.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I have been here from time to time to get my letters."

"Why have you hidden yourself away?" cried Stratton fiercely.

"Ah! Why?" said Brettison, gazing at him thoughtfully from beneath his thick, grey eyebrows. "You want a reason? Well, I am old and independent, with a liking to do what I please. Malcolm Stratton, I am not answerable to any man for my actions."

Stratton started up, and took a turn to and fro in the dusty room before throwing himself again in his chair, while the old man quietly took the long, snake like tube of his pipe in hand, examined the bowl to find it still alight, began to smoke with all the gravity of a Mussulman, and the tobacco once more began to scent the air of the silent place.

Stratton's lips parted again and again, but no words would come. In his wild excitement and dread of what he knew he must learn, he could not frame the questions he panted to ask in this crisis of his life, and at last it was with a cry of rage as much as appeal that he said:

"Man, man, am I to be tortured always? Why don't you speak?"

"You have hunted me from place to place, Malcolm Stratton, in your desperation to find out that which I felt you had better not know; and now you have found me—brought me to bay—I wait for you to question me."

"Yes, yes," said Stratton hoarsely; and, with a hasty gesture, as he clapped his hand to his throat, "I will speak—directly."

He rose again and paced the room, and it was while at the far end that he said in a low voice:

"Yes; you know all."

"All."

"Tell me, then—why have you done this? Stop! I am right—it was you."

"You are right; it was I," said Brettison, smoking calmly, as if they were discoursing upon some trivial matter instead of a case of life and death—of the horror that had blasted a sanguine man's life, and made him prematurely old.

"Tell me, then; how could you—how could you dare? Why did you act the spy upon my actions?"

The old man rose quickly from his chair, brought his hand down heavily upon the table, and leaned forward to gaze in Stratton's eyes.

"Answer me first, boy. Me—the man who loved you and felt toward you as if you were a son! Why did you not come to me for help and counsel when you stood in danger—in peril of your life?"

The gentle, mild face of the old botanist was stern and judicial now, his tone of voice full of reproof. It was the judge speaking, and not the mild old friend.

"Did you think me—because I passed my life trifling, as some call it, with flowers, but, as I know it to be, making myself wiser in the works of my great Creator—did you think me, I say, so weak and helpless a creature that I could not counsel—so cowardly and wanting in strength of mind and faith in you, that I would not have stood by you as a father should stand by his son?"