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C. DUDLEY LAMPEN

THE CRIME OF SCAMDEN MILL

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RGL e-Book Cover©
Based on a painting by Charles Greville Morris (1861-1922)

BEING THE STORY OF A NOTABLE YORKSHIRE MYSTERY

And containing the several narratives of
those persons who were chiefly concerned therein.
The whole collated and arranged by Mr. Wilberforce
Strafford, Solicitor, and now first made public by


C. Dudley Lampen



Ex Libris

As published in The Sydney Morning Herald,
Sydney, Australia, 3 August-5 October 1901

First e-book edition:
Roy Glashan's Library, 2022©
Version Date: 2022-07-14

Produced by Keith Emmett and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI


CHAPTER I.

THE MILL.

MY name is Wilberforce Strafford. I am a solicitor by profession; and I do not hesitate to say it is a profession I like, especially when it brings me to mysteries to solve and knotty enigmas to unravel—things which have always been to my taste. Indeed, I may confess that I enjoy nothing better, when the fierce gale is whirling the snow flakes over the moors around us and my feet are toasting before the fire, than to follow the adventures of a keen-sighted detective, as related by a popular writer in the pages of a certain magazine.

Not that I have much time for such reading. My office is in the neighbouring town of Halifax, where I have a considerable practice among the gentry and yeoman of the district, a practice which I may, without boast, describe as "old-established" for it was founded by my grandfather in the closing years of the last century.

Some of my clients have not hesitated to express an opinion that I should do more business if I resided is the town. But I cannot tear myself away from my pleasant cottage in the Scamden valley, even though by so doing I might add a few pounds to my income.

It will enable those who read the following pages the better to understand them if I describe this valley somewhat minutely. At the same time I would suggest to say who are in the habit of "skipping" what seems to them dry and uninteresting that they should dismiss this portion of the story with a passing (and contemptuous) glance and proceed at once with Sir Charles Selwyn's a narrative.

From my windows may be viewed a magnificent panorama of hill and dale, stretching up on the right toward the higher portions of the Pennine Range, and sloping away on the left in the direction of the less precipitous and broader vales in which lie the great manufacturing towns of the West Riding. The summits of the hills above us are clothed with heather, and on many a brilliant twelfth of August have I seen the sun rise over the eastern slopes of the moorland—the last daybreak to be witnessed by the unsuspecting grouse destined to fall to my gun during the day.

There is no moorland, however, on the steep sides of the Scamden valley. The careful tillage of the small yeoman and tenant farmers through successive generations has kept back the growth of the heath and rushes; and from my garden I can see the fields of emerald green extending in walled patches right up to the line of the dark heather and bilberry bushes. Not that the vale is treeless, though the trees are mostly of sombre hue. There are a few oaks, the remainder being firs and pines. A great grove of the latter forms a background in the churchyard, and there is another very thick weed on the further side of the valley extending from the edge of the babbling stream far up the northern slope.

It is, however, neither the moorland fringe, nor the green fields framed in rough stone walls, nor the dark woods, which at once catches the eye. Not even the quaint homesteads, most of them of Elizabethan build, first arrest the attention.. There is one object in the valley, looming through the winter fogs, or stridently asserting itself in the summer sunshine, a building hugely out of proportion to its neighbours, a building without beauty or comeliness, or any pretension to artistic shape.

"That building," I reply to my inquiring visitor, "is called Scamden Mill."

It is substantially-built,—so substantially that one might well imagine it will stand there in all its square ugliness until the crack of doom.

There is a look of intense melancholy about this mill, an aspect ghostly and gaunt. And well may it be so, for it stands there an incarnation of fraud, a monument of selfishness and greed, a huge abortion, dead from its birth; fit progeny of the commercial chicanery by which it was conceived.

Never has the heart of Scamden Mill throbbed with the pulsations of a useful life; no machinery has been erected within its walls; no mighty engines or great water-wheel has ever sustained its energies; no warm and cheery glow was ever reflected from its numerous and gigantic windows. For Scamden Hill is an empty shell; a body which never possessed a soul. Its great unglazed windows seem to gaze towards the hills like the eyes of the blind which appear to behold what they never really see. Grass, in long and warm tufts, grows between the paving stones in the millyard, a damp scum covers the inside walls and many parts of the concrete floors, a thick cake of rust encrusts the iron girders supporting floors and doorways—for there are no doors. The stairways are of stone or of iron. It is the most inartistic, uninteresting, and ugly erection imaginable; a perpetual eyesore to every dweller in the valley; an everlasting reminder of things which had best be cast into the limbo of defunct and useless memories; and yet had it not been for the existence of this horrible monstrosity of architecture this narrative would never have been written.

As Sir Charles Selwyn in his portion of this narrative has related further details concerning Scamden Mill, I will merely say that from its very inception I opposed the idea of its erection, and I need what influence I possessed with the late baronet to persuade him to withdraw his support from the scheme. But another influence was at work—that of his brother, the Colonel, though I was quite unable at the time to account for the extraordinary hold which this man possessed over his relative. It is sufficient for me to say that the latter would listen to all my warnings, and apparently would accept my reasoning over a cigar and a glass of his old port—for we often spend an evening together, and yet a visit from the Colonel on the following morning would completely nullify the effect of my arguments.

It was not until the Company was floated, and our squire the baronet was deeply involved in its fortunes, that I saw how complete a mastery the Colonel had acquired. It happened that I was lying awake one morning before arising. The previous evening I had urged upon my friend that the Scamden Mill Company could not be considered to rest on a sound financial basis. Suddenly it flashed upon me that there were circumstances in the past life of the baronet of which I knew nothing; that, although things might appear simple on the surface, there was in reality some deep and complicated mystery which accounted for Colonel Sewyn's influence over his brother. The longer I pondered the more thoroughly was I convinced that such must be the case. And yet I could do nothing. I suppose the thought was one of those flashes of intuitive perception which are said to come so often to women and so seldom to men—things which cannot be argued and proved, but of which the mind is none the less positively assured.

The mill was just built when the crash came which ruined so many just as I had anticipated. My friend the Squire acted honourably—nay right nobly. He even went so far as to purchase the great factory from the creditors. I urged him to pull it down, suggesting that the material was worth a good deal of money, but whether he had some thought of starting the Mill himself, or of selling it, or whether he wished to preserve it as a monument of human fraud and folly, I could never discover. Year after year it remained; and there it stands to-day. Its very existence would have been unknown to the outside world had it not been that the newspapers have written about it freely enough in connection with the events recorded in the following pages.

I have thought that it would be conducive to a clear understanding of the following story if I insert each narrative exactly as I have received it (indeed, this is Sir Charles Selwyn's wish), though I have divided several of these accounts into convenient sections in order that the narrative may be read the more consecutively and agreeably to the order of events.

The lion's share has fallen to Sir Charles Selwyn, not only because he has ample time at his disposal but also because he has been especially concerned both in the progress and in the issues of the drama.


CHAPTER II.

RECORDS THE READING OF THE WILL OF THE
LATE SIR CHARLES GEORGE SELWYN, BART.

[The narrative of Sir Charles Selwyn,
Baronet, of Scamden Hall, in the county of York.]

"I MUST congratulate you, Sir Charles," said Mr. Wilberforce Strafford, our family lawyer, as he turned to me on the completion of his task of reading the will. He emphasised the title, as if to remind me that I had now become Sir Charles Selwyn, Baronet, of Scamden Hall, Yorkshire.

I bowed an acknowledgment, and for a few moments the company, which was sitting around the wainscoted library in all the stiff decorum of black broadcloth and crisp crape, preserved a meditative silence. As I glanced round the room it struck me that an assembly of the Great Inquisition could hardly have presented a more sombre appearance than did this funeral party on this November afternoon.

On the lawyer's left sat my father's only brother, Colonel Selwyn, a tall and very gaunt man, possessing a face that must have been handsome in youth, but now spoilt by a shifty look in his black eyes. His closely-cropped hair and well-trimmed moustache suited well his erect figure and military bearing; but there was a nervous twitch about his fingers, which was especially noticeable on the present occasion as he played with his eyeglasses. Next to him sat his only son, Jack Selwyn, a young man of some twenty-four years, of horsey appearance, who possessed his father's eyes without his father's military carriage. My maiden aunt, Maria Rawkesley, sat near the fireplace, while sundry other relatives of high and low degree completed the assemblage. Nor must I forget my cousin Elsie, the Colonel's only daughter, a pretty and thoughtful girl of some twenty years, for she alone of all my relatives seemed to sympathise with me in my loss.

"Yes, I must beg to be allowed to add my congratulations, Sir Charles," said my aunt in a sniggling tone, as she broke the uncomfortable silence. "Though I cannot in the least understand," she continued, "why my poor brother should have made such a will," and she waved one hand in a dramatic manner as she spoke, while with the other she applied a black bordered handkerchief to her eyes.

I was not sorry when the party had dispersed and Strafford and I were alone.

"You are no doubt surprised," he remarked, "at the provisions of the will?" and he looked inquiringly into my face as we drew up to the fire.

"Yes," I replied. "I cannot for the life of me understand why the Mill has been left to my uncle."

I fully expected that Strafford would take this opportunity of making some explanation, but he remained gazing into the fire for such a long time that I began to wonder whether he were pondering as to what his explanation should be.

"There are things connected with your family which I do not altogether understand," he said at length.

"What is the date of my father's signature to this will?"

"August 5th, 1869."

"The year in which I was born?"

"And the year in which your brother disappeared."

I looked up. "Then you know something of my brother's disappearance?"

"I am aware of the fact," he replied.

"Come, Strafford!" I said a little testily, "do you not think this is an excellent opportunity to put me in possession of facts which have been for so many years kept from me? I have now a right, surely, to know all!"

"A moral right you certainly have, Sir Charles," replied Mr. Strafford, "and I have no reasons for concealing anything from you, now that your father is gone. You must know," he continued, "that your father was one of my oldest friends, in fact he was my school chum, and we did not lose sight of each other when school days were over. Two years before your birth he wrote to me saying that he was about to start for the West Indies to look after his property in that part of the world, and stating that he would be accompanied by his brother, Colonel Selwyn, whom, up to that time, I had not seen. I have not very precise information concerning the details of subsequent events, but this much is clear. On board the Sultana they made the acquaintance of the Bishop of British Honduras who was proceeding to Belize. With the Bishop's eldest daughter, an exceedingly beautiful girl, both your father and uncle fell violently in love. After a while she showed marked preference for your father, and by the end of the voyage they were engaged. Immediately on reaching port your uncle, following the bent of his habits and inclinations, contrived to become intimate with the best families, most of whom were of Spanish nationality. Here he indulged in his favourite pastime of gambling to such an extent that your father was repeatedly obliged to discharge his debts, and at length was compelled to refuse him further aid. On this the Colonel left, in company with certain Spanish friends, and, as I have been informed, soon afterwards made his way to England.

"At the expiration of a year your father returned with his wife and infant son, and they lived together to all appearance most happily till after your birth. It was when you were six months old that the terrible blow came, which shattered your father's happiness and deprived him both of wife and child—your elder brother mysteriously disappeared. How he was taken from his cradle and by whom the deed was performed on that dark November night has never to this hour been discovered. The child was safe and sound asleep at eight o'clock, and at tea was missing. The shock killed your mother, and your father's health was permanently impaired."

"Is this all you can tell me?" I asked, when the lawyer had finished.

"All I know about your father's disappearances. Concerning the Mill and its failure, you have no doubt received fuller information?"

"Yes, my father told me everything, so far as I am aware."

After Mr. Strafford had departed, I sat ruminating ever the strange things he had told me. Here was I, the owner of the old family mansion known as Scamden Hall, and absolute master of a fine estate, with Ģ250,000 wherewith to manage and improve it, but my tenure depended entirely on the supposition that my elder brother be no longer alive.

The Mill of which the lawyer had spoken was situated in the loneliest part of the Scamden Valley, and less than half a mile from the Hall, the spurs of the Pennine Range rising here so abruptly that the great building is in the shadow during a great portion of the winter months.

Scamden Mill had been the blight and the curse of the countryside. A time there was when the people were as prosperous as they were simple and unsophisticated—a time when the chicanery and frauds of commerce were totally unknown among them. My uncle's advent had altered all this; after his return from the West Indies he had for some years resided in London, but eventually came to live at Moorfield, a house situated some two miles from the Hall.

No two men could have been more unlike each other than were my late father, Sir George Selwyn, and his brother, the Colonel. The former was a short, thickset man of methodical habits and phlegmatic temperament. My uncle, whom I have already described, had lost one foot in action when serving in India, and it had been replaced by an artificial one, so that he walked with a perceptible limp.

Colonel Selwyn had ever been a man of schemes—some of them of the wildest character. No sooner had he settled in the neighbourhood than projects were advanced by a company with which he was connected for the erection of a great factory on the bank of the brawling stream at the bottom of the valley. This factory was to work wonders for the district; and, after a time, my father was induced by his brother to land him support to the project. The people, having implicit faith in "Sir George," confidingly placed their savings in the hands of the promoters, and the Colonel spared no efforts to induce them to do so.

The shell of the building had just been erected and roofed when the crash came; the company was declared bankrupt, and the earnings of years were swept away. Then it was that my father purchased the Mill, giving for it a sum that not only paid the creditors, but saved from further loss those who had trusted to the tender mercies of an unlimited liability company. But he never put the building to any practical use; and ever since I can remember it has stood in the bottom of the steep valley, a gaunt and skeleton-like monument of human folly.

I can well remember my dread of the place when, as a boy, I had occasion to pass through the millyard in the twilight; and often have I crept from my bed on a moonlight night to gaze fearfully down the valley, in half-terrified expectation that I might behold some spectral figure emerging from the deep shadows or gesticulating in the huge, unglazed windows.

The recent circumstances connected with my father's death, though not mysterious, are sufficiently important to be mentioned here. Some six months before the time of which I am about to write he complained of increasing weakness, and, having consulted a London physician, he determined to revisit the West Indies. Five months later I received the news of his death. The letter, which was written by his valet, Thomas Jenkins, stated briefly that he had died from the effects of exposure to a tropical storm, and had been buried in the churchyard of one of the most remote of the islands.

Jenkins arrived in England almost as soon as his letter, and when he had handed the necessary certificate of death and burial to Mr. Strafford, the relatives were called together, and, as I have stated, the will was read.

I am naturally of a cheerful and sanguine disposition, but as I sat alone in the library on that November afternoon I certainly felt a little despondent. I was rich, and unless my long-lost brother turned up I had inherited a title and a fine estate. Yet I must confess that I would have been thankful if my brother had been in my case. My wealth seemed to accentuate my loneliness.

Around me the portraits of my ancestors, some of them stern and forbidding in aspect, looked down in the flickering firelight as though they could read my thoughts. I stared at them till, unable any longer to bear the oppressive silence, I hastily left the library and the house.

The ancient township of Scamden is situated on the upper slopes of the valley, overlooking a wide expanse of moorland and woodland.

The hillsides are dotted with farmsteads and outlined with the rough walls of unhewn stone peculiar to the district. Towards one of these farmsteads I made my way in the foggy November twilight. It was the abode of Joshua Wilkinson, my foster-brother. Like the rest of the inhabitants of the valley, he devoted the time during which the small farm did not require his attention to hand-loom cloth-weaving, which in those days was a very prosperous industry in the country districts of the West Riding.

A fine, brawny fellow was Joshua, and a Yorkshireman to the backbone; which is as good as saying that he was as trusty and honest a man as one could come across in a day's walk. I can see him now, as I have often watched him, as he stood at the door of his house, a tall, somewhat bony man, of some 30 years, with fair curly hair falling over his brow, hair which disdained to be restrained by his cloth cap; an expression of good-humoured contentment in his blue eyes; a city pipe in his mouth, and his hands thrust deep into his breaches pockets.

Not only was Joshua more than six feet in height, but he was the possessor of muscles of iron and lungs of leather. Few in that country side were his equals in strength and agility. Fortunately for his neighbours, Joshua was one of the best-tempered of men, every ready to perform acts of kindness, though always in a natural and unaffected manner, as though he thought his deeds unworthy of notice. He was fond of boasting, with a loud, frank laugh, that he was willing to meet any wrestler within forty miles. It was seldom, however, that his prowess was put to the test unless it was for the entertainment of those who assembled at the "Thlump," as the annual feast was called.

The barriers of rank had not interfered with the friendship formed in our boyhood. From that day on which his mother had taken charge of me, a lonely, motherless child, Joshua and I had been much thrown together; and as manhood came upon us our respect for each other increased. The environment of our respective lives, though widely differing, had not caused us to despise each other's tastes and habits, and I think Joshua and I were never so happy as when fighting our boyish "battles o'er again" over a friendly pipe. I can see too his good-humoured, intelligent face as I write, as he appears when interested in some incident of my school or college life; while I must confess that I am always equally intent when he relates his tales of the hill-folk, highly spiced as they invariably are with the native wit and wisdom of the Yorkshire people.

"Well, Squire!" he exclaimed with a smile and a welcoming nod as I entered. (The true-bred Yorkshireman always nods sideways.) Joshua did not rise from his seat to receive me, such is not the custom of the district; but he intended no disrespect, for he motioned in a friendly manner towards a vacant chair by the bright peat fire.

"Alloa!" he cried, as I came into the firelight, "ye look as i' ye wor goin' to a buryin'."

"Well, Joshua," I replied, "the reading of a will is almost as bad as a funeral. And I confess it has had quite an depressing an effect on my mind."

"Nay, nay, Squire! It's noan as bad as a buryin'," he responded, with a knowing shake of his curly head. "I guess it's a guid will for thee!"

I told him, over a pipe, the conditions of the will. When I had finished Joshua slowly took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at me fixedly for a few seconds.

"T'auld Squire 'll 'appen to come back," he remarked at length.

I shivered at the thought. "No," I replied hastily, "my father is dead; of that we have the most indisputable evidence. And as for the will, there is only one strange thing about it—the disposal of the Mill. Why it should have been given to my uncle the Colonel I cannot understand."

Joshua only muttered between his teeth, as he at the same time energetically shook the ashes from his pipe into the fire.

I thought I understood what he meant. His family had been hard hit at the time of the failure of the Mill.

But Joshua gazed gloomily into the fire, holding his pipe in the one hand, while the other was tightly clenched.

I must confess that I had never hitherto suspected that Joshua Wilkinson had taken to heart the losses which his family had sustained. It had been reported that his father's savings, amounting to about Ģ200, had been swallowed up by the failure of the Mill, and I knew that his father had died a broken-hearted man, but Joshua was on the whole an easy going man and had been content to leave the past alone.

"Did thou say, Squire, that t' Mill 'ad bin left t' t' Colonel?" he asked at length, looking up wistfully into my face.

"Such is the fact," I replied.

"Then mark my words!" he cried, straightening himself and emphasising each word with a huge forefinger. "Colonel Selwyn 'll never live to git ony guid out on't. Mark my words, Squire!" he repeated with a frown and an emphatic nod.

His words burnt themselves into my memory.

I did not argue the point. Joshua was evidently in no humour for argument, and so we smoked in silence until the entry of my old nurse, his mother. There was a strong likeness between Dame Wilkinson and her handsome son. In spite of her sixty years she had the remains of that beauty of face which is so eminently characteristic of the women of the district. She had of course heard of the reading of the will, and proceeded to question me as to my plans after the full and unrestrained fashion of the north country people.

"Ye'll want a wife noo, I'm thinkin'," she remarked—"some lass with a bit o' brass to add to t' bit ye've gotten?"

"If ever I think of a wife," I returned, laughing, "the question of money will not influence me."

"Thou's noan like thy uncle, Colonel Selwyn," said she, "e's ta'en all t' bit o' brass we poor folks ever addled!"


CHAPTER III.

INTRODUCES THE RECTOR AND HIS WIFE, AND GIVES SOME
ACCOUNT OF THEIR OPINION CONCERNING THE MYSTERY.

[The Story continued by the Reverend Theophilus Goode, M.A.,
at one time Fellow of Clare College, Cambridge,
Rector of Scamden, in the county of York.]

HAVING been requested by my friend Mr. Wilberforce Strafford to write an account of certain events which have recently occurred I must begin by saying that I am deeply interested in all that concerns the Selwyn family, so long resident in this parish. Especially am I interested in my young friend and former pupil, Sir Charles Selwyn, the new baronet.

Now, it is no part of the task laid upon me (which, I must add, I most willingly undertake) to enlarge upon that portion of the narration of the events concerning which Sir Charles has written a complete account. But I am aware that there are matters that have come under my cognisance, of which, at the time he wrote, he was either ignorant, or did not estimate their true relationship as essential links in a chain.

It is my purpose therefore to regard such matters as have come to my knowledge especially concerning the terrible and mysterious events connected with Scamden Mill.

I am somewhat of an antiquarian, and have edited a volume of extracts from the older Registers of this parish, the first of which dates from the year 1910, wherein I have come across certain entries concerning the Selwyn family of extraordinary interest. These extracts Sir Charles has seen, and he has referred to them in his portion of this narrative. Though they do not, of course, present conclusive evidence that there is homicidal mania in the Selwyn blood, yet they undoubtedly show that a homicidal tendency in the family has asserted itself from time to time during the past four hundred years.

I admitted as much to Sir Charles on one occasion, and after that interview (which took place in the vestry of the Church), I spent much time in careful thought concerning a certain theory—namely, that such tendencies have a way of reasserting themselves at regularly recurring intervals and that the disease, if such it may be called, usually reappears in the third generation.

In the instance last quoted in Charles Selwyn's narrative (which he showed to me before placing it in Strafford's hands) we have the notorious case of William Selwyn, Baronet, who was executed in 1796 for the murder of his father. Now I have come across evidence that while the said father was outwardly an inoffensive person, he was secretly a man of distinctly immoral character, while on the other hand the grandfather was as remarkable for his public benevolence as he was blameless in his private life. This peculiarity of the Selwyn family has caught my attention in successive groups of generations. As I have carefully examined such Church records as are in my custody I have come to the conclusion that we have here one of the most remarkable workings of the law of heredity; a law which seems to demand in the cases in point that the calm of a good life shall be succeeded by the unrest of an immoral one, and finally by the fearful climax of murder.

That we are "free agents" is of course, in a sense, and in a very real sense, true; but that some are naturally the inheritors of terrible tendencies welling up within them with wave-like force, and only restrained by Divine grace, seems to me to be equally true.

For upwards of twenty years—that is for the whole of the period during which I have held the benefice of Scamden—I have known the Selwyn family, and while I have always admired the strength of character and the honesty of purpose of our new Squire, young Sir Charles, it has always seemed to me that there was something strange about his father.

To one portion of his life our late squire never referred—I mean his life in the West Indies. On several occasions I attempted to draw him concerning this period, but he invariably turned the conversation into other channels. It is my business to relate how matters of great importance were discovered, matters which it is essential—so Strafford maintains—should be now put on paper.

It was on the evening of December the fourth, and only a few days after we had heard the death of the late baronet, that I was sitting by the fire in company with my wife, when all at once she remarked, "I wish the pineapples were not so expensive."

"And why do you wish that?" I required, without looking up from my book.

"Because I should like to have a pineapple for dessert when the Whelpfords dine here next Wednesday week. I have just been reading that it is a fashionable fruit, and to be found on all the best tables."

Here she read me a short paragraph from a society paper sent to her by her sister, Lady Crowfoot.

"My dear," I replied gravely, placing my book on my knee, "it is a decided mistake when the Rectory imitates the Hall, and when the Parson plays a bad second to the Squire! Let us provide such fare as our means will allow, without troubling our heads about pineapples."

I hoped that my remarks had quenched her ardour for this special form of dessert, and quietly resumed chapter sixteen of Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," but on looking over the top of the book I caught sight of my worthy spouse still engaged in the paragraph in question.

"Where do they grow?" said she, returning to the charge.

"In Italy," I replied, my mind still running on the lines of the "Decline and Fall." Then seeing my mistake, I said, "Do you mean pineapples? Surely, they are grown very largely in the West Indies."

"Hence their high price?"

I nodded.

There was another short silence, during which my thoughts travelled back to Italy, and I suppose my wife's thoughts flashed across the Atlantic for presently she said, "Had the late baronet any interest in the pineapple industry?"

Transferring my thoughts by a leap from ancient Italy to the West Indies of to-day, and to this momentous pineapple question, I replied that I had never heard that he had any interest in the production of the coveted and succulent vegetable.

"If I had been in your shoes, Theophilus," she replied, with a deprecatory shake of her head, "you would have learnt a great deal from our late Squire of which you are now completely ignorant. He had property there, yet you took no pains to know anything about it. He took a voyage to the West Indies five months or more ago, and yet you knew nothing of his interests in that part of the world, and at last he died there, and still you know nothing."

"My dear," I began.

"I know what you are going to say," she retorted, with a wave of her hand, "your defence is that it was not your business to inquire into his private affairs, and yet just think how grateful Sir Charles would be if you could give him information on some of these points."

"He told me only a few days ago," I replied, "that his father had an excellent agent in the West Indies—a man in whom he himself has every confidence, and whom his father thoroughly trusted—I think he said that the man's name was Borio—and so long as he receives an adequate income from these estates I am sure he will not trouble himself as he ought concerning his father's former connection with the islands."

"Sir Charles is a charming—a delightful young man," retorted my better half, "but he is too easy-going for my taste. Now if I were in his place I should leave no stone unturned till every scrap of mystery in connection with the old baronet's life and affairs—to say nothing of the disappearance of his own brother—was completely cleared up."

"You ought to have been a lawyer," I returned with a laugh.

"Perhaps I may do something yet in this matter, though I have never been articled to a solicitor," she replied smiling.

I had quite forgotten this conservation, for there was much sickness in the parish, and I had in consequence a great deal of parochial visiting during the ensuing few days. Then Sunday came round—and Sunday is always a busy day with me, for besides the work in Church and schools I have my usual six miles walk to and from the Mission Chapel over the hills. But on that evening, after our meal, and when my limbs were stretched out contentedly towards the welcome fire, my wife returned to the subject.

"You remember our pineapple talk?" said she.

"Pineapple?"

"Yes, and how it led to a talk about the Selwyn family? Well, I have an idea."

My wife has a wonderful fund of ideas. If ever I stick fast in my preparation of the Sunday sermon, or have a knotty parochial matter demanding immediate solution, which does not present itself to my slower habit of thought, I invariable find that Mrs. Goode has "an idea." She does not obtrude it upon me; but it is plain by her manner, and more especially by a certain smile, which long acquaintance has made very familiar, that if I will but make application "an idea" will be forthcoming.

"If it is likely to lead to any solution of the supposed mystery surrounding a certain chapter in our late Squire's early life or concerning his lost son, why not impart your idea to Sir Charles, and he can follow your suggestions if he thinks fit," I replied.

"Nonsense, Theophilus, things must advance much further before we can lay anything before him. We must have something to catch his eye—something that will thoroughly excite his interest."

"But what is your idea? what do you propose? I inquired, as a hazy notion of her meaning began to form.

"Just this—" and my energetic little wife emphasised each word on the table with her forefinger as she spoke, "You must first of all make an extract from all the parish registers—from all of them, mind—of every single entry and scrap of information concerning the Selwyn family. Then you must analyse and compare these extracts—in the way you so well understand," said she, stroking my hand affectionately and persuasively.

I thought over this idea for some days, for I am, as I remarked, somewhat deliberate in my mental habits, and at length I resolved to carry out my wife's suggestion. With her energetic assistance, it was accomplished in less than a week.

One result is referred to by Sir Charles, namely, that I was by this means able to turn, without difficulty or delay, to the various entries concerning the Selwyn family, and very remarkable and startling were some of these records, as Sir Charles himself has acknowledged.

But a thing even more important and perplexing presented itself in the course of my investigations. I could find no record of the baptism of the child who was supposed to have been kidnapped or otherwise made away with—to wit, Sir Charles's elder brother.

At first I did not notice that the baptism was not recorded, for one is not so attentive in detecting omissions as in finding curious and remarkable entries; and I should probably have neglected altogether to notice this fact had not my quick wilted wife drawn my attention to it.

"But surely the child must have been baptised," said she, as we bent over the register.

"My predecessor was so extremely methodical, and so very careful in his entries that I can scarcely believe it possible that the baptism should have remained unentered," I remarked.

"Perhaps the sexton will remember the event."

"Bright thought, I will ask him—he is now in the churchyard," I said.

The old man was trimming the grassy mounds which marked the resting places of so many of my parishioners, and I wondered as I approached who would be the next to be laid by him within the embrace of mother earth.

"Nay, parson, it capped (surprised) mony o' Scamden folk why t'auld squire's bairn wor niver kersned. Theer wer a deal o' talk aboot it at t' time," said the Sexton.

"But are you sure that the child was not baptised?"

"Is it i' t' register?"

"No, I can find no entry."

"An ye'll find noan. T'auld parson niver missed enterin' them registers."

"But why should the baptism have been neglected?" I asked. "The younger son, our new Squire, was christened on September the 15th, 1889."

"Ay, I remember it weel!" said the old man with a sideways nod of his head. "I remember it."

And that far away and introspective look in his eyes, the look which one may so often notice in old people, was intensified as he spoke.

"But I knew naught aboot t'other bairn," he said. "I can recollect at t' mother coom t' t' christenin' o' t' young Squire, an' she war cryin' most o' t' service."

As I was unable to obtain any further information I returned to my wife.

"There are two things to be accounted for," said she, when I had related what the sexton had told me: "first, why was not the squire's elder son christened? secondly, why did the mother weep at the baptism of the younger son?"

"The poor creature had not regained her strength," I suggested.

But she shook her head. "It takes a good deal to make a mother weep at the baptism of her child. It was something connected with the elder child."

"But you must remember that he did not disappear until his brother was some months old," said I.

"The weeping was all the more remarkable," said she.

It must not be thought we were a prying inquisitive couple. We were only deeply interested in our young squire. We had no child of our own, and in the period during which he had been under my tuition, and when he came daily to the Rectory, we had learnt to love Sir Charles as a son.

For in truth he was of a very lovable disposition. Brave as a lion, active in body, generous to a fault, as gentle and as tender-hearted as a woman, he had in his boyhood won the affection of the warm-hearted people of this West Riding valley. The Yorkshire folk love those who are open-hearted. They respect a person of birth and education none the less because he can shake hands and crack a joke with a grimy-handed son of toil. And Sir Charles has ever been one who is able to do these things without losing one iota of status. He knows when he has gone far enough, and can maintain his dignity with any man. As with the people of the pariah so with ourselves, he has never acted the squire. Money cannot spoil him. Nay, I verily believe that he would prefer to be only tolerably well off, and in this respect he is a complete contrast to his cousin Jack Selwyn of Moorfield, a young man who has been launched by his father, the Colonel—a man of no religion, and for whom no one has a scrap of real respect—into the vortex of society life, and who, in consequence, has only too well learnt the vices of the age, especially as regards gambling and drinking.


CHAPTER IV.

BETRAYS THE SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.

[Sir Charles Selwyn's narrative resumed.]

THE night after the reading of the will a terrible thing happened; so terrible that even now I am unable to look back upon the event without an inward shudder, and I sincerely hope that I never again may I be compelled to pass through such an experience.

It was about 11 p.m. The servants had retired to bed, and I was having a quiet smoke in the library, as my father's sanctum was always called. Not that it contained many books, but there was a certain serious and business-like aspect about its furniture and fittings which had procured it that name. The events of the past day passed in gloomy procession through my mind. Somehow my uncle's face would persist in obtruding itself into my mental vision. The peculiar foxy look in his eyes and the smirking smile on his thin, compressed lips—just as I had noticed them that very afternoon—came before me in a startling and vivid manner. I began to wonder what on earth he would do with the Mill. Would he sell it? Or would he stock it with machinery? Then my thoughts flew to Joshua Wilkinson. Never before had I seen him so angry as when I told him that the Mill had been left to the Colonel. But surely Joshua did not contemplate any act of vengeance?

After this my thoughts flew to my cousin Jack Selwyn. I had often heard my father speak of the relations between Jack and the Colonel, that they were not always of the most friendly character. The Colonel's only son was what is known as fast, and though he had taken no particular pains to correct his propensities, the Colonel protested very strongly when his son's mode of living entailed continual and somewhat extensive drafts on the domestic exchequer. When you touch the pocket of the average man of the world you touch that which is nearest to his soul; and Jack Selwyn, so I had heard, had found it increasingly difficult to "get blood out of that old flint," as he once expressed it to me in the course of certain remarks consequent on his father's refusal to supply him with unlimited cash.

Then I was puzzled about the Mill. It would have been a veritable white elephant to me, for I knew nothing of the art of manufacture or of commercial affairs. But then why had it been left to my uncle, who knew even less about such matters than I did myself? I could only suppose that my father had wished to rid me of that which had been such a curse to the neighbourhood. Unfortunately, the sight of it was a perpetual reminder of the part which my family had played in the ruin of so many.

By the time I had arrived at this point in my cogitations the fire had almost burned itself out, and I had begun to feel sleepy and tired. But I am quite certain that I did not fall asleep. Having made up my mind to go to bed, I had just opened the door in order to let in the light from the hall, and, having extinguished the lamp which had been burning on the library table, was about to leave the room, when, to my great surprise, I saw that a man was standing in the hall, just within the main entrance to the house. One remarkable thing about him, which struck me immediately, was his dress. He was tall and soldierly in carriage, and apparently some sixty years of age, but his dress was that of a century ago. That is, he wore a three-cornered hat, underneath which was a flowing wig. His shirt front was adorned with elaborate ruffles. Fine lace hung round his wrists from the sleeves of his dark blue coat, and I especially noticed the very striking brass buttons and the large full coloured waistcoat of the period, having heavy flaps over the pockets.

There was something so very strange, so indescribably uncanny in his noiseless appearance, something so indefinably unreal about his form, that I stood spellbound and staring at him for several seconds. Then, suddenly, as though a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I perceived that my visitor was no less a personage than my uncle, Colonel Selwyn.

My first thought was that he had been to some fancy dress affair, and my impulse was to hasten forward to welcome him. But I had not taken more than a single step towards the doorway through which I was looking when I was checked by something still more strange and unusual in his appearance. As he faced me he pointed with his right hand toward the ground. My eyes instinctively followed the direction indicated by his finger, and then I saw that, strangely enough, he had no feet.

Now, although I knew that the Colonel had an artificial foot, I had never seen him without it. Besides, the other foot seemed to have also disappeared; and I bent forward gazing intently at his nether extremities to be sure that my eyes did not deceive me. I could see quite plainly his knee breeches, neatly buckled above the calves, and I could quite as plainly see that his legs were encased in yellow silk stockings as far as the ankles.

Then came a blank. He remained as though suspended in the air.

At such times one always notices trifling details, and I could clearly discern the pattern of the tiles in the hall flour, extending under and behind him in the place where his feet ought to have been.

Of course I could not believe my own eyes, and in a few moments, that is, in far less time than it has taken me to describe my uncle's appearance, I had quite recovered my self-possession. So I stepped briskly towards the door of the library, giving a short cough as I did so, to intimate to him, in an informal but not unusual manner, that I was aware of his presence.

Judge my immense astonishment, when, instead of advancing to meet me, my uncle remained in precisely the same attitude as before, and, as I approached, he assumed a thin cloudy shape, as though he were made of smoke, so that I could plainly distinguish objects on the wall as I looked through him. Then, while my gaze was fixed on him curiously, and as I advanced nearer to the place, his form swiftly faded away, exactly after the manner of a dissolving picture projected by an optical lantern.

Now I am neither weak minded nor superstitious, but as soon as the apparition had entirely disappeared, I felt a cold chill of horror, and a sense of inward quaking of soul such as I had never before experienced.

Pulling myself together with an effort I returned to the library and relighted the lamp; nor was I surprised to find that my hands trembled violently as I struck the match.

I had not been in the room five minutes when I was startled by a sudden and smart ring at the bell of the front door. Hastening again into the hall, I cried, "Who's there?"

"Open t' door, guv'nor! open t' door!" replied the voice of Joshua Wilkinson, in agitated tones, "there's sommat wrang down at t' mill'n."

I quickly threw open the door, but started aghast as the light of the hall lamp fell on my foster brother. His face and hands were apparently covered with blood.

"Why, man alive!" I exclaimed, as he came into the light, "Are you injured? Is that blood?"

It certainly was blood. There was blood on his coat, blood smeared down his waistcoat, blood on his boots, and blood on his hair. I noticed, too, that the toes of his clogs—for he wore the footgear of the district—were particularly conspicuous from the fact that they were completely covered with clotted gore.

Altogether he presented a ghastly and horrible appearance.

"Theer's a dead mon down by t' mill'n, Squire!" he gasped in hoarse accents, while he panted for breath, and paying no attention to my exclamations of surprise at his appearance. "I don't know how's he's gotten hurt. 'Appen he's bin murdered. I tummelled o'er 'im i' t' dark!"

I wasted no time in asking for further information, but arousing the butler, and bidding him sit up until my return, I took with me a flank of brandy, a lantern, and a strong stick, and started with Joshua for the Mill.

The road down the valley is a mere rough country cart-track, seldom repaired, and abounding in loose stones left by the washings of the winter rains. Nearer the Mill lies a gloomy wood of pines and firs through which the pathway leads.

As we stumbled along, guiding our steps by the dim light of the lantern, I gleaned the following particulars from Joshua.

On leaving home that evening he had made his way to the cottage of Tom o' Jack's, the parish sexton, to whose daughter Lucy he was engaged to be married, and there he had remained until about half-past 10 o'clock. The sexton's cottage stood on the banks of the stream some three hundred yards below the Mill. The only path therefrom led through the Millyard and close under the walls of the building. So intense was the darkness on this November night that Joshua said he had the greatest difficulty in keeping the path; in fact, in one place he had slipped down the bank into the water. After this he had proceeded towards the Mill with great caution until he felt his feet on the stone "sets" of the Millyard. Then he stretched out his hand to avoid collision with the wall of the building, "Once through t' yard I could ha' foun' my way blindfold," he said.

Guiding himself by the wall, he presently arrived in the centre of the main wall of the mill which fronted the stream, when all at once he felt his foot in contact with something soft. Thinking it might be a piece of turf he gave it slight kick; but as the obstacle did not yield, he stooped down cautiously, to ascertain if possible what was stopping his way. A mass of clothing—a man's hand—a face covered with warm soft slime. Joshua declared that as it flashed upon him that he was touching a man's body, the hair of his head almost stood up on end, and he started up with a gasp, while a cold sweat burst out on his forehead.

Instinctively he groped in his pockets for matches, forgetting, or not realising, that his hands were covered with blood. He found a matchbox, but it was an empty one.

Then he began to wonder whether the man were really dead, and so, kneeling down by his side, Joshua unbuttoned his clothing and felt his heart. But though the body was warm he failed to detect any signs of life.

Almost at his wit's end he had then examined the body from head to foot with a view to discovering its identity, but could find nothing to give him the slightest clue.

"Why did you not make your way back to the cottage for Tom o' Jack's?" I inquired.

"I was jist goin' back, and had gotten t' th' end o' t' millyard when I bethought me 'at Lucy 'ud 'appen be vary scared; an' Tom's auld and lame, and could na do mich guid, i' sich a dark neet," replied Joshua, "and so I coom up t' th' 'All as fast as me legs 'ud carry me."

By this time we had arrived at the Mill.

"E's lyin' close by t' wall under t' big winders," said Joshua in a whisper, as if he almost feared his voice would wake the dead.

I held up my lantern and noticed how pale and haggard the man looked, the effect being intensified by the streaks of blood upon his face.

With a beating heart I followed him across the yard, the lantern throwing strange and fantastic shadows on the huge walls.

My guide led me round the corner of the building, and then held up his hands as if to warn me to come on cautiously. There was the spot, sure enough. Above us towered the height of sheer wall, only relieved by black squares of the unglazed windows. The paving-stones around us were bespattered with marks of what seemed to be blood, and there was a dark pool right under the centre line of windows, but—no body!

Joshua rubbed his eyes in amazement. "'E war here not an hour sir!" he ejaculated; "'e war indeed, squire! Somebody's ta'en 'im away."

I knew not what to reply. That something had happened was very evident. But it was equally certain to my own mind that Joshua must have been mistaken in supposing that the man was dead. Perhaps some foolish person had ventured into the Mill and had fallen from one of the lower windows, inflicting serious but not fatal injuries on himself. He had no doubt recovered consciousness during Joshua's absence and had departed.

"Do you think he can have crawled inside the Mill?" I suggested.

"It's my opinion he war dead," said Joshua decidedly, "an if he war dead, e's been ta'en away by someb'dy sin I war 'ere."

"But who would come this way on such a night?"

"Nob'dy," replied Joshua laconically.

"At any rate," I added, "if the man had been dead he could not have removed himself. The only possible conclusion therefore is that someone has been here in your absence and has removed the man's body.

"Then where've they ta'en him?" said Joshua with a shake of the head.

This was a problem which I was of course unable to solve off-hand, and although we made as careful a search within the Mill and around its precincts as was possible by the dim light of the lantern, we were unsuccessful in finding the slightest trace of the injured man.

As we were returning another strange thing happened.

We were ascending the steep slope which lay between the Mill and the Wood, and the light of the lantern failed for want of oil, and in a few minutes went out. Not that I minded this, however, for I knew the path as well as did my companion, and we strode forward in the dark at a reduced pace, discussing plans for further investigation of the mystery.

All at once Joshua grasped my arm.

"'Alloa, guv'nor, what's that?" he whispered.

Raising my eyes I saw the gleam of a lantern among the trees ahead of us. I can remember now how distinctly I noticed the regular swing as if it were being carried by a foot passenger. I noted, too, its regular disappearance and reappearance as it passed the trunks of trees.

"Someone coming this way," I remarked.

"Nay, 'e's noan on t' path. See, 'e's coomin' fr' t' middle o' t' wood," replied Joshua. "'Appen 'e can tell us summit o' t' chap wat's gotten hurt," he added.

We hurried up towards the light, and when near enough shouted to its owner to stop, for he seemed to be turning away from us.

To my great astonishment, no sooner had the sounds died away on our lips than the light disappeared, and though we again shouted it did not reappear.

After standing still for a few seconds we presently caught the sound of a man's footsteps as he stumbled down the pathway over the loose stones.

"'E's coomin' this way," said Joshua.

As soon as the man was close to us, though in the darkness we could see no one, I cried, "Who comes this way?" and the sounds of footsteps immediately ceased.

"Come on, friend," I added in a reassuring tone, "we'll do you no harm."

Still there came no reply, and Joshua made a few steps forward, groping with his hands in the direction of the stranger.

"Here he is, Squire!" he cried. "Now, mate," he said, addressing our invisible friend, "tell us who thou art. I'm Joshua Wilkinson o' th' Hilltop Farm," he continued, and at the same time, as he afterwards told me, grasping the man's arm tightly with both his sinewy hands. "We want 'elp. Theer's bin a bad business down by t' Milln."

As he spoke the arm was wrenched from his grasp, as the owner rushed forward and down the hill, nearly overturning me in the collision.

"May be its na' but a drunken feller!" remarked Joshua contemptuously. "'E'll fall info the brook and mix a drop o' fresh water wi' 'is drink, I reckon."

For a long time that night I lay awake. Certainly the day had provided surprises and excitement enough. Mystery was piling on mystery, and the Mill seemed to be the centre of it all.

I have constantly noticed that after the stream of life has flowed calmly for some space over a smooth and unbroken bed, there is sure to come a time when the current will dash itself against obtrusive boulders, or swirl down narrow cataracts and over precipitous falls—a time when unsuspected rocks without warning raise their jagged and treacherous heads, and the fight for mastery ensues nolens volens. Such a time discovers both the strong as well as the weak points of character, while potentialities of life, hitherto hidden, are revealed with startling distinctness.

Early the following morning I hurried down to the Mill. Joshua was there already, and together we made a thorough examination of the premises. There had been very heavy rain during the night, and the stains of blood under the great windows were almost obliterated. Nor could we discern footmarks other than those of Joshua himself,—as we proved by careful comparison and measurement.

Finding no trace of the man, living or dead, outside the Mill, I suggested that we should search the interior.

The Mill had been provided with fireproof floors at the time of its erection, and the stories were connected by iron stairs. But, except in the basement, the window frames had never been fitted, and above the spot where Joshua had discovered the body arose a series of widely yawning openings, for the windows extended from floor to ceiling in each building.

"I suppose that the new owner of this greet empty place won't object to our going upstairs," I remarked in a half-jocular way as we ascended the staircase.

Joshua did not reply, but I noticed that a sterner look came over his face.

"You do not appear to be very fond of my uncle," I said chaffingly.

"Maybe I am, and maybe I am not," he returned ambiguously.

A glance round each of the huge and bare rooms was sufficient. There was nothing to enlighten us. So we passed from floor to floor until we reached the uppermost story, and in that seventh and topmost room we certainly found what added to our mystification.

"Hulloa, Squire! what's this 'ere?" exclaimed Joshua, as he pointed toward the central window. Not far from the wide opening there lay on the floor a half-sovereign, a lead pencil, and some small sheets of paper. Nearer to the window the floor was scored and scratched in all directions, as though here a struggle had taken place. These footmarks extended to the opening. I went to the edge and looked down. The depth to the stone-paved yard below was tremendous, and I shuddered at the thought of the awful fate of one who should fall that hundred feet.

"Do you think he fell?" I asked.

But Joshua was kneeling down and stretching over the edge of the sill. On a projecting nail overhanging the abyss fluttered a little strip of cloth. It was black broadcloth, and had evidently been recently torn from a man's garment. When we had examined it carefully I placed it in my pocket-book, along with the pencil, half-sovereign, and pieces of paper.

We agreed that we would keep silence until some new light should be shed on the affair. Then, if we should hear anything concerning the accident (if such it were), it would be time enough to state what we knew.

"I suppose, Joshua, you cannot even venture a guess as to who this injured or dead man may be?" I said, looking into his face inquiringly.

"Squire," he replied, "theer's clever devils and theer's silly devils, and sometimes t' one is t' father t' t'other," and having delivered himself at this enigmatical remark, he turned and descended the stairs.

Now the typical Yorkshireman is essentially cautious, and is usually unwilling to prophesy unless he knows. Knowing this I felt the more convinced, as I followed my stalwart companion down the stairs of the Mill, that he guessed at the identity of the man over whose body he had stumbled on the previous evening. It would, however, be useless, I felt sure, to ask him to communicate to me his suspicions, and so I determined to say no more to him about the matter unless further information should be forthcoming.

For my own part, having been so many years absent from the valley, I seemed to have lost in some degree the peculiar power of intuitive perception which is in so marked a degree a characteristic of the people; and I was consequently completely mystified in the present instance. When I parted from Joshua that morning I thought I detected a look of quiet self-reliance on his handsome bronzed face which seemed to indicate that, although we had been apparently unsuccessful in our attempts at solving the mystery, he had quite made up his mind as to the lines on which a solution could be arrived at.

[Note appended by the Rev. Theophilus Goode.]

HAVING carefully read this portion of Sir Charles Selwyn's narrative, by his permission I desire to add that it is my firm conviction that apparitions (such as that described by Sir Charles) do most certainly take place. It is no adequate reply to assert that disembodied spirits are necessary invisible. Whence such necessity? What iota of evidence has anyone ever produced to prove that by its very nature a soul, having departed from the body by what we term death, cannot by any possibility assume some visible shape, even though it be only for a temporary occasion and for a definite purpose?

It is my strong conviction (and I think my contention is supported by much evidence both sacred and profane) that the souls of "the dead" have repeatedly appeared to those who are yet in the flesh; and in almost every well-authenticated case it has been for some important reason.

The following extract from the Register of Burials kept in Scamden Parish Church, will, in this connection, be read with interest:—


Buried Jany. ye 21st, 1621, Sarah, wife of Sir Hubert Selwyn, Bart., who did dye of fright at ye sight of ye souls of her childe, which did appeare onto her on ye night of yts cruel murder.—T. G.



CHAPTER V.

INTRODUCES JACK SELWYN.

[Sir Charles Selwyn's narration continued.]

NOTHING occurred for a few days to indicate that the event was known to any other persons. I had much business legal and otherwise to transact, and had no time to allow my thoughts to dwell on the mystery of the night of November the twelfth.

It was not until Friday, November the twentieth, that anything transpired that need be recorded.

On that afternoon I was shooting in the woods at the further end of the estate—not very far from my uncle's house, and, having occasion to cross the high road which intersected this part of the woodland, who should I see coming towards me on her bicycle but my cousin Elsie. I waited till she came up. She was charmingly dressed, and her pretty face glowed with the healthful exercise.

"Who would have thought of seeing you, cousin Charles?" she exclaimed with a bright smile, as she jumped lightly off her machine.

I replied that I was by no means anxious to become the recluse of the locality, although my circumstances at present seemed to favour a hermit-like life.

"Then you must come over to Moorfield more frequently than you have done in the past," she returned. "You will always be welcome. My father has been called away to London," she added, laughing, as if this would be an additional inducement, "but there—I musn't stay. It will soon be dark. You will wonder what I am doing here alone, but I have just been to visit a sick woman down at Wall-nook," she continued. "My machine is very useful for such purposes."

"Then you are fond of visiting the sick?"

"Oh, yes! Nursing has been quite in my line ever since I attended the ambulance and nursing lectures; and you can have no idea how useful I now find the scraps of information I picked up. Why ten days ago—the very day father went to town—Jack had a bad accident, and Moorfield has been a regular hospital ever since. You really must come and see my patient, cousin Charles," she added, with a nod and a smile, as she proceeded to mount, "he is quite presentable now."

I stood by the roadside watching her lithe figure as she rode away in the misty twilight. Then my thoughts, by a very natural transition, passed from Elsie Selwyn to her father and brother, and with the transition came feelings the reverse of pleasurable. For I freely confess that I doubted the sincerity of the one as much as I disliked the duplicity of the other.

Jack Selwyn was a young man unable to look one straight in the face. Had he been his father's equal in cleverness he would have been an accomplished rogue. But gamblers and hard drinkers are seldom endowed with a superfluity of brain power; and though Jack Selwyn sometimes talked as though he were the most astute man in Yorkshire, this opinion of his abilities was not shared by those who knew him best.

So intense was my late father's dislike of his nephew that in my younger days he had forbidden me to associate with him. Hence the infrequency of my visits to Colonel Selwyn's house to which my cousin Elsie had referred.

Now that I was in every sense my own master—and moreover alone in the world—there could be no reason why I should not cultivate some intimacy with my relatives. I was not obliged to make a chum of Jack Selwyn (so I argued with myself), and while their acquaintance could hardly do me any harm I might be able to do them some good. At any rate my cousin Elsie had attracted me somehow. I saw in her that afternoon that which I had never before noticed. It is not a little remarkable that sometimes a face with which one has long been acquainted seems to develop quite suddenly a new charm. Elsie Selwyn had made an impression on me, and her face and smile remained before my eyes as I made my way home regardless of the shooting.

The very next afternoon found me cantering up the avenue towards Moorfield—a quaint Elizabethan mansion some two miles, as I have said, from Scamden Hall. The door was opened by my father's former valet, Jenkins, who, since his return from the West Indies, had been installed as butler by my uncle.

For some reason, which I should have been unable to explain, I did not take to Jenkins. He had an exceedingly pale face and red mutton-chop whiskers. But what always struck me about the man, and was especially noticeable on this occasion, was his cold insolent stare, as if he saw an object immediately behind one's head.

"Colonel Selwyn is from home, sir," said the man in an expressionless voice, as he looked through and beyond me, and without waiting for me to speak.

"Is Miss Selwyn at home?"

"I don't know, sir," he replied, without moving from the doorway.

"Will you kindly inquire?"

The man seemed to hesitate, but left me on the step, and presently returned with a more intensely unpleasant expression on his face, saying that Miss Selwyn would see me.

I was shown into the drawing-room, a long low apartment furnished with much taste and having that indescribable air of comfort which only a lady's presence can impart to a house.

"This is indeed kind of you, Cousin Charles!" said Elsie Selwyn, coming towards me. "Jenkins, some tea. I am so glad you took me at my word," she said.

I inquired after her father.

"He has not yet returned. We had a telegram a few days ago to say that he would be detained in London."

"And your patient—how is he?"

"Oh, he's a splendid specimen of my skill," she replied with a bright laugh. "He shall be exhibited after tea."

"It has struck me," I remarked, half apologising for my call, "that it is time we cousins knew more of each other."

"The very same though has occurred to my own mind," she cried, with charming frankness.

"And it seemed so very unnatural," I continued, "that there should be any estrangement between us."

"Most unnatural," returned Elsie, "and for my own part, I can never quite understand how such an estrangement could have arisen. Perhaps it was connected with the erection of the Mill?" and she looked at me inquiringly.

"The Mill had something to do with it, perhaps, but the estrangement, if I must use the word, between your branch of the family and my own seems to have existed ever since my babyhood—certainly since my brother was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped!" exclaimed Elsie in astonishment, "I had always understood that your elder brother died when he was quite a baby."

"It is a great mystery," I replied, "and hitherto I have had no opportunities of solving it. It is my intention to ask my uncle to aid me in my investigations, for I must confess to you that I do not feel comfortable in my present position."

I then related all that Strafford had told me on the day that the will was read, though really I had little more than bare facts to lay before her. Nor did I reflect that it was perhaps not altogether wise on my part to take her, a comparative stranger, so quickly into my confidence.

"But why have I been kept in the dark about these things?" said she, raising her eyebrows.

This I could not answer, though a wondering thought flashed through my mind that perhaps her father had some reason for concealing the knowledge from her.

"Cousin Elsie, have you never wondered why our families have kept apart?"

She looked a little startled. "Yes, I have often wondered," she replied.

"Do you think it can in any way be connected with my brother's disappearance?"

"How is that possible?"

"I am unable to say. At least I must endeavour to find out."

"But surely you don't suspect—?"

"Believe me, cousin Elsie," I hastened to say, "I suspect and wish to suspect no one; but the veil of mystery which hangs over my life must and shall be removed—at all costs. I cannot sit down and enjoy this title and this fortune and leave a matter of such importance to myself unexplained. There are other things I am anxious to clear up, but this concerns me the most."

"Other matters?" said Elsie, inquiringly, for it was plain that her curiosity was aroused.

"None that either of us need trouble about, though one of them has recently perplexed me greatly, I must confess;" and I gave her an account of Joshua Wilkinson's ghastly discovery, and concluded by observing, "In fact, I suppose that no one but Joshua, myself, and the injured man are aware of the occurrence. The remarkable thing about it, to my mind, is this. There has been no report that any person in the neighbourhood has sustained my injury, and this man must certainly have been almost killed, even if he were not quite dead, as Joshua maintains."

I could not say what made me confide this to my cousin, especially after I had arranged with Joshua that we should not mention our gruesome discovery. There seemed to be some fatuity about our conversation which impelled me to make a confidante of Elsie. But I was not a little surprised when she replied quietly, and without any look of astonishment at my story. "I have heard something of the occurrence."

"And from whom, pray?"

"From Jack."

"And what did he tell you?"

"It was the morning after he was thrown from his horse—which, by the way, happened on the day father went to London—that he told me as I was dressing his arm of a report he had heard, and which he did not credit, that someone had tried to commit suicide from one of the Mill windows."

At this moment a bell rang.

"That's Jack's bell," she said: "come along, you shall criticise my handiwork. I am really quite proud of my ability as a nurse," and with a merry laugh she tripped like a ferry from the room, while I followed, wondering how Jack Selwyn could have heard of the accident at the Mill.

I am a plain matter-of-fact sort of fellow, and I do not believe I have any special gift or insight, or that I have more than the average degree of intuitive perception—not so much, I am sure, as Joshua Wilkinson possesses, who always seems to be able to see through a stone wall—but somehow I had a presentiment, as I followed Elsie to my cousin Jack's apartment, that something was about to happen.

I entered the room very quietly, as one does naturally when visiting a sick person. It was getting dusk, but was not dark enough to prevent me from seeing every object quite plainly.

Jack Selwyn was sitting in an easy chair, facing the window, and with his back half turned towards the door. I could just see as I entered that his head was bandaged, and that one arm was in a sling.

"Jack, dear," said Elsie, in a gentle tone, "I have brought a visitor; he knows about your accident."

As she spoke I advanced into the light, and stood before the invalid.

I noticed that he was pale—very pale, but when he saw me his face became ashen grey, and he stared fixedly at me for a few seconds without responding either to my greeting or my inquiries.

Then, as the colour came back into his face, he turned towards his sister with a brutal oath, while his lips trembled with passion.

"What do you mean by bringing visitors to see me?"

He screamed rather than spoke these words. I saw that Elsie was much astonished at this reception, and she hastened to assure her brother that I was much concerned to find he had been so seriously hurt. But her words only seemed to act as fuel to the flames. He rose from his chair, and tearing the bandage from his brow with his uninjured hand, glared fiercely at me, while he yelled in tones in which terror and rage were strangely blended:

"It's a foul lie! Don't believe a word of her story. Cannot a fellow have a fall from his horse without being pestered by inquisitive visitors!"

"But Jack, dear," interrupted his sister in gentle tones.

"Get out, both of you," he ejaculated fiercely. "I'll hear no more," and grasping the bell he rang it violently.

The door opened immediately, so quickly, indeed, that I imagine the butler must have been waiting outside and expecting the summons.

"Show this gentleman the door!" cried Jack Selwyn, as he sank into his chair, evidently exhausted with his fit of excitement.

Without a word I left the room followed by Elsie, Jenkins remaining with his young master.

There were tears in Elsie's gentle grey eyes when she looked up into my face as we stood in the hall.

`"What does it mean?" I inquired.

"Cousin Charles," she said, and her voice trembled as she spoke, "I cannot account for Jack's behaviour. You are not offended?"

"Well, I must confess that I was a little taken aback."

"The blow must have effected his brain, poor boy," she said beseechingly, laying her white hand on my arm.

"I hope not, but it may have made him nervous and excitable, and my visit was totally unexpected, you see."

"But it was very thoughtless on my part," she persisted, "though I assure you I never anticipated this explosion. He has not been a very docile patient."

At this point I saw Jenkins peer over the banisters as if to find out whether I had left the house. Motioning to Elsie we passed out of his sight into the drawing-room.

"What kind of a man is Jenkins?" I inquired.

"Oh, he's a horrid fellow, I cannot endure him!" said she, "and he is so constantly in Jack's room that I sometimes wonder what they find to talk about."

"Has this intimacy been going on long?"

"Only since father went away. I shall be thankful when he returns," she added with a sigh.

I rode home slowly, thinking matters over. About a mile from the house I met a gig driven by the post boy of the Eight Bells Inn, Halifax. The lad I knew well, having often had occasion to put up at that well-known hostel. By his side was seated a man whose features in the gathering darkness I could not discern very plainly. He was evidently tall, spare, and bony in build, and the little I could see of his muffled-up face revealed a prominent nose and a pair of piercing black eyes.

"Is this t' right road for Moorfield, sir?" the lad inquired as I passed.

"To the top of the hill and then to the left," I replied, without drawing rein.

It was with a feeling of intense curiosity that I proceeded on my way, for I could not conceive what might be the errand of this stranger at Moorfield.


CHAPTER VI.

ACCIDENT OR MURDER?

[Statement by John Selwyn, formerly of Moorfield.]

"THE guv'nor's death was quite as much an accident as some events are that are so called. The fact is, you see, the guv'nor and I met in the Mill, top story; I wanted some cash—hard up as usual—debts of honour to pay—eh, Borio, old man? Guv'nor stubborn as a mule. How the struggle began I don't know; but guv'nor refused to give me a fiver, which I knew he had in his pocket-book. I got the book at last, but he snatched it from me, and, when I tried to regain possession if it, his game foot gave way, and we fell on to the floor together. Oh! how we did struggle! First I was uppermost—then the guv'nor.

"Neither of us would give way, and though I was the younger and more active, he hadn't lost all the military training of his early days.

"All the time, though neither of us knew it, we were rolling nearer and nearer to the great black yawning window. 'Give me the book!' I yelled, as I gripped his throat. 'Never you rascal, while I can hold it!' he panted. Then I heard a sound. It was that produced by the feet of some person wearing iron-bound clogs ascending the staircase. 'Someone is coming!' I gasped, 'give me the book!'

"My father's only reply—the obstinate old fool—was to grip my throat, as I had grasped his. With a tremendous effort he rolled me over, and as he did so I heard a cry and saw the figure of a woman at the head of the stairs.

"Help!" I yelled, "he's choking me!" The woman rushed forward—it was Lucy Shaw; but in another instant we had rolled through the great black opening and out into the darkness. Ugh! I shall never forget that moment. I distinctly felt my coat catch on a nail as we left the sill, and then came the awful plunge. It seemed an age while we descended the one hundred feet to the paving stones, locked in each other's arms. The guv'nor was uppermost when we fell; but I suppose we must have turned over for when I recovered my senses I was lying upon his body in the Mill-yard. He was motionless and I was badly knocked about. Probably his death saved me.

"I was in a mortal funk, you may bet. I sat for a while recovering my wits and thinking over my position. It would be a matter of manslaughter, if not of murder, I reflected. Then I thought of the woman. Where was she? Did she recognise us?" With that I rose—my! how stiff my limbs felt!—and climbed the steps to the top story. There was no one in the Mill, so I brought down the lantern and examined the guv'nor. He was done for—as dead as a doornail. Lor! How sick I felt! Something must be done, I thought, but what? Then the devil suggested "hide him in the wood," and off I went to find a place.

"I wasn't long away, not more than half an hour, and that included the time I took digging a hole with an old spade I found in the mill—the hole was in a deep hollow—then I returned to the Mill; but directly I looked at the guv'nor, I saw that he'd been moved. The blood from his head was smeared over his face, and his waistcoat was open, and there were the marks of a bloody hand over his heart. Near him lay an empty match-box. At first I thought he had not been killed by the accident, and had done this himself, and then it struck me that someone had been there while I was in the wood.

"This was a stunner! The man, whoever he might be, had no doubt gone for assistance. How I managed it I don't know, but somehow I managed to get the guv'nor on my back—in spite of my game arm; and then by the light of the lantern, in mortal terror lest I should be seen, I got him to the hole, chucked him in anyhow, and buried him."

"I had just finished, and was making my way back to the Mill, when I heard footsteps. It didn't take me long to put out the light, I can tell you! and before long I heard the voice of Joshua Wilkinson asking who I might be. It was so pitch-dark I couldn't see anybody. Then I was grasped by the arm—I thought I should have died of fright—and the men Wilkinson cried out that something had happened down by the Mill.

"Wrenching my arm from his grasp, I plunged headlong down the hill, and with a good deal of difficulty made my way home, which I reached half-dead with fright, and quite exhausted with my exertions and the pain in my head and arm."


CHAPTER VII.

CRAFT PLUS COWARDICE.

[The story continued by Don Alfonso Borio.]

I DO not say that I write under compulsion exactly, but as I have now no earthly object in suppressing the truth—which I should certainly do if there were anything to be gained thereby—I accede to Mr. Wilberforce Strafford's request that I should set down certain things concerning Scamden Mill.

It was foggy and cold—beastly cold the day I received a frantic wire from my old pal, Jack Selwyn, demanding my presence at Moorfields, Yorks. I was in no humour for a long railway journey, and I detest this country in winter. For, although it was only the middle of November, I had found a greatcoat very necessary, after a lifetime spent in the West Indies.

Only two thoughts reconciled me to the journey of nearly three hundred miles; first, I should for a few days escape the hateful London Particular, in which we had for some time been enveloped; secondly, and I may add more especially, I should probably be able to advance my own interests. So I tore myself from the snug shelter of the private club of which I had been a member ever since my arrival in England, and in about six hours found myself driving over the hills from Halifax railway station in the direction of Moorfield.

It was my first visit to the North, and the further we drove over the bleak moorland country the more I wondered whatever could induce my friend to pass his days in such an out-of-the-world locality.

What he could have found to engage his thoughts and retain his presence among these hills and dales I cannot conceive. He was no sportsman, no lover of nature and then Nature was not presented in her most enticing garb at this time of the year. No, intimate as I had been with Jack Selwyn during his somewhat lengthy visits to London, and much as he was indebted to me for certain accommodation, of which I need not now speak particularly, he had never told me why he remained buried alive in this remote district through which the post-boy from the Eight Bells Inn at Halifax was now slowly driving me.

I was thoroughly cold, and very stiff with my prolonged sedentary position, when my driver announced that we had arrived in the neighbourhood of Moorfield. But he was not very sure of this road in this place, and inquired of a country gentleman who was riding down the hill, and whom I afterwards discovered to be no less a personage than Sir Charles Selwyn, Jack's cousin.

The fellow stared hard at me as we passed, as though he wondered who I might be. But I guess he could not see much of my attractive visage, muffled up as it was in the high collar of a fur-lined top-coat. I stared back at him, however, and noticed that he was a tall man, of considerable muscular power, and of fair complexion, having the blue eyes and fair hair so characteristic of many of the inhabitants of this part of the country. There was something about him which spoke of what people call "ingenuousness of character," a quality I have never been able to appreciate by the way, always regarding it as decided evidence of weakness of mind.

I was not sorry when we turned up the drive and presently drew up to the deepening twilight at the door of an old-fashioned family residence.

There was an air of comfort and affluence about this place and the encouraging sight of lamps and the flickering gleams of firelight glinting through the windows revived my spirits after my long and cold journey.

The door was opened to my astonishment by no less a person than Jenkins, attired in butler's garb.

"Why, man alive," I exclaimed, "you here!"

Jenkins placed his finger on his lips, bowed, and smiled one of those animated-skeleton-smiles about which I have so often chaffed him.

"Yes, I am here, Signor," he replied quietly.

"But I thought you were far away still in the West Indies, and—and—out of mischief."

"I have plenty to do here," he replied in slow but significant tone, which was not lost upon me.

By this time I was in the hall, and he was assisting me to got rid of my numerous wraps.

"You expected me?"

"Yes, Signor."

"And Mr. Jack Selwyn?"

"He will see you at once, sir, if you please."

"He is not ill?"

"Not exactly, only a good deal bruised and unable to leave his room."

"Has this anything to do with his sending for me?"

"I believe so."

"Bless me, what's the matter?" I muttered to myself as I followed Jenkins upstairs, noticing on my way the portraits and other pictures on the walls, and the handsome fittings and furniture, as well as other evidences of the prosperity of the owner of the house.

"Come in!" growled Jack Selwyn's voice in response to the butler's knock.

I followed the man into the room and beheld my friend propped up in a chair with his head bandaged, his arm in a sling, and sundry evidences of material damage plainly exhibited on his noble visage.

"Well, old cock!" I began in as cheerful a tone as I could assume.

"Dry up, and be hanged to you!" croaked the invalid; "I sent for you on a matter of urgent business, and business it must be, too, and no humbug!"

"Right you are!" I said, though I was a little astonished at my reception; "as soon as I have had some food to business we will proceed."

At the same time I could not conceive the nature of Jack Selwyn's business, unless it might be an application for an extension of the period for which he had borrowed money through my instrumentality, or possibly he wished to make arrangements for a new loan to meet accumulations of fresh debts of honour.

"Had a fall?" I inquired.

"Looks like it doesn't it?"

"Horseback?"

"No a thousand times worse than that."

I looked at him with surprise; but he did not condescend to inform me of the nature of his accident, and I was not sorry when Jenkins conducted me to my bedroom and intimated that dinner would be ready in half an hour, and that Miss Selwyn was at home.

"Miss Selwyn!" I remarked to myself as soon as the door was closed, "I did not know that there was a Miss Selwyn," and then I fell to work wondering as I dressed with some little care whether the lady were fair or dark, pretty or ugly, and above all, whether she would have much of the father's wealth, of which the house seemed to bear evidence.

"Perhaps I'm in for a slice of luck," I remarked as I adjusted my tie, "and having come down into these wilds for Jack Selwyn's pleasure shall remain for my own."

The bell rang and I descended the stairs. A flood of mellow light streamed from the open door of the drawing-room. Jenkins stood in the hall as solemn and as unmoved as though he had never before seen me, and I well knew I could trust him not to make any unwelcome disclosures.

"Signor Don Alfonso Borio," he announced, holding open the door of the room. I advanced and immediately found myself bowing in highest style to Miss Selwyn.

To say that the sight of her fairly took away my breath would by no means express my sensations. I was simply dazzled by her wonderful beauty. Not the beauty, mind you, of the Spanish ladies of the West ladies, among whom I had been brought up. They ripen quickly, and they fade even more quickly. No, Miss Selwyn's charms were of the enduring English type, and as I had not had opportunities of associating with English women of Miss Selwyn class since my arrival from abroad—owing to circumstances over which I had no control, and into which I need not enter now—I was the more delighted at the unexpected good fortune which had brought me into this lady's company.

"I fear you are both cold and tired after your long journey?" said she in a musical voice, and with a smile of welcome.

"I shall soon lose both in this cheerful and hospitable house," I replied.

We chatted on general matters for a short time, and then, dinner being announced, I had the felicity of escorting her to the dining-room.

"I am indeed sorry that my father is from home," she said, "the more so because my brother is laid up and unable to entertain you."

"I regret to find that it is so" I said.

"And the strange thing is that the horse has always been looked upon as a pattern of quietness and good behaviour."

"The horse?" I said inquiringly, as we took our seats at the table.

"Oh, then, you don't know the story. Yes, my brother was thrown from his horse at a late hour in the evening—the nights have been so exceedingly dark lately, you know. He managed to crawl home in the small hours looking more dead than alive."

I looked at her attentively and nodded my head as she continued to relate the various details of the accident, so far as she had been told them by her brother, but all the time I felt there was a screw loose somewhere, and that the said screw was in the statement she had received from her brother, for had he not told me half an hour previously that his fall had been a thousand times worse than if it had been from a horse.

"Here's a pretty go!" I thought to myself, "here's a 'secret something' Jack hasn't told his lovely and adorable sister—but then brothers never do appreciate their own sisters!"

So I kept my council and said nothing about the discrepancy in the accounts of the accident, feeling sure that Jack would explain; and, forgetting him and his woes, I was soon giving her a glowing account of the scenery and life of the West Indies. There was a reserve and shyness in her manner which I put down to natural modesty; but she was very polite as well as attentive to my remarks, and I felt completely at my case and congratulated myself that she must be impressed as much by my manners as by my personal appearance, for I flatter myself that with the exception of my nose, which some think to be a trifle too Roman in type, and perhaps a little too large in size, I am considered a handsome man, and are usually very successful in winning the smiles of the fair sex. In fact, but for my habitual modesty, I might considerably enlarge the narrative by an account of some of my most notable conquests.

Whether it were that I presumed too much on our brief acquaintance or that Miss Selwyn grew more shy as the meal proceeded, I am unable to say, but by the time it was concluded I felt convinced that the reserve of her manner had increased, and with a bow she left me to my own cognitions and some very excellent wine.

Presently Jenkins entered the room, closing the door carefully behind him. The butler-like immobility of expression immediately disappeared from his face, and the old crafty look which I so well remembered took its place.

"You are surprised to see me here?" he said.

"I should not be surprised at anything you might do," I replied, "unless it were a deed of disinterested generosity, and I confess that would be a genuine surprise."

He grinned saturninely, showing his white teeth, and at the same time rubbing his long skinny hands together.

"I think we understand each other, Borio? Every man for himself, eh? I suppose you had good reasons for coming here?"

"Pickings! Pickings, Jenkins!—like yourself I am always on the look out for pickings. But you can no doubt tell me what this young fool—I humbly beg his pardon—what your young master, Mr. Jack Selwyn, wants with me!"

"That he will be able to tell you himself," said Jenkins. "All I'll say is this: you've been sent for to help him out of a mess."

"What! has he had a row with the guv'nor?"

Jenkins nodded.

"Guv'nor's cut off supplies, I suppose?"

"He tried to do so, I believe."

"Oh, so Jack proved to be the master! There's fighting in the young cock, I see."

"Wait till you've seen him again, and don't jump at conclusions," returned Jenkins, with a significant nod. "Look here," he said, coming nearer to me and speaking in a low tone, "you and I and he have a good deal to do while you are here—some of it not very safe work, let me tell you now, but it'll turn out for our mutual advantage in the end."

"What are you talking about, man?" I cried, startled at the unusual earnestness of his manner.

"Come with me and you shall soon discover," he replied.

He led the way upstairs to his young master's room.

"Don't notice his temper," he whispered on the stairs.

Jack Selwyn's bedroom was in the middle of a long passage. The end of it was rather dark, and I thought I caught a distant glimpse of Miss Selwyn watching me, but it might have been one of the servants.

Following Jenkins, I found my friend pacing the room impatiently. He certainly did not present a very attractive appearance; for not only was his arm in a sling and his head bandaged, but his face was much bruised and distorted, and I should hardly have recognised the gay young spark who had so often given me the benefit of his company at the races.

"Oh! here you are, confound you—I thought you would never be done eating!" he said as we entered. "Jenkins, lock the door—but stop! look down the passage to see that no one is listening All right? Then sit down both of you and set your wits to work to help me out of this wretched mess."

I ventured to ask what the mess might be.

"Oh, dash it, do you want me to act the newspaper reporter, and give you 'a full and particular?' My nerves won't stand it. Tell him all about it, Jenkins, and I'll put you right if you make any mistakes."

Thus instructed, Jenkins gave me a graphic account of the death of Colonel Selwyn. To say the least, I was attracted by his story, for I had never heard of a more interesting and novel murder, and I made a remark to that effect.

"Don't call it murder, man, don't call it murder!" whispered Jack Selwyn, with a look of terror in his eyes. "You know I but half intended to kill the governor, and it was only by a lucky fluke that he came to the ground first. You wouldn't have called it murder if he'd killed me, would you?"

"Well no," I replied, "because he would never wish to slay his own son, and I suppose would have been sorry for your death; whereas you are distinctly glad that the Colonel is no more."

"And why, pray?"

"Because you will now handle the coin."

I thought that a bit of straight speaking would do no harm, especially as I was glad of the opportunity of reminding him that I was open to receive the repayment of the various sums which I had raised on his behalf—not without advantage to myself, be it said.

"Look here, old man," he said, after eyeing me with some suspicion for a few seconds, while Jenkins reassumed his butler's face, "honour among thieves, you know. I suppose I may as well own up that I am very sorry the old man is dead—he was terribly in the way, and as obstinate as a mule with regard to money. But that's not the question before us now. I want you to tell me," and here he lowered his voice to a whisper, "what I am to do with the body?"

"The body!" I exclaimed, "you don't mean to say that it is still above ground?"

"It is buried, it is buried," he said hurriedly, "but it may be found you know."

"Then is not your father's death known?"

"Hush! don't speak so loud or you will betray me! Jenkins, peep out and see if there is anyone about," he again whispered, with terror in his voice. "No one knows of this horrible affair, The guv'nor is supposed to be in London."

"Miss Selwyn said as much."

"Did she? Ah, then she believes it," and a faint smile came to his face. "All may yet he right if we can but securely bury the body."

"Why should not others know about your father's death. If it were an accident, what have you to fear?"

"I cannot prove it to have been an accident. Besides, there was one who saw us fall from the window—saw me push him out in the struggle."

"Who?"

"A girl named Lucy Shaw—the sexton's daughter. I only caught one glimpse of her as we took that awful plunge into space," he replied with a shudder.

"What was the girl doing in the Mill?"

"That I do not know, but I don't fear her tongue, for she has reasons for not talking about me."

"Ah," I replied, with a wink, "one of your conquests, eh?" He nodded, which I took to be an assent, and we then fell to making plans for the disposal of the body.

It was clear enough that something must be done it once. A long time we talked the matter over, for we all recognised the immense risk of leaving the corpse of the Colonel in the wood.


CHAPTER VIII.

THE NIGHT FUNERAL.

[Sir Charles Selwyn's narrative resumed.]

THERE is no more peaceful spot in all the country-side than Scamden churchyard. It is sheltered from the rough winds on the one side by a steep cliff, in the face of which is a disused quarry, while on two of the remaining sides grow feather fir trees, having a frontage of high bramble bushes. The church itself is an ancient structure, dating from the days when Paulinus, the Scottish saint, evangelised the former wild inhabitants of the valley, as is witnessed by the inscription traced in rude letters near the west door:—"Hic Paulinus predicavit et celebravi." Formerly a large family pew occupied the north side of the chancel. It was square in shape, lined with crimson baize, and contained a very substantial oak table. Here on Sundays I used to sit by the side of my father (who as long as I could remember, had been churchwarden), and I was wont to spend the sermon time, in my younger days, in spelling out the record of an imposing marble tablet affixed to the south wall. This inscription was a remarkable one, and ran as follows:—"Isabell Selwyn, ye daughter of Sir Israel Selwyn, Bart, was found slaine in ye pine woode, not farre from this chapelle: Who did yt wicked deede GOD knoweth. Ye verdite of ye whole Jurie is that some did cutte her throats; who was buried the third day of Marche, MDLXXV."

I have heard that it was afterwards discovered that this unfortunate lady was murdered by her brother, a scapegrace fellow, and that my wicked ancestor was publicly executed on the celebrated Halifax gibbet, and was afterwards buried at midnight at the four cross-roads; not, however, before he had confessed his guilt, and had stated that his motive was to secure that portion of his father's estate which had been bequeathed to his sister.

"I hope a tendency to such deeds does not run in the family," I one day remarked, half in joke, to the Rector.

The Rev. Theophilus Goode looked somewhat serious as he replied:

"Heredity is a remarkable thing, Charles, and there are facts recorded here," and he laid his hand on the oldest register of the church, "of which you may possibly be ignorant."

His words aroused my curiosity and I asked him what he meant.

"You are familiar, no doubt," he said, "with the theory of hereditary tendency? Now, look here!" and he turned over the crackling leaves of parchment—"look at this entry in the year 1621."

I stooped down and with some difficulty, on account of the crabbed handwriting, deciphered the following;—

"Jany ye 14th.—On this day was buryed ye child of Sir Hubert Selwyn, Bart., wh. childe was ye heir to ye Scamden estate, and was cruelly murdered by Charles Selwyn, ye brother to Sir Hubert Selwyn. He nowe lyes under ye sentence of death. On hys soule may GOD have mercy."

"And why did he murder the child?" I asked, with a sickened feeling. For hitherto no information of this deed of my ancestor had come to me.

"That he might succeed to the property, I suppose," said Mr. Goode.

"What a terrible record! Have you anything further to show me?"

"There is one more, and curiously enough that is again after the interval of a little more than a century." So saying he took from the iron bound parish chest a more recent volume and showed me this entry:—


August 8, 1796—Spent by this parish for the entertainment of sundry householders at the King's Assizes, holden at Halifax, being the jury and witnesses summoned for the trial of William Selwyn, son of the late Sir James Selwyn of Scamden Hall, for the murder of his father the said Baronet and as he was sentenced to death, Ģ5 7s 3žd.

God Save the King.


"And this murderer was my great uncle!" I said in a tone of horror.

"Yes."

"And the murder was committed exactly one hundred years ago?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Then those records show that since the time the tablet was elected in the chancel in 1575 such horrible events, have occurred at the rate of one each century?"

The Rector nodded.

"Do you think it all probable that there is really an hereditary homicidal tendency in my family?"

"I cannot say—it looks like it."

"Then I should say this is about the time when we may expect the tendency to reassert itself?"

"Yes, unless the infection has died out," said he.

The memory of this conversation was renewed with singular vividness after Joshua Wilkinson's discovery at the Mill. And future events only served to confirm my conviction that there are invisible forces at work around and within us, forces which are none the less real because controlled by no material agencies, and which govern the actions and control the destinies of men more largely than some people are willing to acknowledge.

It was some days after the visit to Moorfield Hall which I have already recorded, and having nothing particular to do that afternoon, I strolled through the churchyard on my way to the Rectory for the purpose of having a cup of tea and a chat with the Rector and his wife.

Mr. Goode was one of my oldest and wisest friends. Under his able guidance I had in my youthful days surmounted the difficulties of tupto and amo, and had crossed without disaster the pons asinorum. Of all the men I have known none have more thoroughly understood and appreciated the character of the Yorkshire folk. A Yorkshireman himself, the Rector is not only a past master in the dialect and verbal idioms of the district, but he also appreciates the spirit of clannish pride which makes of the native of the West Riding regard the rest of mankind as being naturally inferior in mental and physical qualities to the people of his own country. Not that Parson Goode as he was usually called, failed to rebuke this self-assertive mind when occasion required; but many a time have I have heard him say that it was an evidence of that spirit of sturdy self-reliance and comradeship which has made the North country people to be so successful in their undertakings.

The pathway through the churchyard turned abruptly round the east end of the church. At this corner I came across Joshua Wilkinson. He was standing by the side of a partly dug grave at the bottom of which spade in hand, was his prospective father-in-law, Tom o' Jacks, the parish sexton.

"I knew naught na moor aboot it," Tom was saying. "But I've gotten th' order and t' job'll soon be done." He threw out another spadeful of earth.

"E's diggin' a grave, Squire, an' 'e doesn't know who's t' lie in 't," remarked Joshua, turning to me with a nod and a smile.

"I tell thee, lad," said the old man, as he applied his mattock to loosen the soil, "'at Parson Goode gev me th' order, h'll pay me 't brass at th' end on 't. 'Appen 'e knows moor about it. Thou mun ask 'im i' thou wants to be knawin'."

"It's a mon's grave, I reckon," remarked Joshua, as he measured the length of the opening critically with his eye.

"Ay, its a man's sure enon' by t' length of 't."

"I had not heard of a death in the parish," I observed.

"Theer's been noan," replied Tom o' Jacks; "but Parson Goode's given the order for this 'ere grave to be dug to-day. It'll be somebody foreign."

He said these last words in a careless, contemptuous tone. I understood him to mean that the grave was intended for the burial of someone not a native of Yorkshire, and therefore a person of inferior importance.

"Have you discovered anything further?" I inquired of Joshua, as we walked together towards the lych-gate at the further end of the churchyard. He looked up into my face as if he would read my thoughts.

"When I've ought to tell ye, I'll tell. 'Appen I shall have sommat afore long."

He smiled in a knowing way, and nodded when I left him as if to assure me that he was on the watch.

Mr. Goode was at home, and so was his buxom and sweet-tempered wife. They received me with their usual cordiality, and we talked of the events of the day, of the weather, the roads, and the state of trade. The conversation then turned to the parish and its affairs, civil and ecclesiastical.

"You will soon be made 'J.P.,' I suppose," remarked Mrs. Goode, as she poured the rich cream into the third cup of her delicious tea.

"And must become my churchwarden at the Easter Vestry," chimed in the rector with a good humoured smile.

At this moment the servant entered, saying that the sexton wished to know the hour of the funeral.

"To-night at 9.30," replied the rector.

And then, noticing my look of surprise, he remarked, "I have had a very curious notice of burial." So saying he handed me a letter. It bore a London postmark. Opening it I read therein a request written in a curiously crabbed and unusual hand, that a grave might be prepared for the burial of the body of Andrew Rawling, a former inhabitant of the parish, who, it stated, had died in Bloomsbury of the smallpox. The letter went on to say that every precaution had been made to disinfect the corpse, which would arrive at Halifax in the evening, accompanied by one attendant, and might be expected to arrive at Scamden Church at about 9.30 p.m., at which hour it was presumed there would be no persons assembled, and therefore no danger of importing the disease into the parish.

"And you consented?" said l handing back the letter.

"I did not see how I could well refuse," replied Mr. Goode. "It has always been the custom to bury ex-parishioners in Scamden Churchyard on payment of certain additional fees. Of course, had the deceased been a total stranger the case would have been very different. But with the precautions they have taken there can be little risk of infection. We shall not take the corpse into the church."

"What a curious and impressive sight a funeral by night must be," I remarked. "Have you ever before buried anyone at such an hour?"

"Not since the cholera days."

"You will want someone to hold a lantern over your book as you read the service," I said. "Let me do it."

"All right. Tom will be busy with the coffin, so I shall be glad of your help. Be here by about 9 o'clock."

Punctually at the appointed hour I reappeared at the vestry. There was no moon, and a damp mist, which every now and then developed into a drizzling rain, clung to the leafless branches and dripped uncomfortably on to my face as I stood at the door of the house. It was about as suitable a night as could have been selected for so gloomy a business.

"I hope you have a good topcoat!" cried the Rector in a cheery voice, as he met me in the hall. "Ah! that's right! Muffled up to the very eyes I see!"

"And the lantern?"

"Yes, here it is. It's only a large bullseye, but you can easily keep a gleam steadily on the book. I have read the service before," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

It is easy to be merry when it is not over one's own hearth that the shadow of the wings of Death's angel is thrown. I laughed with my old friend, and our merriment was surely harmless enough; but we became very serious—at least I can answer for my own feelings—as we made our way through the garden and along the churchyard path to the lych-gate. There we were a little sheltered from the rain, and stood in silence by the side of the empty bier, the rector's surplice fluttering mournfully to and fro, while the sexton, who had met us in the churchyard, peered through the gate as he endeavoured to penetrate the darkness for some indication that the principal actors in the mournful tragedy were approaching.

"It's coomin'!" he exclaimed, after we had waited about ten minutes, "but I don't see no lights. E's naver drivin' i' t' dark, surely!"

But he was, and in a few minutes the vehicle drew up within the circle of light created by our lanterns, and the driver descended slowly from his seat.

He was a tall man; but so closely was he muffled up, and so low was his broad-brimmed felt hat drawn down over his face, that I could only see his nose, which was certainly a very prominent feature.

"Ha ye nobody t' 'elp ye?" inquired the sexton in a tone of surprise, as he realised the smallness of the funeral party.

To this remark the man made no reply, but having handed the certificate to the rector, he let down the back of the spring waggon, and disclosed the end of the coffin.

I have not had much to do with such articles, but I was a little surprised when I saw its shape. For, as we assembled in the rear of the cart, I remarked that it was simply an oblong box of plain unstained deal of uniform width from end to end. This, however, was no time for questions, and as the sexton and the mourner were finding it difficult to let the coffin down gently on to the bier, I came to their assistance, and in a few minutes we managed to place it safely in position.

Then came a pause. It was clearly impossible for three of us to carry so heavy a weight across the churchyard. But the rector speedily solved the difficulty by himself taking the spare handle of the bier. Thus we made our way slowly and with many a stoppage towards the grave; while the rector recited from memory the opening sentences of the solemn and impressive burial office of the Church of England.

Had anyone been watching us that wild November night they must have wondered what strange and clandestine rite was in progress. The lanterns carried near the ground threw wonderful and fantastic shadows through the rainy mist on the ancient grey walls of the church. While, between the sentences recited by the Rector, might have been heard the panting of the bearers, and the creaking of the heavily laden bier as we laboriously lurched to and fro in our progress.

Arrived at the grave, we lifted the long box (for I can hardly call it a coffin) from the bier, and lowered it in the usual manner into the grave. Our task was not accomplished without difficulty on account of the unusual shape of the coffin, which caused it to jam against the sides in its descent.

This done, I took up my position just behind the rector, throwing the light of the bullseye lantern on his book, while he proceeded with the recital of the office for the burial of the dead.

The light was projected across the opening at our feet, and fell full on the face of the solitary and mysterious mourner, who was standing at the foot of the grave. In the toil and struggle of conveying the coffin from the waggon across the churchyard the brim of his felt hat had become a little raised, and I could see more of his features. He had dark and piercing eyes, an aquiline nose, and long black hair, which overhung the muffler round his neck as well as the collar of his overcoat. I was particularly struck by his hair, because as he stood by the side of the sexton it contrasted so strongly with the old man's snowy looks.

The stranger stared across at me as if he wondered who I might be but as I was behind the light I felt sure that he would be unable to distinguish more than the outline of my figure.

Just before the concluding prayer I heard a slight sound at my back, and turning my head quickly I saw Joshua Wilkinson. But I am not sure that he noticed my glance, for his gaze was fixed intently on the stranger.

I wondered how he had come to know the hour of the funeral, and what had induced him to leave his fireside on such a night.

[Extracted from the diary of Miss Elsie Selwyn, of Moorfield, Yorks.]

NOV. —th. I discovered this morning that both my brother and that horrid man Borio have left Moorfield for London. Jenkins the butler was my informant.

He is unable to give me any further in formation.

I was descending to breakfast when I caught sight of him in the hall. He looked so exceedingly pale that I inquired if he were ill. He seemed to be confused at my question, but presently replied, "Not at all, thank you, Miss," as he opened the breakfast-room door. I am writing up my diary by the fire before lunch, as I have nothing else to do. How I do detest that Jenkins! I cannot imagine what my father sees in the fellow that he should always speak so highly of him. That horrid over-your-head stare has always made me mistrust him. Yet I suppose this is a foolish womanly prejudice, for Jenkins certainly performs his duties with regularity and promptness; and then he gets on well with Jack—that is a great thing in his favour. Poor dear Jack! why was he so angry with Cousin Charles? Of all the manly lovable men Sir Charles is—but there, if ever this diary falls into other hands the reader shall not say that I confided to it all my thoughts—only I do wish that Jack had been a little more gentlemanly to his cousin.

There—I must stop! Jenkins has just brought word that Mrs. Wilkinson of Hill-Top Farm wishes to see me, so I shall return to this diary later.

Same day, 10 p.m. This has been a day of extraordinary and perplexing discoveries. Mrs. Wilkinson wished to see me privately. She told me that a woman had been taken ill at her house—a foreigner, she said, whose language she could not understand, and that she would like me to see her. I found that on the previous day the woman had appeared at the farm and had fallen down in a faint at the door. "I never set 'een on t' woman afoor," said Dame Wilkinson, "and I could see 'at t' poor lass wor clemm'd wi' cold an' hunger."

I told her that I would return with her. On the way she confided to me other details about her patient.

"I could na' turn t' woman out t' doors, she wor that badly," And then I learnt that the good dame had summoned to her assistance two of her neighbours, and that together they had placed the woman in Mrs. Wilkinson's own bed, where she had laid for a long time unconscious, but that this morning she had recovered her senses. On entering the house I at once saw that the stranger lying in the dame's 'turn up' bedstead was no native of this country. She was a woman of about 50 years of age, still good looking, with a wealth of long jet black hair which hung in glossy tresses over the pillow. Her eyes were black also—that liquid black which is so thoroughly characteristic of the Spanish race. She was pale—but not so pale as an English woman would have been under the circumstances, on account of the olive hue of her complexion.

"I understand that you are ill," I said, approaching the bed.

She murmured a few words in Spanish and turned her head away with a deep sigh.

Now I cannot claim to be a Spanish scholar but I can read the language, and speak it a little—though with very indifferent pronunciation I fear. So I leaned ever the bed and addressed a few consoling words to her in her own tongue.

The effect was magical. The sick woman instantly turned towards me, while a flush mounted into her checks.

"Thanks be to God," she gasped, speaking in Spanish, as she rose from the pillow, clutching my hand with both hers.

"Thanks be to God," she repeated, gazing fixedly into my ace. She was about to say more, but a spasm of pain seized her, and she fell back again in a fainting condition.

We gave her some brandy, and I stayed at the house until she had dropped into an uneasy slumber. Then, telling Dame Wilkinson that I would return, I went home, wondering greatly who the poor creature might be, and how she had found her way into our remote valley.

The distance between Wilkinson's farm and Moorfield is considerable, and I was so very tired on my arrival that I despatched Jenkins with a note to say that I should be unable to return, and stating at the same time that I should like to be responsible for the expense of nursing the invalid. I am sure that Dame Wilkinson will spare no pains in tending this strange patient; but owing to the failure of the Mill she is poor.

Jenkins returned at 4 o'clock. He reported that Mrs. Wilkinson gave an encouraging account of the woman's condition. Jenkins said that he did not enter the house. Subsequently he complained of a headache and asked if he might go to bed. Of course I gave permission.

I sat over the fire for some time after dinner wondering what had become of my father and why he does not write to me. Although at no time a good correspondent, in his absences from home he has usually sent me a few lines from time to time. For, in his way, father cares for me I believe, though I sometimes wish he were a little more demonstrative in his affection. I should like also to see a better feeling between him and Jack, though I must confess that the present state of affairs is largely Jack's own fault.

I now come to the perplexing discoveries, of which I have already written.

About an hour ago—to be exact it was at five minutes past nine by the clock in the hall—I went to my bedroom to fetch a bundle of letters, among them one of Cousin Charles's, which I was particularly anxious to peruse again.

As I passed Jack's room I was particularly startled to notice a gleam of light shining through the almost closed door. Had Jack returned, then, and without my knowledge? I pushed the door open a little, very quietly, and peeped in. The candle was on the dressing-table, and near it, with his back towards the door, knelt a man. He was bending over a drawer under the same dressing-table and as I looked he raised his head. I then saw that he had taken from the drawer a coat. It was a light drab overcoat. I recognised it instantly as Jack's; and at the same time I saw that the man was none other than Jenkins the butler. Drawing back from the door without making the slightest sound I crept downstairs again, trembling with fright. As soon as I had recovered myself I rang for one of the maids.

"I am a little nervous, and Jenkins has gone to bed," I said, "so come with me and see if the windows are fastened. We will begin upstairs."

The girl looked surprised, but said nothing, and came upstairs with me readily enough. I tried to look unconcerned, but I could feel my limbs tremble as we ascended the stairs. There was now no light in Jack's room—I saw this before we reached the door. Jenkins had disappeared, and there was no sign that the room had been entered except a letter on the floor, which evidently had been dropped from the drab overcoat. I picked it up and tried to open the drawer in order that I night replace it, but I found that it was locked. So we examined the windows upstairs and than those in the downstairs rooms. And now I have just done a thing which is usually considered to be mean in the extreme—I have read the letter.

It in from Borio, and addressed to my brother.


Dear old Cock,—

I have received your letter, but am sorry that I cannot obtain a further loan of the 'needful.' Try the old boy again; he is bound to give in at last. What a pity he doesn't retire to a bettor (or worse!) sphere and leave you in possession. Since I saw you I have discovered something interesting about myself, of which more shall be said when we meet. Let me know if anyone turns up in your neighbourhood claiming to be my relative, and don't believe anything you may hear about me.

Yours ever,

Alfonso Borio.

P.S.—Don't forget that the interest is due on the 1st of next month.


When I had read this letter my first impulse was to lock it up till Jack's return; but there was something in Jenkins's behaviour that evening that induced me to read it again, and, as I did so, a light seemed to break in and I dropped the letter and almost gasped for breath. What if this man should induce Jack to work some harm upon my father? With trembling hands I take up the letter again and read and re-read it till I almost know its mysterious expressions by heart. I trust I am not acting dishonourably in copying it.


NOV. —th, Still no news from father, and Jack has not returned. Jenkins is about his work again this morning as usual. His cold expressionless face puzzles me. Can he be a somnambulist?

I feel so defenceless in this great lonely house that I dare not inquire his business in my brother's room.

After breakfast this morning I again visited Dame Wilkinson.

How odd it is; the sky has every appearance of snow. I found the Spanish woman a little better. Mr. Goode had called after my departure yesterday, but, having no knowledge of Spanish, had not been able to administer spiritual consolation to his new parishioner.

"Could he account for the woman's presence in the valley?" I asked.

"Nay, Miss, he war fair capped (surprised), 'Appen his missus 'll find out sommat more. She's a rare un to ferret into such things."

The dame said this with an expressive nod, as if to emphasise her profession of faith in Mrs. Goode's acuteness.

"But theer's bin other folks besides," she continued, holding up her finger and speaking in a low tone as though she feared her words might be overheard. "Theer's bin that ere butler chap for one."

"You mean Jenkins, I suppose?"

She nodded meaningly.

"But I sent him."

"E's a chap wi' false een—a deal too false for ony honest mon; and 'e'd'a mind to fin' oot summat for 'is sen. But I war watching his ugly face, and ne'er a foot did he set in t' house."

I laughed, though I did not feel very comfortable with regard to Jenkins.

"But theer's bin another—Lucy Shaw."

"But surely you don't suspect—?"

"Lucy's as good a lass as ever walked wi' two clogs," interrupted the dame, "but theer were summat aboot the lass very strange to-day. She stood at t' foot of t' bed an' looked an' looked an' looked as i' she'd seen a boggard."

"But Lucy Shaw knows nothing of this woman?"

"That I canna tell ye. But theer war summat t' matter wi' t' lass—that I am sure on;" she said this with a toss of her head, as though she were certain of her view of the matter.

After this I had a conversation with the Spanish woman. She was so weak and spoke in so low a tone that I could only catch a few words here and there; but what I heard was startling enough.

She had followed her son, she said, across the sea (but from what country I could not discover). He was tall and handsome, oh, so handsome! Had I seen him? Then she lapsed into silence for a few moments. When she spoke again she told me that her husband had been an Englishman, "long years ago—long years ago."

"Is he dead?" I inquired.

But she shook her head and seemed unable to answer my question.

"And his name?" I asked again.

"Selwyn," she whispered.

"And his Christian name?"

But a fresh attack of faintness had come, and I was obliged to desist for the time from further questioning.

I came home completely perplexed, and I need hardly say with all the curiosity in my nature thoroughly aroused.

Who was this woman? And what did she mean by saying that her husband of long years ago was a Selwyn? Then who was this son of whom she was in search? And how had she found her way into the Scamden Valley? These and other questions presented themselves to my mind until far into the night.


CHAPTER IX.

THE WEAVING OF THE MESH.

[Sir Charles Selwyn's narrative resumed.]

ON my return home from the funeral I found the following note from Elsie Selwyn:—


My Dear Cousin,—

I am in much perplexity about my father. Beyond the telegram of which I told you we have not received a line from him. Jack, too, seems to be much agitated and anxious about it, and proposes to start for London at once. He is hardly fit to travel, but his friend who has been here since Tuesday will accompany him. I have not ventured to remind Jack of your last visit, but trust you have quite forgotten his rudeness.

Yours sincerely,

Elsie Selwyn.

P.S.—If you are able to advise us in our present anxiety I should be so very grateful. Can you run over to Moorfield? Lunch at 1.


The following morning I rode over to Moorfield, calling at Hill-top Farm on the way, where I found Dame Wilkinson busy churning, and could hear Joshua pounding away at his loom in the inner room.

There are not now many hand-loom weavers left in the country side. Time was when the passer-by might have heard the merry rattle of the shuttle and the dull rhythmical thud and clatter of the sleigh and healds of the loom in every cottage and small homestead throughout the district. For in this way the thrifty and industrious people augmented the scanty income produced by the sale of milk and butter. Happy and prosperous days were those. And had it not been for the erection of factories—more successful than Scamden Mill—in the adjoining villages, hand-weaving would still be the staple industry of the people—greatly to their moral and physical advantage.

The door of the "Shop," as Joshua's weaving apartment was called, was closed, and I stood for a few moments watching the motions of his mother while she worked the long handle of the tall churn. She was one of those women who are blessed throughout by an abundance of vitality. Never tired—polishing, scrubbing, dusting, churning, feeding the calves, collecting the eggs. From morning to night she worked, only allowing herself the recreation of mending and darning; unless it might be on a Sunday, when, in the evening, she was wont to sit by the peat fire, or maybe in summer time in the porch, with the great family Bible on her knees—as likely as not upside down, for Dame Wilkinson's learning was scanty.

"Eh! Sir Charles! I never saw thee!" she exclaimed apologetically when she turned and caught sight of me, and immediately hastening to perform the altogether superfluous task of dusting a chair for my accommodation.

"I looked in to see Joshua. He is weaving, I hear!" So saying I stepped towards the door of the shop.

But she stepped up to me quickly.

"Thou mon stop a minute, Sir Charles, afoor thou talks to my Joshua," she interrupted. "He'll noan hear us as lang as t' loom's going." And she glanced towards the closed door.

"'Appen ye know 'at t' Colonel wor t' cause o' t' Milln failin'" said she.

I replied that I feared that he had much to do with it.

"Then I reckon t' Colonel had better keep out o' my lad's gate," she continued. "I'm afeered—I'm afeered," she said, clasping her hands, "'at theer'll soon be summat amiss."

"The Colonel is in London—has been there for some time," I replied, "so at any rate, mother, it cannot come to a battle at present." I said this with a smile, picturing to myself a stand-up fight between the tall lean Colonel and the massive sinewy weaver-farmer.

"But it's coomin', —it's coomin'! I know theer's summat coomin'," she whispered, bending towards me, and looking beseechingly into my face as if to rebuke my smile. "And, Squire, if aught happens to my Joshua, it'll noan be long afoor I'm laid i' t' churchyard up yonder."

I knew her to be a woman of nerve and decision of character, and it distressed me to see the tears roll down her cheeks as she spoke.

"Come, mother!" I said soothingly, "Joshua is too cautious and sensible a man to do anything foolish, and too good a fellow to commit a crime. Surely his mother, above all people, ought to trust him."

Instead of replying, she went to an oaken corner cupboard, a curious piece of ancient workmanship built into the wall, and, opening the door, took from its post-office savings book.

"Look inside!" she whispered, glancing again apprehensively towards the shop as she handed the book to me.

There was the sum of fifty pounds set down to Joshua's credit.

"Look on t'other side," she said, pointing to the opposite page and then I saw that he had withdrawn the whole of this sum only the day previously.

"An' 'e reckons I doan't know naught about it but I'm noan daft. It means a deal, I'm thinking."

It was certainly very extraordinary, and I hesitated whether or no I would see Joshua.

"Nay, Sir Charles, thou's 'is only friend. Maybe 'e'll tell thee moor nor 'e's tell'd 'is auld mother," So saying, Dame Wilkinson, with more tears in her eyes, resumed her churning, and I went in to talk with her son Joshua.

There was a good-humoured expression on the weaver's face. He was swinging the "sleigh" of his loom energetically to and fro, bringing the "weft" up into its place with mighty force at each stroke. His coat and waistcoat were doffed, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up almost to the shoulder, revealing biceps of which Milo the Cretan might have been proud. I could not help reflecting as I stood watching him while he sent the heavy shuttle flying swiftly from end to end of the opening warp that I should not care to encounter an angry blow delivered with the full force of such well-developed muscles.

Presently he stopped to recharge a shuttle, giving me at the same time a good-humoured nod of recognition.

"You're rushing on, I see," said I.

"Ay, I'm wantin' to get this piece oot by t'neet. I've a particular job as soon as it's done."

"More weaving?"

"Ay, weaving of another sort. T' weavin' o' meshes to catch birds!"

"I didn't know that you were a bird catcher, Joshua!"

"It's a new trade to me," said he, "but I'm learnin' it fast enow. Theer's big birds and theer's little uns, on t' hill sides; and theer's hawks as well as ringdoves."

"And which are you after?" I enquired.

"I canna manage t' doves so I'll try t' hawks," he said with a meaning look. And as he spoke it began to dawn upon me that he was speaking enigmatically.

A report had reached me that my cousin Jack Selwyn had attempted to pay his attentions to Lucy Shaw, the old Sexton's daughter, and Joshua's sweetheart, and it struck me that possibly he was alluding to this.

"Come Joshua," I said somewhat sternly, "you must be careful what you do. I have heard from Tom o' Jack's that my cousin Jack Selwyn has visited the Cottage once or twice lately; but I'm sure that Lucy is as true as steel to you. So pluck up heart, man!"

He looked at me steadfastly for a moment as though he were pondering my words, and I began to think I had hit the right nail on the head. But Joshua replied, "Theer's moor to be put reight nor thou knows on, Squire! Thou's bin as good-hearted a friend as iver a mon had—and for mony a year. Wilt thou trust me a while longer?"

He said this very quietly and with great deliberation, emphasising each word with the shuttle. I can see now its sharp steel point as he waved it, while he continued solemnly:

"An' it'll noan be long afoor thy faith i' Joshua Wilkinson is put t' test."

So saying he thrust the shuttle into its place and resumed work.

I stood watching him a while wondering at his words; but as he steadily continued his weaving, and as it was quite impossible to talk against the clatter of the room, I nodded a farewell and left him.

His mother looked at me anxiously as I went out; but I only said, "If you should want any advice or help come to me," and departed, wondering at Joshua Wilkinson's words and conduct.

Arrived at Moorfield it was plain to me that there was some unusual excitement, and my cousin Elsie looked pale and troubled.

"I am so glad that you have come," she exclaimed. "We are in a state of terrible anxiety about my father."

I inquired after her brother.

"He has been in a strangely excited state, and did not seem to be improved in temper by the arrival of his friend—an odious man, a Spaniard, I think, calling himself Don Alfonso Borio. They have been closed with the butler for hours together in Jack's room, till I have grown terribly nervous lest something dreadful was about to happen."

"What?"

"I cannot say, but I feel very uneasy. People don't hold long conferences in private about nothing!"

I scanned her face as she was speaking. It was plain enough that she had been passing through a time of much anxiety and mental distress.

"You see I am so utterly alone, Cousin Charles!" she added, at the same time struggling bravely but unsuccessfully to restrain her tears, "and you are the only one in the world to whom I can look for advice."

"Cousin Elsie," I replied, "you may with confidence tell me everything. I am only too anxious to aid you."

"I have no more to tell," she said, looking up trustfully. "Can you do anything to find my father? His prolonged absence and silence is so strange—so unusual."

It was very pleasant to be so trusted by my pretty cousin, but I could see no way in which I could help her, and so to gain time—and possibly some information—I began to question her about the Spaniard.

"What kind of man is this Don Alfonso Borio?" I asked.

"Once seen, never forgotten," she replied, smiling through her tears. "He is tall and bony, and has very long black hair hanging down almost to his shoulders, while his nose is very prominent and hawk-like."

"Hawk-like!" the word struck me. It reminded me of Joshua's remark the same morning that he was about to weave a mesh for the purpose of catching hawks.

"Did you have any conversation with this man?" I inquired.

"I talked to him at dinner," replied Elsie, "but his familiar manners were so distasteful to me that I must confess I avoided him as much as possible. He took most of his meals with Jack, and spent his time entirely in Jack's company."

"Did he remain in the house during the whole period of his visit?"

"Until last evening, when he and Jack went out together."

"What time did they return?"

"I was in bed—it must have been nearly 12 o'clock, and I could hear them talking and moving about in Jack's room all night. They left very early this morning, before daylight, and I understood from the servants that they had driven to the station."

"And you think that Jack has gone to London with this man and Jenkins to seek for your father?"

"Yes, that is my belief. But he did not tell me his plans."

It flashed across my mind as my cousin told me this that her description tallied very remarkably with that of the stranger who had brought Andrew Rawlings's body to be buried in Scamden Churchyard on the previous evening. Of course there were many tall and bony men possessing long black hair and hawk-noses, but still I could not resist the impression that Elsie Selwyn had very accurately described the solitary mourner. And, as I questioned her more closely concerning the man, this impression was certainly confirmed.

"Did they drive?" I inquired

"Yes, they drove off in a dogcart."

"And you did not know their destination?"

"I only gathered from one of the maids that it was reported among the servants that they had gone to Halifax railway station."

"Who drove?"

"Jenkins, the butler."

I gave a low whistle. So Jenkins was evidently involved in the matter—whatever it might be—and I began to wonder why my late father had so long employed and trusted him.

"Do you mind others knowing all this?" I asked. "I feel as though we ought to consult those who may be likely to throw light on the matter. There is the Rector, and there is Joshua Wilkinson of Hilltop Farm. I think they might help us."

Elsie hesitated.

"You will not get Jack into any trouble?" she said pleadingly.

"He is my only brother," she continued, "and though he often does foolish things, I am sure he means no harm. It won't involve Jack, will it, Cousin Charles?"

If there be an unselfish and disinterested affection on earth, it is that of a noble-hearted sister for a wayward brother. She bears with him in his extravagances, she makes excuses for his faults, and even for his vices, she takes his part when it is almost impossible to defend his conduct; she nurses him when his sickness is the result of his own crass stupidity, wickedness, or folly; and when she can do no more, she weeps over her own failure as if she alone were responsible for his acts.

"Believe me, Cousin Elsie," I replied, "I am anxious to befriend your brother—so far as in my power, but if I am to do anything effective I must have a free hand."

At lunch we continued our conversation. Her father had gone to the Charing Cross Hotel, she said—at least, so Jack had informed her—but her last letter had been returned endorsed "not to be found."

I should have told her of the funeral and of the mysterious mourner, but, as my suspicions were of the vaguest description, I deemed it better to keep my own counsel.

"When does Jack return," I asked.

"He did not tell me—I know nothing."

"Will the Spaniard return with him?"

"That I cannot say. I trust not."

When I left Moorfield, I perceived that we were on the eve of a change in the weather. Instead of the fog and driving, rainy mist of the past week, there had sprung up a bitterly cold north-east wind which was freezing the ground and driving showers of sleet over the moorlands. So that on the following morning I was not very greatly surprised to behold a complete change in the landscape in the form of a blinding snowstorm, which was rapidly obliterating the hedges and blocking the exposed country roads.

How the snow did whirl over the hills and down the narrow valley that December morning as I ploughed my way toward the Rectory! For my thoughts were centred on my Cousin Elsie and her troubles, and I was anxious to consult the Rector as soon as possible. But for this anxiety I should hardly have braved such a tempest.

"Why, you are a veritable snow man!" cried Mr. Goode, in a cheery voice as he opened the door to me. "Whatever has brought you out on such a morning?"

I replied that only urgent business would have induced me to venture abroad in such weather, and in a few minutes I was snugly placed by the study fire and deep in my story.

The Rector had listened attentively until I had finished. I told him that Colonel Selwyn was missing from home, and that his daughter was in a state of the gravest anxiety, but I said nothing about my suspicions with regard to the Signor Don Alfonso Borio, though I gave him a minute description of that worthy.

It was just at this point that Mrs. Goode entered the study. She was one of those kind and generous-hearted women whose honesty of purpose is so strong that she was unable to tolerate anything like duplicity in others. Brimming over with common sense, she always perceived the true bearings of a question and was able, without difficulty, to divest a difficult matter of its unimportant details, while at the same time she placed her finger on the point of real importance.

"Do you wish to be alone?" she inquired.

"Not at all," replied the Rector, "on the contrary, we shall be exceedingly grateful if you can advise us.

"Masculine rector, feminine director," said she with a smile.

"And plural misdirectors," he rejoined.

Whereat we all laughed, and then I restated the case and its difficulties, but still said nothing about my suspicions concerning the Signor Don Alfonso Borio, though I repeated to her my cousin Elsie's description of this gentleman.

"I should imagine," said she, "that the Spaniard must bear a close resemblance to the mysterious mourner of last evening."

"Ah," ejaculated the Rector. "How extraordinary! Yes, he was a very remarkable personage. But then it is manifestly impossible that he can have been Mr. Selwyn's friend."

"I don't recognise the impossibility," remarked his wife drily.

"In fact I should say it is not at all unlikely."

We both stared at her in amazement.

"But, my dear," expostulated Mr. Goode, "surely you cannot imagine that this Signor somebody-or-other can have brought Mr. Andrew Rawlings's body for burial?"

For my own part I said nothing, for I was struck with surprise that Mrs. Goode should so easily have voiced my own thoughts. But the Rector—unsuspicious soul—shook his head doubtfully as he remarked. "What about the letter which I received from London? There can be no mistake about that, I presume?

"See here," he added, taking it from a drawer. "Look at the postmark! Besides it is signed 'Walter Rawlings.' Now, I know that my old friend and parishioner has a grown-up son—one who might well have undertaken the funeral, though I have not seen him since his boyhood."

"Then why did he not stay to speak to you when the service was over?" demanded Mrs. Goode.

To this question we could, of course, none of us, make any reply.

"There is only one thing to be done," she continued. "The grave must be opened and the body inspected."

"But, my dear," cried the Rector in a tone of horror, "the man died of smallpox."

"Say rather 'is stated to have died of smallpox,'" returned the astute lady. "You have only the statement contained in this letter. It may have been made for a reason. Only those who have been recently re-vaccinated need be engaged in the business."

"But the permission of the Home Secretary will have to be obtained," he objected, "and that will be a troublesome matter. Besides, the affair will certainly be made public, and the papers will take it up. We shall only defeat our object I fear if the body is exhumed."

"And what fools we shall look if we find that after all it is the body of Andrew Rawlings," added Mrs. Goode satirically.

I could see that Mrs. Goode had made up her mind that this was the only possible first step likely to clear up the mystery, as she continued:

"You have no need to write to the Home Secretary till afterwards; that is in case you find there is anything wrong, which I very greatly doubt. All you have to do is to engage Tom o' Jack's to empty the earth from the grave—it will be still loose and easily removed. He will hold his tongue you may be sure for half a sovereign."

"My dear, you have a wonderful mind," said the Rector, in a tone of admiration. "I really believe that we had better follow your plan. What do you think of it, Charles?"

For my part I was sincerely grateful to the sharp witted Rector's wife for her ready and practical suggestion. The exhumation of the body if done at night might be kept a secret, could do no harm if proper precaution were taken against infection, and would at any rate satisfy our own minds.

I had been vaccinated at Oxford only a few years previously, and the Rector said he was considered to be proof against the disease. If the Sexton was not afraid, and would undertake the task under our direction, we might consider the plan settled.

"Do you think three would have strength to lift the coffin from the bottom of the grave I asked.

"It may not be necessary to move it," said the Rector. "I imagine that the Sexton could remove the screws and raise the lid as soon as the grave is cleared of the loose soil. This would save the labour of bringing the corpse to the surface."

"And if we have to raise the coffin?"

"Then ask your friend Joshua Wilkinson to be present—I suppose he is to be trusted. Though the fewer there are engaged in this business the better."

"Joshua is a reliable fellow. I know no one more so," I replied.

The snowstorm was by this time at its height, and I did not need much persuasion to stop to lunch. All the afternoon the fall and windy drift continued, and there appeared to be no sign of its abatement when darkness set it, till at 10 o'clock I yielded to the solicitations of my good host and his wife and decided to remain at the Rectory for the night.

It was a white world that met our gaze the following morning. Walls and roads and hedges alike had completely disappeared. The Rector declared that he had never known so deep a snow.

"Why, look at the Hill-top Farm," he exclaimed, as we stood together at the window, "it has disappeared."

This was true. Joshua Wilkinson's farmhouse stood in a deep hollow immediately under the brow of the hill. The driving gale as it carried the snow off the edge of the moor, had completely filled in the depression, and the house was entirely buried, so much so that not even its chimneys were visible.

"Joshua will very soon dig his way out," I said.

"But we ought to help him," chimed in the Rector.

Very shortly afterwards we were at work with the help of one or two of Joshua's labourers and the Rector's man, and were actively engaged in cutting a road up to the house.

It was neither a light nor an easy task. The snow had ceased to fall, but the wind still carried the light feathery crystals into the hollows and it was not until midday that we were successful in clearing a passage up to the door.

What surprised us was that we could not hear anyone digging a way out, and we concluded that Joshua had no tools within the house suitable for the purpose.

At length the door was reached, and the Rector entered. The place was in total darkness, except for the gleam of light which we had admitted, for the windows were snowed up.

"Hast thou come back, Joshua, lad?" said a voice, which I recognised as that of Dame Wilkinson, and peering over the Rector's shoulder and towards the corner of the room from which the voice came, I could just distinguish the outlines of a "turn-up" bed, such as are common in the houses of the district, but I could not distinguish its occupant.

"Is that you mother?" I called out.

"Ay. But I thought it wor my Joshua coom back."

"He could not very well have got away!" remarked the Rector.

"You've been snowed up, Dame, and we've just dug you out."

"Bless me!" exclaimed the good woman, as she hastily sat up in bed, and blinking in an owl-like manner as her eyes encountered the light.

"But I thought it wor a vary long neet, and a vary dark one, too. And so it's noan Joshua?" she added in a mournful tone.

We felt inclined to laugh at her comical appearance as she sat there staring at us from within the circle of her frilled nightcap, but for my own part I was very anxious to know what had become of Joshua, and asked if he were upstairs.

"Not to my knowin', Sir Charles, not to my knowin'," she replied mournfully and shaking her head. "'E went away yester neet, and when ye coom I thought 'appen he'd thought better on't, an' coom back to me."

We set the men to work to clear the windows, and then we drew from her that Joshua had left home on the previous evening at about seven o'clock, having first placed twenty sovereigns in his mother's hand, saying that if she needed advice or temporary help she was to come to me.

"But did you not ask where he was going?" I said.

"Thou knows it's no use axin' my lad ony questions," she retorted. "I might as weel ha' axed that bed-post. Nay, I can nabut wait. 'E'll noan forget 'is auld mother, I reckon." And she rocked herself slowly to and fro on the bed.

The typical native of the West Riding seems to show emotion, especially before comparative strangers. Perhaps had Mr. Goode not been present I might have learnt more. And it was plain enough to me, though she strove to conceal it, that Dame Wilkinson was really deeply affected by her son's departure.

"I cannot account for it," remarked the Vicar in a serious time when we got outside. "He has always borne such an exemplary character."

I had my own ideas concerning the cause of Joshua's Wilkinson's departure, but held my tongue.


CHAPTER X.

THE CORPSE AND WHAT WAS DONE WITH IT.

[Sir Charles Selwyn's Narrative continued.]

IF a funeral by night be mournful and gruesome what must be the disinterment of the corpse under similar conditions!

I am sure that the Reverend Theophilus Goode looked anything but comfortable in his mind as he watched old Tom o' Jack's throwing the damp earth out of the grave of the late Andrew Rawlings, late of Bloomsbury, London, and formerly of our own parish.

The snow around the grave had been removed to make room for the soil which was steadily accumulating on either side, as the sexton laboured below within the narrow earthen walls.

"It's noan a nice job!" I heard him mutter to himself. "Let dead men lie quiet, I say."

But Tom o' Jack's assistance, if not his good will, had been secured by the promise of a liberal reward, and so the work progressed until his white looks were well below the level of the turf when he stood upright in the grave.

"Ere y'are!" he cried at length, prodding the ground beneath his feet with the edge of his spade.

It gave forth a hollow sound. He was close upon the coffin. It did not take him long to clear the lid. When that was done the Rector handed down a screwdriver.

"Remove the cover carefully, Tom," he said, "and don't let any of the earth fall within."

Some time was occupied in this operation, but at length the sexton announced that the last screw was removed.

"I canna raise t' lid while I'm standing on 't," he observed in a surly tone. It was plain he did not relish his task.

We had not thought of this. It was manifestly impossible to catch a glimpse of the dead man's face so long as Tom stood on the top of the coffin.

I suggested that if the sexton came out of the grave we might raise the lid of the coffin by means of a cord.

"Yes, fastened to a nail," observed the Rector, who immediately left me to fetch the nail, a hammer, and some cord from the rectory.

"This 'ere's a rum job," remarked Tom drily, as he leaned upon his spade after the Rector had gone.

"You don't seem to care for it," I returned.

"An' what's more I doant see t' good on't," he continued, nodding his head emphatically. "Auld Andrew Rawlings war a friend o' mine, and I'm noan fain o' t' job of meddlin' wi' 'is corpse."

"Did you recognise his son?" I asked, for I was very anxious to discover whether he had taken special notice of the solitary mourner.

"Son?" he said in reply to my question. "I haven't set my een on t' lad sin 'e war a little un, but I think I should know 'im. But he'd be a growd mon by now."

"Was it not the son who brought the body for burial?"

"Nay, niver, Sir Charles! yon mon was as dark as t' devil, and Andrew's lad was as fair as my Lucy. Nay, that war noan a son o' Andrew Rawlings."

The sexton spoke so positively that my suspicions concerning the mourner were still further aroused. He told me that Rawlings had been a well-to-do man, who, having succeeded to property, had gone to London in order that he might be near a married daughter.

"What is her name?" I asked.

"Jenks; I mean that's the name o' t' husband."

"Do you know her?"

"Ay, she coom i' t' valley two years sin."

"On a visit I suppose?"

He nodded.

It would then be quite possible to communicate with this Mrs. Jenks, so I reflected. It would be easy thus to decide the identity of the mysterious mourner.

When the Rector returned the hammer and nail were handed down to the sexton, and, as soon as the cord had been securely attached and the old man had climbed out of the grave, we steadily and cautiously lifted the lid.

But here a new difficulty presented itself. The corpse was covered, neither by a white shroud nor by any of the usual grave clothes, but by a thick heavy rug tucked in tightly all around the body in a most unusual manner.

"Someone will have to remove that cloth," said the Rector, as we peered into the opening. "What a strange article to place in a coffin."

"Probably it has been saturated with carbolic," I suggested remembering the smallpox.

"Ah, very likely. But how to remove it. That is the question."

"If we'd nabut a bit of a hook, it 'ud be an easy job," said the sexton.

"The very thing," cried the Rector. "I have the exact article at the Rectory," and away went the good man once more, speedily returning with a long rod to which was attached an iron hook.

We knelt down on the edge of the grave, damp though the earth was, and while I lowered the lantern as far as my arm would reach, the Rector, cautiously, and with nervous grasp, inserted the book in the woollen covering, and slowly pulled it off the face of the corpse, remarking as he did so, "He'll be marked with smallpox, and perhaps so badly disfigured that we shall fail to recognise him."

"Good heavens! what is this!" I exclaimed, as the face appeared, while I shaded my eyes from the light.

"Ay! what! no, it cannot be!" ejaculated the Rector, as he peered into the depth and scrutinised the features he had just exposed.

For the face which we looked upon was not that of Andrew Rawlings, but that of my uncle, Colonel Selwyn.

There was a deep indentation in the brow as if the skull had been crushed in, and stains of blood marked the face and neck, while the hair was matted with congealed gore.

"Pull off t' rug, Parson!" exclaimed Tom, in an agitated whisper and the Rector arose and pulled the rug from out of the coffin and laid it on the earth. Then we all stooped down again and inspected the corpse by the light of the lantern. The vision which had appeared to me on the evening of the day that the will was read now flashed vividly across my mind. Shading my eyes from the light I gazed fearfully at the lower part of the box—for a coffin it could hardly be termed.

It was by no means so long a one as would have been required to contain the body of so tall a man as Colonel Selwyn. Nevertheless, the corpse seemed to fill it from end to end. But there was this remarkable peculiarity—and I was struck dumb when I saw it—the corpse had no feet whatever.

Words fail me in describing our feelings of horror and consternation as we stared, first at the corpse, and then into each other's faces.

"This 'ere's noan smallpox, its murder!" said the sexton emphatically, breaking the silence at length.

"I fear it can be nothing less," replied Mr. Goode solemnly. "It will be our immediate duty," he continued, "to inform the police of the discovery."

We retired within the shelter of the vestry, for it was bitterly cold, and there discussed the situation in which we found ourselves.

We decided that the sexton and myself should in turn keep guard, while the Rector on his pony made his way through the snow to the nearest police station.

The Rector departed and the remainder of the night was spent in the vestry, where Tom o' Jack's and I, fortified by hot provisions from the vestry, kept guard, making frequent visits to the grave, while we conversed between whiles concerning our strange and terrible discovery.

[Don Alfonso Borio's narrative continued.]

THE result of the conference between Jack Selwyn and myself, mentioned in the former portion of my narrative, was this. We decided to take the bold step of burying the Colonel's body in Scamden Churchyard. This will be concluded from the Baronet's narrative. I propose to tell how we accomplished the difficult task.

"The Rector is always wrapped up in his books, and will suspect nothing," observed Jack Selwyn, when I had suggested the churchyard.

"Nevertheless you must not neglect any precaution," I replied, for I feared that the fellow was now becoming foolishly confident that all would be easily and safely arranged.

"First," I said, "I must at once send a letter under cover to a friend in London—a man on whom I may rely. He will post my letter to the Rector of Scamden. It will contain a request that he will allow the body of a former parishioner, who has died of smallpox, to be interred in the churchyard."

"Why of smallpox?" asked Jack.

"Don't you see, you fool, that this will be our excuse for a midnight funeral, for the absence of mourners, and for any other unusual circumstances which might otherwise arouse suspicion?"

Here Jack Selwyn (the idiot) laughed out-right. It was plain that he had completely regained his composure.

"But the Rector will have to be told the name of the said deceased parishioner," he remarked.

"That can be done easy," broken in Jenkins. "There's old Andrew Rawlings, who left these parts to live with his darter in Bloomsbury. Its time he was dead. Let's bury 'im."

"The very thing!" exclaimed Jack. "Old Rawlings has not been seen in Scamden for many years. If it hadn't been for the woman who witnessed the fall, and for that fellow Wilkinson, I should have felt certain that we could manage this business."

"How could they interfere? It is probable the woman did not recognise you," I replied. "And I don't see what this Wilkinson has to do with the matter."

"Oh, don't you? Well then let me tell you," and Jack Selwyn looked serious again—"that I verily believe it was this Wilkinson who found and examined the guv'nor's body while I was preparing a place in the wood in which to hide it."

"Nonsense how can you tell it was he?"

"I cannot prove it—though Jenkins here will be on the fellow's track when we have finished the present business—but I suspect the man nevertheless."

I shook my head doubtfully, for I was unable to see how he could arrive at such a conclusion.

"Here Jenkins," said Selwyn, "just open that wardrobe—see here's the key—you will find a coat wrapped in a piece of paper, yes, that's the one. Bring it here! Now, he said," turning to me, "what do you think of this mark—this is the coat I wore on the night of the accident."

I took the garment from Jenkins and examined it carefully. It was a covert coat, rather light in colour.

"Look there!" said Selwyn, pointing to the upper part of the right sleeve.

But I had already caught sight of a dark mark on the sleeve. It was the imprint of a large hand—a hand which strangely enough had grasped the wearer's arm tightly and the dark mark left by the fingers might have been caused by the remains of blood on that hand.

"You must take care of this," I said. "It may not be the mark of Wilkinson's hand, and it may not be blood, but if it is—"

"If it is we'll bring it 'ome to 'im," remarked Jenkins, with one of his dark looks.

We spent the following days in discussing our plans with regard to the body and in preparing a forged certificate.

Our first difficulty was with regard to the coffin. Here Jenkins came to our aid. He had a long packing-box and he thought that if we could convey it to the wood we might be able to get the corpse into it. So he was entrusted to tell the other servants that we were going to the station in the hope that Colonel Selwyn would return from London by the evening express, in which case we should drive him up to Moorfield. And soon after 8 o'clock, having placed the packing-case on a four-wheeled cart, without being observed, we drove on.

Jenkins knew the road. It was well he did, for it was a rough, track which led down to the side of the steep valley.

"I suppose the grave in the churchyard will be ready," said Jack Selwyn, in an anxious tone as our vehicle was lumbering slowly over the stones.

"That'll be all right," said Jenkins. "I 'eard this morning that the Rector 'ad give orders to old Tom o' Jacks, as they call the sexton.

"Then the Rector has received my letter," I said.

Having hidden the horse and cart in a corner of the mill yard, we shouldered the box, and taking with us a lantern and a couple of spades, and guided by Jack Selwyn, who seemed to have recovered from his injuries very rapidly since my arrival at Moorfield, we made our way up the further slope into the wood.

I think if we had realised the difficulty we should have in conveying the great box under the overhanging branches, and through the tangled bramble underneath, we would have left it in the cart, but guided by Jack Selwyn we at length reached a hollow deep among the trees, which was the spot, said he, where the Colonel's body was concealed.

It did not take us long to dig up the dead man. I was astonished to find that he was so tall, for I had never seen him alive, and his son was as small in body as he was mean in mind (not that I object to mean-minded men, for I usually find that they serve my purposes admirably, and I hold in great abhorrence the "fine, manly fellows," of which there seem to be enough and to spare in this country).

We lifted him into the coffin. Then came a poser. It was too short for the corpse! Do what we could we were unable to force the dead Colonel into it, for the body was as rigid as a board. At length Jenkins suggested that we should remove both the corpse and the coffin to the Mill, for it was obvious that nothing could be done in the wood.

There seemed to be no reason why we should hesitate to do this, so we hoisted the dead body on to Jenkins's back, he being the strongest man of the three (I wonder how he liked it!), and then we made for the Mill, Selwyn and I carrying the box.

Then it was that a thing happened which, though of no importance, alarmed us not a little—something indeed which almost sickened me for the job.

Half-way down the hill Selwyn and I stopped, that we might look back to see how Jenkins was progressing. Just at that moment he tripped over the root of a tree which the darkness had concealed, and fell forward violently, the result being that the body of the Colonel was pitched into the branches of a great tree, where it stuck fast and remained suspended upright with its face towards us, the sightless, unclosed eyes staring in a truly horrible manner as the light of the lantern fell thereon.

No sooner had Jenkins risen to his feet than seeing the form of his master standing apparently alive by his side, he remained for a few seconds completely paralysed with terror, and then rushed towards us with a look of horror, and gasped:

"Then he's not dead, after all!"

"Dead as mutton!" I replied, though I felt horribly sick at the sight.

We went back and took him out from among the boughs, and so at length reached the Mill. There we again attempted to force the Colonel's body into the box. It was a hideous and ghastly business. Jack held the light, and Jenkins and I tried to thrust down the corpse, but all to no purpose.

Then Jenkins suggested that we should detach the artificial foot and cut off the other one just above the ankle.

"He got a saw from the outhouse of Tom o' Jack's cottage," he said.

Away he went and soon returned with the saw. It did not take long to cut off the natural foot, and the artificial one was of course soon removed.

I put it into my bag.

By hard driving—what a drive that was—I managed to arrive at the church only a few minutes late, Selwyn and Jenkins remaining behind to dispose of the foot, which ought to have been put into the coffin, but was forgotten in our hurry until the lid was screwed down.

It needed all my coolness to do the thing correctly in the churchyard. I was terribly afraid that they would take the coffin into the church. But I might have saved myself all anxiety on this score had I remembered that in the case of those who have died from some malignant disorder, such as smallpox, it is usual to convey the body at once to the grave.

How the funeral took place and how I was able to drive away without any questions having been asked, has I believe been related in the account supplied to Strafford by Sir Charles Selwyn. I will only add that I was made somewhat suspicious during the service at the grave-side by the way in which the young Baronet stared at me over the Rector's shoulder. I could not see him so very plainly, from the fact that the light from his lantern shone full into my face, but I felt that he was watching me closely. This was—to say the least very unpleasant, though I stood my ground. I also wondered why a tall, bony countryman joined the group opposite to me just before the service concluded. I caught a good sight of his face and didn't like it—there was too much of the "fine and manly" about it to suit my tastes.


CHAPTER XI.

SHOWS THAT A WOMAN HAS A HAND IN AFFAIRS.

[Joshua Wilkinson's story as related by Wilberforce Strafford.]

I FIND it necessary at this point that I should again take up my pen in order that a more complete and accurate account of Joshua Wilkinson's connection with these problems may be presented to the reader that a worthy fellow would undoubtedly have acceded to my request that he should himself have furnished me with a written statement, had it not been for two insuperable difficulties: firstly, that he never handles a pen other than for the purpose of signing his name (which he always does with extreme deliberation, in a large round hand at the rate of two or three words to the minute), and, secondly, that he is not conversant with the Queen's English—the English, that is to say, of literature, however true his rich north-country tongue may be to its Saxon origin.

Having consulted Sir Charles concerning this matter, with the result that I have obtained his full approval, I now desire to place on record a portion of Joshua Wilkinson's story; merely prefacing the narrative by saying that I have preserved his vernacular where possible, and also that I have omitted those details which have been fully related by the other writers.

It is some four years since Joshua Wilkinson began to keep company with Lucy Shaw, the Sexton's daughter. "I know naught aboot what folks call 'love,'" he remarked, as he began his story, "but if it means that Lucy were t' bonniest lass 'i Scamden Valley, an' if it means 'at I'd have a thraw wi' any mon as said she warn't, then 'appen that's what they mean by 'love.' I reckoned 'at Lucy loved me too, right well," he added. "Theer were two or three o' t' lads i' t' valley after t' lass, but she'd hae naught to say to 'en moren'n a civil guid day or guid neet. Saturday wor courtin' neet, and after I'd fettled mysen up a bit, I always went down to t' auld cottage anent t' milln afoor dark. Lucy war always i' t' doorway i' a clean frock, wi' clogs as breet as her bonny face, and wi' a smile as wud fit her for a place among th' angels—listening to the clatter o' my clogs as I coom thro' t' milln' yard.

"An then I'd sit me doon i' t' chimney corner, and Lucy'd giv t' old mon and me a leet apiece, and when t' pipes were goin' she'd sit her down atwixt us and hearken to our talk like a guid quiet lass, just puttin' in a word now and then t' show she war listening and telling us things she'd read i' t' books—for Lucy's a rare reader, and mony's t' books t' Rector's learnt 'er aboot religion and furrin parts and sich like.

"Then after a bit I'd fin' her 'and stealing into mine, and theer it stopped till t' clock stopped, and it war time for me to tak' off home t' my auld mother."

I can see the good fellow's face now as he looked when he spoke these words, while he related to me the simple story of his love and devotion to the country lass. I can remember how he passed the back of his great hairy hand across his eyes as he concluded. I can see, too, the blaze of wrath that flashed from those same eyes as his tone changed, while he brought down the same mighty fist with a weighty crash on my office desk.

"But them twin devils ha' robbed me of my life. For Lucy war life, and more 'n life to me. I care moor aboot that than about the brass they've ta'en! 'Appen I can 'andle as much brass—but what's that wi'oot Lucy Shaw?"

I have given this in Wilkinson's own words as well as I can remember, because I was quite unable to improve upon them. There was a real pathos in the ring of his voice as he spoke. Something, too, so indescribably touching in the simplicity with which he told the story of his love for the Sexton's daughter, that I was much moved at the time.

He told me further that matters had progressed as far as arrangements for the wedding, when he noticed a change in Lucy's manner. Not that she was less affectionate towards him; it was only that she was more thoughtful and reserved, not joining joining in the Saturday evening conversation as she had done formerly and avoiding any reference to the Selwyn family. It was this especially which first struck Wilkinson.

At one time she would have laughed heartily when he held forth with energy concerning the foibles of young Jack, or the commercial astuteness of the Colonel. Now a pained anxious look, he said, came over her face whenever the Selwyns were mentioned.

This state of things continued for some months. Once or twice Joshua questioned Lucy, but was unable to obtain anything but evasive replies. "An' yet," said he, "I was sure that Lucy was as straight as daylight and as true as a die."

One evening towards the end of October, as the Sexton was returning from his work in the churchyard, he found, to his surprise, that his daughter was standing at the door of the cottage in close conversation with no less a personage than Colonel Selwyn, of Moorfield. After a few civil remarks he departed; but said Joshua, the old man never knew the object of his visit.

I have taken an opportunity of questioning the Sexton about this matter and he assures me that he did not suspect that there was anything wrong until some days later. "Just as it war gettin' dark," explained the old man, "Joshua coom that way. (It war afoor I got home.) 'E looked in, and theer wer t' Colonel again sittin' by t' fire and talkin' to Lucy. Joshua's a game chap, an' he'd make nought of chuckin' the Colonel into the brook. But Lucy didn't see Joshua, and went on talkin' t' t' Colonel as pleasant as if they were old friends, an' she war sayin' 'I'll do it Colonel, but Joshua Wilkinson must know naught aboot it.'"

"Joshua came away as wist as a cat," said the Sexton. "I met him as I went down t' hill," he continued, "and ye should hae seen his face. It war like thunner. But 'e coom again to see Lucy that vary neet, an' talked wi' her a lang time. But he warn't satisfied wi' what she told 'im. She was keeping summat back, he said. It was ten o'clock afoor he went, and 'is last words war, 'Tom o' Jack's, summat 'll 'appen t' t' Colonel afoor long.

This war not lang afoor t' Colonel war killed.

"Theer warn't a better lass i' Scamden Valley than my Lucy," added the Sexton, "but I'm infeered, I'm sadly afeered," he added, "theer's bin summat wrang and it'll bring me t' grave."

I could ask him no further questions for I perceived that the old man's heart was as well nigh broken. But that there had been anything criminal in his daughter's conduct, I will not believe.

Lucy Shaw had always borne an unblemished reputation, and I could not help thinking that, if she were but willing to impart it, an explanation both reasonable and satisfactory would be forthcoming. The difficulty was how to obtain it. I had no excuse to offer for addressing her on the subject—it was a delicate and purely personal matter, nor was it likely that she would give me the information which she had refused to Joshua Wilkinson, though I have noticed that women will sometimes impart to others information which for no accountable reason they refuse to the man they love.

[Sir Charles Selwyn's narrative continued.]

IT was exactly a week after the discovery of the body, and I was busily engaged one morning after breakfasting writing to the chief of the Detective Department concerning the investigations which were in progress, when the butler announced that Lucy Shaw wished to see me. Suspecting that she desired a private interview on the subject that was interesting both of us, I ordered her to be shown in. She was attired in the costume of the district—a woollen shawl over her head; petticoats somewhat short, and a pair of ironshod clogs on her feet. She stood within the door hesitating, as though she were afraid of me, and I could see that her handsome face was unusually pale. There were dark lines, too, about her eyes, as though she had endured much mental suffering, and had passed not a few sleepless nights.

Anxious to place the girl at her ease and still more anxious to obtain all possible information concerning the matters uppermost in my mind, I offered her a seat. But she replied that she would rather stand; and I noticed as she spoke that she fidgeted nervously with a small newspaper parcel partly concealed under her shawl.

"You need not fear to place the fullest confidence in me, Lucy," I said encouragingly. "I suppose you have come to talk to me about Joshua Wilkinson."

A slight flush mounted into her face, but it speedily died away, and she looked paler than before.

"Sir Charles," she said, in an agitated voice, and speaking almost in a whisper, while at the same time she glanced nervously at the door, as if to see that it was closed, "I've summat to show thee!"

She stepped forward as she spoke and laid the small newspaper parcel on my desk. It was a curious shape, and tied with a few strands of warp from a weaver's loom.

Picking up a penknife I cut the threads, and carefully unrolled the paper wrapping. Judge my surprise and horror when there fell from it upon the desk before me a human foot!

"Woman alive!" I almost screamed, "What is this?"

"It's a mon's fot," she replied calmly.

She stood with folded hands before me, apparently as unmoved as if she had brought me a sheep's foot.

I looked up into her face sharply, and at once detected a gleam in her eye and a load of determination about her thin and closed compressed lips which ill agreed with her words of forced composure.

Once more I turned towards the revolting thing which lay upon my desk. It was plainly a man's foot, sawn off close above the ankle. There were no signs that blood had flowed. It was therefore clear, that the foot had been cut off a dead body.

The jagged edge of a grey woollen sock which had been cut through along with the leg garnished the ankle, while on the foot itself was an Oxford shoe, of elegant make, apparently almost new. There were faint signs of incipient decay in the flesh, and the whole was stained by marks of earth as if it had been buried.

I fixed my eyes upon the girl.

"Where did you find it?" I inquired sternly.

"I' t' fir wood," she replied laconically.

"Do you know whose foot it is?"

"Colonel Selwyn's."

Her response was made so promptly and withal so coolly that I was quite nonplussed.

"But my good woman," I stammered, "do you realise what the possession of such a thing may mean to yourself? You may be charged with the murder of Colonel Selwyn!"

"I know that weel enow, Sir Charles," she replied, in the same quiet voice, "an' 'appen I shall be hanged for 't."

"But you never committed such a crime?" I exclaimed, looking anxiously into her face.

Surely, thought I to myself, as my glance met here, this is not the face of a murderess?

"And how do you know that this is Colonel Selwyn's foot?" I continued, striving to be calm.

"Theer's noan so many spare feet to be sammed up dahn by t' Milln!" she retorted with a dry laugh.

"But where is the artificial one? The body of the Colonel, when we discovered it had lost both feet."

"That's what I want to be knowin'," said she. "T' Colonel wore a pair of shoes t' last time I seed 'im."

"You do not mean you saw his dead body before this foot was cut off?" I cried, for her words astonished me beyond measure.

"Nay, but I saw him less nor a minute afoor 'e wor a dead man," said she.

"Then you know how he come by his death?"

She nodded assent.

"He fell from the topmost window of the Mill?"

She nodded again.

"Was it an accident?"

She hesitated.

"I'm noan boun' to tell, am I?"

"If you do not now tell what you know you will at any rate be obliged to confess it later."

"An' who'll make me tell?" she retorted, drawing herself up with a look of defiance.

"I fear the law will prove stronger than yourself. Be persuaded by me, Lucy Shaw, and tell me all you know. It will be wise for you to confide in me, for I am as much interested in the matter as you are, and may be able to advise you."

I spoke in as kindly and persuasive a tone as I could command, but I had not fully gauged Lucy Shaw's strength of will. She did not seem to be affected by my appeal, and shook her head decidedly as she spoke.

"I did na coom to ax your advice, Sir Charles, but I want help."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean 'at Joshua's friend and a'most Joshua's brother is t' one to find Joshua."

"It would be a great relief to my mind if I could find him. Have you any idea of his whereabouts, Lucy?"

"'Appen I could find 'im if I'd nabut means to git theer."

So she has a notion of his whereabouts, thought I, after a moment's pause.

"If it is money you stand in need of, I am quite willing to help you," I said, as I opened a drawer, and took from it a five-pound note. "Now Lucy, this is at your service if you will use it for the purpose of finding Joshua."

I half expected that she would proudly refuse the proffered money, but she clutched it eagerly.

"God bless thee, Squire! God bless thee, Sir Charles!" she said, pressing the note to her bosom, as though it were the fulfilment of a darling wish. "I'll fin' Joshua, ne'er fear!"

I saw great tears standing in her large blue eyes, and the proud lips trembled as though my simple act (for indeed I would have given ten times the amount to find Joshua) had touched deep and tender emotions.

"And what is to be done with this?" I asked, turning towards the revolting limb lying on my desk.

"I mun ha' that!"

"But surely you do not mean that you wish to carry this about with you in your search for Joshua?"

She nodded.

"That would never do," I said sternly. "No, Lucy Shaw, you must leave this dead man's foot with me. I will place it in the hands of the detectives. It will be a valuable aid to them no doubt in their efforts to discover the murderer."

But as I spoke I saw the tender passionate expression pass from her face and a defiant masterful look take its place.

"I'm noan goin' to leave that foot wi' ye. It's gotten me means to fin' Joshua, and its ha' to go to Joshua wi' me."

"Until you tell me how you came by it I shall feel justified in retaining possession," I replied, in a still firmer voice.

"An' thou'lt say 'at Lucy o' Tom o' Jack's brought it to thee! Nay, Squire, it'll be better for thee to put it i' the fire!"

She spoke in such a tone of scorn that I was at a loss for a reply.

Here was an important clue; and I had no doubt but that the foot ought at once to be placed in the hands of the police; but how could I do this without compromising Lucy Shaw? It was plain to my own mind that she believed Joshua Wilkinson to be innocent, and further, it would seem that she know who was the murderer—if murderer he were; why then did she not plainly tell me his name, and how and where she discovered the foot.

"Tell me where you found it, Lucy," I asked once more, very persuasively, at the same time taking up the ghastly thing—though I must confess I shuddered as I touched it. "You will be obliged to confess sooner or later, as I have already told you. I shall certainly retain possession of this horrid relic. If it has been severed from the dead body of Colonel Selwyn the police must certainly have it, and you have no right to retain it in your possession."

"Then thou'l 'liver me up t' t' police?" said my visitor, fixing her eyes steadily on me.

"Well—no—I don't say I shall do that. I shall probable take advice before I do anything in the matter."

Being wishful to force the girl to disclose the secret in her possession, I stepped across the room towards an iron safe which stood against the wall.

I had stopped to open the heavy door; but before I was aware of her object, a hand was laid on my shoulder and the young woman had snatched the foot from my grasp, and had fled from the room. I dashed after her into the hall, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of the flutter of her red and grey shawl as she left the house.

I had half a mind to follow her, but she was speeding like a hunted dear down the avenue, her shawl streamers in the frosty air, and I stood upon the steps watching her agile figure as it flitted over the snow, past the beech trees, till she disappeared from view.

The position was an absurd one in spite of the tragic element, for I could not but admire the cool courage and dexterity with which the girl had outwitted me.

Still, as I sat down to think over the matter, it seemed to me that I was by no means to be envied. Here was I the possessor of a secret of which it seemed impossible for me to make the slightest use.

If on the one hand, I communicated my knowledge to the detectives, Lucy Shaw would most certainly be arrested; and, while she might be absolutely innocent, the fact that she was found in possession of the dead man's foot would be circumstantial evidence of such weighty character that, unless she were able satisfactorily to clear herself, she would undoubtedly be placed on her trial for the murder of the Colonel. On the other hand, I had to bear in mind that the detectives were making every effort to solve the mystery, and should it be discovered that I had concealed my knowledge of the girl's complicity in the crime (if such it were) I should very probably be charged with being "accessory after the fact."

Altogether my position was becoming as critical as it was unpleasant, and I spent a long time turning over the cons and pros of the matter; at one time thinking that I would see the Rector and give him a clear account of what had transpired, at another resolving to hold my counsel and await the development of events.

Of one thing I felt certain, Lucy Shaw knew, or at my rate guessed, where Joshua Wilkinson was to be found. Her object in bringing the dead foot to me was undoubtedly to obtain my help. This she had now got in the shape of a Ģ5 note, and she would at once probably put into execution any plan she might have formed.

Did she indeed intend to place the foot in Joshua's hands? If so, what was her object? Or would she get rid of the horrid object and then warn him that a price was already set on his head?

These questions could only be answered by Lucy herself.

"Yes," thought I, "I must see the girl again. Perhaps when she has thought the matter over she will be willing to give me more definite information."

I felt annoyed that she had escaped from me so easily, and attributed my present dilemma to my easy-going nature and want of astuteness. The only consolations that my reflections afforded were these. First, that no one would have suspected that a weaver lass, the daughter of the parish Sexton, would have had so much determination and spirit; and secondly, that I would not again allow Miss Lucy to escape until she had given me the information I required.

What use I might make of such information was another difficulty, which could not be decided off-hand. Hence it was in a very perplexed condition of mind that I started immediately after lunch for Tom o' Jack's cottage.

The crisp snow crunched under my feet as I made my way down the drive. In the roads there was by this time a fairly well trodden pathway, but elsewhere the snow still lay deep. Had it not been for the thoughts which filled my mind the walk in the keen air would have braced and invigorated me. But, as it was, I felt depressed and out of sorts—not to say out of temper; and I hurried along, my hands deep in the pockets of my overcoat. and my eyes fixed on the snowy ground, wondering what I should say to Lucy Shaw.

The authority which my position in the parish ensured was usually sufficient in my dealings with the parishioners. But I now instinctively felt that in the Sexton's daughter I had a character to deal with of very different calibre. Threats would produce no effect. At any rate they must be reserved until persuasion had failed.

At this point in my cogitations I entered the fir wood and my mind reverted to the night of November the twelfth and its terrors. All at once my attention was attracted by footprints leading from the trodden path away into the wood on my left. The marks were plainly those of a small foot There was no mistaking them, for the points of the soles of the clogs (universally worn in the neighbourhood) were clearly shown.

Now, on any other occasion I should have passed on without taking further notice of the footprints; but my mind had become full of suspicions, and it flashed upon me that possibly I had come across something that might prove to be a clue.

Immediately I left the path and followed the marks, taking care that they were not disturbed and obliterated by my own feet. They led away through the trees in a slanting direction down the hill, for the wood was situated as I have said, on the slope of the side of the valley. Winding in and out among the fir trunks, now stopping to avoid an overhanging branch, now plunging above my knees in some snow-filled hollow, I arrived presently at a deep depression or dell tolerably clear of trees—a place filled in the summer with sweet smelling blue-bells and innocent primroses. At the present time the ground would have presented a uniform sheet of white, except where the undergrowth and trees appeared—had it not been that at the very bottom of the basin there had been made, as I immediately perceived, a clearance of the snow. Making my way towards it I found that the earth had been recently disturbed. And there were stains on the snow around as though the soil had been thrown there-on and afterwards removed—probably to fill in a hole. Could this be the place where Lucy had found the foot I wondered? If so, who had placed it there? And was this connected with the strange behaviour of the mysterious man whom Joshua and I had met on the night of November the twelfth?

I had no tools to reopen the ground, so making my way back to the path, I descended to the Mill, from which all traces of the tragedy had long since disappeared, and thus made my way to Tom o' Jacks.

The old man was outside the house cutting up firewood.

"Ye've noan coom on a guid business, I reckon," he said, scanning my face.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"T' Squire of Scamden's face is like a clock, it tells folk t' time o' day," he said with a knowing sideways nod.

"Some folks faces is hard to read," he added, "and some's vary easy. This 'ere murder job 'll be too much for thee, Squire, if thou takes on so. Cheer up! t' longest warp 'll coom to an end."

"The end will be a mighty unpleasant one for somebody, Tom."

"Ay, t' truth ligs, may be, at t' bottom o' t' well," as Lucy read to me out of a book this week. "But," says she, "somebody'll bring it t' t' top afoor long."

"Is she at home," I asked, grasping at this opportunity to further the object of my visit.

The old man raised his head with a look of surprise. "Nay, Squire, thou's seen t' lass nabut this mornin'. She's off an hour sin."

"Off! Where?"

"To wheer Sir Charles sent her. Ye've seed t' the lass to-day," he repeated, scanning my face.

"Did she tell you no more?"

"She'd some very particular business to do for the Squire," she said, "I know no more. 'Appen ye can tell me," he added inquiringly.

"And when does she return?"

"Ye'll know that better'n I do," he returned.

I could get nothing further out of the Sexton, and I did not feel at liberty to impart to him any of the information I had obtained. It was clear to my mind that Lucy Shaw had quickly taken advantage of the means at her disposal, and had left home for the purpose of finding Joshua Wilkinson.

"Let me know immediately she returns," I said as I left him.

"Lucy 'll see to that quick enow if she's doin' aught for thee Squire," responded the old man, as he resumed his wood-chopping.

I returned home pondering his words.


CHAPTER XII.

THE BITER BIT

"THE plot thickens!" exclaimed Mr. Goode the same evening, when I had laid the details of this new development before him. For after turning matters over in my own mind I had decided that I could not alone bear the burden of this responsibility.

"What do you propose to do?" he continued.

"It is plain that you cannot remain inactive."

"But what can I do?"

The Rector was silent for a few moments. "I am sure that we must place all our information at the disposal of the police," he said at length, "but we can do that after our return."

"From where?" I asked in surprise.

"From a search for your cousin Jack Selwyn and his friend—whom you somewhat resemble, by the way," he added with a smile.

Now I was not surprised at his observation, for I had remarked to myself that except I had not so prominent a nose nor such long hair I was not unlike the tall stranger who had brought the body of Colonel Selwyn, alias Andrew Rawlings, to be buried. But then I could not by any means be certain that this man was identical with my cousin's Spanish friend, and so I told the Rector.

"We can only act on a theory at present to be sure," said he. "My wife's idea is that the mysterious mourner was no less a personage than this mysterious Don Alfonso Borio. But of course this remains to be proved. On yourself has fallen a great responsibility. Are you prepared to place everything at once and unreservedly in the hands of the police?"

"And betray poor Lucy Shaw?" I exclaimed.

"I fear it would almost amount to that," he replied quietly.

After discussing the affair in all its hearings, It was decided that I should start the next afternoon for London, and should endeavour to come across my cousin and his Spanish friend.

As a preliminary step I arranged that I should see Mrs. Jenks, the daughter of "the late" Andrew Rawlings, in order to ascertain the truth with regard to her father's death, if indeed he were not still alive; and, if possible, to interview her brother.

Though we agreed that after the Sexton's emphatic testimony it was quite certain that it was not he who had brought Colonel Selwyn's footless body for burial.

On my way to the station I stopped at Moorfield and informed Elsie of my proposed journey and its object.

"How very strange!" she exclaimed. "For I have just had this telegram from Jack." And she handed me the paper, on which I read the following:—

"Ask Sir Charles to come immediately. Important clue. Meet 10.48 at King's Cross.—Jack."

"What does this mean?" I asked.

"I suppose he must mean that he has found some clue to guide you in your attempts to find out how my father came by his death. You will go?" she added in an anxious tone.

I did not like to tell her of my suspicions, but I was much perplexed by this telegram. Was it a blind?—an attempt to throw us off the track? Or was Jack Selwyn really anxious to aid us? At any rate I was now saved all difficulties of search, and should soon know something. I little suspected what form my discovery would take, or what momentous issues hung upon my journey.

The punctuality of the trains of the Great Northern Railway is proverbial, but on this night so slippery were the rails with the driving sleet that it was considerably after 11 pm when we steamed into King's Cross Station.

I was a little curious to see whether Jack Selwyn would really appear, but there he was sure enough, and he grasped my hand with a cordiality that rather surprised me, and in a manner which seemed to be almost effusive in its warmth, as I stepped from the train.

"Awfully good of you to come? Felt sure you would though. Beastly day for a journey!" With these, and sundry stronger adjectives, which I need not repeat, he conducted me to a four-wheeler, and we were soon lumbering along through streets which looked dismal enough on such a night.

It was several times on the very tip of my tongue to inquire our destination. But whether my cousin's tongue had been loosened by an extra glass, or whether he were genuinely delighted that I had so speedily come to his assistance, I could not discover. Certainly, I never heard anyone talk so persistently as he did during the drive, and I was consequently unable to put to him any questions. Presently, catching a glimpse of water, I cried, "Why, we are crossing the Thames.

"Oh, yes," replied my companion, "it's all right!" and then he resumed his former remarks, which referred chiefly to the foresight he had shown in backing a certain horse, and the expectations he entertained concerning the performance of certain other equine speculations in which he had recently embarked.

Meanwhile we were plunging deeper and deeper into the dingy streets of what seemed to be a very unsavoury neighbourhood. As I glanced through the windows I saw groups of drunken men and slatternly women standing about the doors of the public-houses, some of whom eyed us suspiciously, as it seemed to me, as we drove past. I had never before been in the lower quarters of London, though I had heard of parts into which no respectable person could venture except at the risk of being robbed, and perhaps half-murdered, and I began to feel very uncomfortable.

"Oh, it's all right!" exclaimed my cousin, as for the first time he appeared to notice my uneasiness. "We shall soon be through this part—it's only a short cut. Bless you!" he continued, "these Jehus know every one of these shortcuts," and then he began to dilate on the extraordinary sagacity of the London cab-drivers, and again waxed so eloquent that I was forced to hold my peace and await the developments of events. I must confess that I had reason to be surprised at the loquacity of my companion, for he had never indulged in much conversation on the previous occasions when I had been in his company.

Presently the driver pulled up, and Jack Selwyn, hastily lowering the window, thrust out his head.

"Second turn to the right and first to the left," he said.

"There ain't any way through," growled the man.

"Keep on to the bottom of the street," replied my cousin, "it's the last door but one on the right."

As he applied his whip I thought I heard the man say something about its being "a queer spot," and turning to Jack Selwyn, who for a wonder was silent, I inquired whether we had far to go.

"We shall be there in less than five minutes," he returned, buttoning up his overcoat and thrusting his hand deep into a pocket. I had noticed that he had frequently felt in this pocket and once or twice I had caught the ring of metal—a clanking sound—as though the pocket contained some heavy metallic substance.

"Now, here we are," he exclaimed, as the cab flew up in an unusually dark place.

Jumping out after my companion I found that we were at the bottom of a dimly lighted street, which terminated in a cul-de-sac. The house before which we had alighted looked dilapidated and uncared for, and was flanked on either side by apparently untenanted buildings. The street lamp was some distance away, and it threw deep shadows over the broken pathway which led to the door, over which I stumbled as Gladstone bag in hand I followed my cousin.

He knocked five times—two slow heavy knocks, succeeded by three quick traps, and I wondered what it might mean. Presently came the sound of heavy footsteps in the passage, and a voice said: "Is that you, Jack?"

"Open the door, here's Sir Charles."

As the door opened I perceived that the passage or hall was in darkness, save for the dim reflection of some light which showed down the staircase. I could not make out the features of the man who had admitted us, and who stood back to allow us to pass into the hall.

Jack Selwyn entered first, his right hand still deep in the pocket of his overcoat. Perhaps I should not have seen this had it not made his movements a little awkward.

The door behind us was shut quietly by the person who had admitted us. Jack Selwyn now turned round towards me abruptly; at the same moment I felt my arms grasped from behind, and, before I could recover my balance, I was tripped up and laid on my back. This was the work of the individual behind me; but my cousin was not idle. Jumping violently and suddenly on my outstretched body he seized my hands, and before I knew what he intended to do he had affixed to my left wrist one manacle of a pair of handcuffs.

By this time I realised sufficient of the position of affairs to perceive that I had been entrapped, and that some foul play was intended. Grasping my last assailant by the throat I hurled him against the wall of the passage with all my might. Being a small lightly-built fellow he was easy to deal with, but not so the man who had thrown me down.

Grasping my head he tried to force it back as I struggled to rise, and forcing his fist into my windpipe till my eyes started from their sockets, he compelled me to release my hold of Jack Selwyn, who again immediately threw himself upon me, and endeavoured once more to secure my hands.

It was "now or never" with me. So forcing him back with my knee I swung the loose handcuff with all my might over my head in the direction of my other and unknown antagonist. The iron struck him with great force, for his hold relaxed and he sank down on the floor with a groan.

Leaping to my feet I made for the door. It was fastened, locked securely by a spring, and I could not move the bolt.

"If he escapes we are done for," cried my affectionate relative. Then the other one, whose features I could not distinguish in the gloom, rose to his feet, and the pair stood side by side in the narrow passage, completely blocking it, while I remained by the door like a deer at bay.

"What's the meaning of this treatment?" I gasped, as I stood ready for them should they make a rush. "Do you fellows want to murder me?"

"Are you willing, to yield?" asked the taller one. He spoke in a deep bass voice, and with a slightly foreign accent.

"Yield!" I exclaimed, "I came here as your guest, and on your business! What do you mean?"

"You shall soon know what we mean!" said Selwyn, and as he spoke they made a rush, and grasped me by the arms. I struggled with them madly and fought desperately, for I was engaged as well as frightened by this treatment.

We reeled about in the passage for some minutes till at length, catching my foot in a door-mat, I fell heavily to the floor, and in a second Jack Selwyn had snapped the remaining manacle on to my right wrist.

I was exhausted with the fight, and had little strength to hinder them from holding me down while they bound my legs together. In less than five minutes they had achieved their purpose and had risen to their feet, and were looking down upon me.

"Fetch a light!" said the tall man. "Let's see whether he's secure! I thought had broken my skull though!" he added, applying his hand to his head, which was bleeding.

When my cousin had gone for the light I addressed the man.

"I have done nothing to deserve such treatment," I said, "and have come at Selwyn's wish to aid him to discover the murderer of his—"

"Hold your tongue!" interrupted my guardian in a savage tone, as he kicked my shins with sufficient vigour to draw from me an exclamation of pain.

So I refrained from further remarks, and presently Jack Selwyn came down the stairs with a lighted candle.

"He's all right!" growled the tall man, as soon as they had examined the fastening round my legs. Indeed the rope was twisted so tight that I could feel my limbs swelling under the pressure. "Come on, Jack! Let's shift him!" he continued.

Wondering what the next move might be I watched the two as closely as the dim light of the common dip candle and the constrained position of my head would allow. The tall man made his way past me and stood at my head, while Jack Selwyn placed himself at my feet, and together they raised me—though with difficulty, for I weigh nearly thirteen stone. Thus they struggled down the passage, bumping me unceremoniously against the corners en route, until we arrived in a dark place which I took to be the back kitchen. But I could not be certain became the room was pitch dark, the candle having been left in the passage.

"Chuck him down!" cried my cousin, brutally, and with a swing they threw me on to the floor. Instinctively I raised my head, and it was well I did so, or my fall would certainly have stunned me. The floor was of brick, and felt cold and damp.

"He'll he safe enough here!" remarked Jack. "Let's have some supper first," and without another word they departed, shutting and locking the door behind them.

How long I lay there I cannot say. It seemed to me to be a very long time, but probably it was altogether not more than an hour. I was in great pain in my legs, and chilled to the bone with the coldness of the floor.

Turning over in my mind the reason for this attack, I could only come to the conclusion either that Jack Selwyn and his friend wished to frighten me, or that they really intended to inflict on me some bodily harm—though for what reason I could not imagine. Then there was the sound of footsteps, and presently the door was opened and a gleam of light shot into the room from a lamp carried by my cousin. He placed it on a dresser and turned to me. The light shone full on to the face of his companion, and for the first time I could see his features. There could be no doubt about it—he was the mysterious mourner.

The man must have heard the slight exclamation which escaped me as I recognised him, for he turned to his friend with a sardonic smile, which showed a set of long white teeth like wolf's fangs, though he was by no means an ugly man.

"Ah! he knows me, I see," he observed with a nod.

"You remember Mr. Andrew Rawlings's funeral, no doubt?" he remarked, bending down towards me.

I did not reply.

"I suppose we may as well tell him all—before he goes," he continued, with an inquiring look at his companion.

"Cannot do much harm that I can see," was the reply. "It will at any rate satisfy his mind that we have good reasons for dealing with him—and there—'dead men tell no tales.'"

"What do you intend to do?" I gasped. "Remember if you do me any real harm—"

But I was interrupted by the Spaniard.

"Look up there!" he said, as he pointed towards the ceiling. It was no difficult matter to look at the object towards which his finger was directed, for I was lying on my back, and I could very plainly see a large hook screwed into one of the joists, from which suspended a rope coiled up so that it was just within reach.

"Do you think it will bear your weight?" he asked.

"But you don't mean—!"

"Yes, I do. We are going to hang you!"

"And leave you to bury yourself safely afterwards," added Selwyn.

"But you will be hanged yourselves!" I exclaimed, hardly knowing, in my terror, what I said.

They looked at each other and smiled.

"We shall be far away upon the water before your body is disinterred," they observed.

The reference did not escape me. They alluded to the exhumation of the body of the supposed Andrew Rawlings. So here was I the victim of a cunning and diabolical plot, and the avowed object of it was that I might be quietly and deliberately murdered.

"But what have I done? Why should you inflict on me so terrible a death?" I groaned, feeling my head swim with the effect of the shock of this new and terrible revelation. In fact I was so stunned that for a few moments I hardly felt any pain in my legs, acute as it had now become.

What happened then I know not. Probably I fainted. All I can say is that on opening my eyes I found I was seated in a chair with a rope tied around my arms, and that my legs were unbound. In front of me were seated my captors calmly indulging in a pipe.

"So you have come round!" remarked Jack Selwyn, nodding towards me. "That's right, for we've a good deal to tell you before this little matter's settled."


CHAPTER XIII.

THE DUTCH CLOCK.

"NOW mate, fire away," He said, addressing the Spaniard.

"Water! give me some water, you wretches!" I gasped faintly, for I felt completely prostrated, and utterly unnerved by the treatment I had received.

They held a glass to my lips. I drank eagerly. It was water, plus something stronger; at any rate I felt wonderfully better in a few moments. Seeing this the tall dark man said:—

"Now, Sir Charles, we are going to tell you a few secrets, because—" and he glanced at my cousin—"we have no fear that you will ever reveal them."

He spoke in a quiet and indeed gentlemanly tone, and the slightly foreign accent did not prevent his accent from bring perfectly grammatical.

"Where am I? Why have you bought me here? Will a reward—a liberal one—tempt you to liberate me?" I ejaculated, straining at the rope which bound me to the chair.

"If you will kindly sit still your questions shall all be answered, Sir Charles," he replied with a wave of his hand. It was a large white hand, but I noticed one peculiarity, it had a "claret mark" about the size of half-a-crown on the back of it. He was evidently a person of extreme self-possession and self-reliance, and in spite of my dread of him there was something in his face and bearing which interested and impressed me.

"You have been wondering why we have seen fit to bring you here, Sir Charles," he continued, "and had it not been necessary for our own safety we should not have put you to this inconvenience," and he bowed towards me with another graceful wave of the hand.

"We met on a previous and very interesting occasion," he resumed, "when circumstances would not permit me to hold any conversation with you; but I did not fail to observe on that mournful evening how intensely interested you appeared to be in myself."

Here he bowed again with mock gravity.

"Go ahead," growled Jack Selwyn, "let's get the job finished."

"Patience, Mr. Selwyn, we have ample time, and part of our plan, you must remember, was that Sir Charles should be told all."

Then turning again to me the Spaniard continued:—

"It will be needful for me to take you back to the time when your father, the late Baronet, departed for the Went Indies—you remember that day, doubtless?"

"Yes, I remember the day distinctly," I said, wondering what he meant.

"And that he was accompanied by a faithful valet named Jenkins?"

I nodded, and Jack Selwyn laughed uproariously.

"Well, you must understand me," he went on, "that the good Baronet's decease was not only foreseen, it was—shall I say—a trifle accelerated?" and he looked at me meaningly.

"You don't mean that Jenkins murdered my father?" I exclaimed, horror-stricken at this revelation.

"Some persons might be inclined to call it by that ugly word," he added, "but Jenkins was only an assistant, and I had the honour of presiding at that funeral—as I did at that of Mr. Andrew Rawlings."

"You!" I cried.

"Yes, because as you will see, I was the person most interested in his death. And I well remember that the Reverend Padre—the Spanish priest—stared as fixedly at me while he read the service as you yourself did in Scamden churchyard.

"Our next step," he continued, "was to secure the removal of Colonel Selwyn of Moorfield. I should tell you that for some time previously we had been planning this. The 'accident,' therefore, was by no means unwelcome. What happened afterwards is well known to you."

Here Don Alfonso stretched forth the long bony fingers of his left hand, and enumerated the points which he desired to impress on me concerning Colonel Selwyn's death and burial.

From my very soul I felt an indescribable loathing of the man as he concluded his story. It was all plain enough to me now, and my suspicions had been proved to be correct. Strangely enough, too, my courage began to revive. I despised these cold-blooded heartless villains, and resolved that if I must die, I would die game.

"Have you anything to say?" asked Borio, after a few minutes silence. "Because in less than a quarter of an hour we must leave you," and he looked at his watch.

"I do not know what you intend to do with me," I said, "but I have one piece of information to give you—I have seen the foot."

I hardly know why I told them this, but the effect on them was immediately apparent.

They turned pale and looked at each other in amazement.

"Where did you see it?" they asked together.

"In my own home, Scamden Hall. It was brought to me."

"Brought to you! Who brought it?"

This I declined to tell them. Had I said too much? I dreaded the possible consequences to Lucy Shaw; and they were such desperate men, and now so deeply immersed in crime that I dare not say anything that might involve her.

"You will gain no object by your refusal; and it is very important that we should know by whom the foot was discovered," said Borio presently, with a menacing look.

But I was firmly resolved that nothing should compel me to betray the Sexton's daughter. "I shall give you no further information," I said, now regretting that I had mentioned the foot, "but I warn you that if you do me any bodily harm the law will avenge me."

"The law!" sneered my affectionate relative. "Ha! we shall soon be beyond its reach. As for yourself, you will soon be beyond its aid. Look here!" So saying he rose, and stepping across the room, opened the door of a cupboard. It was a large one, and being exactly opposite the lamp, I could plainly see its contents. First there was a sort of box strongly made, about a yard high. He dragged it out and placed it before me.

"Pretty article, isn't it," he remarked with his Satanic smile. "Well, allow me to explain! You see this?" and he pointed to a small hole near the bottom of the box. "See! I insert the rod,"—he took an iron rod about seven feet long from the cupboard, and fixed it to some arrangement within the hole. The other end projected till it almost touched the wall of the room, so that the point was exactly under an old-fashioned Dutch clock, which ticked away vigorously, and, as I noticed, now pointed to a quarter to one.

"Watch me!" he said, holding his foot over the end of the rod, gently pressing it towards the floor.

It needed but a slight touch, and suddenly the lid of the box collapsed, while at the same time the sides fell out, and the whole structure sank flat on to the floor.

"What do you think of it, eh?" inquired the Spaniard, with a cunning leer.

But I did not reply, for I was both too weary and too uneasy to enter further into conversation with them.

Borio looked at me meditatively for a few moments, and then beckoned his companions from the room. I heard them conversing in low tones in the passage. Presently they returned.

"We have decided to give you one chance for your life," said Borio, "and it is on condition that you tell me how you obtained sight of the foot."

"That I refuse to do," I replied; and I adhered to my determination in spite of their united threats and persuasions, till at length they desisted.

"It's time we were off," said Jack Selwyn, at length, "and since we can do nothing with this stubborn mule we may as well do the job and be gone."

An hour earlier I should have been overcome with horror at the thought of death; but their words as I have said aroused both my indignation and courage. If I must die it should be as a brave man. I glanced round the gloomy little room. There was no means of escape; besides I was firmly secured to the chair. True, there was a small window which faced, so I supposed, the kitchen of the next house—an empty one. I might escape by that way if only I could get free of my bonds. But what could I do with handcuffed wrists and rope-bound arms?

"The finale of this interesting drama is now about to commence, Sir Charles!" said Borio, with another of his bows. As he spoke he began to loosen the rope which bound me to the chair.

"What do you intend to do?" I said.

"I intend to blow out your brains,—unless you obey me," he replied, taking a revolver from his pocket, and holding the muzzle close to my head.

As it was plain that resistance on my part would be useless, I had no course but to submit to whatever treatment they may choose to inflict.

* * * * *

IT was about four o'clock in the afternoon, as near as I could guess, and the light of the winter's day was rapidly fading outside the window of the little back kitchen. My head reeled so that I could hardly balance myself on the box-like structure which stood in the middle of the floor. But move I dare not, for my neck was encircled by a hempen line which only allowed the most scanty amount of play, while a fall from the little platform on which I had been placed might mean instant death, either by strangulation or by dislocation of the neck. Unless help came to me very soon I must fall.

Yet I felt thankful for this respite, a respite as wonderful as it was unexpected, for the clock had stopped!

How it came about I will now relate. I can vouch for the fact that the stopping of that old Dutch clock was my salvation, and as I write now I can only affirm that I believe a Divine Providence directly interposed on my behalf.

Not without a struggle did I submit to the purpose of Jack Selwyn and Don Alfonso Borio to place me on the wooden erection. But while they were fresh and free, I was jaded and bound. It was about two o'clock in the morning—I remember how anxiously I fixed my eyes on the clock—(you may see it there ticking away in the corner, as if conscious that it saved my life on that memorable night), when they stood before me viewing their handiwork.

"Will it do?" inquired Borio, turning to his companion in crime.

"Capital!" replied the other, "and the best of it is that he has only to stop the clock and nothing will happen," he added with a grin.

I understood his meaning. The iron weight of the clock was descending exactly over the iron rod—a slight touch and the spring under my feet would fly back, the structure would collapse, and I should be left suspended by the neck, and then—

In imagination I anticipated that moment till I could feel the suffocating pressure of the rope, and gasped as I did so.

Having satisfied themselves that their diabolical machinery was in working order, Borio stood before me and addressed me as follows:—

"Sir Charles Selwyn, before we part I have to inform you that you are indebted to no stranger for these delicate attentions. Look carefully at me. Do I resemble any person you have known?"

He paused and looked steadily into my face. Whether my mental perception had become sharpened by the nervous attention, or whether it were that I had a clearer view of his features than before, but certainly I felt that he reminded me of someone I had known long before.

"You are—you are—"

"Your long lost elder brother," he said with another profound bow. And then, raising his head, he looked again into my face. I could see now in him a likeness to my late father, and yet this Spaniard—how could he be my brother?

He read what was passing in my mind.

"You think that I am a Spaniard," he said, "And if a life spent in the West Indies could make me one, such I should now be. But it is none the less true that I am your brother."

I then implored him by the mother that bore us, to reflect on the awfulness of the crime he and his cousin were about to commit. But when I mentioned my mother he laughed.

"I see you do not know everything, Sir Charles Selwyn," he observed, "I would inform you more fully had I time, but though it is hard you should be deprived of your long lost relative, I must tear myself away. Adios!"

"We have gone too far, you see," put in Jack Selwyn, "besides, who is to prove you have not committed suicide? Information will be placed in the hands of the police in two days that you and the man Wilkinson murdered the guv'nor. Oh, it's all arranged. You will have committed suicide, and the circumstantial evidence against Wilkinson will hang him," and here he gave one of his loud coarse laughs.

They stood for a moment at the door of the room.

"The weight will be down in an hour and a half," said my cousin.

The other did not speak, but I could not see any sign in his face that he relented. They went out and shut the door, and I heard them moving about the house for a time. Then the front door was closed gently and all was still.

For an hour and a quarter I watched the Dutch clock. To reach it was impossible, for my arms were tightly bound around the elbows, and my wrists locked in the handcuffs. A stout cord was twisted about my ankles, and the hempen rope around my neck was so tight that I could not bear to move my head. Visions of home, of my mother, of the happy days of childhood, passed through my mind. Then I thought of Elsie Selwyn, and the good Rector, and of Dame Wilkinson.

I wondered whether Joshua Wilkinson would be hanged for the murder of the Colonel, and I had a curious morbid wonderment as to the sensation that would be caused in the Scamden Valley as soon as the news of my "suicide" became known.

I tried to pray, and I hope I succeeded, but my eyes continually turned towards the clock and its deadly weight, and I had a sickening feeling of dread as I watched the piece of lead creeping slowly but surely down the wall with each swing of the pendulum. At length it must, as I said, have been about an hour and a half after the departure of my murderers that is to say it was exactly twenty minutes to four I heard a slight tap. It was so slight that had not my every sense been strained to the uttermost, I should not have heard it. I knew in an instant what had happened—

The weight had touched the rod.

Closing my eyes, I commended my soul to God, and braced myself for that awful swing and the final struggle. The moments crept on, and I counted the ticks of the clock as they beat out the last seconds of my life.

Tick—Tick—Tick—Tick—

Every instant, as I well knew, the weight was pressing more and more firmly on the rod.

Tick—Tick—Tick—Tick—but each tick sounded fainter than the preceding one.

I held my breath, feeling faint and sick with the anticipation of the sudden failure of my frail platform.

Tick—tick—

* * * * *

Slowly and wonderingly my eyes opened. What was the meaning of this strange delay? Surely the weight was pressing full upon the rod! I turned my head and looked at the Dutch clock. It had stopped!

Only those who have been reprieved after suffering the inexpressible agonies of the condemned can realise what I felt at that moment. The revulsion of feeling was such that forgetting my dangerous position I almost precipitated myself from the platform.

My first feeling was one of profound thankfulness, my next one of intense anxiety. I had been saved from immediate death only to linger on in the misery of hunger and thirst, at last to sink forward exhausted; when the rope would speedily terminate my sufferings.

And so the horrible night dragged away until in the grey dawn I began to hear the distant sounds that told me the world was arousing itself.

With these hope revived, and I shouted for help till the walls of my prison rang again. But no one replied, the empty houses, on either side precluding any chance of help from neighbours.

The hours passed and were marked for me by the bell of a distant church clock. At first I hoped for some visitor and bore up bravely, expecting to hear footsteps, struggling from time to time, but unsuccessfully, to free my arms. How horribly tight the cords had become, and the rope around my neck so compressed the veins of my neck that my brain felt as though it would burst.

One o'clock—two o'clock—three o'clock. The room began to darken and exhausted in mind and body I could only just balance myself on the frail support, so that, when the distant chimes announced the hour of four, exhausted nature could no longer bear the strain, and I firmly believed that another quarter of an hour would have ended my sufferings and my life together. I felt myself swaying to and fro, and was only kept on my feet by the line around my neck, which was not long enough to allow me to swing clear of the stage.

All at once my attention was arrested by a sound. With a great effort I steadied myself and listened attentively. Then I heard a distinct tap. At the same time a shadow was cast on the wall.

There was someone at the window, but such a confusing mist floated before my eyes that I was unable to discern the person's features.

"Help me! Help me!" I moaned, in a tone which frightened me by reason of its feebleness.

A voice replied; then came a blank.

* * * * *

"AY, Squire, but they've vary near done for thee, the villains!"

Such were the first words I heard as I opened my eyes, and met the gaze of Lucy Shaw, who was bending over me with an expression of intense anxiety.

"Where am I?" I inquired. "How came I here?"

"I'm noan able to tell thee, Squire," replied my deliverer, "because I doan't know t' name of this place, na moor nor I know ow thou come here. But it wor a vary guid job I found thee, for I believe thou'd a bin choked i' five minutes."

Being quite unable to talk, I lay still on the low couch on which I found myself, while she told me her story.

Immediately on her return home, on the morning of the day when she had shown me Colonel Selwyn's foot, she had departed to search for Joshua Wilkinson; for terror possessed her that he would be arrested on suspicion of having murdered the Colonel. Learning at the station that he had booked for King's Cross, she came thither by the next train, and en route determined to make at once for the house of Mrs. Jenks, the married daughter of the supposed dead man, Andrew Rawlings. There she not only found Joshua, but also Andrew Rawlings himself, alive and well, and very indignant at the treatment which his supposed dead body had received.

"They might a' had a decent hearse!" he ejaculated, with a decided shake of his head. This sentence he repeated whenever the matter was referred to, said Lucy. It seemed to be a sore point with the old man.

"Joshua thought as 'ow ye'd coom to look for 'im. But I know'd better," she added. "I felt sure 'at ye'd coom after t' foot o' t' Colonel's."

Accordingly she had made her way to King's Cross station (for it was considered advisable that Joshua should remain in hiding) and had ascertained that one answering to my description had been seen among those who had arrived the previous night by the last train, and, that I had driven away in a cab with a friend. Having learnt the number of the vehicle she had traced me to this house, with the happy result of saving me from an awful death.

"T' driver is waitin'" she said, "an' i' thou feels fit, I reckon it'll be better for thee to git oot o' this place."


CHAPTER XIV.

IN WHICH SOME OF THE THREADS BEGIN TO UNRAVEL

[The story continued from notes made by Mr. Strafford.]

DECEMBER —th

The arrest of Joshua Wilkinson, though by no means unexpected, has been a great blow to those who firmly believe in his innocence that is to say to every inhabitant of the Scamden Valley.

Many of them have known him from his youth. To those who have watched his every action, knowing almost his daily thoughts, it is simply incredible that he can have murdered Colonel Selwyn.

On the other hand appearances are certainly against him. He had been frequently heard to say severe and even bitter things against Colonel Selwyn. It is known that the Wilkinson family suffered more than any other in the valley by the failure of the Mill. The withdrawal of the sum of fifty pounds, and the hurried departure for London went against him as did the fact that he left no address, and was arrested after much trouble on the part of the detective police. But worst of all has been the discovery of the amputated foot of the late Colonel. It was disinterred from the back yard of Jenks' house in Bloomsbury—a circumstance which has led to the further arrest of Andrew Rawlings, with Mr. and Mrs. Jenks, his daughter and son-in-law.

The situation is further complicated by the disappearance of two persons who ought to be here to give evidence at the trial. I speak of Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw.

Were it not that Sir Charles has hitherto borne an unblemished character, I should say that his conduct in absconding in company with this girl (for I can only conclude that they have gone away together), is to say the least, highly reprehensible.

It is well known that Lucy Shaw was formerly engaged to be married to Joshua Wilkinson in fact they have kept company for several years. The Sexton informs me that for some reason unknown to him, this engagement has been broken off by the girl, and that Wilkinson himself was unsuccessful in discovering the reason for this breach though he attributed it to misconduct on the part of Colonel Selwyn, or perhaps more correctly of his son—a young man for whose character and general demeanour I have, personally, the most profound contempt.

[For further particulars the reader is referred to the narrative of Joshua Wilkinson, as delivered to Mr. Strafford.]

THERE is further the fact, which I have ascertained from the butler at Scamden Hall, that the said Lucy Shaw paid a visit to Sir Charles, and was on a certain morning closeted with him in the library for a considerable time, that she left the house in great haste, Sir Charles following her as far as the front door, and even watching her with close attention as she went down the drive.

The Sexton tells me—and I have been at much pains to ascertain these details—that Sir Charles paid a visit to his cottage the same day, and ascertained that Lucy had left home, though her whereabouts was unknown to the old man.

The next day Sir Charles left Scamden Hall. The clerk at the railway booking-office believes that he took a first-class ticket for King's Cross by the evening train, but he cannot be sure about this. From that day nothing has been heard of Sir Charles.

With regard to Lucy Shaw the police found a slight trace. She had been at the Jenk's house in London they said, and was in search of Sir Charles Selwyn. Joshua Wilkinson, who is now in prison, refuses to say anything about the girl.

I believe that in his heart he is loyal to her, though it is plain that he thinks she has been unfaithful. But the curious fact remains that while he attributes her defection from the path of virtue (if such it be) to the late Colonel or to his son, the girl apparently has gone off with Sir Charles Selwyn, of all men the most unlikely.

Meanwhile the police are prosecuting their inquiries, and I am daily expecting to hear more from them. The chief of the detective department informs me that after Wilkinson has been brought before the magistrates, some time must elapse before the case can be proceeded with, as there are so many points on which they lack evidence at the present time.

Dec. —I have this morning had a conversation with Mr. Goode our esteemed Rector. What he has told me increases the mystery which surrounds the death of Colonel Selwyn and the subsequent events. He has given me a very full account of recent conversations with Sir Charles (who as I am given to understand, was formerly his pupil). It is plain that in the most straight-forward way possible Sir Charles related to him everything. But he told me that owing to a promise which he had made at the time he was unable to give me any account of what had passed between them on the occasion of this last conversation.

I am surprised at this, and did I not know the Rector to be a man of unimpeachable honour, I should have feared—dreaded, I might almost say—that there was some collusion between them. He told me that he knew Sir Charles had gone to London, and that his chief object was to find Joshua Wilkinson.

He admitted, however, that Sir Charles had another object in view, but said that his tongue was tied concerning the matter. Mr. Goode has manifestly a perfect right to retain this knowledge, in fact he would be wrong to disclose it, unless, and this is a very important point, the information which he has received of Sir Charles is of a criminal character. The only case in which a priest of the church may retain such information, even refusing to disclose it when the matter is the subject of a judicial inquiry, is when it has been confided to him as a privileged communication by virtue of his sacred office.

In the present instance Mr. Goode makes no such claim, and I am bound to conclude from his words to me that any disclosure made by Sir Charles (if disclosure there be) was made in the course of ordinary conversation, and if so it is the more remarkable that Sir Charles should have wished it to have been kept secret.

December 19th.—from a conversation I have had this morning with Inspector Hoile, of the Detective Department, it is plain that matters are looking very serious for Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw, as well as for the prisoner, Joshua Wilkinson. The latter refuses to commit himself in any way beyond saying that he knows for a fact that the two others are innocent. Does he say this because he knows that he alone is guilty? On the other hand, the circumstantial evidence which is accumulating in the hands of the police is menacingly damning.

They tell me that more would have come out had the tragedy of the Colonel's death been enacted in any other part of the country, but that the people of the West Riding of Yorkshire, being naturally so secretive and given to mind their own business are especially reticent concerning a matter of such moment as this.

The new facts which the police have discovered in spite of the unwillingness of the people of the district to afford information—are as follows:—

Sir Charles is known to have been in Wilkinson's company on the night of Colonel Selwyn's death and it is not a little remarkable that the two men have been in company at the Mill after dark.

It has been further discovered that Lucy Shaw was in the mill the same evening and returned home at a late hour.

This places the circumstantial evidence against Sir Charles and Lucy Shaw in a very serious light. Then the fact must be faced that instead of staying to face the consequences of their actions—presuming them to be innocent—two of those concerned in this serious affair have deliberately absconded—whither is not known. After the most patient inquiries and minutest investigations the police can discover nothing of their whereabouts—though it is suspected that they are concealed in London.

December —. The first magisterial examination of Williamson took place to-day. No evidence beyond the facts which I have already related was adduced. Andrew Rawlings and his daughter, Mrs. Jenks and her husband, were not included in this prosecution, but were brought forward by the police as witnesses. They, however, added nothing material to what was previously known, and it is plain that they had no knowledge of the murder till long after it took place, nor did they know what had become of Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw. The latter, they said, had truly come to their house in Bloomsbury, unexpectedly, while Joshua was staying there. The two had several times walked and talked in the yard, or little back garden behind the house; and had, they said come to words—at least, so they suspected, on the last occasion, for the girl had returned with a heated face, and straightway had left the house. Whither she went they knew not.

The police advanced that they had discovered that Lucy Shaw had visited King's Cross Station, where she found that Sir Charles Selwyn had arrived in London. They traced the four-wheeler (in which he was said to have been driven in company with an unknown friend, who met him at the station), to a house in a back street in South London.

The house was uninhabited, but they found a rope suspended from a hook on the ceiling of the kitchen; a curious collapsible box, a Dutch clock; some scanty furniture and crockery and the remains of a meal.

There were indications in the narrow hall they said, that a struggle had taken place there, and marks of blood on the walls and floor made them conclude that some person had been wounded there.

Beyond this point the police had not yet been able to proceed; but they have great hopes that they will be shortly able to lay their hands both on Sir Charles and on Lucy Shaw, for they have come to the conclusion that the two are confederates.

The magistrates, not being satisfied with the evidence before them, remanded the prisoner for future inquiries, and the police hope that in the one time they will be able to lay hands on the other guilty parties.

I can only add that although my profession has made me tolerably well acquainted with human nature, I am as sincerely grieved as I am amazed at the extraordinary developments which have succeeded Colonel Selwyn s terrible death.

That one apparently so lovable and warm-hearted as Sir Charles Selwyn should have entangled himself with the Sexton's pretty daughter to my own mind merely emphasises the frailty of human nature, but that the same ingenuous and upright young man should have been led to have committed such a terrible crime as that of murdering his uncle, and this obviously because the Mill had been left by the terms of his father's will to the said uncle, passes my comprehension, and is altogether outside the bounds of my professional experience.

[The Narrative of Mrs. Goode.]

I HAVE long felt that the position of Rector's wife is one of great importance. What would become of the Church of England if it were not for the wives of the clergy!

I know it is a custom in some quarters to make fun of us, and at Church Congresses and the like to indulge in cheap sneers at the "Lady-shepherd" the "Bishopess" and the like; but these things will never hinder me from taking an active part and interest in things parochial, diocesan, and general.

Ah! What would have come of affairs in this parish of Scamden during the last few weeks I dare not venture to say had not only worthy husband possessed a wife who, to quote a vulgar expression, "keeps cool." For this murder (if murder it be, which I very much doubt) seems to have greatly upset Theophilus. So much so that after a conversation on the subject which a few days ago he had with Mrs. Strafford, he was completely unnerved.

An hour ago he informed me that Sir Charles Selwyn is wanted for the murder of his uncle! Preposterous nonsense! a young man whom I know as intimately as though he were my own son! There I can see his manly face and his eyes looking affectionately and reproachfully into my face as I write these words.

Murder! I would as soon believe that Theophilus himself had done it! And then that he has been "carrying on" with that girl Lucy Shaw—I'll never believe it!

Besides if he had been doing this, I should certainly have heard of it, for somehow things will come to my ears. No! the suggestion that he has eloped with Lucy Shaw is as completely absurd, to my mind, as that he has murdered the Colonel.

But then, what has become of them? asks Theophilus. Ah! that is just the question which I shall set myself to solve. Theophilus remarks that I am more talkative than usual, but that is my way when I am thinking deeply. I am engaged on a problem—the problem of this double disappearance.

To my own mind it is far more mysterious than the death of Colonel Selwyn—that was probably an accident (and, be it whispered, a blessing in disguise), but the complete disappearance of those young people, has, so far, baffled me; and I may add that I have spent many hours in turning over in my mind everything that might lead to a solution of the matter. The Police! what can they know about such things? They are but men! Simple matter-of-fact, see-as-far-as-the-end-of-your-nose men! What can the police know of the inner motives which have brought about this state of affairs?

"Motives! that is what we want—what have been the motives which have taken Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw simultaneously away from the place? what are the motives which keep them away at a time of such crises? These are questions which ought to be answered. They shall be answered by me, Matilda Goode."

[Added from the Diary of Mr. Strafford.]

DECEMBER —. I have today had a visit from Mrs. Goode. She is certainly a very remarkable woman—a woman I should say, of more than ordinary insight and penetration as well as great energy and determination. Still I do not see how she can do what the police have failed, so far, to accomplish. It is all very well for her to talk about woman's "intuitive perception" and of the "physiological reasons" for the doings of Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw; but for my part I shall continue to put my trust in these matters in such men as Inspectors Megworthy and Hoile, whose whole life has been spent in criminal investigation.

There was one remark, however, which was made by Mrs. Goode, which showed that she had shrewd insight into character, and especially into that of her friend, Sir Charles Selwyn.

"What we want to get at," said she, emphasising her words with her finger, "is the motive—I repeat the motive—which induced Sir Charles first to connect himself with this girl Lucy Shaw, and secondly to commit this crime. Mind you," she added, "I am convinced that he is innocent of both offences; but if you hold that I am mistaken, you must acknowledge that he had some reason both for the murder of his uncle and for this strange elopement."

I assented. "People do not commit such crimes for no reason or purpose," I observed.

"Exactly Even I—a woman—can see that; how much more clear must it be to a lawyer," she added with a smile.

"Well," continued the astute lady, "we have now to get at this motive. At the very outset we are confronted by the difficulty that Sir Charles had nothing to gain by the deed."

"The Mill might have come to him," I suggested.

"True; but by the Colonel's death, the Mill goes to his heir, the young scapegrace, Jack Selwyn. Surely you would not maintain that Sir Charles committed this deed for the sake of his cousin?"

I assured her that it was plain to me that such could not have been Sir Charles's motive.

"But on the other hand may it not have been for the gratification of some feeling of anger—some desire for revenge—against the Colonel?" I suggested.

At this Mrs. Goode drew herself up.

"Did ever you know Sir Charles indulge in such feelings?" said she.

"But his friend and foster-brother, the man Wilkinson, he has been heard repeatedly to utter threats against the late Colonel," I remarked. "Is it not possible Sir Charles may have been induced to aid him in this terribly distressing affair?"

"But the motive, the motive!" again urged Mrs. Goode. "Men do not commit murder for a feeling of friendliness for others. Such a crime can only be the fruit of selfishness. It springs from anger, greed, or the spirit of revenge. None of these can be attributed to Sir Charles."

I felt that she was right.

"But the girl, Lucy Shaw?" I said.

"Ah, there you touch upon a problem more difficult to solve. Men of high position have done extraordinary things for the sake of a pretty woman—and there is no denying Lucy Shaw's remarkable beauty."

"Then you fear—?"

"No, I fear nothing. I believe Sir Charles to be incapable of anything mean, dishonourable, or deliberately wicked," said Mrs. Goode. "Still I admit that with regard to this young woman, things have a suspicious appearance, and I am determined that this portion of the affair at least shall be cleared up."

I parted from Mrs. Goode with the conviction that she fully meant what she said, and that if there was any person capable of unravelling these knots it was herself.

For my own part I may add that I am still in a state of grave anxiety and perplexity, being wishful that the police should lay hands on the runaways and that justice should be done; and at the same time being fearful lest evidence should be such as to leave the trio of conspirators (for such I fear they are) no loophole of escape.


CHAPTER XV.

DON ALPHONSO BORIO AND JACK SELWYN MAKE THEIR ESCAPE.

[The story continued by Don Alfonso Borio.]

I HAVE sometimes wondered what it can be in me which produces a sensation of pleasure when I know that others than myself endure pain. Have I inherited this from my forefathers? Or is it something new and peculiar to myself? Be that as it may, I here candidly confess that I felt no compunction in affixing the rope about the neck of my new found brother, and had time permitted (why on earth did I not remain till the end?) I should have sat before him when the box collapsed, and, with a smile, have watched the contortions of his face and body as he swung to and fro in his death agonies.

If it be asked why we did not give him the "happy despatch" then and there, I may reply that Jack Selwyn—bloodthirsty animal that he is—was for shooting him; or, if the report of the revolver shot were likely to be overheard, for cutting his throat. There was certainly danger in the former way of disposing of our friend; the shot might be heard outside, and we might be caught red-handed. As for the latter course, it was so butchery, and such an ungentlemanly, low, coarse method of doing the necessary business, that I vetoed it as soon as Jack Selwyn made the suggestion. For I must confess that I am partial to gentlemanly methods in such matters; and murder, to my mind, ought by this time to be performed as an art, and, where time and circumstances permit, with refinement.

Then, again, hanging would lead to a suspicion of suicide, the more especially as I am anxious that Sir Charles shall be the suspected man.

I said as much, both to Jack Selwyn and to that wretched Jenkins—curse the man! While the former, as I have said, was for throat-cutting, the latter inclined toward the shooting method; and because I would not hear of it, as being too risky, went off with a muttered threat, which threat was the chief cause of our hasty departure after we had strung up Sir Charles. For Jenkins, I regret to say, was never a very trustworthy accomplice, and always made sure of his own skin, though his treachery eventually cost him dear, as I shall have to relate later. As soon as we had "fixed up" Sir Charles (after all I may as well give him the "Sir" now, for he will soon be entitled to it), Jack Selwyn and I proceeded to carry out our plans.

These, you may be sure, we had most carefully laid; for after similar experiences in the West Indies—in one of which, by the way, I was nearly caught napping (I speak of the disposal of the former Squire of Scamden, Sir George Selwyn)—it would not do to run any risks. Jack Selwyn is rather a slapdash fellow, at one time as timid and as cowardly as a hare, at another time madder than even that proverbial quadruped in the month of March.

I could see most plainly when we planned the business that much would depend on the most careful preparation, and that the scheme could not be safely carried out unless J.S. obeyed me implicitly in every particular.

Sometimes I laugh until I can hardly sit on the hard stool in the prison cell where I write these words, as I realise what an unmitigated fool is the said Jack Selwyn. Why he should have killed his father in such a stupid and vulgar, not to say, dangerous way, when he might have put him aside in a quiet and gentlemanly manner, passed my comprehension. But then the Spaniards among whom (thank heaven!) I have been brought up, certainly do know how to manage such matters with a refinement and delicacy of touch unknown to the befogged inhabitants of the British Isles.

Of course it may be objected that the Colonel's death was the result of an accident, but I am sure that Jack Selwyn would have killed him if he could do so without risk to his own neck. Besides, who is to prove that it was not intentional?

But this is a digression.

As I was saying, our plans were most carefully laid. First we had taken the house in Blundel-street under assumed names. Then, as soon as Sir Charles was fixed, we put on disguises, and took care that not even he should see them. There never were more elaborate or more effective disguises. My long hair was cut off and burnt in the grate. Then I shaved in the English fashion (making myself, I vow, not unlike Sir Charles himself). A change of clothes completed my outfit. I had arranged that Selwyn should be habited in semi-livery in the character of a valet accompanying his master to the West Indies. His face, like my own, had been carefully lined and painted so that his own pretty sister—of whom I have a most agreeable recollection—would hardly have recognised him. Not that I announced this as our destination. No, I knew that as soon as Sir Charles' body was discovered those wretched English bloodhounds, the detectives, would be in full cry, so I arranged to go to the West Indies via the south of France—probably from Marseilles.

A long way round, you say? Well, I admit that, had I considered that it would be better than the direct route, which in our case would probably prove to be a short cut to the gallows.

Yes, I agree that it is not pleasant to use such plain terms, but then you see one has to look facts in the face. And there is no doubt that I at least had long ago qualified myself for that elevated position.

But you will be asking "gentle reader" (I believe this is the usual and correct expression), why I should be thinking of going back to the West Indies, if it be true that I was there instrumental in putting aside Sir George Selwyn, the former squire of Scamden.

My reply is that there are few places in the wide world which at the present time are so secure from the presence of the aforementioned detective bloodhounds as are some of the Spanish Islands of the West Indies. The inhabitants, as I can vouch, are wild and uncivilised in the extreme. They obey no laws, and they carry on practices which in civilised countries are considered barbarous. I know of an island, the interior of which has never been trodden by the foot of civilised man, where the inhabitants are addicted to the polite arts of murder and cannibalism. They are a ruled, so far as such people can be ruled, by a few Spanish desperadoes, and their trade is piracy, wrecking, and general thieving.

I cannot say that I was particularly anxious to place myself among such company; but "necessity knows no law," as you English say, and the island offered a prospect of security such as I could not hope to find elsewhere.

My plan for our escape was this: to cross the English Channel and to make our way, by rail, for the port of Marseilles, where I hoped to find a steamer (or failing that a sailing vessel), by means of which we could be conveyed to the French island of Martinique, from whence I had no doubt we could reach the small Spanish island I had in my mind.

So long as we were on English or even on French soil, there was I knew great risk that we should be arrested. But I was not prepared for what took place on the boat before we left the Dover pier.

To minimise risk as much as possible we determined that we would not go to Dover by the usual "boat express."

"There is a coast line via Sandwich and Deal," suggested Jack Selwyn.

"The very thing," I replied, "as it will enable us to go by another train. The bloodhounds if they are on the scent are sure to be watching the Dover train."

We were driving into the station yard at Charing Cross in time for the early train when Jack Selwyn clutched my arm.

"Look there!" he whispered.

A man was walking up and down on the pavement before the main entrance to the station.

"Don't you know him?" said Jack, as the driver slackened speed.

"No."

He put his mouth close to my ear.

"It's Inspector Hoile, of the Halifax Detective Department."

"Do you know him well?"

The driver was pulling up now. "Yes."

"Then jump out boldly and walk past him. But don't take the smallest notice of the man."

Now, though I was sure that no one would recognise Jack Selwyn in his new guise I must confess that I felt horribly nervous as we got out of the cab and paid the driver.

"Call a porter," I said in a low tone, addressing Jack in the character of my valet.

As he touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger I noticed that the detective was watching us closely.

There's nothing like putting a bold face on the matter, so walking up to the man I said:

"You are the stationmaster, I believe? Will you please inform me when the early train leaves for Margate?"

As I spoke I saw a gleam of intelligence in the man's eye, as though he expected I was not exactly what I seemed to be. But he acted the railway official to perfection.

"The Margate express left two minutes ago," he said. "But there is a slow train in half an hour."

"Won't do," I replied. "Take too long—shall try the London, Chatham, and Dover line.

"Here, John," I said, turning to Jack Selwyn, "put these things in again.

"Victoria!" I said, speaking to the driver.

Jumping in, we rattle through the flock of pigeons and out of the yard.

My eyes, however, were not on the pigeons, but were closely watching Inspector Hoile through the small window at the back of the cab. He walked quickly towards a hansom, then hesitated, and finally as we turned the corner into the Strand, I caught sight of him as he resumed his sentry walk before the main entrance to the station.

Turning to Jack Selwyn, I saw that he was white with fear. "A narrow squeak, old cock." I remarked. "I thought that your friend was about to follow us, but he has seemingly thought better of it."

Arriving at Victoria Station, I took two tickets to Dover.

"Stop!" I said, after we had left the booking office, "we'll dodge them!" and I sent my valet for two tickets for Canterbury.

"A little more expensive, but a good deal more safety," I remarked.

"What do you mean?" said J.S. in a surly time. "It looks to me like a wanton waste of money."

"Which is better than risking one's precious neck," I added, as we reached a quiet corner of the platform. "Don't you see, you fool that if they inquire after or follow us we shall be able to mystify them completely. All we have to do is to get out at Canterbury, drive to the South-eastern station, re-book for Dover, and thus throw the cleverest detective off the scent."

This is exactly what we did, arriving in Dover just in time for the morning boat. I was just congratulating myself that all was safe, and had settled down to enjoy a cigar, when Jack came up to me with a troubled look and whispered, "There's something wrong!"

"What do you mean?"

"Be careful how you turn round, but when you do look at a man who is sitting at the end of the first bench—there, on your right."

"Yes, I see him."

"Well, he is a detective from Yorkshire—another one."

"How do you know him?"

"I have seen him in Halifax more than once."

"Since the accident?"

"Yes, I know him well by sight, though I doubt if he knows me. I saw him the day we came to town—the day after the funeral, you know."

This was alarming, and, to make matters worse, the man presently crossed over to our side of the deck and addressed us. At first his conversation was of the sea and the prospect of a calm passage. He then began to speak of England, and asked us if we know the north—Yorkshire especially.

Upon our saying that we had not any acquaintance with Yorkshire, he turned rather sharply to Jack Selwyn and said:

"But you speak with somewhat of a Yorkshire accent?"

"Oh!" I said, "yes, my servant has lived with a Yorkshire family," coming back to Jack's rescue.

"Ah, then you may know some in whom I am interested," continued the man, "the Selwyn's, of Scamden."

I noticed that Jack Selwyn went very pale as the detective spoke.

"What! seasick already, John!" I cried, "you had better keep near the side of the boat," and I motioned with my hand towards a convenient spot where he could stand.

"He is not so used to the sea as his master," I added, addressing the stranger.

He told me that he was a commercial traveller, engaged in the Continental trade, and that his name was Megworthy. Of course I knew that the commercial portion of his tale was all "flum," but I humoured the fellow, for I was wishful to find out his little game. It was some time before he showed his hand, and even then I was not sure that he was not playing with me. I think an observer would have been interested had he watched, and listened to our conversation. Incidentally I mentioned that we were on our way to Paris.

"Ah, then, we can travel together. I hate travelling alone," exclaimed my friend in a pleased tone.

"By all means, I should like nothing better," I replied, secretly resolving to take the first opportunity to give the man the slip.

But there was no chance of this at Calais, for Mr. Megworthy stuck to us like a leech. He tried repeatedly to get into conversation with Jack Selwyn, but that worthy had enough wit to feign illness.

"The fag end of his seasickness," I remarked.

But I have a notion that Megworthy saw through it, and that he knew well enough that Jack Selwyn was perfectly free from any tendency to mal-de-mer.

I was bound, however, to keep up the deception, not that I could understand the man's tactics, for though it seemed impossible that he could be in pursuit of ourselves, he appeared to be strangely suspicious of our movements, and while he chatted away in a most friendly manner I could see that his gaze was fixed on my face as though he would read my innermost thoughts.

There seemed to be no alternative but to go on with him to Paris. At least (so I argued with myself) it would serve to throw him off the scent, and we could probably without difficulty return to Havre instead of proceeding to Marseilles. So we went on to Paris, and during the journey, J.S. keeping up the idea of illness, refrained from talking and shammed sleep. But all the time the express thundered on, my brain was working—working. What did this man Megworthy suspect? Had he identified us, or was he on the wrong scent?

Our arrival in Paris did not clear the matter up.

"Which is your hotel?" inquired our companion.

I selected at random one near the station.

"The very place," said he, near to the trains, "will save expense—capital!"

I wondered whether we could sneak away during the evening; but Mr. Megworthy never left our side, so that I was more than ever convinced that he was spying our movements—even though he might not be prepared to take immediate steps to arrest us.

It was not until near midnight that I discovered that the night express for Milan via Basle and Lucerne and the St. Gothard Tunnel would leave at 12.15. This was an opportunity to be seized.

Though dead tired, neither of us had undressed, so thrusting our few loose articles into the Gladstone bags, of which we had two (mine contained the late Colonel's mechanical foot, though I would gladly have rid myself of it)—we slipped quietly down the main staircase, and paying our account to the night porter or other official in charge hurried across the road to the station.

In an agony of nervous apprehension, under the shadow of a dark archway, we waited the arrival of the train.

"Here it is let us jump in quickly," said Jack Selwyn, in a tremulous voice, as the train drew up.

Hardly had we seated ourselves when we caught sight of a man rushing on to the platform—it was Megworthy.

"Down—down on your face, man!" I exclaimed, throwing myself at full length on the cushions.

We were just in time. Half a minute afterwards the train started, and we sat up and looked at each other, while we wiped heads of perspiration from our faces.

"A narrow squeak," said J.S. with a gasp.

"He will watch each person who leaves the train at the next stopping place," I replied.

"What can we do?" asked my companion, with a look of livid terror.

"Come, don't be a fool!" I remarked, "we do not know for certain that the man is on our track. Besides we are not yet caught; and 'there's many a slip,' as you English say. In the first place, tell me do you know the line of rail on which we are travelling?"

"Yes, I know it well—have several times travelled over it to Switzerland, as well as to North Italy."

"Good. Then you can tell me about the likely spots for escape."

"Bless my soul! I know of none this side of the Alps."

"Then to the Alps we will go," I said in a determined, tone for I wished to infuse a little courage into the chicken-hearted idiot my companion.

He groaned as I spoke.

I would willingly have got rid of this fellow by throwing him from the train, but dare not run the risk, for he had a revolver, as well as myself, and an awkward accident might happen. I thought at one time—just after we had passed Dijon—that I would shoot him, for we were alone; but reflecting that it would be difficult to get rid of the body, and remembering that he might be of some service if I should be charged with the murder of his uncle, I changed my mind.

I several times asked myself why I had been such a fool as to undertake the burial business, but reflected that it would be worth his while for Jack Selwyn to compensate me liberally for my past trouble and present anxiety.

The anxiety of that railway journey it would be hard to describe. At each stopping place, concealing myself behind a window blind, I saw Megworthy watching the passengers as they alighted.

Once he walked along the platform, scrutinising each carriage, but I was on the lookout, and before he came to our compartment we had concealed ourselves and our Gladstone bags under the seats.

"Very extraordinary," muttered Megworthy, as he passed on.

Hour after hour we rolled on. At Basle "our limpet," as Jack Selwyn facetiously called him, left the train and the station, and we thought he had departed when to our horror he returned with a companion.

"Another detective, I'll be bound," whispered J. S, peeping from behind the curtain.

They entered the tram and we proceeded on our anxious journey.

By the time we arrived at Lucerne, which was shortly before daybreak on the winter's morning, we were well-nigh famished, for we had not tasted food since leaving London 24 hours previously.

We watched for an opportunity of leaving the carriage, but Megworthy and his companion were standing at the door of the buffet with cups of steaming coffee in their hands, Megworthy's sharp eyes scanning every face and penetrating into all corners of the station, so that it would be difficult to describe our relief when after a long interval the train steamed slowly across the River Reuss out of the Lucerne station.

The first streaks of the chilly dawn appeared after we had passed the shadow of the Riga and leaving the village of Fluelen were ascending the upper valley of the turbulent river.

"Ah, how cold it is," said Jack Selwyn, shivering as he spoke. "Are you sure that those fellows are in the train?"

"Quite sure," I answered.

"And will they go into Italy?"

"They will go on till we leave the train."

After this we lapsed into silence. I tried to think of some plan of escape; but the only one which suggested itself was that we should leap from the train, and this was to risk our necks.

Still, should nothing better present itself I made up my mind that this we must do. A new difficulty presented itself. Suppose that Megworthy and his friend were on the lookout from the windows? it was now broad daylight, and to escape from observation under the present circumstances seemed to be an impossibility.

Meanwhile the train was rounding the curves of one of the most wonderful railways in Europe. In and out we twisted continually among the rocky precipices and snow fields. Accustomed as I had been all my life to the tamer, though in their way beautiful, landscapes of the West Indian Islands, I was entranced by the scenery through which we were now passing, and had it not been for the pangs of an ever-increasing hunger and the fear of Megworthy, could have given myself up to the enjoyment of the varied panorama of mountains, lakes, rivers, cascades and picturesque villages. This was by far the grandest portion of our portion of our journey; every half-mile the country assumed a wilder, sterner character, the valley up which the train with its two powerful engines laboured became narrower, and the yawning precipices on either side steeper and more rugged.

"I wonder what is the name of that pretty village—there—where you can see the picturesque church," I asked.

"Be hanged to you and your churches! Get me out of this scrape and set me down before a good dinner, and you are welcome to both village and church," returned my companion.

But the poetical faculties of my nature were awakened. The pangs of hunger just then were not so severe, and Megworthy could not lay hands on us at least for the present, so I opened the Gladstone and took therefrom a Continental Railway Guide. It told me that the quaint village was named Wasen, and that near it we should pass through two of the loop tunnels of which we already had had an experience.

"The very thing!" I exclaimed, "if only we can stop the train!"

"What do you mean?" asked Jack Selwyn.

"I mean that I think we can escape there," I said, studying the map again as I spoke.

"You see there is another tunnel directly. We can stop the train by means of the communication—" and I pointed to the small knob in the corner of the carriage. "Before they discover us we shall be far down the tunnel and concealed from sight. Then the line will proceed and we shall be safe."

"It is our only chance," said Jack Selwyn, "let us try it."

In ten minutes we had entered the second loop tunnel with a whizz and a roar.

"Too fast to jump off at full speed!" I said as I looked out. "Now get out on to the footboard."

He did as he was told, and I pulled the knob with all my might. Instantly the brakes were applied and the train slackened speed.

"Now! jump off!" I cried.

We rolled over between the lines, but picked ourselves up unhurt.

"There!—into that hole," I exclaimed, thrusting J.S. into a platelayer's shelter in the side of the tunnel, where we crouched in the darkness.

It was smartly done, and not a moment too soon; for the train had now stopped, and the guards were shouting and passing along the footboard, examining each compartment, and I saw Megworthy's face as he leaned from his carriage.

Presently the guard came back, sweating roundly in French. Then the train went on, and we were left in the pitchy darkness.


CHAPTER XVI.

THE DEVILS BRIDGE AND BEYOND.

[Don Alfonso Borio's story continued.]

THERE can be no doubt that danger sharpens the wits. I could point to men who, like myself, have performed a few unusual deeds and who, from being by nature slothful and careless, have become intensely energetic and alert in consequence of the gentle attentions of the detective police.

Although I am not myself of an energetic temperament from force of circumstances, I think I may say that I have become very wide awake indeed. Unfortunately, relapses into the old spirit of indolence occur; for one of which I blame the unfortunate position in which I find myself as I write these words.

"Now for liberty—and food!" cried Jack Selwyn as the roar of the departing train died away in the distance. "I could eat anything—even human flesh," he added, grasping my arm as he spoke.

Whether he intended to try his teeth on me I know not.

"Let us get out of the tunnel by all means," I said, "and as quickly as possible."

"In which direction?"

This required a little thought it was probable that as soon as the train arrived at Goschenen, where the great tunnel burrows under the stupendous heights of St Gothard, the officials in charge would telegraph to Wasen, the village near the mouth of our tunnel, and we might be interrupted as we descended the valley.

On the other, even if Megworthy's suspicions should have been aroused by the stopping of the train in the corkscrew tunnel he might be on the look out for us on the upper parts of the pass, and most probably on the platform of Goschenen station.

"What is there ahead?" I asked of Jack Selwyn.

"Mountains," was the laconic reply.

"But surely there must be some road?"

"Oh, yes there is a road—it leads through Goschenen, there we shall have to ascend the pass, cross the Devil's Bridge, and pass through the valley of Andermatt—and be frozen and starved to death before we reach the other side."

"And then—?"

"Then you fool! why then we shall never trouble the hangman."

"Don't be an ass, Selwyn. I mean what is there beyond Andermatt?"

"Oh, beyond the village we can either turn aside to the west over the Furka Pass, or make for Italy, if the snow will allow."

"Oh, bother it! I forgot the snow," I said. "So you think that the pass is not available at this time of the year?"

"I fear not, and, as I said, the attempt will be fatal."

"What can we do," I asked.

As I said this a sound of distant voices carried along the tunnel reached me.

"Ah! they are coming up from Wasen—probably some platelayers," remarked Jack Selwyn.

"Or the guard has wired back from the next station," I said.

"At any rate we must push on at once."

Stumbling over the sleepers bruising our hands against the walls, pressing ourselves flat against the sides while a train with its flashing lights thundered by, ever climbing as the corkscrew tunnel took its upward course, thus we made our way onwards, till it length—it seemed an age—a faint glimmer of light appeared, and we knew that we were approaching the upper end.

A wind of icy coldness met us and we numbed our fingers as they grasped the handles of the bags.

Presently we emerged into the daylight.

"There is less snow than I had imagined," I remarked as we trudged along, and Jack Selwyn said that he had been this way once before, and from his experience had expected to find the snow much deeper.

"It will not be safe for us to stay anywhere near Wasen," I said, "By this time Megworthy will have been able to telegraph to the police, and we may be stopped by them."

"Then what do you propose?" said my companion.

"We must make our way into the main road down yonder, and then tramp it to this place, Goschenen. There we can get clear of the railway and climb the pass—if the snow permits and thus get into Italy. Once there we are safe."

"But you don't intend to remain in Italy?"

"By no means," I replied. "You must get us out of the mess when we are safe from Mr. Megworthy, for you know the country."

"I can only suggest that we make a voyage from Genoa to one of the French ports."

"The very thing!" I returned, slapping him on the shoulder; "that will give us a chance of finding a vessel bound for Martinique, which, as you are aware, is a French island."

"And money have you enough of that?"

"Plenty," I returned, "and English gold will take us anywhere."

But I did not tell him that I had gained it at the expense of the life of the late Squire of Scamden, Sir George Selwyn, whose body Jenkins and I had disposed of in a way that will subsequently be narrated.

In due course we reached the road, and in about an hour's time came to a cottage. Here we obtained bread, cheese, and milk, and made a right hearty meal, which indeed we sadly needed, for our fast had been a severe one.

Then began such a long tramp over the snowy road as I shall never forget, accustomed as I had been from very early days to life in the tropics.

A piercing wind came down upon us from the mountains as we trudged through the white crisp drifts, and the Gladstones got heavier each step that we advanced.

"What have we to gain by hurry?" exclaimed Jack Selwyn, after we had struggled on for nearly three hours; "surely we can find some hole to lie down in—some barn or hayloft would do, if we cannot obtain the loan of a peasant's bed."

"The very idea!" I said, grasping at the last suggestion.

At the next chalet we inquired for a bed, and though it was not furnished after the manner of a modern hotel, we found comfortable quarters, in which, after some more food, we slept the sleep of the weary.

I would fain describe the remainder of our toilsome climb to Goschenen. But as it is my chief object to describe the way in which we dealt with Megworthy, the detective, rather than to describe the wonders of the Swiss scenery, I can only say that brought up as I have been on a coral island, no words of mine can express the revelation which the Swiss scenery, and especially of this valley, was to me.

At Goschenen we learnt that the St. Gothard was tolerably clear of snow, and that it was quite possible for us with the aid of a guide to surmount the pass. Jack Selwyn suggested that we should go on by train, but I was afraid that Megworthy might be awaiting us at the station, or that he would catch us at Airolo, which is a village at the further end of the tunnel.

"You see he will never suspect that we should climb the pass, even if he should discover that we have left the train," I remarked as we trudged over the steep and winding ascent.

This, however, was exactly what Megworthy did suspect. We came upon him in the most terrible part of the pass, to wit, on the Devil's Bridge itself. Those who have crossed the St. Gothard will remember how weird and terrible is the gorge at this point, how the river Reuss, after plunging with tremendous force over a fall, suddenly turns to the right and thunders down the narrow rocky bed, which is spanned by the Teufelsbrücke; how the spray drives incessantly over the rocks and stonework; how the unceasing roaring boom of the water effectually prevents the sound of voices from being heard. If ever there were a place intended by Nature for bloody deeds, surely this is the place.

I had read that a great battle was once fought here, and that men were hurled over into the awful foaming resistless torrent beneath, but I never imagined that Jack Selwyn and I would here add to the catalogue of our achievements (the law, I believe, calls them crimes) and hurl Megworthy and his companion into the same gulf.

But so it was, and it happened thus.

As we (that is to say, Jack Selwyn, myself, and the guide whom we had hired at Goschenen) turned the corner to cross the famous bridge, we came upon no less a personage than Megworthy in company with his friend, leaning over the further parapet watching the great flood as it thundered over the fall and swept with resistless swirl round the bend.

The noise of the waters effectually drowned the slight sound which was made by our approaching steps on the snow. We stopped short and looked at them. Then Jack Selwyn glanced into my face and I looked back with a nod. We understood each other.

"You take Megworthy—he's the smaller of the two—and I'll take the long one. One good heave and they'll be over," I whispered.

"But the guide?"—and he glanced at the Swiss who was standing near us.

"We must deal with him afterwards. Quick! or we shall be too late."

It did not take many seconds to whisper this, and immediately we advanced cautiously towards our victims. All unconscious of danger they were pointing out to each other the beauties of the scene beneath them, and Megworthy had just leaned a little further over the low wall as he indicated some point of interest, when Selwyn seized him suddenly by the legs and thrust him forward over the parapet. At the very same moment I performed a similar service for his friend, whose very name at the time was unknown to me.

The next instant, with frantic, despairing yells, which were more than half drowned by the sound of the water, the pair descended headlong into the chasm and disappeared into the boiling flood.

I must confess that the look of horror on Megworthy's face as he turned over in his descent remained for a long time before my eyes. But one can become accustomed even to such looks as I can testify.

There now remained the Swiss guide to be dealt with. I imagine that he must have thought that we were about to play some practical joke on the two Englishmen leaning over the bridge, for he remained on the further side of the road with a broad smile on his face.

But no sooner had we hurled the two men from the bridge than he darted forward with a cry of horror.

"We must settle him also," I exclaimed, drawing my revolver and firing at the man. The bullet hit him in the eye, penetrating the brain, for he fell dead at our feet. "Over with him!" I exclaimed.

In a few seconds he had joined Megworthy and his companion in the foaming waters of the Reuss.

Hardly had the guide's body disappeared from sight when an exclamation from Jack Selwyn caused me to look up, and a short distance from us I saw the glint of weapons and the head-gear of soldiers.

"What does this mean?" I exclaimed, with a sickening feeling of dread. For though I have more than once performed what are called 'desperate deeds' I cannot boast of any great degree of natural courage, and would any day sooner run away than fight.

"Ah! I had forgotten the soldiers," said Jack Selwyn. "There is always a garrison at the Fort up yonder."

"Do you think they saw us throw the man over?" I inquired, for I began to think that we should be wise to retrace our steps to Goschenen, and said as much to my companion.

"But the guide—he would be missed there!" remarked J.S. This was enough to decide me.

"We will proceed," I said.

But the soldiers were not disposed to allow us to pass without inquiry. Addressing us in French, an officer inquired the reason for the pistol shot which he had heard.

"I fired at a bird," I returned, assuming a tone of indignation at being thus interrogated.

"Is that bird's blood?" asked the officer with significant emphasis, as he pointed to streaks on my coat which I had not previously noticed.

"Yes," I replied, "he bled furiously before we threw him over the bridge."

The man shook his head as though he did not believe us, and called to an officer to bring out his photographic camera.

"I like to have pictures of the celebrities who pass over the Teufelsbrücke," he remarked, with a bow and a grin.

"We had better submit," I muttered to J.S.

In a few seconds our photographs were taken, and we were allowed to proceed on our way, but had I known what would be the use to which this picture of our noble selves would be put I think I would sooner have plunged over the Devil's Bridge after Megworthy and Co.

It would but weary those who honour my literary productions with their perusal if I should describe how we made our way through the village of Andermatt to the Hospice of St. Gothard (where we obtained a night's lodging), how we at length arrived in Italy, and how, being now freed from all fear of Megworthy, we took a train for Genoa, and from thence sailed for Marseilles, arriving there—to be exact—at eleven o'clock in the forenoon on ——.

At Genoa I changed my English money, because there was a risk in travelling with a store of English gold, for it might lead to our capture.

During the voyage J.S. recovered his spirits considerably, and I even began to fear that he would become too free with his tongue before our fellow-passengers, especially after indulging in liquor. I warned him twice, but he evidently resented my interference, and it was plain that he had begun to regard me with dislike.

"None of your tricks with me, Mr. Jack Selwyn," I remarked to myself, as I watched him through the smoke of a cigar while he played cards with a party of Frenchmen, and at the same time chattered away insanely in bungling French.

Had I known what I have since learnt I should have shot him through the head then and there. But he was to be reserved for another fate.

[The narrative of Inspector James Hoile, of the Detective Department.]

I AM requested by Mr. Strafford to write an account of my investigation in the well-known Scamden Mill case, and so, having obtained permission from my superiors, I now proceed to state what came under my personal observations after the mysterious death and extraordinary burial of Colonel Selwyn.

According to my notebook I see that it was on the morning of January —th, the day after my return from London (where I regret to say I had followed the false scent), that my chief summoned me into his private room.

"Further complications!" he remarked, when I had closed the door.

He looked so very grave as he eyed me solemnly over his gold-rimmed spectacles, and paused so long, that I wondered what he might mean.

"The Scamden Mill case, sir?" I ventured.

He nodded.

"You knew poor Megworthy, did you not?"

"Knew him? Why, Megworthy and I had been close chums ever since we entered the department. But why did you say 'knew?'" I inquired, looking up at my chief, who is a very tall man. "I saw him in London only a week ago. He was going down to Dover to watch the boats. Has anything happened to him?"

"Yes, Hoile, very sad news has arrived. Megworthy has been murdered."

He then told me that Megworthy's body, with those of a companion, and a Swiss guide, whose name was unknown, had been found in the torrent of the Reuss in Switzerland; that though no one had seen the deed it was surmised by certain Swiss soldiers that it had been performed by two travellers, one of whom was certainly an Englishman.

"The most remarkable thing about the matter is this," continued my chief, "the officer in charge of the fort near the scene of the murder somehow managed to obtain photographs of these men, copies of which have been forwarded to Scotland Yard."

Whereupon he placed in my hands two photographs.

Now, though I had never been intimate with Sir Charles Selwyn, after whom I knew there was a hue and cry, I saw at once that the picture of the taller of the two men, although he was undoubtedly disguised, was so exceedingly true to life, making allowances of course for the distortions inevitable, as we detectives well know, in photographs taken under such circumstances, was undoubtedly that of Sir Charles Selwyn of Scamden Hall. There was the same erect carriage, the same features, though, I am bound to say, not the same expression.

"I fear that Sir Charles is the man," I said, as I looked up after a close scrutiny of the picture.

"And the other one—what do you think of it?"

It was the photograph of a younger man, somewhat slight and effeminate in build. He was dressed as a valet.

"I cannot say—I have never seen this one."

"Do you think that he might be a woman in man's clothes?"

Yes—undoubtedly this might be the case; there was the fulness in the chest (though of course this might occur in a man who was somewhat pigeon-breasted), and there was certainly a feminine though by no means attractive look about the features.

"I do not know the young man—"

"Or young woman," suggested my chief significantly.

"Ah! yes, then you think—"

"I think nothing, Hoile; but if you should discover that it is indeed Sir Charles who has done this deed, you will most likely find that he is accompanied by Lucy Shaw, the daughter of the parish clerk of Scamden. I now place the matter in your hands. Those photographs are your case. You have already in your possession the details of the affair up to the time of Sir Charles's visit to London. From this point we have no trace. Your business is to find it and follow—to the ends of the earth if need be. Good morning."

I left the office meditating on the death of poor Megworthy, and on my chances of capturing his murderers.

Obviously the first thing to be done was to find out whether a photograph of the girl was procurable. For this purpose I made my way without delay to Scamden to the Sexton's cottage. He was chopping firewood and eyed me suspiciously. Although I had never before seen the old man it was plain to me that he had recently passed through a severe trial, for there was a haggard look about his face and an anxious, troubled look in his eyes.

I saluted him cheerily and he nodded silently, but did not suspend his work.

My first efforts at conversation were anything but successful, and it was very evident I was an unwelcome visitor.

I plunged boldly into my subject by asking, "Have you heard anything of your daughter lately?"

He ceased his chopping and regarded me for a moment steadily.

"Who are ye 'at art axin' aboot t' lass? She's naught t' thee, I reckon."

I assured him that the people in Halifax were greatly interested in the sad affair of the Colonel's death as well as his daughter's disappearance.

"You do not happen to have her likeness?" I said; adding, "I travel about a good deal and may come across her."

The old fellow moved his hand as though he were about to thrust it into the breast-pocket of his coat, but apparently thinking better of it again grasped his hatchet and made as though he would resume his chopping. "Nay, nay," he said, "I've naught at'll interest sich as thee."

By which I was convinced that he could show or tell me much.

But though I tried hard to persuade him, and even went so far as to suggest that the law might use compulsion, no likeness did I see nor information could I extract.

Being myself a native of Warwickshire, I have never ceased to admire the intense secretiveness of the true-bred Yorkshireman, so radically different in character to the Midlander and Southerner, and I am convinced that for shrewdness, for the protection of his own interests, for tenacity of purpose, and for stubbornness—when he is so minded—there exists not his equal south of the Tweed.

Hence it was that after I had spent fully half an hour with the Sexton, and had exhausted every method known to my profession for extracting information, I departed none the wiser for my visit, but firmly convinced that the old man could have told me many things had he been so minded. But perhaps, so I reflected, he had been frightened by the examination before the magistrates.

I was passing through the Mill yard when I met a young lady. She was making for the cottage which I had just left, and would have passed me without notice had I not raised my hat, for somehow her features seemed familiar to me. She looked up, stopped, and then asked, in a hesitating manner, "Are you not Mr. Hoile, the detective?"


CHAPTER XVII.

ON THE TRACK.

[Inspector Hoile's narrative continued.]

MY profession has taught me that much may be read in the human eye. It is far more expressive of the emotions of the mind than even the tongue itself. Be it doubt or fear, be it anticipation or joy, the acute observer may without fail there detect the symptoms; so that while Miss Selwyn was addressing me under the shadow of Scamden Mill I perceived by the look in her eyes that she was under the influence of some powerful emotion, and that emotion was fear.

Not that the fear I read in her beautiful eyes (for I must confess that I think the young lady very good looking) was personal. No, it was the fear of anxiety, it was apprehension for the safety of another, and had nothing in it of cowardice or terror for herself.

So that when she looked up into my face, and asked me in pleading tones whether I was Mr. Hoile the defective, I knew instinctively that something of importance was bound to follow.

"Yes, I am the detective," I replied, with a pause, that she might be encouraged to say more.

"Then—then—perhaps you are already engaged in the—" She hesitated and stopped.

"If you mean to inquire whether I am engaged in the investigation connected with the recent tragedies in this Mill, Miss, I may say at once that not only I, but my brother-officers also, are doing all we can."

"And you think you will succeed?"

"I haven't a doubt of it, Miss."

"Have you any clue?"

"Oh, yes," I replied lightly—in our profession we learn to be cautious—"yes, we have several clues."

"And you intend to follow them?"

"We shall follow the most likely ones first."

She looked at me intently and I could see there was still something marked, something still hidden behind those expressive eyes.

"You have not heard anything of Sir Charles Selwyn?" she inquired in a low and hesitating tone.

"Nothing important so far, Miss—at least nothing that would interest you," I said for I could not divulge the secret which lay within the pocket of my coat, or show her the photographs which my chief had that morning entrusted to me.

She left me with a longing, lingering look, as though there were something still unspoken.

We had just parted, I had raised my hat, and she had turned to Tom o' Jack's cottage, when she stopped.

"About Sir Charles," she said—and I saw that her face was paler—"you don't think any harm can have come to him?"

"I have no reason to suspect such a thing," I returned with a smile.

"Or will come?" she added pleadingly, laying her fingers on my arm.

"Well—that I cannot say. No one knows what may happen," I replied as though apologising for my ignorance of the future. "But I trust that all will come right in the end."

I could not help saying this, for I could see quite plainly that although the young lady was striving to conceal it, she was in a state of great anxiety and uneasiness.

"Then, you think that there is reason to suspect—"

"Believe me, Miss, I suspect everything and everybody in this blessed world! It is my business so to do. If you had followed the profession of a detective for as many years as I have done, you would have learned to look on life as a huge fraud and every man and woman as more or less of a deceiver. I don't say that it is a pleasant view to take of the world, but such is the result of my line of thought and training."

What made me hold forth thus to Miss Selwyn I have since wondered. Perhaps it was because she seemed to me to be one of the chief exceptions to the rule and to be peculiarly free from deception. At any rate, I may here place it on record that never have I seen a more open, ingenuous, and absolutely truthful face than Miss Elsie Selwyn's, such a face opens the heart, even that of a suspicious, cautious, watchful detective, and I felt downright sorry for the young lady. Sorry, because it was plain enough that she was interested in Sir Charles Selwyn, more interested perhaps than was warranted by her relationship to him—for I had been told that he was her cousin and sorry also because I saw that she had heard something which had excited her fears on his behalf.

"You will do me a kindness, a very great kindness?" she pleaded.

"If it is in my power," I replied.

"It is a very small favour. If you come across Sir Charles will you give him this little note? There is nothing in it about the recent terrible events," she added with a blush.

"A love-letter," said I to myself, as she placed the note in my hand.

"Yes," I added aloud, "but I must reserve to myself the right of opening it in case of need—professionally, you understand."

"Oh, yes, yes, you may read it in case of urgent need, but I trust you will not require to do so. In any case you will give it to him?"

"Yes, I will do as you ask, if I should meet him," I replied. She thanked me with tears in her eyes as we parted, and I turned and watched her as she wound her way pensively by the narrow pathway along the banks of the brawling stream towards Tom o' Jack's cottage, and I once had it in my heart to hasten after her and show her the photographs of Sir Charles and the disguised girl—but then, what of professional secrecy? No, it could not be done.

The same evening found me again in London, and accompanied by one of my Scotland Yard acquaintances, we made a fresh examination of the house to which the police traced the cab hired by Sir Charles Selwyn at the King's Cross station.

"We have examined the place thoroughly," said my companion, "but I dare say you would like to have a spy round."

This we did most carefully, but nothing did we discover. What had been found there of interest by the police on their previous visit had been removed to Scotland Yard, and nothing, so far is I could see, remained to suggest that anything unusual had taken place in the house.

But just as we were leaving I came across something of great value.

I had stooped down and had thrust my fingers into a space between the starting board and the floor of the wall. What made me do it I cannot tell, but to my surprise I felt a piece of paper. This with some difficulty I pulled out. It was crumpled, and there were marks of blood on it; it had also been trodden under a man's heel, for there were on it the distinct prints of nails.

It was only half a sheet of notepaper, which had been torn across the middle, but the words inscribed thereon interested me greatly. They ran thus:—


· · · · · · my hand shakes

· · · · · · to get away from that Mill

· · · · · · possibly I may kill

· · · · · · purchased a gun

· · · · · · the next murder!

· · · · · · alarmed

· · · · · · In the Scamden Wood

· · · · · · keep this to yourself.


"Do you know the handwriting?" asked the Scotland Yard man.

"I think I have its fellow," I remarked, taking from my pocket a letter which Sir Charles had himself written to me after the discovery of Colonel Selwyn's body in the churchyard.

A glance at the two side by side showed us that they were by the same hand. The only perceptible difference between them was that the writing on the fragment was exceedingly shaky, as though the writer laboured under the influence of intense mental excitement. Moreover it was written in pencil, "which shows that the writer was in a hurry," remarked my brother detective.

Alas! how easily deceived are even the most astute.

My next task was to interview old Andrew Rawlings with his son-in-law and daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Jenks, who had been allowed to return home pending a summons to attend either the next magisterial inquiry or the assizes.

The young couple were out, but found the old man, and he was in a talkative humour.

"They might ha' brought me in a decent hearse to the buryin'," he observed, with much of the old Yorkshire accent of his younger days. "An' to think 'at they should 'ah put me in a box instead of a coffin."

We had a hearty laugh over this, and having presented the old gentleman with a choice cigar, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. I proceeded to draw out from him as much of the information I was in search of as was possible.

"Sir Charles Selwyn—know 'im? Why, bless you, sir, I've know'd 'im ever sin' he war a little chap that high," and he placed his hand about two feet from the floor.

Then he launched forth into a garrulous description of Sir Charles of former days, of his boyish pranks and witty sayings. I allowed him to meander on, only putting in a word now and then by way of encouragement, till at length the inevitable pause came and the cigar of course had to be relighted. Here was my opportunity to push my quest.

"You must have been surprised to see him in London, Mr. Rawlings," I remarked.

"Surprised! I was fair capped, as t' Yorkshire folk say," he replied.

"And still more surprised at his disappearance?" I suggested, for I was anxious to lead up to this point without exciting the old man's suspicions.

"Ay, I war more capped when 'e went off without a word."

"Did he go alone?" I ventured.

"No, that's t' queer part of it. T' lass what followed 'im from Scamden—Lucy I think her name war—it war 'er I think who buried t' foot i' t' garden," and he nodded towards the back of the house. "She 'ad some words wi' Joshua Wilkinson, and made off, and niver coom back."

"But do you mean to say she had eloped with Sir Charles?"

"Nay, I mean to say nought o' t' sort. But I've 'eerd summat as'll make you think so."

"What have you heard, Mr. Rawlings," and I leaned forward and listened intently.

"I mean 'at a chap what works down at t' docks told my son-in-law 'at he'd been informed by another chap 'at them two 'ad gone off in a ship."

This was interesting, but exceedingly vague.

"Do you know the name of the ship?" I asked.

But the old man could give me no further information, and I was forced to fall back on my own power of invention.

It is a way we detectives have when a clue fails us. We argue from possibilities; we concoct a scheme of what might have been.

Now the most likely things which I wove into a theory shaped themselves as follows:—

Sir Charles had taken a dislike from infancy to his uncle the Colonel. This dislike having been fostered by his father, the late Baronet (for I had discovered in Scamden that the two families were by no means on terms of intimacy), had been intensified by the strange provision in his father's will that the Mill should pass into the hands of Colonel Selwyn. Whether Sir Charles performed the deed himself, or whether he hired another person—perhaps Wilkinson, or even Lucy Shaw—to inveigle the Colonel to the uttermost story of the Mill, or whether he himself committed the murder, I could not determine But it was plain that after remaining long enough in Scamden to allay suspicion (and even, it was said, being present at the opening of the grave), he had suddenly absconded, having first had a private interview with Lucy Shaw.

There were several matters which were not clear to me, among them the details of the funeral. These I determined to obtain from the Rector of Scamden for the information which he might afford would put a different complexion on the affair.

The next item in my theory was that Sir Charles had disguised himself—probably in the house in which of I had discovered the torn letter. There he had no doubt dyed his hair—a very common method of disguise—and otherwise transformed his appearance. It was probably here also that Lucy Shaw had adopted the dress of a valet, for they would argue that a man's dress would be less likely to arouse suspicion.

After this all was plain enough to my mind. The couple of criminals had probably crossed the Channel by the very boat which carried my poor friend Megworthy. It was not difficult to imagine how he had spotted them—for disguises were very transparent to the lynx-eyed Megworthy; how he had followed the runaways; how, alas, in an unwary moment he and his unknown friend and the Swiss guide had been surprised by them and had been hurled into the terrible torrent at the place called the Devil's Bridge.

I had now to decide what I would do. There were two courses open to me. Either I could return and interview Mr. Goode and obtain from him details with regard to those who were present at the burial of the body of the supposed Andrew Rawlings, or I could proceed at once on the track of the criminals.

After carefully weighing the matter in my mind I decided it would be better for me to adopt the latter course. To return to Yorkshire would waste much valuable time, and probably yield no practical results. It would be better to follow the criminals at once, in the hope that I might be able to run them down while they were still in Europe. For somehow I had an idea that they would make a dash for some country—probably South America from which it would be impossible to extradite them.

It only remained for me to make out the meaning of the words on the torn fragment of the letter in Sir Charles Selwyn's handwriting which we had found.

As I was unable to understand it myself, I took it to a defective of considerable reputation, one of our men at Scotland Yard.

"Oh, this is clear enough," he observed, with a smile of superiority, after he had looked at it for a few moments—"here, give me a sheet of paper. Now, what do you think of this of this?"—and he wrote a few lines.

He handed me the paper, and when I had placed it by the side of the fragment they read together as follows:—


After committing such a deed... my hand shakes.

My one desire is... to get away from that Mill.

I am now desperate and... possibly I may kill

Megworthy, the detective.

I have...purchased a gun.

So do not be surprised at the... next murder!

Though I know you will be... alarmed.

The foot we dug from its grave... in the Scamden Wood.

I need hardly say... keep this to yourself.


"This is cleverly done," I said, looking up at him with admiration.

"Ah, well, you see, we London detectives are accustomed to this kind of thing," he replied, deprecatingly; "you are welcome to any assistance I can give you, and I think you will find that I am not far wrong."

"But I cannot conceive that anyone, and least of all Sir Charles Selwyn, can have committed himself to paper in this way," I said.

"No one is such a fool as the amateur criminal," returned the London detective, in a tone of superior knowledge. "He is to us a most uninteresting personage on that account. We enjoy following the practised hand who is only less clever than ourselves. But the amateur criminal gives himself away directly, as your Sir Charles Selwyn has evidently done. Ah, my friend," and he laid his hand patronisingly on my shoulder, "you must leave the wilds of Yorkshire and came to this 'hub of the universe' if you want to learn the science of the detection of crime."

I cannot say that I was altogether pleased at the tone which the great man assumed towards me, but I suppose I felt grateful that he had aided me; as, stammering out a few words of thanks, I left his office and very shortly afterwards was in the train en route for Dover.


CHAPTER XVIII.

MRS. GOODE'S SCHEME.

[Miss Selwyn's narrative continued.]

JANUARY 24th. How lonely is this house. Since my father's death and Jack's departure I have remained here with the maids in the hope that all these mysteries may soon be cleared up. Mr. Strafford has arranged that I shall be provided with sufficient money to "keep things going" for the present; but the situation is, to say the least, an exceedingly uncomfortable one. My father's death was the first terrible blow. Jack's absconding, with all that such a proceeding involved, was the second blow; but worse than either has been the departure of Cousin Charles. It is only to-day that I have learnt from Mr. Strafford and Mr. Goode (who together called to see me) the terrible charges that are now made against him. I cannot—I will not believe them. That Sir Charles should have killed my poor father out of a mere spirit of revenge, that he should have murdered him because his own father had left to him that atrocious Mill is to my mind so absolutely inconceivable as to be absurd; but that he has "gone off" with Lucy Shaw—ah! the very thought is terrible. It cannot be true. I do not believe it. And yet—yet, if so, surely there must be some reasonable explanation. Surely these detectives can and must discover the truth. And yet weeks have elapsed, and nothing has been found out to lead to a solution of the mystery. O Cousin Charles, you little know the heart-anguish of this sickening suspense. Dare I write it—that I love you to distraction, yes, with my whole heart and soul—that I live for you, and would die for you. And yet I would rather know the truth—the bare, harsh, unyielding truth in all its horrible nakedness and severity. If that girl Lucy Shaw is your wife, as well as your partner in crime, then I would loathe you with all the loathing of which I could be capable.

But it cannot be. You are too noble to sink to this, for the girl is another man's, and he has loved her even as I loved—. But there—I will not entrust more to this diary. I will be brave and hope on. Though all the rectors and solicitors and detectives and judges in Christendom declare Sir Charles Selwyn to be guilty, I know that he is innocent. But oh! how can I prove it? What can I—a poor weak, lonely girl—do to prove that he is indeed as stainless as I believe him to be?

Same day. Evening. Light has just begun to dawn. I have to-day had a long interview with Mrs. Goode. She tells me that little by little she is piecing together certain fragments.

It will here perhaps be of some interest if I relate our conversation verbatim.

"You must know, my dear Elsie, that I have been convinced throughout that these policemen and detectives are entirely wrong, and as usual are working together in the dark. Either they blunder along, mistaking the plainest signpost, or, thinking themselves vastly clever, they build up some elaborate theory as a child erects its house of cards, which only needs a touch for it to collapse."

"But they are very clever," I ventured to say. "Indeed I have heard of several mysterious cases in which the detectives of Scotland Yard have—"

"Pray don't talk to me about the Scotland Yard men, my dear child," interrupted my visitor. They are even more self opinionated, more inflated with conceit over their own theories, than are those in our provincial towns. No, Elsie, my dear, put not your trust in the Detective Department.

"But in whom shall I then put my trust, if not in the men of whom you speak? There are none others capable and willing to unravel those tangles."

"But why trust to men at all?"

"Because there are no female detectives—that is, I mean, none who could undertake this matter."

"But why must you have professional people? So far these men have failed and I venture to prophesy they will fail. What is wanted is the intuitive perception of an educated woman."

I could not help smiling as Mrs. Goode said this, because it was such a very characteristic sentence in her mouth and also because the idea that any woman could effect what the most renowned English detectives had thus far failed to do was so palpably absurd. But she was by no means abashed by my smile, and proceeded to unfold her ideas and to formulate her scheme in a way that completely astonished me, so that every minute my respect for her increased.

"You remember the Spanish woman who was taken ill at Hill-Top Farm?"

"Yes, I remember her well," I replied.

"You remember too, that you told me at the time how struck you had been by the poor woman's anxiety to find her son?"

I nodded.

"And you will recollect how she told you further that her husband's name was Selwyn?"

"Yes."

"Well, my dear, these are important facts; and we must make the best possible use of them. The police saw nothing of the woman. Neither her coming or her going was known to them; consequently they, to my mind, have omitted one of the most important links from their chain."

"But why not supply them with this information which I obtained from the Spanish woman?"

"And make confusion worse confounded! No! that would be the most foolish, fatal, and suicidal step," said Mrs. Goode emphatically. "Unless we do things ourselves it will end in muddle and a general fiasco."

"But, my dear Mrs. Goode—"

"I know you will think me a strong minded interfering woman, Elsie but I will risk that if only you will do what I am about to suggest."

I looked at her wonderingly. Mrs. Goode though past middle age, had by no means lost the good looks of her youth. The features had become firmer and the look of the eye more intelligent, but the lines of beauty were still there. She was one of those who without sacrificing anything of womanliness, and without by any means aping the man, contrives to unite the gentleness of the female character with the masterfulness of the male.

Somehow one never resented her manner and assertiveness, because it was plain that they did not spring from a spirit of selfishness or from a mere desire to domineer. And while to some she might have seemed to be over-imperious, this was always as greatly softened by anyone of sincere sympathy as it was made acceptable by practical common-sense.

So I put my hand in hers—for I am conscious that I am one who loves to have a stronger will than my own on which to lean—and said, "Tell me your plan, dear Mrs. Goode, if you have one; and, if possible, I will do anything you may suggest."

"Bless you, dear child," she said, drawing me close to her, and giving me a motherly kiss. "Believe me, I only want to help you to the utter-most of my power."

Then she continued:—"Now, can you tell me the date on which the Spanish woman left Hilltop Farm?"

"Yes," I said, turning up the place in my diary where the event was entered. "It was on January the sixteenth."

"Exactly And no one saw her go?"

"No one. Mrs. Wilkinson says that the woman left the house before daybreak, and was not seen again."

"Had she money?"

"I gave her a little—two days previously—a few shillings."

"Well, she has probably begged her way to Liverpool or to London—the latter is the more likely. That is where we shall find her, unless we can overtake her on the road."

"Find her but you do not suggest that we should go in search of this woman?"

"Indeed I do. Mr. Goode is greatly in need of a holiday and so long as he is at home he will not be persuaded to leave alone his musty volumes. Yes, we will accompany you."

"But surely," I exclaimed, "this seems very like a wild goose chase."

"Seems like it, I admit, my dear, but we shall catch our goose in the end, of that you may be sure. But what do you propose to do with the woman when you find her?"

"I propose to find out more about the man Selwyn whom she calls her husband. I propose further to learn all that can be learnt about the son, whom she has followed."

"And in what way will this help to clear up the mysteries of my father's death and of the disappearance of Sir Charles and Lucy Shaw."

"That remains to be proved. But if this by woman's son and I only say 'if'—should turn out to be your brother's friend Don Alfonso Borio, and if we can find out more about the man Selwyn, whose name she mentioned to you, we shall have gained some information of considerable value."

She said much more which showed me that she had considered every step every scrap of evidence, and had weighed every likely theory. But still I did not altogether follow her. It might be very interesting to learn all about that odious man Borio, and naturally one's curiosity had been aroused by the Spanish woman's references to a man bearing our family name, but I was at a loss to see how, by finding this woman, we could advance the solution of the enigma which so sorely perplexed me.

I said as much to Mrs. Goode. She listened patiently to all my objections and then merely observed—

"You are quite right to tell me candidly your doubts, and I must as candidly confess that until I had most carefully thought the matter out I was as perplexed as you seemed to be, but I have no doubt now as to the proper course."

"And your scheme?"

"In brief is this:—We will track the woman—by road, mind you. Possibly we may overtake her before she reaches London. It will be a novelty nowadays to post from Yorkshire to London, but it can be done, and the expense need not be so very great. Besides, I have such faith in the venture that I am sure we shall not in the end lose money by it."

"And how shall we know that the woman has taken that road?"

"Because we have English tongues and she a Spanish one, my dear girl," returned Mrs. Goode with a smile. "She will have spoken in Spanish to those she has met, and foreigners answering to her description are not so common that we can be baffled if once on her track. When we find her your part will begin."

"Because I know a little Spanish, I must catechise her?"

"Exactly—and on her information we must act. Without doubt it will lead to an important discovery. Of that I am sure." I felt immensely comforted by Mrs. Goode's resoluteness and sympathy. Here was one on whom I could lean. Even if she should prove to be mistaken, and we were actually on a wild goose chase, it would be more tolerable than the life of inaction and horrible uncertainty which I am now leading.

* * * * *

[Appended by the Reverend Theophilus Goode.]

MY wife had been for some time telling me that I needed a holiday, that it distressed her to see the grey hairs spreading so rapidly over my head; that I had begun to stoop; that the volumes in my study, especially those dealing with antiquarian matters, which she is pleased to term "musty," are the cause of these outward signs of decay, and she wound up by repeating that I must take a holiday—"not a few days or even weeks, but a long rest of some months' duration."

This was very trying and very inopportune on the part of my good spouse. I admit that I had sat rather close to my books of late—and in truth active physical exertion has not the same charm for me as of yore. I admit further that I felt a change of air and scene would undoubtedly be beneficial, and in my young days I should have welcomed such a proposal, but in addition to a want of inclination for foreign travel, and an affection for my books and my easy chair, a very serious obstacle had arisen.

Turning to the proper date in my diary, I find the following record of the event to which I refer.

The matter came to my knowledge this morning. I can truthfully affirm that when the post arrived I was as far from thinking of such a thing as I was from thinking of the inhabitants of Mars, and, moreover, as remote from coveting such a position as I am from desiring that of the Emperor of Japan or of the President of the United States of America.

It was exactly 8 a.m., and I was in the act of shaving, one side of my face was lathered, the other had with some pain and difficulty undergone the process of the removal of the "stubble," when the back of the uppermost envelope of the newly arrived letters caught my eye. Rushing into my wife's bedroom, waving my razor in my right hand, and the letter in my left I cried in my agitation: "My dear! Here is a letter from the Bishop."

"You had better take away that dangerous weapon, and open it," she replied quietly.

(How remarkably calm that wonderful woman can be, even in times of the greatest excitement.)

Returning to the dressing room, I proceeded, half shaven as I was, to open the letter. It was indeed from the Bishop of the diocese, and contained the offer of the post of Rural Dean. Now for years I have coveted this position. Not that it is lucrative. It is rather the reverse. But it is usually regarded as a recognition of years of faithful service, and I must confess that my heart bounded with delight and gratitude.

"Matilda!" I cried, "this will mean gaiters."

"Why gaiters?" she responded from the other room.

"Because they are highly appropriate."

"Appropriate to what?"

"Oh, I forgot to say!"—and then I told her of the Bishop's offer.

"But do Rural Deans wear gaiters?"

"It was undoubtedly the custom formerly. At breakfast I will read you extracts from Treforium's Ecclesiastical Garments to prove that I am right. But, as I was about to remark, this will settle the matter."

"What matter?"

"The matter of our going in pursuit of that poor young man, Sir Charles Selwyn."

"We will talk over that matter, Theophilus." Whereat I inwardly groaned for I knew well that "talking over" meant that my worthy wife had ideas on the subject, and moreover that I should be expected to fall in with them. In this case, as I anticipated, the breakfast table witnessed my downfall. I was routed and utterly vanquished by the absolutely unanswerable arguments of my wife. The police were all at sea, she said. The mystery of Scamden Mill—or rather the mysteries which had succeeded the tragedy at the Mill—were altogether beyond their professional skill. She had made the matter one of the most careful study, and surely I would not allow her to go alone!

"Alone, Matilda! Alone where?"

"To the West Indies," she responded calmly.

"My dear, I should as soon think of allowing you to attempt the old cow's feat of jumping over the moon," I gasped.

"Then if you will not allow us—that is, I mean Elsie Selwyn and myself—to go alone, you must come with us as our natural protector."

I could not help wondering what kind of a protector I should prove if we should fall into the hands of desperadoes or savages in that far-away part of the world; but I held my tongue, for I did not wish to "show the white feather."

"And just think of your own health, my dear Theophilus—think how greatly you need rest and change think how you will be able to add to your stores of knowledge think what racy and interesting lectures on the West Indies you will be able to give to our people in the schoolroom during next winter. And then your sermons—what numbers of new and startling illustrations you will be able to accumulate."

Thus my good wife talked to me over the breakfast until she had persuaded me, in spite of myself, that a voyage to the West Indies was the ideal thing for my bodily and mental welfare, and so successful was she that presently we fell to making arrangements for leaving home at once.

There was much to be done, and I had to engage the services of a locum tenens, or Local Demon, as Tom o' Jack's would persist in calling him.

Afterwards, when I was speaking to the poor old follow about my going away, he looked up wistfully into my face, "An i' ye should 'appen to coom across my Lucy," he said, "ye'll tell her, parson, 'at 'er auld faither's noan forgotten her, an' 'at 'e'll trust 'er to t' end. Ah, yes, I can trust my Lucy, I can trust her," he muttered to himself as he turned away, brushing the back of his rough brown hand across his eyes.

Thus it was that the matter was settled. I postponed the wearing of the ruridecanal gaiters till our return (and indeed, so my wife suggested, while they would be inconveniently warm in the tropics, they would be a delightful comfort to my legs during the cold English winter); in a very few days our arrangements were completed, and we were ready for what in the end proved to be a most momentous undertaking. Little did I imagine, when I was discussing the matter of the gaiters with my worthy spouse, how soon we should both be plunged into scenes differing very considerably from those amid which our life had so long been spent.

I have extracted so much from my diary because I want to make it clear why I went to the West Indies. At the same time I must put it on record that I did not agree with my excellent wife concerning Sir Charles Selwyn's conduct, and I gathered that my old friend Stafford was of my opinion.

[Written later.]

WHEN I look back upon this period I perceive how quickly the current of a life may be changed, and how that out of seeming evil much good may sometimes arise. More than this, it is now plain to me that it is very easy to persuade oneself that sufficient evidence is at hand to blast the fair name and character of one who all the time is absolutely innocent.

It needs but the fateful combination of circumstances the tongue of a busybody—the too willing listener to slander, to damn the purest and most upright.


CHAPTER XIX.

THE SPANISH WOMAN

[The narrative of Miss Selwyn continued.]

ON reference to my diary I see that it was the morning of January 26th that we left Scamden. I need not describe the journey; the weather was bleak and the country bare, so that there was little to direct our attention from the object we had in view, that object being to track the Spanish woman.

With some difficulty we found that she had taken the Great North Road, and had passed through Doncaster and Retford. After this we could gain no information until we reached Grantham. The woman seems to have avoided any stay in the principal towns, merely inquiring her way by repetitions of the one word "London." It was in a village some ten miles below Peterborough that we heard that one answering to our description of her whom we sought had been taken ill, and was now in the local workhouse.

"At least we shall be able to assist the poor creature," remarked Mrs. Goode in a sympathetic tone as we drove to the place.

It was, like most buildings of the land a huge, ungainly, and uninteresting pile. We were directed to that portion of it which was used as a hospital. Here we found the Spanish woman. She was lying in the centre of a great ward in company with many other of the waifs and strays of humanity. As soon as I saw her I perceived that she was much worn with the toils of her long journey afoot.

"She is very weak" whispered the nurse, "it is plain to us that she is no ordinary tramp."

As we assembled about her bed she looked up at me and smiled. I stooped and spoke to her in Spanish. At first she answered me shyly, and I feared that we should not be able to learn very much. But presently she began to talk freely, and Mrs. Goode was taking notes both of my questions and her replies as I translated them to him.

"We have followed you from Scamden," I began, "and are anxious to assist you."

"I could walk no further," she replied in a low tone.

"You must now rest, and, as soon as you can, leave this place," I said.

"But why have you come here?" she inquired, looking round the group wonderingly, "you must have some other object."

"We wish to be of service to you," I answered, "and in return you can, if you will, be of great assistance to us."

"I—what can I do?" she asked in surprise.

"You can tell us the story of your acquaintance with Mr. Selwyn," I said pointedly.

She looked up at me in a dreamy manner. "Signor Selwyn—yes, what of him?" and she closed her eyes as though thinking over my words. Presently she looked up again and went on, "Signor Selwyn was the father of my child."

"And your child's name is?"

"Alfonso," she replied.

Whereupon I looked up and exchanged glances with the Rector's wife.

"Ask for her own name," suggested Mrs. Goode.

When I put this question to the Spanish woman I was more than half prepared for her answer.

"My name is Borio—Maria Adele Borio. My father was a Spanish grandee," she added with some dignity.

"And his name?"

"Don Alfonso Borio."

"So your son bears his grandfather's name?"

"Yes, I come of a good stock," she added proudly.

"Ask the Christian name of the man Selwyn of whom she speaks," said the Rector, whispering the suggestion anxiously, for he had now become intensely interested in the revelation which was being made to us. But Maria Adele Borio seemed to know nothing more of the man.

"He never told me his Christian name," she replied simply.

"There is one more very important question, and you must not hesitate to put it, Elsie," said Mrs. Goode, "ask her whether she was lawfully married to this Mr. Selwyn."

With some diffidence I put the question.

I think she must have read my confusion, for almost before I had uttered the words in her own tongue, she raised herself on the bed.

"Yes, yes!" she cried, at the same time raising her hands in attitude of supplication, "I was indeed married to him in the church at San José—the good Pedro can tell you that I speak the truth, he is still alive."

"And where is your husband?" I inquired, prompted by Mrs. Goode.

"Ah!" she wailed, "he left me years—years ago and now my son, my dear son, has deserted me also!"

So saying she fell back weeping.

At the suggestion of the nurse we now left the poor woman for awhile. The information we had gained, though interesting, was not complete; and it is was absolutely necessary, so Mrs. Goode said, that we should know more before we started in pursuit of Sir Charles and Lucy Shaw.

"You see the thing we have to be sure of is this," remarked Mrs. Goode, emphasising the words with her forefinger, "is the man whom this woman declares to have been her husband any relation to our Selwyns?"

"Of that there can be little doubt," blurted out the honest Rector. "Surely, Matilda, we discovered—you remember the occasion—that Sir George Selwyn and his brother the Colonel were together in the West Indies, and—and—"

"And therefore it is probable that one of them was the husband of this woman."

They turned and looked at me. Yes, there was scarcely any alternative. The horrible fellow—my brother's friend Don Alfonso Borio, was not only in all probability (as I had already surmised) the son of the Spanish woman, but he was also the child either of my own father or my uncle.

The thought to me was exceedingly repulsive: it chilled me to the very marrow.

Mrs. Goode saw the colour fade from my face. "Cheer up, dear child," she said, as she advanced and placed her arm affectionately about my shoulder. "We have much to learn yet. It would be foolish to jump too hastily to a conclusion in this matter."

Later in the day we returned to the sick woman, and I questioned her closely, but could obtain little further information. It was so many years since she had seen her husband that her description of him did not altogether agree either with that of my late father or with that of my uncle Sir George. She told us that she had met her husband in Puerto Rico, but that they had lived for a short time on a small island some distance away, the name of which she could not remember.

When we inquired the name of the place from which she had sailed for England, she mentioned San Juan in Puerto Rico. But she seemed to be getting somewhat suspicious of the examination to which we had subjected her, and I left her with the impression that there was something concealed—something which might be helpful to us if she would make it known.

Having found suitable lodgings we remained in the village for a week, and during that period visited the workhouse daily, but only to find the Doņa Maria Adele increasingly reticent.

"Perhaps if I see her alone she will be more communicative," I suggested at length.

"By all means," said Mr. and Mrs. Goode; "the woman knowing that we do not speak her language may have acquired an unreasoning suspicion of us; yes, you shall see her alone, Elsie."

As I entered the ward the following day I perceived to my amazement that the woman was reading a letter, and it flashed upon me that it might be from her son, though how it had reached her I could not conceive. She looked up with a brighter smile than I had observed before.

"You are alone?" she said, glancing round.

"Yes."

"Ah! then we can talk."

"You have a letter," I remarked.

"Yes, from my son," she replied, and to my surprise she placed it in my hands. Then I saw that it was no recent one but had been written many months previously, and was in Spanish, and addressed to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Translated, a portion of it ran thus:—

".. This is a horribly cold and foggy country but there is money—plenty for those who have wits. I have found out much about my father—far more than I dare trust to a letter. When I return to the sunny islands of the West Indies I hope to be able to supply you with startling information. Suffice to say I believe that I am heir to a very large fortune. But there are difficulties, great difficulties, and I have a poor tool to work with. His name is Jack Selwyn . . ."

I put the letter down with a gasp. So here was information indeed! Here was the true explanation of the visit of Don Alfonso Borio to this country.

But this woman, his mother, why had she followed him? And I turned from the letter and looked at her. As though she read my thoughts she looked up saying:

"You wonder why I did not await his return?"

"I do indeed."

"Then I will tell you," and she sank her voice to a whisper that the other patients might not overhear: "I was afraid I should lose him a second time!"

"'A second time,'" I repeated, perplexed at her words.

"Yes, Signora, I lost him when he was a baby"

"And you recovered him?"

"I came across the deep sea for him," and she smiled as though congratulating herself. "He could not escape me then—ah, it was long years ago," she continued, "but now, alas! he is a strong man, and I am only a weak woman." Then came a flood of tears, which compelled me to suspend my questioning for the day, and to devote a little time to speak words of comfort to the poor creature.

But these strange allusions puzzled me greatly it was plain that there was yet something for us to learn; some mystery still remaining for us to unravel.

"Did you tell your son that you were following him?" I ventured to ask, just before I left her.

"Tell him! No! That would have been foolish. He would have commanded me to remain at San Juan, and to disobey him! Ah, you do not know my son Alfonso!"

It was clear to me that the poor creature was entirely subservient to her son and, while she lavished upon him all the unselfish devotion of a mother's heart, it was evident that she feared him greatly, so that I could imagine her cringing before his angry gaze. Indeed, if the man whom I had seen at Moorfield should be the son of whom this poor creature was in search, I pitied her from my heart. It was useless for me to attempt to learn more, and I retired to lay the information which I had gleaned before the Rector and Mrs. Goode. The former was greatly amazed when I related the conversation and gave a resume of the letter, but Mrs. Goode only smiled in a knowing way; and it was plain to me, that, though the news was startling to her husband, it was by no means unexpected by herself.

During the following days we met in solemn conclave and constantly consulted as to our best course, at length arriving at the conclusion that either knowingly or ignorantly this woman must act as our accomplice.

"You see," said Mrs. Goode, with a sweep of her hand across the cloth as we sat round the table as though she were mentally sweeping away every obstacle to our success. "You see that we can do no good by retracing our steps. At home, nothing, absolutely nothing can be done. Then the detective police are following in their own stupid way the clues which they actually or in imagination possess. Perhaps they will blunder upon the truth—I trust they may. But it seems to me that our line is quite clear, namely, to take this woman back to the town of San Juan in the island of Puerto Rico and there to await the return of her son Alfonso."

"But my dear, we may wait there forever," put in the Rector.

"There is no fear of that, Theophilus," replied the good lady laying her hand reassuringly on his arm, "mark my words, that young man will return to the West Indies and probably to his mother's home, as certainly as the swallows will return to this place in the spring."

"And you propose?" I said inquiringly.

"That we take our passage at once, and leave England without delay."

I have a half idea that the doctor had a lingering hope that somehow his wife's plans might break down and that he might be permitted to return in peace to his beloved books. "It is wonderful what a hold musty old volumes have on the affections of some people," said Mrs. Goode significantly, with a nod and a smile at me when her husband raised that feeble objection that it was somewhat precipitous to be taking such a decided step as to book our passage.

"Unless it is done at once our whole scheme may be wrecked," said she. "This man Borio may arrive first. No. We must go now."

The last word was accompanied by a very decided little stamp that effectually settled the matter, so far as Mr. Goode was concerned.

"And now," said our energetic leader, turning to me, "we have to bring the Doņa Maria Adele to the same mind as ourselves."

For some time we discussed how this was to be accomplished and at length it was decided I should again and alone visit the workhouse and inform the Spanish woman that we had good reason to believe that her son had left this country and had returned home.

"Of course this is pure guess on my part," put in Mrs. Goode, "but I verily believe it will prove correct."

To my great surprise the woman accepted my message with resignation and even with thankfulness; she told me that she was quite unable any longer to tramp about the country in search of her son, and would place herself unreservedly in our hands.

"Such news is almost too good to be true," exclaimed Mrs. Goode when I returned. "I shall now be able without hindrance to put my theory to the test," and a look of triumph overspread her features as she spoke.

But it is manifestly impossible to hurry the sick towards recovery. For 10 days longer the Doņa Mona Adele remained in the infirmary. During that time Mrs. Goode supplied her with every allowable luxury, thus softening considerably the asperities of the workhouse. The result was that the patient so rapidly regained strength, that, contrary to the expectations of the doctor and nurse, she was able to depart with us in comparative health.

Those who witnessed our departure from Peterborough by the Great Northern express would hardly have recognised in the well-dressed woman the late inmate of the country workhouse.

Arrived in London Mr. and Mrs. Goode left me in charge of our new companion while they proceeded to make arrangements for our voyage. They found that a steamship was sailing for Jamaica in three days' time, and without more ado booked our passage.

The very morning that we started two curious things happened. Mr. Goode was looking down the columns of the "Telegraph" when he remarked aloud, "Ah! this is curious!"

"Nothing to help us I fear," put in Mrs. Goode, whose mind was filled with sundry details connected with our voyage, and who, consequently, did not care much to be troubled with extracts from the newspaper.

"But it concerns us very greatly—as you shall hear," said the Rector, who then proceeded to read to us the following:—


THE SCAMDEN MILL MYSTERY.


Information has reached the police that the two persons who are suspected of having murdered Detective Inspector Megworthy on the Devil's Bridge near Andermatt, in the Swiss Bernese-Oberland, succeeded in making their escape, via Genoa to Marseilles. They were seen while on the steamboat with a party of Frenchmen, but disappeared on reaching the latter port. The French police, however, are co-operating with those sent from England, and there is every prospect of a speedy capture.


"In that case," remarked the Rector, as he put down the paper, "should we not be making a mistake to leave England at the present time. News may come any day of the arrest of the scoundrels."

"But that news will by no means affect the charge against Sir Charles Selwyn's character," said Mrs. Goode firmly.

"But, my dear, if one of these turns out to be Sir Charles himself had the other his—"

"Theophilus, do you trust me, or do you not?" interrupted his wife, turning towards him, and drawing herself up to her full height. "If you have any confidence in me," she continued, without waiting for his reply to her question, "you will accept my assurance that neither the English nor the French police will capture Sir Charles for the very simple reason that Sir Charles did not murder Inspector Megworthy. And if you ask me how I know this, I reply, 'How do I know that two and two make four, and not five? How do I know that I am alive? How do I know that you have a great affection for myself?' These are things self-evident— they prove themselves. And let me answer you, that to my mind—note, I only say to mine, Sir Charles' innocence is as evident as any of these things. But there! it takes a woman to see and feel; men only grope and guess."

After this Mr. Goode became—so far as the charge against Sir Charles Selwyn was concerned—absolutely dumb. Not only was he no match for his wife in polemics, but I verily believe, though he did not at the time exhibit any outward signs of his conversion, that he began to be greatly influenced by her implicit faith in my cousin's moral integrity.

The second curious occurrence took place as we were driving to the docks to get on board the steamer.

Mr. Goode was attentively observing the neighbourhood through which we were passing.

"I know so little of the districts east of the city," he observed: "one meets with such fresh types of face—see, this is plainly a Jewish quarter," and presently—"and this must be a German part."

I glanced out of the widow of the cab as he spoke and scanned the faces of the passers-by. They were mostly toil-worn faces which met my gaze—the faces of our Teuton cousins who had come across the North Sea to swell the great army of "alien immigrants." They hurried by in a continuous stream, and so quickly that it would have been difficult to have individualised any of them.

But suddenly among the crowd I caught sight of one face differing so markedly from the rest, both in complexion and in expression, that it held my eye. Surely I knew that pallid, flabby face, that strange stare! Its owner looked at the windows of the cab as I bent forward with concentrated gaze. He caught my eye, remained spellbound for a moment, and then turned aside and rushed away madly down a side alley towards the Thames.

This was very strange behaviour, for although at the first glimpse I imagined that I knew the man, I immediately afterwards perceived that I was mistaken. And yet he must have recognised me, and the recognition undoubtedly terrified him, or why did he run away? I pondered wonderingly over this strange incident, until our arrival at the docks diverted my attention.


CHAPTER XX.

TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES LEAVE MARSEILLES.

[The Narrative of Don Alfonso Borio continued.]

I HAD always known that Jack Selwyn was a fool, but I soon found that he was indeed a greater one than I had imagined. It was thus that I made this interesting discovery. My companion's freedom among the Frenchmen on board the packet between Genoa and Marseilles, as I have already related, was such as to cause me no small amount of anxiety. At one time, indeed, I thrust my hand into my pocket and grasped my revolver fully determined to stop his babbling.

"Terrible adventures!" he hiccoughed in his half-drunken fashion, and speaking in execrable French, "pardon me, messieurs, you can know nothing of adventures and hairbreadth escapes," and then I listened with bated breath while he gave them an account of his own fall from the top story of Scamden Mill. "Non!" they cried, "we have none of us accomplished such a feat; we wonder that you have lived to tell us so interesting a story."

Thus the feather-brained fellow yarned away; but, happily, to my intense relief, not again reverting to the Scamden Mill business. I was afraid, indeed, at one moment, that he was about to speak of our recent exploit in the Saint Gothard Pass; for the talk drifted to adventures among the Swiss mountains.

However he looked up and caught my eye; and my look, I may say, sobered him a little, for I put into it all the ferocity at my command—and I have been told that my appearance when angry is sufficient to chill to the marrow a nervous person. As soon as he was sober, and we were alone, I took him to task, and told him that if he were pleased to risk his own neck he should not risk mine, and that I had been on the point of shooting him.

"What, shoot me! your best friend!" he exclaimed.

"Bah! you are no friend of mine, Selwyn," I retorted. "We have had business transactions on several occasions, and I rather fancy that the balance of debt lies considerably on your side. Where would you now be, my fine fellow, had I not come to your aid? Who has paid your 'debts of honour' as you call them? Who has got you safely out of the most extraordinary scrape short of murder—if indeed it was not murder—ever accomplished? I tell you, Selwyn, that you are an ungrateful idiot; and that if you do not henceforth obey me implicitly I will just shoot you like a wild beast and take the consequences."

I had not the smallest intention of endangering my liberty or my life by carrying out this threat; but my words had their effect on the craven coward who crouched on a locker at the further side of the cabin.

"I meant no harm, Borio," he whined, "I hardly remember now what I said to those French fellows, and I am sure they must have forgotten my words."

"Not a bit of it," I replied, "they exchanged significant glances at the time, and within the past half-hour I heard two of them discussing your story in a way that made me determine to tell you my mind quite plainly. But now you have to become a total abstainer so long as we are together, for I will run no further risks."

"What, go without wine, or beer, or other civilised drinks?"

"Absolutely. Not a drop do you taste this side of the Atlantic."

"Then I shall die. I cannot live without it."

"Oh, die by all means," I said with a shrug of my shoulders. "Your tongue will then be quiet enough."

I have related this little incident and the succeeding conversation because it lets light on a subsequent event. For some days all went well. Jack Selwyn remained very sober and very discreet in his utterances, and I began to hope that he had really taken my warning. But it is not in the heart of a drunkard to reform himself thus. One might sooner expect the Ethiopian to change his skin or the leopard his spots.

On arrival we had changed our disguises so that no one would have recognised us as the pair who had murdered Inspector Megworthy, and we had found a ship sailing for Martinique—unfortunately a sailing vessel. She was about to depart on the following morning, when, on passing a low casino, I beheld Jack Selwyn (who had slipped away from me about two hours previously) the centre of an admiring circle, as inflamed by liquor he held forth concerning his life and doings.

Unfortunately he did not catch sight of a man seated on a bench behind him, who was straining his ears to catch every word, and who from time to time made notes in his pocket-book.

"You liar! you fool! you besotted ass!" I said when he returned to our lodgings—for I dare not show myself in the casino—"you have broken your word, and you have brought us both into desperate peril." And then I told him of the man who had taken notes of his words.

This sobered him quickly enough.

"What can we do," he asked, his face livid with fear.

"Oh, you can do what you please," I said, "give yourself away after I am gone; but you don't leave my sight till the ship sails."

"But—but, you don't intend to leave me behind?"

"Yes—alive or dead—probably the latter," I retorted carelessly.

This was too much for J.S. The craven, falling on his knees in our little bedroom, besought me, even with tears, to have pity on him, and not to desert him.

How I detested the fawning, cringing cur.

"Get up," I exclaimed, kicking him savagely, for I longed to have my revenge: "We have got to keep clear of these sharp-witted French detectives. They will probably be after us to-night."

"Keep clear of them! But how is that to be done?"

"Not an easy job, I assure you, when once they are on the scent."

"Will they find us here?"

"In an hour or so. Our first business is to pay the landlady and clear out."

"I shouldn't be surprised if there is a paragraph in the London papers in two days' time to the effect that we have been seen in Marseilles," I remarked as we were packing the Gladstones.

"And that will again arouse the English detectives," said J.S. shivering.

"Undoubtedly."

"And it is my doing," he added, with a blank look.

"Yes. I think you will be able to take credit to yourself for having stirred them up again," I returned dryly.

After this Jack Selwyn's hands trembled till he could with difficulty buckle the straps; but whether it was the result of the drink or of the fright I could not be sure.

In ten minutes we paid our bill and left the house. In truth it wasn't a moment too soon, for as we turned the corner of the street I looked back and saw two stalwart gendarmes standing at the door we had just left. It was a narrow escape, and we hurried away to the quay where our vessel was lying ready for the start, in the morning.

"Can we persuade the captain to sail at once?" queried my companion.

"It would be most foolish to attempt it," I returned.

"Then what can we do?"

"Slip on board as soon as possible and hide ourselves."

It was a desperate chance, but it was our only one. The quay was deserted save for a solitary sailor at the further end, and our vessel, the Mignon, lay close to the great stone pier.

"There is no one visible," said Jack Selwyn, as he looked down on the deck.

"Then down this gangway, quick!" I whispered.

We crept on board as quietly as possible, the slight sound of feet being covered by the singing of the sailors in the forecastle.

"Now, which way?" inquired J.S.

I looked round. It was imperative that we should immediately find a secure hiding place; and yet where could that be possible? To descend into the cabin would be to probably come upon some of the officers, and to remain on deck was out of the question, for there was no place of concealment there.

So I looked round, and in a few seconds spied an opening in the deck. It was the main hatch-way, only partly closed for there were still more cases, which stood on the dock close by, to be lowered into the hold. "Is there any way down?" whispered Jack Selwyn.

I went down on my knees and examined.

"Yes, there's a ladder; we can descend by it into the hold."

"Shall we be safe there?"

"Safer than anywhere ashore?" I replied.

The hold was dark. So dark, indeed, that I was unable to see my hand before my face; hence on reaching the bottom we stumbled over boxes and crates and every imaginable impediment, sorely bruising our ankles and shins.

"This will never do," I said, taking some wax matches from my pocket, "we must risk fire, so here goes." And I struck a match.

It lit up the great place with a faint brief glimmer, but enough to show us that there was space for us to hide among the packages of the cargo.

"Here we must remain for the present—till we are well out at sea, I remarked after I had clambered up to a convenient place near the deck, and ensconced myself comfortably between some bales of cloth. I was close to the hatchway, and I had no doubt that we could make ourselves heard when the time came.

"Hand up the bags," I said.

Jack Selwyn did so.

"There, climb up yourself."

Presently he was by my side; and before long we stretched out our limbs and went to sleep.

When we awoke there were sounds of voices immediately above our heads.

"They must have come on board," said a voice, "for they were seen to come in the direction of the quay."

"I do assure you, Messieurs les gendarmes, that they have not yet appeared," replied another voice, and "unless they are here in half an hour we shall cast off, for I must not miss any of this good breeze."

"Are they after us?" quaked Jack Selwyn's voice at my side.

"Undoubtedly."

"And they will find us," he whined.

"No chance of that," I replied; "that is, so long as you keep still."

Presently we heard the voice of the captain as he gave orders to lower the remaining packages into the hold and to close the main hatchway. Faint streams of light reached us as the sailors lowered and stowed away the goods; then the hatchway was closed and all was darkness. After this came sounds which told us that they were battening down the hatch.

"A poor look-out for us," I remarked.

"What do you mean?" said J.S., and I could hear his teeth chatter with terror as he spoke.

"Oh, I only meant that I hope sincerely they will hear us when the shouting time comes."

"Do you think that there is any chance of failure?" And his voice trembled violently as he put the question.

"My good friend, I know nothing, absolutely noticing except that we shall go straight to gaol and thence to the gallows unless we lie still. So pluck up heart and trust to me when the time comes. Remember that we are still near the quay, and must not make any signal until the ship is well out at sea."

Fortunately for Jack Selwyn's sanity—for I verily believe he would soon have lost his reason in that black hole—the ship soon after this began to move. There were hoarse cries above our heads, mingled with the grinding of ropes and other sounds as the harbour tug took us in tow; and in a very short time we began to feel the lift of the waves as our vessel met the swell of the Mediterranean.

Oh, it was a joyful moment for me (and I neither knew nor cared what my companion thought) when I heard the captain give the order to haul in the slack of the rope, and knew that the tug had cast us off. Then I realised that we were at last on the open sea, and that we might very soon venture to communicate with those whose voices we could faintly hear above our heads. I realised, too, that our worst perils were past, and that we might hope to reach Martinique in safety.

"I think we might rouse them now," I said.

"All right," replied J.S.; "let us shout."

And shout we did, but to my horror no one responded until I began to get horribly frightened myself. Then we set to work to hammer on some of the boxes within reach. This was more effectual, for presently in one of the pauses I heard a voice inquiring who was below.

"Let us out of this dark hole," I cried.

"Quick, or we shall die," added my companion in a voice which sounded like a howl of despair.

It did not take the sailors a very long time to remove the covering from the hatchway, but by the time they had got it off I had prepared myself for the catechising which must inevitably come.

"Messieurs, Messieurs! what—is it you, indeed?" cried the Captain when he caught sight of us.

"Here we are, Captain, alive and well," I replied cheerfully as the sailors handed us out. "May I have a word with you in your cabin?" I added, taking his arm confidentially. He seemed surprised, but took me below.

"You have had a visit from the gendarmes?" I began.

"Yes."

"And they inquired for us?"

"Yes, but how do you know this?" and he looked still more surprised.

"Oh, I fully expected them. You see our last night on shore was a trifle lively. We met a few friends and spent the evening at a cafe where some crockery was broken, and the proprietor appealed to the police. You will understand, Captain, that we could not steer a very straight course when we came on board; and so you see we found our way into the hold, instead of into the cabin."

The good-tempered Captain laughed at our story and said he was glad it was nothing worse, as of course he could not abet crime. I had a glass of wine with him, but told him that my English servant was a teetotaller (for I passed as a Spaniard, which indeed I am, partly by birth and wholly by education) and we were very speedily the best of friends.

The voyage was absolutely uneventful. "We found the Mignon to be a slow but safe vessel and we arrived without mishap at the port of St. Pierre in the island of Martinique.

"All our trouble over at last," remarked Jack Selwyn as our ship stood in for the harbour.

"Not yet, not yet," I returned; "it is not well to boast until we are certain; though I naturally hope with you that we shall have no more cause for anxiety."

Nearer and clearer grew the shore until we could see the people on the pier head watching the Mignon as she drew in on the wings of the light breeze.

"Quite a lot of people," I remarked.

"Yes, ships must be rare in these parts," said J.S. Then I heard the first mate remark to the captain that never before had he known so many people assemble to greet the arrival of the vessel.

"What are those?" I inquired of the steward, and pointing at the same time to what looked like a file of soldiers drawn upon the pier. The man had no sooner taken a look through his binocular than he exclaimed, "Bless my stars, what can those fellows want!"

"Who are they?" I asked eagerly, and with a feeling of apprehension.

"They are police, messieurs," he replied, "the Martinique gendarmes, and I am wondering what brings them here. They do not usually meet our ship."

I looked at Jack Selwyn and he looked at me. We understood each other.

"It is fortunate that we changed our disguises in Marseilles," I remarked in an undertone, as soon as the steward departed about his duties, "If we had not done so the risk would have been great."

"Do you really think they are after us?" quaked my companion. He was now trembling with fear.

"Most probably," I said. "You see the telegraph must long ago have brought the news, and the mail steamer would beat us by some weeks. Oh, yes, these fellows know all that is known in Europe."

"And there is no escape?"

"None—but to face it like men. Trust to me and keep your own mouth shut—I will do my best you may be sure."

Thus I tried to cheer and nerve him, while the ship drew up to the pier, and the ropes were cast, and made fast amid much shouting and bustle.

I noticed that the guard of gendarmes was drawn up in such a way that no one could approach the vessel, while none could gain terra-firma without passing through the ranks.

"You have two passengers, Captain, an Englishman named Sir Charles Selwyn, and a woman named Lucy Shaw," said the officer speaking of course in French as he stepped on board. Now Jack Selwyn, although he did not understand the officer's words fully caught the sound of his own surname; and I verily believe would have fallen to the deck had I not caught him and propped him against the bulwarks.

"Don't be a fool," I whispered, "you are risking our lives." Our captain with a smile assured the officer that he had no lady on board; that his two passengers, Don Alfonso Borio (what a fool I was not to give a false name when I engaged our berths) and his man servant, were at hand. They would not object, he was sure, to be questioned.

Whereupon the officer, a pompous and somewhat stupid fellow (as are most pompous people) was with some ceremony introduced to me by the captain; and after apologising for the intrusion, at which indeed I pretended to be highly indignant, proceeded to take down in a pocket-book my replies to his questions. I told him my true name, for indeed it was impossible to avoid this is the captain and officers were perfectly familiar with it, and I claimed to be a Spanish subject. My man servant, I said, was indeed an Englishman, John Jones by name (the captain and ship's officers had known him by his Christian name only).

As soon as these items were entered in the note book, the pompous official informed us that we must consider ourselves under arrest, and forthwith we were ordered to bring up our baggage and to accompany the police.

"Never mind old fellow," I said, as we went below, "I have only one fear."

"What is that?"

"This accursed artificial foot."

"Why did you not get rid of it long ago. You might have dropped it overboard, as I suggested during the voyage."

This was quite true. I had put off this very necessary business from time to time, and now hardly knew what to do.

"Thrust it into the locker, and leave it behind. There, that will do nicely. Now take the key. Capital! They will not find it till we are far away," said J.S.

Thus we got rid of Colonel Selwyn's artificial foot.

The officer of police looked surprised when he saw the smallness of our luggage, for we had only the Gladstone bags; but he said nothing, and we were speedily marched off.

"Do you think we shall be sent back to Europe?" asked J.S.

"Not a bit of it," I replied. "We shall be liberated shortly, with apologies for this treatment."

[Extracted from the Diary of Mr. Wilberforce Strafford, Solicitor.]

JANUARY —. Two things of note occurred this morning. For the first I am indebted to no less a person than the wife of our estimable Rector, who, in a note written yesterday in London, informs me to my great surprise that she, aided by her husband and by Miss Selwyn, has succeeded in discovering a clue to a portion of the mysteries connected with the Scamden. Mill affair.

What is the nature of this discovery she does not say—probably from fear that I might be induced to reveal it to the detectives, whose methods who she cordially detests. But, towards the end of her letter, she tells me that they (by which I concluded she meant the Rector and herself) have decided to go to the West Indies. Now, when the Rector left Scamden, although he told me nothing of his destination, it was commonly reported that he had gone on a driving tour through the Midlands, and I prophesied a capital holiday, for I have always maintained that English people know little enough of their native land. But, when later in the letter I learnt that Miss Elsie Selwyn had accompanied the Rector and his wife I was a little puzzled, for it seemed an unnatural thing for her to go away without consulting me, on whose offices she is, for the present, practically dependent. But the West Indies! this fairly took away my breath. Why the West Indies? Was this what Mrs. Goode meant when she paid me a visit some time ago? Did she hope to find Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw there? The idea was so palpably absurd that I dismissed it without another thought.

The second interesting event which I have to record is the release of Joshua Wilkinson.

This was by no means unexpected.

From the very first it has been clear to me that there was not sufficient evidence against the man to justify the magistrates in committing him for trial. I suspected from the beginning that they felt this, and accordingly I am not surprised that they have set him at liberty. The chief constable, whom I saw this morning, assures me that while he is morally certain of his guilt, as well as of the guilt of Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw, they can do nothing until the disappearance of the two latter is cleared up. So Wilkinson is liberated on my recognisances. My responsibility is therefore considerable; but somehow I feel that I can trust the fellow to appear whenever he may be wanted. In a moment of passion he may have committed the act with which he has been charged, but I cannot believe that he would meanly bolt and leave me to "pay the piper."


CHAPTER XXI.

JOSHUA WILKINSON COMES HOME.

[The Narrative of Maria Rawkesky.]

YES, I have obliged our family lawyer, Mr. Strafford, because he has on several occasions obliged me; and also because I was present when the odious and altogether incomprehensible will of my late brother-in-law, Sir George Selwyn, was read.

"Maria," I remarked to myself—of course unheard by the rest of the party, "You have been grossly insulted; Maria, you have been grievously wronged by the terms of your late brother-in-law's will. Out of his considerable fortune not one penny piece has he left to you, Maria." I continued—still speaking inwardly—"There is some mystery in the whole affair. There is something in Sir George Selwyn's life concerning which you, as a self-respecting woman, ought to obtain further information."

But how was I—I, a maiden lady, aged—(well, I need not record my exact age; it is enough to say that my most candid friends often compliment me on my youthful appearance)—how was I, I repeat, to learn the truth concerning the mystery of my late brother-in-law's life?

On returning to my cottage—a little spot to which I am sincerely attached—I spent much time in revolving in my mind the problem which had presented itself to me at the reading of the will.

At first I could see no light. There were before me facts—plain, bare, hard, stubborn facts, but no explanation of them; nothing to lead to a solution.

"Ah, if I had been married," I reflected, "if Captain Swirchly had only proposed to me, as I imagined and hoped he would (what years since that period of expectancy!), then at the present moment I might have had someone to give me counsel and sympathy." And I paused at this point in my reflections and gazed into the fire, dwelling on the quiet years I had spent since the gallant Captain took to himself another for his spouse.

"Marriage! marriage!" I exclaimed to myself, "why should it be the be-all and end-all, the ambition and the goal of a sensible woman's hopes? Marriage! had it brought happiness to my late lamented brother-in-law? Assuredly not! All the trials and troubles of his early life, as is often the case, had centred about his marriage. All the unexplained things of which I had been thinking, centred about it too. The mysterious disappearance of his infant son—what did it mean? Why had it taken place? Who abducted the child? What had become of him? Was he still alive?" What useless questions! I reflected. There is no possible means whereby I, a maiden lady, could solve these mysteries. There was no person who could—

Stop! there was one—one whom I had known in years gone by and whom I saw sometimes in Scamden Church on Sunday; that one was Mrs. Wilkinson of Hill-Top Farm.

It was long since I had spoken to the woman. Her son, the man now lying in prison charged with the murder of Colonel Selwyn, was, at the time of my last visit to her house, a lad of some fifteen years. I well remember him, a tall, strong-limbed, and good-looking youth; the most unlikely person I should say to commit a horrible crime. But I never liked the lad, for his manners, like those of most of the people of this part of the country, were, I remember, of the free and easy variety. No bowing or raising of the hat, and no standing up when spoken to. No manners, in fact, such as the labouring classes in the south of England exhibit towards their betters, but an independence of manner worthy of an emperor.

Why, the labouring people in Scamden would not hesitate to offer to shake hands with me! Ugh! the idea of my shaking hands with one of these farmer-handloom-weavers—or even with their wives and daughters! And here I must place on record how thoroughly I disagree with our worthy Rector, Mr. Goode. He is for ever trying to persuade us that we are all alike, that we have sprung from the same stock, that we ought not to encourage class prejudices either in ourselves or in others, and so forth. I can only reply (perhaps it is because I have never succumbed to the seduction of matrimony), that my instincts lie in the direction of exclusiveness. Therefore it was a real trial to me to seek an interview with Mrs. Wilkinson. But I felt that do it I must, in the interests of my family, as well as to relieve my own burning curiosity.

The winter sun shone cheerily over the deep snow as I was driven in my pony chaise to Hill-Top Farm. I remember that on the way I was especially struck by the naked gauntness of the high and ugly mill. Alas! now the monument both of the foolishness as well as of the wickedness of my relatives.

Mrs. Wilkinson was at home. It is seldom that the Scamden people stray far from their own firesides. She received me with tolerable civility, if not with courtesy. I noticed very evident signs of sorrow on her face. At first she did not seem very disposed to talk, but as soon as I began to speak about her son she forced herself.

"Ay! t' poor lad's i' prison yet," she said in response to my inquiries, "an' I'm feer'd 'at they'll keep him there while they cop t' others."

"I suppose you allude to Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw," I said.

"'Appen they'll be copped too, but I'm noan meaning them. I'm meaning t' chaps what's killed t' Colonel."

"There can be little doubt, I fear, from what I can learn, that Sir Charles Selwyn and the Sexton's daughter are as deeply concerned in the affair as is your son," I replied.

The woman turned round as I spoke, and fixed on me her keen steel-grey eyes. "Thou thinks so, Miss Rawkesley, thou thinks so, but I know better."

"What do you mean, my good woman?"

"I mean 'at theer's a mistake somewheer," and she leaned on her hands on the table by my side, at the same time looking me steadily in the face.

"Ay, there's a mistake," she said again with deeper emphasis, "an' if ought be done to my Joshua, or to young Sir Charles, or to Lucy Shaw, it'll be murder, I tell ye!" and she raised her voice as she concluded.

"Then—then you do not believe that they are all guilty," I said, with some surprise, I doubt not, in my tone.

"Guilty!" she spoke the word with scornful accent. "Guilty! I guess not! If 'e war thy own lad, thou'd niver think it o' Joshua."

"But my good woman," I said, trying to soothe her, for I was exceedingly anxious to gain real information, "you must acknowledge that appearances, to say the least, are against it."

"Appearances! I care naught for what such as ye call appearances!" cried Dame Wilkinson. "I know what I know, and that's that my Joshua has na done what folks charge him wi'."

"But Sir Charles and Lucy Shaw—"

"An' I'll say t' same o' those two. None on 'em has had ought to do wi' the killin' o' t' Colonel."

"Well, you ought to know Sir Charles pretty well," I remarked, "for you were his nurse."

"Know him! I should thing I do. 'E war nabut a wee bairn when his mother deed—poor thing!"

I thought that I was getting now on the subject of my quest. "Did it ever strike you that my brother-in-law, Sir George Selwyn, Sir Charles' father, had lived an irregular life in his youth?"

But the plain-spoken woman did not grasp my reading.

"I mean," I said, seeing a blank look in her face, "had George Selwyn been a bad man before he married?"

"Sir George!" she said in surprise, "not to my knowin'. Nay, Sir George was steady enough for aught I know. I knawed him when he was a might little 'un. But he warn't like t' young Squire. Theer was never one on 'em like Sir Charles."

Now was my opportunity.

"But what about the elder child?—the child which was stolen?" I asked, giving her a significant look.

Whereupon Dame Wilkinson put on a mysterious air.

"I know naught aboot that bairn," she returned with a shake of her head. "No'bdy knows—unless its auld Mr. Strafford."

But I assured her that Mr. Strafford, so far as I was aware, knew nothing.

"But did you never see the other boy?" I asked.

"Ay, I seed him moor nor once—'e war a little dark un, wi' a face summat like Sir Charles', but wi' divil's eyes, and as black as midnight."

"But both his father and his mother were fair!"

"Ay, that's t' quare part o' it. But I've seed such things afoor. Childer don't allus favour their father, nor their mother, nawthur."

This was true. The unlikeness of some children to their parents both in looks and character I have noticed in more than one instance.

"Can you account for this?" I asked.

But the woman only smiled and shook her head, while she made the following exceedingly rude remark:—"Auld maids, such as ye, allus wants to be knawin'. Sich things is noan fur auld maids."

"But, my good woman," I retorted, "you are no judge of such things. I have a right, an absolute right, as Sir Charles Selwyn's aunt, to know every detail."

But the stubborn woman only shook her head decidedly.

How abominably obstinate are these Yorkshire folks!

"'Appen some day ye'll knaw all aboot it—moor nor I can tell ye," she said.

I was about to reply when we heard the sound of a heavy footstep outside—a footstep which Mrs. Wilkinson instantly recognised, for she threw her hands up with an exclamation.

Then the door was thrown open, and a tall man entered.

It needed no words to tell me who he was, for the features, although now older and more formed, were those of the lad I had known. It was Joshua Wilkinson himself!

How he had obtained his liberty I know not, but I was less surprised at his sudden appearance than at his behaviour towards his mother and at his reception by her.

In our rank of life, or even among the working classes of the Midlands or Southern counties, the appearance of a man just released from gaol would have created an immense sensation. He would have rushed forward with open arms, and would have clasped his mother to his heart. There would probably have been sighs and ejaculations, as well as hurried explanations.

Not so, however, among these self-contained natives of the mountains of the West Riding of Yorkshire.

"Well, lad, thou's coom back," the dame remarked, setting her arms akimbo and turning towards him.

"Ay, mother, home again!" was the reply, as he strode to the fire, with a sideways nod towards myself (how I dislike those sideways nods!), and proceeded to light his pipe.

This was more than I could stand. If I was surprised at the meeting between mother and son, I was disgusted at the son's cool, not to say his impertinent, behaviour towards myself, and accordingly took my departure without delay.

I have since learnt that it is altogether contrary to the habit of these people to exhibit any emotion before a stranger—especially if the said stranger be one of 't' better folk'—indeed among themselves.

On reviewing the information which my visit was the means of extracting, I felt that it was meagre in the extreme.

Except that the elder brother of my nephew, Sir Charles Selwyn, was very dark in eyes and general complexion, and that he was consequently totally unlike his parents, little has been added to my slender store of information; but enough has been gleaned, to make me intensely curious concerning the lost child.

Moreover I have learnt that the Dame has explicit belief in the innocence of all the accused. This is remarkable. Does it spring from the woman's ignorance?

But I must now relate what happened on the evening of that very day. I was thinking over my interview with Mrs. Wilkinson, and also, I must confess, feeling very dissatisfied with the result, when there came a loud ring at the front door bell, and presently I was informed that a man giving no name wished to speak with me.

On going into the hall I saw that it was no less a personage than Joshua Wilkinson.

"What do you want, my man?" I asked (for I always speak to these people in a lofty and dignified tone, with a view to preventing undue liberties of speech on their part.)

Somewhat to my surprise he addressed me in a far more respectful tone than I could have considered possible, and inquired whether I could tell him anything about the West Indies.

"The West Indies!" I exclaimed, wondering why the man should require the information.

"Ay," he replied, "I should like to know summat moor than I knaw now."

He then asked me to show him a map of the West Indian Islands. I was pleased at the young man's intelligence, and remembered that he had been an apt pupil at the National School. So I brought him into my little sitting room, and taking down the atlas I had used so often in my girlhood, I turned to the map of the West Indies, and pointed out the various islands, describing their characteristics so far as I knew them. Then he asked me if I knew on which island Sir Charles Selwyn's property was situated; but I was not able to tell him, neither could I tell him the distance from England, nor the cost of the passage; both of which were points on which he plainly wished for information.

"But do you think that Sir Charles has gone to the West Indies?" I asked, half hoping that he might be able to inform me what had become of my nephew.

"I think naught aboot it," he replied, "I nabut want to be knowin'."

Whereupon I told him that fullest information could be obtained from the steamship companies, and so, after thanking me in his awkward and ungainly way, he departed.

When he had gone I sat for some time thinking over his visit. What could be his object? Surely it was not merely a sudden interest in the science of geography. Then it occurred to me that possibly the man might be meditating a voyage to this distant part of the world, but I dismissed this as impossible, chiefly on the ground of expense.

Where would Joshua Wilkinson find the money for such an undertaking? "Ah! I have it!" I exclaimed at length, "how foolish of me that I did not think of it sooner; he wished to inform Sir Charles (who, as I understand, has fled from justice) that he has been released from gaol."

Had I known at the time what subsequently came to my hearing, that my unfortunate and misguided nephew had not merely absconded, but had taken with him the partner of his guilt and crime, Lucy Shaw, the Sexton's daughter, I should have looked about for another cause for Wilkinson's geographical researches.


CHAPTER XXII.

TELLS HOW THE REV. THEOPHILUS GOODE
AND HIS PARTY WERE SHIPWRECKED.

[The narrative of Miss Elsie Selwyn continued.]

IN a former contribution to this narrative I have related the events which immediately led up to our voyage. It will be remembered that among those events was the apparition of a startled man among the crowd as we drove to the docks. So trifling and so momentary was the occurrence that it had become almost entirely obliterated from my memory. But I have noticed that the great events of life constantly turn on what we are pleased to term "trifles." Such certainly was the case in this instance. The memory of that slight incident was afterwards revived in a very startling and extraordinary manner, as I shall have to relate in its proper place.

Fair weather, considering the season of the year, enabled us very speedily to overcome the usual inconveniences incidental to the voyage down the Channel, and by the time we had fairly entered the Atlantic we were all in the best of health and spirits, and were thoroughly enjoying the invigorating sea breezes.

"We can dismiss dull care and enjoy this complete change without distraction," remarked the Rector, as he reclined in his chair on the first morning when we were all able to assemble with the passengers on deck.

Hardly had he spoken the words when I heard a slight exclamation from Mrs. Goode, and turning my head discovered that she was gazing after one of the stewards who at that moment was crossing the deck. He disappeared behind the funnels, and I inquired the cause of her surprise.

"Surely I have seen that man before—that steward, I mean."

"Quite likely," remarked her husband. "The civilised world is not so large after all, and one is constantly meeting old faces."

"At any rate a ship is not a very large place, and neither the man nor ourselves are likely to leave it for some time," I remarked.

"But there was something about the man's face—I only caught a glimpse of it—which I did not like."

"If you are going to make an outcry every time you see an ugly man, I fear, Matilda, that you will find constant employment," added the Rector with a laugh, in which we all joined, though I could see that Mrs. Goode's inquisitive faculty was considerably excited.

For some days we saw nothing of the Face. Mrs. Goode was not only observant, she was also talkative. But I am bound to record that hers was not the aimless prattle of the person who feels no responsibility for the use of words.

(Forgive me, dear Mrs. Goode, for speaking thus of your cleverness. I know not else how to express the keenness of your insight.)

Yes, she talked incessantly to the captain. Worthy, unsuspecting man! He was charmed with her, and opened his heart freely concerning his ship—of which he was very proud—his officers, and his crew.

"Yes, Madam." I overheard him saying, "there are certain persons on this ship whom you are not very likely to see—indeed you might make a dozen voyages with me and not see some of them!"

"And whom may these be, Captain?" interrogated his fair questioner.

"Well you see, Madam, there is the second engineer, and there are the stokers. The latter come on deck in turns for air, but as they remain forward you will not be likely to come across them. Then there are the cook and his assistant, especially the assistant; why, I had almost forgotten the fellow's existence myself till your question made me think of him."

"What sort of a man is the cook's assistant?" inquired Mrs. Goode, making a shot, as she afterwards confessed to me.

"Well, I cannot say that I should call him a handsome man," returned the Captain with a laugh, "but he does his work well—so the cook reports—and so long as that is satisfactory, looks don't matter."

Whereupon he raised his hat, for we were on deck, and departed to his duties.

That very evening I myself saw the Face which had startled Mrs. Goode.

Our Spanish friend the Doņa Marie Adele Borio had retired for the night, while we had come on deck after dinner, and were enjoying the fresh night breeze, and admiring the ship as she sped along under a brilliant moon. Presently our conversation turned to our plans. None of the other passengers were near us, so we talked freely.

"Our difficulties will begin when we hear of the runaways," began Mr. Goode.

"On that, point I thoroughly agree with you, Theophilus," said Mrs. Goode, "but you must remember that when we do find them, or at least traces, we shall all feel much encouraged."

"That which has troubled me much, as you know," I said, "has been my brother's strange behaviour. Often has he been away from home for weeks at a stretch when I have had some notion of his whereabouts, but up to the time of my departure from Moorfield not a line had I received from him."

"I wonder the police did not summon him as a witness," the Rector remarked.

"Hush!" whispered Mrs. Goode, "what was that?"

We listened but heard nothing save the laughter and the chattering of the other passengers on the further side of the deck.

"You hear fifty strange sounds—sounds you cannot account for on board ship. It is a fact not to be wondered at in a huge body in constant motion on the unstable ocean," remarked the Rector, referring to the ship.

"If they crossed in the usual way," she continued, "we ought to have been able to ascertain the name of the vessel at the shipping offices."

"My dear, you are well aware what careful inquiry I made before we left England," responded Mrs. Goode. "It is obvious that Sir Charles Selwyn would not sail under his own name and as for Lucy Shaw, well, we don't know whether she has crossed with him or not. At any rate, she would also certainly assume another name."

In the silence which followed this remark I distinctly caught sight of a man as he passed from the shadow of the mast behind us, and made his way towards the forepart of the vessel.

"Who can it be?" I whispered, for I had not been alone in noticing the quickly moving figure.

The Rector shook his head, but Mrs. Goode said decisively, "It is the man about whom I was speaking to the Captain this morning."

"And his name is?"

"That I do not know—but I will know it within the next twenty-four hours," she replied.

Mrs. Goode was as good as her word. The next morning she extracted from the Captain that the name of the cook's assistant was Dawkins.

"But why do you ask, Madam?"

"Because I am interested in the man."

The Captain looked puzzled, but made no further remark.

"I do not see how this helps us," said Mr. Goode, when we were alone.

The Doņa Maria Adele was now with us, but she had not been told of the object of our recent discussions.

All at once she turned to us with a little cry, and laid her hand before her month.

"What is the matter?" I asked in Spanish, for she did not yet know much English.

By way of reply she pointed to the figure of a man. He was leaning over the bulwarks in the fore part of the vessel. Somehow his profile, even at such a distance, seemed to be familiar to me, and yet in some ways the face was a strange one.

But the Spanish woman knew him. "Ah!" she exclaimed with a gasp, "to think that he should be on board this ship!"

"Who is it?" I whispered, fixing my eyes on the man.

"My father's former English servant."

"And his name?"

"Tomkins."

"Another 'kins,'" remarked Mrs. Goode, in a tone of suspicion, "the Captain calls him Dawkins."

"Probably both names are assumed," put in the Rector, "and after all, it is no business of ours."

"It is some business of ours that the man was listening to our conversation last night," said Mrs. Goode with some emphasis.

"But are you sure this is the same man," I asked.

Mrs. Goode was not sure and although the Doņa Maria Adele had identified him, her identification gave us no excuse for seeking an interview.

"He is a bad man; do not speak to him," she pleaded.

Then we learnt that some years had elapsed since Tomkins was in her father's service, and that subsequently he had returned to Europe.

"Alas, he led my son, my dear son, into evil ways," she said.

"Had it not been for that man, my dear Alfonso would not have left me."

We saw nothing more of Tomkins until the terrible event happened which it is my purpose now to relate.

"The weather has been better than I have ever known it to be at this time of year," remarked the Captain one evening at dinner, when we were but a few days from our destination, "but I fear we shall now have a change."

Several times that evening did he examine the barometer, and each time with a graver face.

About midnight a tremendous squall struck us. But we did not fear for we had a good ship and the engines were powerful. But when day broke the force of the wind had become terrific. None was allowed on deck, and the loose things in our cabins were plunging about in utter confusion.

Nor did matters improve as the day advanced, and I must confess that we all became seriously alarmed.

As I lay in my berth (for that seemed to be the only secure spot) my mind reverted constantly to Scamden and its Mill; I reviewed the whole of the events which ended with our voyage, and I asked myself again and again whether I still truly loved Sir Charles and my heart replied 'yes—a thousand fold more than when I first saw him.' I wondered whether he had really gone to the West Indies; whether he was accompanied by Lucy Shaw (dreadful thought!) and what was their object.

It was while these thoughts were revolving in my mind, and when the pitching and rolling of the ship had become worse than ever that there suddenly came a shock which jarred the vessel from stem to stern.

Springing from my berth I made my way as quickly as the motion of the vessel would allow to Mr. and Mrs. Goode's cabin. They had felt the shock and were alarmed, but did not know the cause.

"Surely we have not struck on a rock," exclaimed the Rector sitting up half dressed in his berth.

The advent of the captain partly reassured us. "There was no immediate danger," he said, "but it was right that he should inform the passengers that the force of the waves had snapped off the propeller, and the ship was completely helpless."

This was serious news indeed. We had every confidence in the officers; but what could they do in such a storm with an unmanageable vessel.

For two days we drifted before the gale—two anxious miserable days. What the Captain was doing for the guidance of the ship I never discovered, for we were kept below during the whole of that period. I only know that the tempest seemed to increase in violence as the night drew on at the end of the second day, and the Captain sent word to us that we must not undress.

This we took to be a warning that the ship was in grave peril.

"Let us pray for deliverance," said Mr. Goode; so, with the other passengers, we knelt down in the saloon, while the good man said the prayers for those at sea from the Book of Common Prayer. This comforted us greatly, as indeed did brave Mrs. Goode. She went about among the people, a veritable "mother in Israel," soothing here and encouraging there, until from more than one face the look of blank despair disappeared.

About midnight there came a violent crash. It was totally unlike the former one in that it stopped the way of the ship, throwing many of us down.

"Surely the ship has struck!" exclaimed Mr. Goode.

It was too true. The thunder of the waves as they broke over the vessel would have told us this, even if the Captain had not come below with the news.

"If the ship will but hold together I see no reason why there should be loss of life. We have struck on one of the more remote of the Spanish islands, though I cannot now give you its name, for I have been unable to take an observation for two days."

Ten minutes later we were under the lee of the deckhouse, in danger of being drenched by the spray, and indeed of being swept away by the waves which poured incessantly over the vessel. We could just make out that the ship was on the sandy shore of an island. Between ourselves and the land broke line after line of angry roaring breakers, which we could dimly distinguish in the darkness. The passengers were wonderfully brave and self-possessed, with one exception. The Doņa Marie Adele broke forth with piteous cries when she grasped the danger of our situation.

"Oh, my son, my son!" She cried, "can you not save your mother, your unhappy, afflicted mother!"

I tried to pacify her, but she only lapsed into a low, continuous moaning, in which she repeatedly sobbed the name "Alfonso."

Never was a man more unworthy of a mother's love.

"I fear nothing can be done at present," said the Captain, who now made his way to us.

"If the ship holds together all may yet be well. We are on a soft bottom, and have not so far sprung a leak."

Not daring to go below, we remained on deck until some of us were thoroughly drenched with salt water.

Oh! what a long, dreary night was that! But, like other nights, it came to an end at last. Yes, at length our longing eyes detected the streaks of light in the east—streaks which told us not only that the sun was rising, but also that the storm was breaking.

And so it proved. In two hours the wind had dropped considerably, and we were bathed in glowing sunshine. The sea, though still rough, was obviously going down.

"The ship is still sound," remarked the Captain encouragingly. "I shall get you all ashore as soon as the water permits."

The man was as good as his word. As the tide ebbed the ship was left almost dry on the beach, and by midday we were all ashore.

Some of the passengers were for remaining on board, but the Captain informed them that the vessel could not be floated until the next spring tide, which could not occur for twelve days, during which time the crew would have to take out a good deal of the cargo to enable her to be floated.

The island on which we had been stranded, though but a small one, was densely wooded, and there were some hills of considerable size visible from the beach. As neither the name of the island was known to us nor the character of its inhabitants—if any—it was decided to rig up tents under the trees on the shore. The sailors worked with a will, and by nightfall a little hamlet of canvas had sprung up where a tiny stream of excellent water trickled down to the sea.

"Quite like Robinson Crusoe!" observed Mr. Goode as we sat round an extemporised table enjoying our evening meal.

We laughed at the suggestion. "We will hope that we shall not have his experience with savages," I remarked.

Alas! we little anticipated what was before us. The chief mate and six men, all well armed, remained on shore to guard us, while the Captain and the remainder of the officers and crew returned to the ship, for the work of lightening the cargo was to begin at daybreak.

"Good night!" cried the Captain as he left us; "pleasant dreams to you all."

These were his last words and often have they sounded in my ears since that eventful time. As our beds were comfortable, and moreover we were exceedingly tired with the vigil of the previous nights, the whole party were soon wrapped in deep slumber.

The first gleams of light were entering the tent when I was aroused by a noise.

"What was it?" we whispered to each other, for we were all awake.

Then came the sound of distant shouts, and the reports of firearms.

"Up! every one of you!" cried the officer who was in charge of us, "there is something wrong at the ship."

We left the tent in time to see him and his six men disappearing into the grey morning mist in the direction of the vessel, from whence the sounds of conflict continued to come.

After a while all was still, and when the risen sun had dispersed the mist we could see no one on board or near the ship.

For about an hour we remained in a terrible state of suspense. Then the forms of men became visible on the vessel—we could see them quite plainly as they came up from below; but, though their features could not be distinguished clearly, it was evident enough that the figures we saw were not those of the crew.

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mr. Goode. "Can these be pirates or wreckers?"

Presently a dozen of them, leaving the ship, advanced over the sands towards us.

"What are they?" I inquired anxiously as they approached.

"Spaniards, or half-breeds—probably desperadoes," said Mr. Goode, who was examining them through his binocular.

He was right. Never had I been such terrible or ferocious looking men. Their leader wore a large white hat, fashioned somewhat after the shape of a sombrero, and curiously decorated with blood-red feathers. His costume consisted in a shirt which had once been white; red breeches, supported by a broad leathern belt; and boots of untanned leather. In the belt were stuck pistols after the buccaneer fashion, of which one has read in story books, and over his shoulder was a rifle. His followers were similarly though not so gorgeously attired.

"Do any of you speak Spanish?" he asked, speaking in that language, though with an accent to which I had not been accustomed.

As none of the passengers except myself understood the man I was put forward, much to my disgust, to reply to him.

He leered at me in a most repulsive manner when I spoke, raising his hat with a gesture of mock respect.

"Accept my condolences on your misfortune, Madame, and my offer of protection," he said.

"Thank you," I replied, "we are well cared for by the officers and crew of the ship. I would refer you to the Captain."

"Ah, I fear he is now unable to be of use to you," he replied, "for I am the bearer of unpleasant news. Your Captain and his crew are dead."

"Dead!" I cried.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Goode, seeing my alarm.

I translated the man's remarks into English, and as I did so a look of consternation overspread each face.

"Dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Goode, "then that was the meaning of the gunshots we heard."

The man now proceeded to explain to me that he was the master of the ruffians whom we saw before us; that all vessels wrecked on this shore were regarded as their property and in asserting these rights, they had come into collision with the officers and crew of our ship.

"You do not truly mean that harm has come to them?" I cried, for it was impossible to believe that they had all been murdered in cold blood.

"I regret to inform you that we were compelled to use force," he replied with another leer,—"and they—well none of them—will give us trouble in the future."

"But surely you cannot mean that they are all killed?" I gasped, pressing my hand to my heart, which palpitated with my alarm.

He bowed by way of reply.

"All with the exception of this man," and turning to his followers he beckoned to one who stood among them, and whom we had not hitherto noticed.

The man stepped forward with evident unwillingness. His head was bowed as though with shame; his hands were bound behind him.

"This fellow having aided us, has saved his own life—if it be worth saving," he added with a loud laugh and a wave of his hand. As he spoke the man raised his eyes and looked at me.

That face! It was the same I had seen as we drove through London to the docks.

But Mrs. Goode recognised the face also. "Why, Theophilus!" she cried, "this man is the cook's assistant!"

But it was reserved for the Doņa Marie Adele to put a dramatic finale to the scene.

"It is—yes, it is the very same!" she cried, rushing forward after a moment's pause and throwing herself on her knees before the man to the no small amazement, not only of ourselves, but also of the band of desperadoes.

"Tomkins! Tomkins!" she cried in Spanish, "what have you done with my boy—my Alfonso?"

Seeing the astonishment of our party at her unexpected action I turned and interpreted to them the woman's words.

"So this really is Tomkins!" exclaimed Mr. Goode.

"This is Tomkins!" echoed Mrs. Goode.

But I knew better. Now that I could see the man plainly, and was able to look full into his face, the identity of the so-called Tomkins became clear enough to me. For in spite of having shaved his whiskers, in spite of a stubbly moustache, there was no mistaking that stare-you-through look. So, as soon as I had recovered from my own amazement, I turned to my friends with the remark: "Don't you know him? This man is Jenkins, our butler!" but I did not interpret her words to him.

In less than an hour our tents and goods were removed, and we were being conducted by a narrow winding pathway towards the interior. Tropical palms waved over our heads; wondrous flowers bloomed on either side of the road, and green slopes arose ahead of us. After half an hour's march we came to a place at the foot of a hill where the road forked into two branches. Here Andulas called a halt. He looked questioningly at me as he spoke to his men, for he knew that I alone understood him. And on my part I listened attentively, for we were anxious enough to ascertain our fate.

"Divide the party as you have been directed," he said to them with a wave of his arm.

What did he mean? I turned towards the Spaniards with breathless anxiety to see what they would do.

Without hesitation they divided into two bands, and the smaller party advanced towards the group of passengers with a malicious grin on their faces. Turning to me Andulas raised his befeathered hat with mock courtesy, and requested that I would translate his commands to the others.

I nodded assent, wondering what was coming.

"Tell them," he said, "that our dwellings will not conveniently contain the whole of our party, and that you will now be divided into two companies."

I translated his words to the rest to their evident astonishment and consternation.

Beckoning an evil visaged fellow whom he called Antonio, Andulas bade him do his work quickly.

A thrill of horror seized me as the man drew his long knife, and holding up its glittering point, advanced towards us.

But the knife was only intended to enforce his wishes, for he motioned certain of the passengers to step aside, among them being Mr. and Mrs. Goode and the two other male passengers.

I saw a look of anger and alarm on Mrs. Goode's face, but she controlled herself, and we waited with beating hearts to see what would happen.

It did not take long for the fellows to do the work of division. In 10 minutes I, and five of the younger ladies were being hurried up the right-hand path escorted by Andulas and some of his men. I waved my handkerchief to Mrs. Goode as we turned the corner, and she waved in reply. Then with a sensation of sickening dread I turned away. What was before us I knew not, but I could guess and I could only pray that we might be allowed the more merciful alternative of death.

"Why are we separated from the others?" wept my companions as they clung to each other.

But I was unable to inform them, and when I turned to Andulas, who accompanied us with four of his men, he only smiled in a triumphant and malicious manner.

For upwards of an hour we wound in and out among the hills, arriving at length at a collection of rude huts built of pieces of wreckage and thatched with palm-leaves and grass.

"Our dwellings are small, but our hearts are large," remarked Andulas with a gesture of his right hand towards the village, and at the same time laying his left hand on his heart.

"Beg that we be not separated," implored the others. They were younger than I and already seemed to look up to me as though I had been a persona grata with the Spanish desperadoes.

Indeed I begun to fear that as regards Andulas this was true, for whenever I looked up his eye was on me, and there was an ugly sensual leer about his face which horrified and frightened me exceedingly. Still no good could come from any outward exhibition of timidity, and I determined at least to appear to be cool and self-possessed in the hope that somehow help might be brought to us.

But nevertheless, when I look back upon that time and remember that we were half a dozen young and defenceless girls at the mercy of a colony of wild lawless men I am surprised that we were so well able to control ourselves. At first, it is true, some gave way to hysterical weeping, but were comforted when I assured them that I would use my influence and best endeavours in persuading Andulas to allow us to rejoin our friends. Somehow the belief never left me that Mrs. Goode would contrive means for our rescue. I wonder what it is in Mrs. Goode that gives one such implicit belief in her.

"Here you may rest; my men will supply you with food," said the chief, as he stopped before the largest of the huts and thrust back the piece of canvas which did duty for a door. The function was comfortless in the extreme. The walls bare; the floor of earth; a couple of packing cases taken from my ship did duty for a table while there were smaller boxes which had evidently been employed as chairs; a sailor's hammock was slung across one corner and in another lay a pile of rags. In a third were stacked some guns and a keg of powder. The only ornaments were a few ships' cutlasses on the walls.

"Is this—is this the place in which we are to sleep?" I inquired with some hesitation in my tone, looking up timidly at the man.

"Yes, for the present, but you shall have more comfortable quarters in a few days," he replied.

I shrank from him as he said this, and with a laugh he left us.

Towards evening they brought us food from the ship, also some boxes of clothing which had been taken out of our cabins—though mine was not among them. For four days we remained in a state of anxious suspense unable to hear anything of our friends, and with our minds full of gloomy forebodings concerning the future.

During this time also we saw nothing of the man Andulas, and were permitted to wander as we pleased about the place. Once we attempted to push our way through the tangled undergrowth towards the hills which rose between us and the sea, but had not proceeded far when our path was barred by the bright barrel of a gun, and a tough voice speaking in a Spanish dialect bade us return.

It was on the fifth day of our captivity that Andulas entered the hut. He was all smiles—abominable hateful smiles.

"Will you honor me with your company?" he said with a low bow.

I imagined that he meant the whole company, but when he intimated that I alone was the person he wanted my courage well nigh failed me.

"Believe me, not a hair of your head shall be injured," he said, as we left the hut. For I thought it wise to comply with his wishes so far as I could, though a feeling of horror seized me when I looked back and saw the other girls standing in the doorway as they watched me walking away by the side of the bandit.

"Allow me to offer you a seat," he said in soft and polite tones, as he threw open the door of a hut of smaller size but of superior build to the one in which we had been lodged.

I hesitated and looked around. Was there no escape?

"Return by all means to your companions, if you are afraid of me," he said, eyeing me closely, but retaining the smile. Then it struck me that he wished to discuss a plan for our departure from the island, or at least that he would give me some information about my friends; so I stifled my fears as well as I could, and entered.

Judge my astonishment at finding myself in a most elegantly furnished apartment. The walls were covered with pictures—mostly of ships—interspersed with silver-mounted pistols and other weapons. The room had been furnished from ships' cabins and state rooms, and contained a curious collection of articles arranged with taste. There was an inner apartment which I supposed was a bedroom.

Seating myself on the further side of the table and opposite to Andulas I awaited an explanation.

"You see I am not quite a savage," he observed, while he watched my eyes as they glanced round his dwelling place.

"Ah! life on this island would be bearable if we had only an intelligent companion to share the enjoyment of these comforts. But as for my men—ps! they are dogs—ignorant dogs, who care only for food and sleep and—"

He checked himself abruptly. "We will not talk of them," he said, "they are not worth it."

"Can you tell me anything about my friends—the elderly English priest and his wife?"

"They are well and comfortably housed in our Stronghold."

"But, why have you separated us from the other passengers?" I asked, waxing bolder.

Andulas smiled again, one of his most repulsive smiles. "Ah! we had a purpose."

"And that was—?"

"Marriage!" He said this word with a sweeping bow. "Yes, rough as we may appear, some of us greatly admire the fair sex not least your devoted Pedro Andulas. And so we have determined to make ourselves supremely happy by becoming your obedient slaves."

The blood rushed into my face as he was speaking. I immediately arose, saying in as haughty a tone as I was able to assume, "I will rejoin my companions, Signor."

"Pardon me, but I have not come to the end of my story," he said. "I cannot allow you to depart until you have heard it," and placing himself before the door, he motioned me to a seat with an unmistakable gesture. I sat down again and listened, because resistance was plainly worse than useless.

"Yes, marriage is our purpose," repeated the Spaniard. "We have resided here for some years, but no opportunity of taking wives to ourselves has hitherto occurred. We watched how your late Captain provided for your wants, and the ship come ashore; we witnessed the care with which disposed of the officers and crew of your steamer by—well, by methods known to ourselves. Our sole object was to procure wives."

As he said this I shuddered.

"I have five subordinates whose requirements are similar to my own; but Pedro Andulas, being in command, has first choice."

"And you mean?"

"That I have selected you, because you are certainly the nicest looking of the half-dozen. You see, Signora, I have an eye for beauty, and you English girls are undoubtedly good looking."

As he said this he advanced towards me, as though he would place his arm about my waist.

Hardly knowing what I said, for I was terror-stricken, I arose from the chair and replied in dignified tones, "I will consider your offer, Signor. You will wish, I am sure, to extend to me the politeness for which the Spanish nation has always been so celebrated, and will at least allow me time for preparation."

Whether he took this as an acceptance of his proposal I know not, but it was plain that my words and manner completely disarmed the men, for with a bow quite courtly in its sweep, he himself opened the door and allowed me to pass out unmolested. The girls were still assembled at the door of our temporary home, evidently awaiting my return. Though I fain would have rushed towards them I dare not hurry my steps, for was not Pedro Andulas watching me, with the leering repulsive smile still on his face? So I marched on slowly and with as firm a step as I could command.

"Well, what news?" they cried in chorus as I approached. Putting up my finger I enjoined silence until we were within and our curtain drawn, for as I have said, our hut had no door. Then I gave them a résumé of the interview.

Of course they all declared that they would sooner die than become the wives of Spanish desperadoes, but I told them that our only hope lay in temporising with the men, in the hope that meanwhile help might arrive, or that some way of escape be contrived.

The next day I accosted Andulas and informed him that like myself my companions desired time to consider the proposal which had been made.

"I fear that my brave men will not be disposed to grant more than a few days," was his reply.

"And if we refuse—?"

"We shall be compelled to use extreme measures, but if you consent the English padre shall perform the marriages and we will have a glorious wedding day."

He smiled in a way that made my flesh creep.

"Signora, you and your friends shall have one week to make your preparations. After that time has expired there will be no priest to perform the ceremony."

So saying he turned on his heel and stalked away towards his hut, his red plumes fluttering in the breeze.

I could only interpret his final words by concluding that Mr. Goode would be put to death. And, if he, why not Mrs. Goode and the rest? Truly it was a terrible outlook.

The next four days was a period of such awful suspense that as I look back I wonder we retained our reason. Over and over again we discussed our forlorn situation. Nay, many a time we knelt together on that earthen floor and implored that God would deliver us from what would be worse than death. Somehow it fell to me to act as leader to cheer and encourage the others. In this, perhaps, I had learnt something from Mrs. Goode, but never had I a more difficult task. Each night the Spaniards drank the liquor which they had taken from the steamer, singing and shouting meanwhile. Once our curtain was lifted and an evil visage inflamed with drink peered in, but I picked up one of the small boxes and dashed it against the face so that its drunken owner fell back into the road, and immediately we heard roars of laughter from his companions who had evidently witnessed his discomfiture.

But one day more of grace remained, and we were all well nigh in despair when I determined to make an appeal to Andulas to be allowed to communicate with our friends.

Perhaps Mrs. Goode could suggest some means of escape or of indefinitely postponing our reply. At the least she could comfort me under this bitter trial.

Andulas, to my surprise, listened to me with politeness, and after some hesitation granted my request, offering himself to conduct me to the place which he named the Stronghold.

It was a curious natural hollow on the steep side of a hill overlooking the sea, though some distance inland. The place was inaccessible from all sides except from the back, where a narrow passage, which a couple of men might easily defend, led to the hollow.

How I ventured to trust myself with the man in the dark woods through which we made our way passes my comprehension now that I look back upon it again. But none of us know what hidden potentialities or what stores of courage we possess until we are put to the test.

As soon as we turned the corner I beheld a collection of huts similar in shape and structure to those in which we had been lodged. In front of one of them was gathered the whole of our party. They did not see our approach because their eyes were fixed on the sea, and I noticed that Mr. Goode was pointing towards a distant white object which might be the sail of a small vessel.

Andulas looked at it attentively for a moment, and then, leading me forward, with one of his sweeping bows, presented me before the astonished party.

"Elsie, my precious child!" cried Mrs. Goode, rushing forward and throwing her arms about my neck.

The Rector, too, I was not ashamed to say, took me in his arms as though I had been a daughter.

"God bless you, my child," he said tenderly, "we never hoped to see you again."

I took them aside into the tent close by which happened to be the biggest and told them of our terrible position.

"We feared as much," they said when I had finished.

"These men are the scum of the Indies," added the Rector, "and your only chance is to gain time. For of course we are hoping to be able to attract the attention of a passing ship."

"But how can we gain time. If we do not return a favourable reply to-morrow no chance of refusal will be given us, and, what is more, you will be put to death."

They looked at me very tenderly and solemnly as I said those words, and when I had finished no one broke the silence for a few seconds.

"It is a terrible situation," said Mrs. Goode at length, "but there is One who will guide us to a decision. Death would be better than such a sacrifice. But does it mean the death of all?"

And in that dark hut, with the Spaniard standing at the door and looking in upon us, and our friends grouped beyond and falling in solemn whispers, we knelt together on the ground, as the girls had already done with me, and implored the Divine protection and guidance.

As soon as Mr. Goode had finished his prayer—(so earnest was it that there were tears on his cheeks when he arose from his knees)—Andulas addressed me somewhat sharply and asked whether I was prepared with an answer to him and his men.

"Yes, I am quite prepared with the answer to yourself," I said quietly, for somehow I now felt in wonderful calmness, "my own reply—mind you it is mine only—is that I cannot consent to your proposal."

"You mean, Signora, that you will not—"

"I will not become your wife, Signor."

The words came out very distinctly and with marked emphasis. Somehow I felt nerved to face the man and speak bravely.

He looked at me for a few moments evidently astonished at my boldness. Then came a loud coarse laugh.

"There is another course open, though not so pleasant a one," he said. "In that case, Signora, I will allow you no more time before—"

"Yes, allow me one hour," I implored, thinking that he was about to take me back immediately, "one hour only—"

"Not one minute longer," he cried with an oath as he left the hut.

My pen fails me when I attempt to describe the agony of that farewell with dear Mr. and Mrs. Goode. They could not urge me to marry the men, and yet they knew that refusal would bring on me a worse fate—if worse there could be—besides terrible vengeance on every member of our party. Then there were the poor girls whom I had left, and who were now anxiously awaiting my return—ah—!

It is curious to me to remember as I look back upon that one hour, how often my thoughts, yes and my words too, turned to my cousin Sir Charles, and I realised now, as I had never done before, how deeply and devotedly I love him.

The hour had barely expired when Pedro Andulas returned. To our surprise he was followed by the whole of the party incarcerated in the Stronghold, as well as by fully a dozen of his evil-visaged men. One by one they trooped in till the room, which was a large one, was quite full.

"What does this mean?" asked Mr. Goode.

I put the question to Andulas.

"It means that I have come for your reply and must have witnesses," he said with his stereotyped smile.

"You have already had my reply."

"It is one I cannot accept. You will please inform the Reverend Padre that he will now perform the ceremony of our marriage."

A deadly faintness began to steal over me as he spoke, but with a determined effort I controlled myself and translated his words. Angry murmurs immediately arose from the English people, and the two men among them would have advanced to my side had not several of the Spaniards drawn their weapons.

Here Mrs. Goode pressed my hand as if to give me comfort.

"Tell the Padre to proceed without delay," said Andulas in a tone of command, as he placed himself by my side and before Mr. Goode.

"I altogether decline to be the instrument of your wicked action," said the latter.

But as soon as I put this into Spanish Andulas uttered an oath and drawing a revolver cried, "if he does not at once begin I will blow out his brains."

"I yield! I consent! Please go on with the service!" I cried, in an agony of terror, lest the men should fall upon us.

Mr. Goode looked round, and as he did so each Spaniard drew a revolver.

"I have but to give the word and your friends will be shot dead," said Andulas in a warning voice.

"What can I do?" cried Mr. Goode in his distress.

"You take the responsibility for all these lives," I said. "Go on with the service."

"You had better go on, Theophilus. Something may yet turn up," added Mrs. Goode in a low tone. She still held my hand.

So the dear old Rector, taking from his pocket the well-thumbed Prayerbook, from which he regularly said his daily office, began the Marriage Service in trembling accents.

Somehow I felt brave, as he went on, slowly, very slowly, for it seemed as if he were trying to gain time. But even thus the place for the inevitable question arrived, which I had to translate into Spanish for the benefit of Andulas. "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?" with all that follows; and to me in turn had to come to the question, to which I was on the point of answering "I will," though my heart throbbed almost to bursting, when a loud voice at the door cried: "No, never, while Alfonso Borio can hinder," and to my intense amazement that individual, accompanied by my brother Jack, thrust his way through the crowd of trembling passengers and scowling Spaniards to my side.

For a few seconds there was absolute silence in the place, and then the voice of a woman cried in sobbing tones:

"Alfonso, Alfonso, my son, my son, you have come to save us!"


CHAPTER XXIII.

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.

[Don Alfonso Borio's story continued.]

I HAVE now to relate what befell us after our arrest by the Martinique police, and how we escaped from their hands.

They listened politely and attentively to my story, but though I proved that I was not Sir Charles Selwyn (neither did I answer to the description of him which they had received—nor was Jack Selwyn a woman in disguise as they suspected; though for the life of me I could not understand why this should be their suspicion, as though I should be likely to take about with me a woman in man's clothes), still for some reason they were suspicious, and at length decided that we should be allowed at liberty but were to be kept under police supervision until further information had arrived from France.

"Yes in that way we shall just be nabbed," remarked J.S. as we walked along the quay discussing the situation immediately after our release. "That blessed photograph taken at the guard house by the Devil's Bridge will be reproduced over the whole world. By the next mail copies will certainly arrive here, and then—"

I admitted we were in a tight corner. "But things have looked worst so we must not despair," I added, secretly wishing that I could shake off Jack Selwyn and strike out for myself. Indeed had I done this I should have saved myself much trouble, as I shall have to relate.

We found lodgings, and for several days wandered about on the lookout for means whereby we might be able to affect our escape. But which ever way we turned we saw that the watchful eyes of the gendarmes were upon us.

"This will never do," I remarked. "The French mail is expected to-morrow. If the news of the St. Gothard affair arrives we are done for."

After long and anxious consultation we resolved to make a dash for freedom that very night.

"Luckily there is no moon," I remarked, "or escape would be out of the question."

"You remember the road which leads past the Custom House," said J.S.

"Yes."

"Well, I have an idea."

"Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

"Don't be a confounded fool, but listen," he said.

"I strolled along that road yesterday, and saw a small sloop—small enough for two men to manage."

"And you think you could get away in her?"

"Yes."

"But is she provisioned?"

"Oh, of course I know nothing about that."

I considered for some time. It seemed to be our only chance; for neither of us could say what fatal news the swiftly moving mail steamer was even now bringing near to our shores.

"It will never do for us to take the main road to the sloop," I remarked.

"Oh, I don't mind the road," said J.S., with a tone of bravado. "Besides, they don't watch it very closely, as I am only your man servant." This was true. From my more conspicuous bearing, as well as because Jack Selwyn had all the appearance of his assumed character, I was the marked man.

So we arranged the following plan. As soon as it was quite dark we were to leave the house by way of our bedroom window—for to go out by the door, Gladstone bag in hand, would certainly excite the suspicion of the inhabitants of the house; Selwyn was then to proceed by way of the main road to the sloop. I was to creep cautiously round behind the Custom House so as to avoid notice, and thus to gain the road not far from the shore. Each of us was armed with a loaded revolver, and a shot was to be the signal, if either was attacked. The first to reach the sloop was to make ready to raise the anchor—or to cut the vessel adrift as soon as the other appeared.

I waited for a few moments underneath the window, bag in hand, after J.S. had departed. During these few minutes several projects revolved in my mind. First my hatred for my companion being by no means lessened, I wondered whether it would be possible for me to give him the slip, and alone leave the island. But the objection to this was that even if I were the first to reach the vessel I could not work her without assistance.

Another project had to do with the provisioning of the sloop in case there was not enough food. A third was the disposal of the men, should we find any on bond. This latter was a serious matter, and one which we ought to have thought of sooner. But there was no turning back now, for Jack Selwyn had started.

With the greatest caution I made my way towards the sea by the narrow path which led by the Custom House, and had just gained the road without encountering anyone, and was congratulating myself on my good luck, when I heard a shot behind me.

"That's Selwyn's revolver!" I exclaimed.

Then came the question what I was to do. At such times it has always been my custom to consider my own safety. Accordingly no sooner had I heard the report than I hurried away toward the shore as fast as my legs could carry me. This was not very brave but it was decidedly prudent; and, as the event proved, was the best thing I could have done.

Sure enough anchored close to the beach was the little yacht-like vessel of which Jack Selwyn had spoken! Her outline was only dimly discernible in the darkness; however, I could see that she was very small for a lengthened voyage. But there was no choice. A small boat lay handy and in a few moments I had sculled to the side of the vessel.

No lights were visible, nor could I hear the sound of voices, so after listening attentively for a few seconds I clambered on board.

The sloop was ready for sea, a long line being fastened to the shore, and an anchor cast from the bows. My first business was to cut the shore line.

"If that fellow has been caught there is not much chance for me," I mused.

I determined however to wait for an hour. This delay had to be endured patiently; but as it was not safe to exhibit a light the vigil was by no means a pleasant one.

At length a sound as of someone stumbling over the shingle reached me. "Here he comes!" I said to myself. The sound ceased and I gave a low whistle which was followed by the renewal of the sound of footsteps.

"Surely there is more than one pair of feet," I remarked sotto voce.

I was right, for presently Jack Selwyn's voice hailed me.

"You there, Borio?

"Yes."

"Well look out, for I'm a prisoner."

Here was news indeed.

My first impulse was to cut the cable, but as I picked up an axe from the deck for that purpose, J.S. added:

"The police imagine that I am calling on you to surrender and to come ashore. They grabbed me as I passed the Custom House."

"Can you swim?" I called out.

"Yes"

"Then make a dash; once on board we can defy them."

A few seconds later come the sound of a struggle, followed by a splash, and I knew that Jack Selwyn was swimming for dear life.

"This way!" I cried, for I feared that in the darkness he would miss the ship.

It seemed an age before I was helping him up on the side. In 10 minutes we had cut the cable and were hoisting up one of the foresails. But by this time help had arrived for the gendarmes on the shore, and presently the sound of oars told us we were being pursued.

"We must fight," I exclaimed. "How is your revolver?"

"I think the cartridges are dry—some of the chambers are loaded," said he.

The wind had caught us now, but the light boat came up quickly enough.

As we leaned over the stern the pursuers came in sight.

"You take the bow. I'll manage the steersman," I said.

We fired simultaneously, and two men fell forward into the bottom of the boat.

But two remained.

"They must not go back! Kill them both!" I cried.

It took five shots to do the business, but presently they also fell forward with a duet of yells.

"Our list is mounting up merrily," I remarked.

But Jack Selwyn said it made him feel sick.

Whereupon it struck me that some people are models of inconsistency.

No useful purpose would be served if I gave a detailed account of how, with incredible exertions, we hoisted and trimmed some of the sails; how we examined the stores and water, which we found would last us about three weeks, and how we agreed to steer and sleep in turns with meals snatched between whiles.

At first our sole desire was to get away from Martinique; but when morning broke and we were almost out of sight of land there arose the grave question of our destination and how to reach it. We sought in every likely hole and corner, but could find no chart, the only nautical instruments on board being the compass and a barometer.

"This is terrible," I said.

"Shall we return?" asked Jack Selwyn in an anxious tone.

"And be hanged! you fool! No, we must go on until we have eaten all the stuff."

"Go where?"

This was more than I could say. I knew that there were some small islands a few hundred miles away, and that among them lay the one which I had aimed at reaching; but how to achieve this was more than I could say.

"It will be terrible to starve to death," whimpered my companion.

"If you prefer to be shot I will oblige you," I said, taking my revolver from my pocket.

Whereupon he dodged behind the mast, and I returned the weapon to its place; for he would be useful to me, and I could not afford to shoot him just yet.

For a fortnight we kept the same course (I was afraid of cruising about) and as the wind was constant we had no trouble with the sails. Then, getting anxious, we determined to beat to the north for two days.

"You see, at the worst we can attract a passing vessel," I said. It was not until our food was well nigh exhausted, and I had served out the last of the water, that we sighted the land.

In two hours we could make out its features.

"Bless my stars," I cried, "it is—yes, it is the very island I wanted to make. See that hill? That is my landmark. We shall find a village there, and some friends—queer customers, though."

So we ran round to a cave I knew of, and made by a well-remembered path for the Stronghold, as we used to call it (for I had spent time here after one of my "adventures").

What we found, and how our arrival was in the very nick of time, has been related by no less a personage than her whom I still worship with all the devotion of a descendant of the most distinguished family among the Spanish grandees.

[The Story continued by Mrs. Goode.]

IT falls to me to take up the thread of the story from the time when that terrible and odious man Borio with his companion and tool, Jack Selwyn, appeared on the island.

That this event was in the nick of time I must admit for a very few minutes later, either Elsie Selwyn would have become the wife of the Spaniard Pedro Andulas or we should all have been slaughtered.

"Thank God!" ejaculated my husband as Borio forced his way through the crowd and laid his hand on Pedro's shoulder, speaking a few words to him in Spanish.

I was not myself acquainted with the features of the new comer. But Elsie, who was clasping my hand, whispered through her tears, "It is Don Alfonso Borio—Jack's friend."

Andulas looked up at him first with an angry disdain, and even raised his revolver as though he would shoot. But presently he resumed his smile, exclaiming (so Elsie translated), "Welcome, my Captain you have arrived at a happy moment."

"Can it be possible that they are acquaintances?" said Elsie, turning to me in amazement.

At a word from Andulas his men put up their weapons and filed from the building, while Andulas himself went off arm-in-arm with Borio who, to our surprise, did not seem to notice his mother. I thought also that Jack Selwyn would have remained to talk with Elsie, but he slunk out without a word.

As soon as they were gone, the passengers, who had not understood the meaning of the interruption, crowded about Elsie to congratulate her on her escape as well as to ask questions which she satisfied by saying that she formerly had met the man who had rescued her from Andulas. But she made no reference to her brother. "I cannot tell them anything about Jack," she whispered to me, "without exposing him to suspicions in case the true character of Borio should become known. Poor boy," she added, "he looks terribly tired and worn. I wonder what has brought him here?" The rest of the passengers after a time went out; the Doņa Maria disappeared too, and we guessed that she had followed her son; but we remained for some time within the building, discussing the situation. Elsie's main anxiety was concerning the five girls whom she had left. "They will be so anxious for my return," she said.

While we were talking a shadow fell across the threshold and a voice said, speaking in English, "Pardon my intrusion." It was Borio with a profound bow and profuse apologies he entered, and I was able to get a better view of his features than when he had first appeared.

As he stood in the doorway in the glowing light I was much struck by his looks. In fact, but for his nose, which was too long and hawk-like, he might have been termed a handsome man, and somehow he had features which seemed familiar to me, though I was certain that I had never before seen him. It was evident that he had suffered during his recent voyage, but this had neither removed the mock gallantry from his bearing nor the tones of artificial politeness from his speech.

"These uncouth fellows have made it a little uncomfortable for you," he began.

"Yes, we were horror-stricken when you came upon the scene," I said. "Can yon believe it, that villain Andulas was forcing—"

"Yes, yes, I grasped the situation at a glance," he interrupted.

"It was most fortunate that we arrived in time. As it was we feared our expedition would be too late."

"Your expedition!" we exclaimed simultaneously.

"Yes—Oh, I forgot that you would not understand?"

"Understand what?"

"That I was in search of you," he said with a wave of his hand, deprecatory of his late exertions on our behalf.

"But how could this be, young man?" put in my husband in a severe tone. "You could know nothing of our movements."

"Enough to save this lady from an undesirable partner!" he returned, with a shrug of his shoulders and then with a bow to Elsie.

But although we tried to glean further information from our new friend, he was exceedingly guarded and mysterious in his replies.

"I cannot promise that your friends in the valley will have the protection we have afforded you," he said, addressing Elsie once more.

"But if you have any influence with these men you will surely exert it for their safety. They are utterly defenceless and among those who fear neither God nor devil, and who this very night may do something desperately wicked."

"No harm shall come to them—that I do assure you," returned Borio. "I mean that I am by no means so interested in those ladies as I am in Miss Selwyn; nevertheless, I will not allow the men to molest them for the present."

We looked at him in wonder.

"How can you have any power among such desperate follows?" I asked, as wild and vague suspicions arose in my mind.

"Maybe I have been of service to them in the past," he replied.

"And your mother—?"

"Is in good hands with her son. I must thank you for bringing her to this place."

What he meant we did not at the time understand; but his meaning became clearer when we found that the Doņa Maria Adele did not return to us.

"If you are indeed our friend," I said, laying emphasis on the last word, "you will prove your friendship by conveying us in your vessel to some place of safety."

To this he replied with a smile and a shake of the head.

"Alas, Madam, my vessel is so small that it would be impossible to remove all your party."

Information which was by no means comforting.

"I should like to know, sir," said my husband, who had been eyeing the men closely, "what has brought you here. If I mistake not your features I have reason to remember your visit to Scamden Churchyard on the occasion of the burial of the body of the late Colonel Selwyn."

"Oh, you remember me," said Borio, calmly. "I am not surprised. My features are somewhat difficult to disguise. Ha, ha!"

"Presuming that I am not mistaken in assuming your complicity in that mysterious affair," continued my husband, "may I ask, before we confide ourselves to your care, that you will explain to us how you became connected with Sir Charles Selwyn in that unfortunate business?"

I noticed that Don Alfonso opened his eyes rather wide when Sir Charles Selwyn's name was mentioned.

"Sir Charles," he began with some hesitation, "Ah, yes, it was very sad; but Jack Selwyn and I were bound to do as he asked."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you see he had a grudge against his uncle something to do with the Mill, I imagine. They came to words in the top story of the building and Sir Charles pushed him out."

I looked at Elsie. Though as pale as death itself she did not speak.

"And your part?" I said.

"My part was simple enough. He asked his cousin and myself to help him to hush the matter up. This we did—so far as we were able. The midnight funeral was the consequence, and—"

"But Sir Charles was standing by my side during that funeral!" interrupted my husband with indignation in his voice.

"Ah, my dear sir, that was part of the dodge. Sir Charles knew what he was about. He was cleverer than you imagined."

"Impossible! why he helped me to dig up the body of the supposed Andrew Rawlings!"

"Clever, devices clever! But things at length grew too hot for him, and he—and he—"

"He what?"

"He committed suicide!"

"Suicide, where?"

"In London. Hanged himself, at least so the police say."

"But how do you account for the disappearance of the girl Lucy Shaw?"

"Borio looked at me steadily for a moment ere he replied.

"I know nothing of this girl—nor of her disappearance. What has she to do with the matter?"

"Nothing—nothing at all, so far as we are aware," I broke in. "Let me assure you, Don Alfonso, that we have every reason to believe both in Sir Charles Selwyn's innocence and also in his present existence. But for those beliefs we should not now be on this island, for we are in search of Sir Charles."

Borio's face was a study as I spoke these words.

Amazement, cunning, and anger intermingled there in so curious a fashion that it instantly flashed upon me that his whole story was a fabrication.

Looking at Elsie I perceived such sorrow in her face as made me almost wish that we had not seen Borio and yet, had he not appeared, she would now have been the wife of Andulas. Nay, unless Borio had more influence among these desperadoes than we are aware of, she, like the rest of us, was still in their power.

"But then, what was Borio's position on the island?"


CHAPTER XXIV.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

[Don Alfonso Borio's story continued.]

"THIS is the queerest mix up in the whole affair."

"It is."

"And we are in a regular hole."

"We are."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Don't know—can't make up my mind."

"But surely, Borio, you do not intend to let things drift?"

"I wish to goodness they would—away from this beastly island."

"What, tired of it already? You told me that you had lived among these fellows."

"Ah that is true, Selwyn, but that was before I had tasted the sweets of what you call 'fast life.' Your English racecourses, for instance, have now a wonderful fascination for me."

"Our disposal of Megworthy and Co. will forever hinder our return to such things," and Jack Selwyn sighed.

"Yes, we should be spared like rabbits," I said.

"And what about Elsie?"

"Oh, I suppose you've no objection."

"Not the least—she's a good sort of sister, and will no doubt make you an excellent wife."

"You are right, Selwyn; and the old fellow—Goode, do you call him? can tie the knot."

"He will object."

"So will she. Andulas found that; but we can manage them both."

"And what about Andulas?"

"All that is a more difficult matter."

"Has he given up his claim?"

"I'm a little doubtful about it."

"Better make sure."

"There's no making sure with Andulas—short of a bullet. He was always a slippery customer."

"Then what do you intend to do?"

"Well, you see, in the first place, there is no hurry, as these people cannot get away; in the second place, time works wonders, and if I can win your sister's affections the path will be made smoother; then, thirdly, and this is perhaps more important—something may happen to Andulas, in which case the coast will be cleared."

Jack Selwyn looked at me gloomily for a few seconds. "You're desperately fond of shooting," he said.

"I enjoy it, my dear fellow! One must keep one's hand in, you know," and I gave him a meaning nod.

Whereupon he looked more gloomy than ever.

"How many years is it since you left this island?" he asked presently.

"Five."

"Has Andulas acted on your behalf during the whole of that time?"

"Yes."

"And he is not very pleased at your reappearance?"

"Oh, I suppose not, but beggars cannot be choosers. He is aware that I know only too much concerning his career to allow him to make any fuss."

This conversation took place between myself and Jack Selwyn the day after our arrival on the island. It will be seen therefrom that things were not in an altogether satisfactory state between myself and Andulas as regards Elsie Selwyn. (It is still a pleasure to me to call her by that name.) Although, for the time, he and his men had relinquished their claim to the six girls, it was with a bad grace, and I had begun to fear that mischief would follow.

It was plain to me that my first effort must be made with Miss Selwyn. All the passion of the Spanish blood in my eyes seemed now to be aroused by this fresh and unexpected sight of her. She was dependent on me for her safety, and would therefore be the better disposed to give me a patient hearing. If Alfonso Borio did not know how to woo the fair sex, he had been grossly maligned in the Spanish West Indies. But he must be cautious—very cautious.

"There is another disquieting matter," said Jack Selwyn, when I came across him later in the same day.

"What is it?"

"Jenkins is on the island."

"You don't say so!"

"True as gospel—I've seen him."

"But how did he get here?"

"Came in the steamer along with the rest."

"As their servant?"

"No, as cook's assistant."

"How do you know this?"

"Told me himself."

I walked on, meditating. Here was a new factor in the problem. The man that knew more about the Scamden Mill affair than any one living, except ourselves—

"What a blessing he knows nothing about the Devil's Bridge business," I thought to myself. At any rate he might prove useful in the present state of affairs.

The next day, having discovered that Miss Selwyn had been permitted to return to her young friends in the hamlet, as we termed the cluster of huts among the hills, I determined to play my first cards. Accordingly I informed Andulas that although I had been absent for five years I should now resume the reins of government.

He muttered something about the unfairness of my return after so long an absence.

I then told him that while on the island I intended to be master; in my absence he was my vice-regent.

"So long as you give what we want, I care not," he replied carelessly.

"What more do you want than a few profitable wrecks?" I asked.

"Wives."

"And wives you shall have. But there's a right way of getting them and a wrong," I said. "Leave the matter to me, and wives you shall have."—my plan being to secure the charming Elsie Selwyn for myself, when he and the men could do as they pleased with the rest. "You are in too great a hurry, my good fellow," I continued; "let me try my powers of persuasion. Get down to the ship, and see that her hold in cleared out completely. There is enough cargo in her for a king's ransom, and another storm will break her up completely."

With a shrug of the shoulders Pedro Andulas departed, and as soon as he was out of sight among the trees I made my way to the hut in which he had told me I should find the young women.

A figure was standing in the doorway as I came down; it was Miss Selwyn.

"I wish to thank you," she said, with the charming frankness of English girls, "for your kind intervention on my behalf yesterday. I was so terribly upset that I forgot to do so at the time."

"My influence, I fear, is not so very great here," I replied; "but I will do what I can to protect you and your companions," and I bowed to the ladies within the hut. "My object in coming here is to talk things over with you; may I—"

"Oh yes, come in," they said in chorus, and presently I found myself seated on a deal box at the end of a rough table and surrounded by six good-looking young ladies anxious to learn their fate.

It was an inspiring moment, and I flatter myself that I rose to the occasion.

"Ladles," I said, "I come as your rescuer! The discomfort of your present position touches me greatly. You see in me one who above all things prides himself that he is a gentleman, uniting in his own person (here I laid my hand on my heart) all that is noblest of Spanish and of English blood. Ladies, I am your most humble and devoted servant!"

"Will you take us to our friends?" they asked anxiously.

"Certainly I will, but I fear there are inevitable conditions." Then turning to Miss Selwyn—"I have had the honour of residing as a guest in your house in England. Will you allow me an interview alone?"

"Certainly, if it will forward your object," she replied, by no means suspecting my design.

Whereupon we retired to Andulas' dwelling and there I unfolded my scheme.

In brief it was this. If she would favourably consider my proposal of marriage. I would at once deliver her from Andulas and would use every effort to secure the safety of her friends until they could be removed from the island. I assured her that I was sincerely anxious to befriend the shipwrecked party, and had heard with horror of the murder of the officers and crew. If she would but accede to my wishes all would be well, both for herself and for those in whom she was interested.

I am grieved to record that the teardrops trickled slowly down the fair cheeks of my visitor as I made my declaration of affection. And when I had done she answered not a word.

"Do you not think that you can learn to love me?" I put this question in the tenderest accents at my command. Then she looked up, and there was a flash in her eye such as I had never before seen.

"You are asking the impossible, sir," she replied.

"Then you love another?"

"That I decline to say."

"But your happiness—nay, your life—depends on your answer. Surely you would sooner be my beloved bride than the squaw of Andulas?"

"But why should you force on me this alternative?"

"Because I am deeply in love with you," I returned. "Now listen, Miss Selwyn, to the voice of reason. You must marry me or you must marry Pedro Andulas; the choice, I repeat, is inevitable. If, on the one hand, you elect the former course—which I again assure you will be for your happiness—and I need hardly add that you will not he asked to remain on this wretched island—all will be well with yourself and your friends, and the rest of the passengers—though there may be some difficulty with regard to the young ladies in the hut down yonder. If, on the other hand, you reject me you will he claimed by Andulas; and in that case you could hardly expect that I should exhibit much consideration for your friends."

"Can you find it in your heart to treat me thus?" she exclaimed, and again the tears, to my distress, coursed down her checks.

"I regret the necessity—to grieve you is far from my wishes," I replied.

"But give me time to consider your proposal," she asked anxiously.

"Gladly; you shall have a week."

"And I may see my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Goode?"

"Certainly, as often as you please."

"And the girls—may they be liberated?"

"Ah! that might incense Andulas and his crew. No, they had better remain here until you have accepted me as your husband." She shuddered as I spoke these words.

As I watched her slowly making her way back to the others, it struck me that our marriage would be like mating heaven and hell, light and darkness, good and evil; and the thought was borne in upon me that if she were mine I must lead a new life.

Nay, for a few moments a pang of repentance for the terrible past, and an intense longing for better things, came upon me and I could have knelt before her, abasing myself to the dust, to implore her to take me by the hand and to lead me to all that is noble and good and true, but—

Bah! what silly thoughts come to one at times, and never a notion more silly than this; never one more impossible of fulfillment. No, I was for ever forced by some power to work out my Fate. What it is in me that makes me what I am I know not. Am I the victim of an hereditary tendency? Is this derived from my English forefathers? Then my deeds are surely the working of a resistless Fate.

And yet, is Fate so resistless?

After she had gone another person claimed my attention. I refer to Jenkins.

I was on my way back to the Stronghold when we met.

He tried to slink among the undergrowth, but I was too quick for him. Certainly he was considerably changed in appearance, but as there was no one else on the island answering to his description I felt satisfied that he was my former accomplice.

"Don't run away from an old friend," I cried, "Tell me how on earth you managed to get here?"

"I came in the ship as cook's assistant."

"You were up to some of your old tricks, I'll be bound, before you went on board."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Mr. Jenkins, that you have mischief in your eyes, and that mischief has ever been your occupation—and ever will be."

"I have an apt pupil."

"Ha, ha! sometimes the pupil outstrips the master, eh?"

There was a look of gloomy moroseness on Jenkin's visage as he replied, "I want none of your 'umbug, Borio, but I should like to know how you got 'ere?"

Whereupon, to satisfy the fellow, I concocted then and there a new and brilliant version of our doings from the day on which we had strung up Sir Charles Selwyn. Jenkins listened with a sour expression, and when I had concluded with a graphic and highly-coloured description of our landing on the island and the rescue of Elsie Selwyn from Andulas, he looked up with the question, "Did you see the newspapers after you had disposed of Sir Charles?"

"No; you see we got off as quickly as possible."

"And you didn't see the report of the inquest on his body?"

"No," said I, "but I am glad to learn—"

"Don't be in too great a hurry, Borio; there was no inquest. I watched the papers closely."

"Then you infer—?"

"That you had better have taken my advice and shot him straight away. Sir Charles is alive."

"You don't say so? Well, at any rate, we are well out of his hands here."

"We will 'ope for the best," said Jenkins, drily.

"I suppose our hanging machine failed?"

"I know nothing about that. You will know full details some day."

As he said this he turned aside among the trees. An impulse came over me to shoot him then and there, and I had almost withdrawn my revolver from my pocket (where it always lay ready loaded), but it struck me that more information might be got out of the man, and so I let him go.

"You cannot get far away, my gamecock!" I remarked, as his form disappeared among the undergrowth.

"Jenkins is not a fool," observed, the voice of Jack Selwyn behind me.

Startled, I turned round. "What are you doing here?" I asked with a rising feeling of anger.

"Wandering about and learning whats what and who's who. I say, Borio, what do you keep in those boxes—the great iron-bound ones, I mean, in the cave behind the Stronghold?"

"Hold your tongue, and don't ask questions," I said sternly. For I was in no mood for trifling.

"Andulas tells me that they contain money and plate. Where did you get it?"

"Well, what if they do?" I said, ignoring the latter half of the question—my suspicions suddenly aroused.

"Oh, nothing. I merely wondered what you intended doing with it," he replied.

I paused for a moment, and then slowly drew my revolver from my pocket.

J.S. watched me with an expression of terror.

"Borio, good Borio, you will not harm me!" he cried, clasping his hands.

"My friend," I replied in my blandest tone. "It is plain to me that you are becoming too well acquainted with my secrets; and as there is neither law nor policemen on this island, I certainly do propose to shoot you dead in a very few moments."

With a howl of despair the fellow threw himself on his knees before me, grovelling to the very dust as he implored me, in accents of almost abject despair, to have mercy on him.

Now it must not be thought that I was very wishful to have on my head the blood of Jack Selwyn; but the opportunity of giving him a wholesome and excellent fright was too good a one to be lost.

"Have you anything to say before you die!"

"Yes, Borio, i will tell you all, but spare me?"

At this I pricked up my ears afresh.

"Tell me all! what do you mean?"

Looking up apprehensively at my revolver, which was about a foot from his skull, he replied in piteous accents, "Indeed, Borio, I will reveal the whole plot."

"Out with it, then!" I exclaimed, my curiosity thoroughly aroused.

"It was Jenkins's fault. He suggested it, I mean."

"Suggested what?"

"That we should divide the contents of the chest."

"Who?"

"Jenkins, Andulas, and myself."

"And your scheme?"

"Was just this. We had arranged to kill you and the passengers, with the exception of the girls. This would leave us with fewer mouths to feed, and Andulas would then be in command. Somehow he has taken a dislike to you. Jenkins and I were to have our share if we supported him loyally.

"When was this interesting business to come off?"

"To-morrow night when the moon rises."

"Look here, Selwyn," I said, "you have played the fool long enough. Either you now play the man, or you receive your richly deserved reward in the shape of a bullet in the brain."

"I will do whatever you wish, but spare my life!" he whined, looking up beseechingly into my face as he crouched on the ground.

"I cannot trust you," I said, "but you will be useful, and can soon be shot, if need be. Now hand over your revolver."

He did so. Why he had not attempted to use it I can only account for by supposing that he was well nigh paralysed with terror. As soon as the weapon was safely deposited in my own pocket I told him to rise.

"There is a spot in these woods where we can talk over these matters, friend Selwyn," I remarked.

He followed me like a dog, and we were soon seated in discussion, and to all appearance as friendly as though I had never held a revolver to his head.


CHAPTER XXV.

THE DAWN BREAKS.

[From the Diary of Mr. Wilberforce Strafford.]

APRIL 2nd. It is now three months since anything was done in the matter of attacking the Scamden Mill mystery. The police do not despair that light may dawn from some unexpected quarter, but the lapse of time has at least not made them more sanguine. I am greatly puzzled at the prolonged absence of the Rector, Mrs. Goode and Miss Selwyn—the more especially as I have not received a line from any of them. I am distressed that nothing has happened which clears up the disappearance of Sir Charles Selwyn and the sexton's daughter. But beyond all this I am grieved—profoundly grieved that the man for whom I consented to be bound has left the country, thereby going far to acknowledge his guilt. I speak of the flight of Joshua Wilkinson.

Whither he has gone no one knows; though Miss Rawkesley has told me a strange story of his visit to her for information about the West Indies and this on the very evening of the day on which he was liberated from prison.

Then there is the fact that young John Selwyn (the late Colonel's son) has in turn disappeared from Moorfield; that he went away with a stranger of Spanish extraction named Borio on the very night of his father's curious burial; and that he has not since been heard of.

I must add that his absence did not excite attention at first, for he is seldom long at home, being a young man of loose and dissolute habits.

Last, but by no means least, was the terrible news that Sir Charles and his disguised accomplice had murdered Megworthy, the detective, among the Swiss Alps. This was awful news indeed, and a terrible shock to me.

There seems to have come a strange and complete collapse in the morals of the Selwyn family—and indeed of this parish of Selwyn generally; and I am half inclined to believe that there is something after all in the Rector's pet theory of heredity.

These matters have been so much upon my mind of late, that although, as a solicitor of experience I ought to know better, the anxiety has produced sleeplessness and consequent ill-health.

"Go abroad for a month or six weeks and forget all about it," said my medical man.

I fenced him for a while; but he is right; and to-morrow I leave for Switzerland and a complete change.

Andermatt—a week later. So astounding is the discovery that I have made that I can hardly credit my senses. Yet, it is a fact that Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw did not murder Detective Megworthy.

It was only yesterday that this was made known to me, and I can only believe that my coming to Switzerland and to this spot was providentially ordered.

I was in conversation with the officer in charge of the battery commanding the pass leading over the Devil's Bridge not far from this place. I found that like myself he was an ardent photographer; and he informed me that he had constantly photographed tourists who passed his post. I told him that I had understood that he had photographed the two persons who were supposed to have murdered Inspector Megworthy with his companion and a Swiss guide only a few months previously.

"Yes," he replied, "that is true, and I will show you the originals."

Whereupon he brought out, not as I expected, pictures of Sir Charles Selwyn and Lucy Shaw, but of John Selwyn of Moorfield, and a tall dark man not unlike Sir Charles, but of decidedly more foreign appearance. At once I concluded that Jack Selwyn (for so he is usually termed) must have had some reason for murdering the detective and this led me back to the conclusion that it was possible that he might in some way be connected with the death of his father.

Last night I wrote to the English detectives in the hope that if they were still groping in the dark, and are under the impression that Sir Charles and Lucy Shaw are guilty of Megworthy's death, my discovery may set them on the right track. It was, however, only fair to say that there was a considerable lack of clearness about the officer's photographs, and this would doubtless be intensified in the printed copies which is understood, were circulated among the police.

[The narrative of continued by Mrs. Goode.]

I HAVE now to record certain strange and most significant events.

The first was two days after the advent of Jack Selwyn and his friend Borio.

Being anxious to know whether Elsie and the girls could not return to us, and further, if there was any prospect of our being able to leave the island, I accosted the latter while he was employed in the Stronghold (which I learn is the name given by the men to our present quarters), and asked the favour of an interview.

As soon as Borio entered our hut I was struck by his extraordinary likeness to Sir Charles, though it was a likeness more of features than of expression. And yet the features were by no means pleasant ones to look upon, for they lacked the open manliness which was so conspicuous in Sir Charles' face, and substituted something which was sly, sinister and intensely repulsive.

"I trust you are not being inconvenienced by your enforced stay on the island?" he began politely.

I assured him that though we were wishful to depart as soon as possible we were not experiencing great discomfort. "But," I added, "we are extremely anxious that Miss Selwyn and the other young ladies who have been removed from us should return hither immediately."

At this he smiled after a saturnine manner, and assured us that all would be well with our young friends. But I felt as he was speaking that he was not to be trusted.

Then he looked at me for a few seconds as though he would put to me a question.

"I should be glad to know why you came to the West Indies?" he interrogated suddenly.

"There is no secret about it," said my husband, "we are in search of Sir Charles Selwyn."

"I suspected as much."

"Are you able and willing to aid us?"

"I could perhaps give you some information which would astonish you."

We looked at him attentively, wondering what was coming.

"Do you see any resemblance to me in Sir Charles Selwyn?" he asked, turning towards us.

I told him that I did.

"And you may possibly be able to guess the reason," he continued, with a significant nod. "I am Sir Charles Selwyn's elder brother."

Now, although this was astounding news to the Rector, somehow it did not so thoroughly startle me as might have been imagined. In fact, I was prepared for something startling.

"Such a statement as the one you have just made sir, requires proof," said my husband with a shake of the head; whereupon Borio bowed and said with a smile.

"Ah, there are things which one has to accept on trust. You may take my word for it that I am truly the brother of the man you seek."

"And the woman who came with us—is she indeed your mother?" I asked.

"She tells me so."

"Then your father was a bad man, whoever he might be," said the Rector severely.

"I conclude that he was a certain Sir George Selwyn," remarked Borio in a sneering tone, as he turned and left the building.

The second event was of a different character. It happened at the midnight after the conversation above recorded.

The Rector and I had been allowed to occupy a small hut some distance from the others. On this occasion we had talked for a very long time concerning the misfortune that had fallen on us when a slight sound at the door aroused us.

"Who is it?" cried the Rector.

"Hush," whispered a voice. "It's Jenkins—open the door, I have important news!"

"Are you alone?" we asked, for it was quite dark.

"Yes, or I should not be 'ere," returned Jenkins, in his semi-Cockney drawl.

"Well, tell us without delay why you have come," I responded in a sharp tone of voice, as soon as he entered.

"Gently, gently, Mrs. Goode," he replied, "you'll be glad of this visit when you 'ear more."

"Well?"

"Do you and the reverend expect to leave this island alive?"

"Is there any doubt about our leaving it?"

"Certainly there is. Unless you do as I bid you, you'll not be alive a week to-day."

This was horrifying news, but he went on to tell us that Borio had quarrelled with Jack Selwyn, Andulas, and himself. That Borio, being determined to marry Elsie Selwyn, had bargained with her brother that together they should induce her to go on board the sloop, when they would sail and make for another of the tiny islets in these seas; a place, said Jenkins, seldom visited, and where the Spaniards had a large reserve store of provisions.

"I should 'ave a bullet through me before I could wink if Borio knew what I was saying now," added Jenkins. "And, what's more, me, Selwyn, and Andulas 'as a plan to do for Borio this very night; but I think this little scheme o' mine is a better one."

Alas, little did the man know what would be the result to himself of his treachery to Borio.

"And what do you advise us to do?" asked the Rector in on anxious tone.

"Come aboard the sloop. It's a small vessel, but if you can put up with inconveniences there is room enough, and we've got water and provisions on board as well as a bag of coin—but that's mine. Miss Selwyn will be brought by her brother—not that 'e deserves it. Borio is not to turn up till near dawn, but we will start a little too early for him."

"But where will you take us?" I inquired.

"Anywhere—so long as it is away from this blessed island. We can soon get into the track of vessels and if the worst comes we can make for the little island I've just told you of, and wait there for a ship."

"But if Borio should follow—?"

"'E cannot. They had a vessel at one time, but it was smashed in a gale. When the sloop is gone they will be like rats in a trap. That's what Andulas and his Spaniards have been like for three or four years. Now, Borio 'll be caged along with them. And, you see, they dare not make a signal to attract a passing vessel, for fear their doings will be found out."

As drowning men catch at straws, so we caught at Jenkins's proposal. It was plain that unless we made use of this time of disagreement among our foes a reconciliation might come and we should be in a most hopeless position.

It was agreed therefore that Jenkins should guide us to the sloop, near which we were to remain until he had fetched Elsie and her companions; for we told him that nothing would persuade us to desert them. As for the rest of the passengers, it was arranged as the sloop could not possibly accommodate them we should ask the captain of the ship, which we hoped would rescue us, to call for them or send help as soon as possible. As neither Borio nor his men slept in the Stronghold we were able to slip into the other huts and inform the others of our plans. They agreed that for the sake of Elsie and the other girls the attempt must be made. With many good wishes and fervent prayers for our success we parted from them, and in the earliest part of the small hours made our way under the stars and through the wood down to the shore of a little inlet in which lay the sloop.

"She is ready for sea," said Jenkins, "and as soon as I return to you with the young ladies which will be in about two hours time—I will get you on board."

For two long weary hours we waited and watched, while the stars seemed to look down on us in intense pity. At length came the sound of footsteps and presently Jenkins arrived in company with no less a person than Jack Selwyn. They were followed by Elsie and the five girls. Not many words passed, for we all felt that we were in the presence of a grave crisis.

"You will take me with you," whined Jack Selwyn, approaching my husband. "I should not like to be separated from my dear sister and besides, Jenkins will want assistance in working the ship."

We turned from him in disgust and proceeded to embark by means of the small boat which lay on the beach. Some of us were altogether unaccustomed to the exercise of involved in climbing up a ship's side; but such was our position that we could not stick at trifles, and in less than half an hour we were all safely on board, and the sloop was drifting down the tide. Fortunately for us the wind was off shore, so that when sail was made in the fore part of the vessel we were able to steer clear of the banks. For had we taken the ground this narrative might never have been penned.

It was just when we were passing a jutting rock at the entrance to the inlet that the sound of shouts reached our ears.

"They are after us," muttered Jenkins, who was at the helm, as he looked back over his shoulder. "Here—Mr. Goode, help me to steady her—so! That's the way! Now we'll 'ave all sail on her in five minutes. Here, ladies, you must all 'elp. Catch 'old of that rope and pull!"

Pull we did, for life and liberty; and slowly the great mainsail rose against the mast. But the shouts of Borio and his men quickly grew louder, and presently we could discern their forms in the starlight as they ran along the shore.

"Keep her steady, sir!" cried Jenkins, "and I'll settle any who try to interfere with us."

At this moment one of our pursuers gained the great rock before mentioned.

"It's Borio," whispered Jack Selwyn, in a terrified voice, as at the same time he crouched down on the deck.

"Farewell, Don Alfonso Borio!" cried Jenkins, leaping upon the bulwarks and waving his hat; his exultation at our escape getting the better of his discretion, "farewell! till we shall meet again!"

The reply was a savage oath from Borio accompanied by a couple of revolver shots. Alas the aim was too true. There was a prolonged yell of agony and Jenkins fell back with a sickening thud upon the deck.

I knelt down by his side and endeavoured to find his wound; but in a few moments he was dead.

While I was attending to Jenkins several of the Spaniards threw themselves into the water and swam after us; but the sloop was now well under way, and in a few minutes we felt the lift of the swell and speedily passed beyond their reach.

Those who remained on shore emptied their revolvers and made the night air ring with imprecations, but they only succeeded in knocking off the Rector's hat with a spent bullet.

"Can you—can you steer," gasped Jack Selwyn, addressing him in a tone which suggested fear lest the ship might somehow put about and head for the shore.

"It is certainly some years since I undertook such a task," was the reply, "but in my Oxford days I steered as well as any man; and a ship, I suppose, is very much like a boat."

At this the questioner became silent, and we sped away into the darkness till the island was entirely lost to sight, my husband remaining at the wheel hour after hour through the night as though he had been an old salt.

Fortunately the weather was fine and the sea calm; but when the sun rose it found us in the forlorn condition of having a ship without crew or navigator, sailing we knew not whither.

There was food sufficient for about three weeks—for we had not the appetites of sailors and after much consultation we resolved to sail on, trusting that some passing vessel might be attracted by our distressful appearance. For indeed, though we had done our best, the sails hung in a curious fashion, and betrayed most unmistakably our want of seamanship.

"We must hoist a flag of distress," remarked Elsie.

"Certainly if your brother can tell us where to find it," said the Rector.

But first the body of poor Jenkins had to be committed to the deep. The words of the service for the burial of the dead at sea fell on our oars with a sound peculiarly solemn as we performed this last office for one who, whatever his faults (and they were many), had delivered us from the hands of Borio and the Spaniards. I think there were few dry eyes as Jack Selwyn thrust the body overboard, to be quickly devoured I fear by the sharks which swarmed about us.

Our next business was to ascertain what fresh water and provisions there were on board. For our position would be terrible indeed should we run short of these necessaries.

Fortunately we found water in plenty as well as biscuits and flour, but no meat. What we had, however, would keep us for upwards of three weeks, and on short rations we might even exist for four or five weeks.

It must not be imagined that the girls abandoned themselves to despair. On the contrary so overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they set to work, as soon as the funeral of Jenkins was over, to "put things to rights," as they expressed it. We encouraged them in this, for nothing was better for us all in the face of the perils with which we were surrounded, than active employment. The Rector and Jack Selwyn had enough to do to steer the sloop and to attend to the sails, in which latter operation the girls assisted to the best of their ability. Then there were the sailor's quarters to be turned out, for they were scarcely habitable in their filthy condition. A cook, too, had to be elected and many tasty dishes were in due course produced from the slender ingredients at her disposal. It was a sight worth seeing to watch the merry maidens hauling buckets of water over the side, and splashing about with bare feet, and petticoats tucked well up as they cleansed the deck. The past was forgotten, the future promising and the laugh and joke went round so vigorously that a stranger would hardly have credited the story of our late adventures.

There was one, however, on whose face no smile ever shone and from whose lips no pleasantry escaped. I speak of Jack Selwyn. For hours he would lean on the bulwarks gazing in moody silence at the sea. It was useless for Elsie to address him in endearing terms, or for the Rector to endeavour to interest him in the working of the vessel or in the wonders of the great ocean. He performed his duties in a dull mechanical manner, but held no conversation with any of us. Nor did he give any explanation even to his sister of his doings since he left Scamden.

For 14 days we sailed under a light breeze without meeting with any vessel, and at the end of that time we began to feel seriously apprehensive. After a solemn, consultation it was decided that we should go on short rations and that the utmost economy be exercised in the use of fresh water, for it was getting very low.

It was on the sixteenth day that the great storm arose which, while it seemed to threaten our destruction, eventually, and in a very remarkable way, proved to be our salvation. Among my duties was that of taking daily reading with the barometer. Upon the evening of the sixteenth day it was falling so rapidly that before nightfall we reduced the sail to the smallest quantity. Our course hitherto had been north-west, and so steady had been the breeze, that we had not hitherto had occasion to shift the canvas.

Two hours after sunset the wind dropped, and before long the sloop was rolling lazily to and fro in a dead calm, which lasted till near midnight.

Then the storm broke upon us with immense violence, and presently our little ship was flying before it in a south-westerly direction. It took all my husband's strength and skill, assisted though he was by Jack Selwyn, to keep the vessel before the wind. On through the dark night we flew, the gale increasing in force as the day broke, and revealing to us a wild waste of foam-topped waves, over which we were being driven.

For five days the storm raged, and none of us I believe over expected to see dry land again. Once we noticed a large vessel—a three-masted ship in the distance, but communication with her was impossible, and in a very short time she had passed out of sight.

By the sixth day the storm had expended itself and we were again lying in a dead calm. The gale had driven our vessel a long distance—I cannot say out of her course, but away from what we imagined might be the usual track for ships, and no one on board had any idea of the vessel's whereabouts. The calm lasted eight days. During that time the heat was intense, and we suffered much with shortness of fresh water. Elsie, however, was full of resources. With the assistance of the others who rigged an awning over the larger portion of the deck, and a screen across the forepart. Behind this the maidens disported themselves in a great tub of salt water, which not only had the effect of refreshing them and assuaging their thirst, but also provided them with much amusement, for screams of laughter which reached our ears from time to time assured us that our anxieties were not oppressing the spirits of our young shipmates.

It was on the twenty-eighth day after we had left the island and the ninth after we had been becalmed that our wonderful deliverance come.

We were sitting down to a very frugal meal when a cry from Jack Selwyn, who, after his manner, had remained on deck, made us hurry up the companion ladder.

"What's that?" he said, pointing away to the south.

We looked attentively for a few seconds, and then one and all pronounced it to be the smoke of a steamer.

It would be impossible for me to describe the agony of anxiety with which we watched that smoke. At length to our intense joy we were able to discern that the ship was coming towards us.

Every available signal of distress that we could devise was now made, and in two hours a large vessel was close by, and a boat was being pulled across the blue waves towards our sloop.

It did not take long to explain to the officer our forlorn condition. He told us that his vessel was bound for Martinique, and in less than an hour we were being ferried towards the great ocean-going steamship.

"This way please Miss," said the officer as he politely guided Elsie up the ladder. I followed close after her but no sooner had she reached the deck than I heard an exclamation by a man's voice, and presently I saw a sight which almost made me lose my hold; for, to my amazement, I beheld no less a personage than Sir Charles Selwyn himself, and his cousin Elsie was clasped in his arms; while near by and looking upon them with pleasant smiles were Joshua Wilkinson and Lucy Shaw.


CHAPTER XXVI.

DAYLIGHT AT LAST.

[The narrative of Mrs. Goode continued.]

THE astonishment of us all who knew Sir Charles was great. But the climax was not reached until Jack Selwyn stepped on board. On seeing Sir Charles he gave a gasp, turned very pale, and to our terror drew a revolver from his pocket.

"You may put that away," said Sir Charles calmly, "for you have no need to fear me."

But the wretched man had another design. A second later he had turned the weapon upon himself, and had it not been that the Rector, guessing his object, jerked his elbow violently, would probably have blown out his own brains. As it was the bullet passed through his hat, grazing his forehead in an ugly manner so that presently his forehead was covered with blood.

At first we thought that he had inflicted some serious injury upon himself, and as soon as he had been disarmed he was conveyed below by the ship's doctor.

But there remained a look of terror about him for which I could not account.

It was some time before we could enter into explanations with our friends. There seemed so much to say as well as to do; so many congratulations. But at last, when some men had been put on board the sloop and she was in tow of the steamship and we were fairly under way, explanations came fast and thick.

It fell first to Sir Charles Selwyn to give an account of his doings. He told us of the way in which he had been kidnapped by Borio and Jack Selwyn. We listened with breathless interest to his story of the attempted murder; and Elsie shuddered, though Sir Charles's arm was about her, as he related the part taken by her brother in the affair. It told us that after his rescue by Lucy Shaw he determined at once to track his would be murderers. She, too, was as anxious as he for their capture, seeing that Joshua Wilkinson was equally involved with herself.

But here I will relinquish the pen in favour of Sir Charles, who is better able to tell his own story.

[Sir Charles Selwyn continues the narrative.]

THERE were difficulties in the way which made me fear that we should not be able to leave London, but they disappeared sooner than we could have hoped; for when I went to book my passage for Barbados—which was the point for which I aimed—I found that there was a vacancy for an assistant stewardess; and as luck would have it the head stewardess was herself a native of the West Riding of Yorkshire, who, without hesitation, accepted Lucy Shaw for the post.

I own that by taking this course I seemed to be placing both the girl and myself in a somewhat invidious position. But the only alternative was to send her home, where she would, without doubt, have been arrested.

Nay, she refused to return until she had found the real murderer of Colonel Selwyn and she was terribly afraid that Joshua Wilkinson would be hanged.

Curiously enough my plans were somewhat precipitated by a conversation which I overheard in a restaurant, in which someone stated that it was now rumoured that I was the murderer of Colonel Selwyn. This made it doubly imperative that Borio and Jack Selwyn should he be overtaken. You will quite see that circumstances altogether precluded me from communicating with the police and the long and the short of it is that we sailed for the West Indies in our respective capacities of assistant stewardess and first-class passenger, and no one was the wiser.

I need not describe the voyage, for it was uneventful. At Barbados we were unfortunately delayed for three weeks; but at the end of that time, leaving Lucy Shaw to await my return, I was able to proceed by the mail steamer to the small island on which my father Sir George Selwyn had died, and where my estate lay.

Here I made a very strange discovery.

You will remember that my father's valet, Jenkins, who afterwards became butler at Moorfield, brought back certificates of his master's death and burial. It struck me that I would visit the old priest who performed the last rites. I found him to be a very old and almost blind, but in full possession of his faculties and able to converse with me by means of an interpreter. On hearing my voice he seemed to be much agitated, and presently asked the interpreter my name. As soon as this was given he cried aloud in Spanish, "By the blessed saints, justice will now be done." Being at a loss to understand the meaning of these words I told the interpreter to ask for an explanation, whereupon the Padre related the following terrible story, a story which not alone enabled me to see that a wonderful Providence had guided me to this port of the world, but which also revealed the fact that both Jenkins and his pupil Borio were deeper dyed in crime than I had before imagined.

The old man began by telling me that for half a century he had ministered in spiritual matters to the people of the little island. It was upwards of thirty years, he said, since Sir George Selwyn purchased the estate, appointing as steward a Spaniard of good family, Don Alfonso Borio by name.

The estate was in good working order when Sir George, accompanied by his bride, as well as by his brother the Colonel, visited the island. The padre seemed to have an affection for my father and mother, and spoke feelingly of their kindness to the poor of the island; but it was evident that he took a strong dislike to my uncle the Colonel, who, finding himself in a remote corner of the world, seemed to imagine that he could throw aside all decency and refinement, and for some months indulged in vice of various kinds, to the no small distress of Sir George and Lady Selwyn. Nor could they at first persuade him even to leave the island, the cause of his unwillingness being that he was enamoured of Borio's beautiful daughter, the Doņa Marie Adele.

One day, however, the Colonel departed for Europe somewhat hurriedly, leaving his lady-love in a state of great distress.

After a year's residence on the island a daughter was born to Sir George and Lady Selwyn, and on the very same day a son to the Doņa Marie Adele. Unhappily my sister did not live many hours, and it occurred to my uncle the Colonel that he would be able to relieve himself and the Borio family from a disgraceful position if he could persuade Sir George and his wife to adopt the child.

In their intense anxiety for the family honour they consented to do this; the child was privately baptised by the Spanish padre, and very shortly afterwards, they, too, left the island. It was some months before Borio's daughter was restored to health, and then she refused to be comforted for a long time she roamed the island bewailing her lost son. At length she in turn disappeared and no one knew whither, until her return, after many months absence, with the child in her possession.

The padre further told me that it was some years before Jenkins arrived and then it was rumoured that he had been sent by Colonel Selwyn to watch the child—now a full-grown youth—who had naturally adopted his grandfather's name.

Jenkins, who, said the priest, was skilled in all the arts of duplicity and general wickedness, procured a great influence over old Borio, persuading him that it was not the Colonel but Sir George Selwyn himself who was the parent of his grandson.

By Jenkins's advice, the lad was sent to a good school in the United States of America, and on his return proved an apt pupil to Jenkins in every form of vice; by his superior mental capacity even excelling his teacher. Further, it seems that after some years Jenkins left the service of Borio, senior, and came to England—though the padre could not say for what purpose—only to return in the capacity of valet to Sir George.

It was when Sir George revisited the island (which you will remember was about a year ago) that the diabolical plot was hatched between Jenkins and young Borio.

The Padre, like the rest of mankind, was totally ignorant of any design against Sir George's life, and was horror-struck when he received a visit from Jenkins, who told him that his master was dead, requesting that he might be buried with religious rites. Deeming it wiser to accord them without taking questions, the funeral was arranged for the following day.

Punctual to the hour Jenkins and his young friend appeared with the coffin, and the body was solemnly committed to the earth. One thing attracted the attention of the padre, and that was the unusual behaviour of the two mourners. They seemed highly nervous and unable to look calmly into the grave and immediately after the service left hastily without uttering a word.

Half an hour later the old Priest was startled by the abrupt entrance of the gravedigger, who in terrified accents informed him that the man they had just buried was not dead; that a sound in the coffin had attracted his attention as he was about to fill in the earth; that on forcing off the lid he found that Sir George was dressed in his ordinary clothing, his face being stained with blood; and most important, that his heart was beating.

With infinite toil the two aged men brought up Sir George from the grave. They found that he had received a severe blow on the head, sufficient to stun but happily not to kill him outright.

While he was being carefully tended at the Pedro's house men were despatched in search of Jenkins and Borio, but it was found that they had left the inland in a small vessel within an hour of the funeral.

It was plain that the Padre could do nothing until the wounded man had recovered sufficiently to give an account of the way in which he had received his injury. Neither Borio senior nor his daughter were to be trusted, for they might communicate with the would-be murderers. Hence, for many months, Sir George lay concealed at the priest's house. Then it became plain that his brain was seriously affected, and he was unable to give any account of the way in which he had been assaulted.

* * * * *

THE amazement of Mr. and Mrs. Goode and of my cousin Elsie at my story was intense.

"Then you have seen your father, Sir Charles?" enquired the Rector.

"Yes," he replied, "I have seen and conversed with him and if you will proceed with me to the island you shall see him also. But I cannot promise that he will recognise you."

"And how did you come across Wilkinson?" asked Mrs. Goode, looking at Joshua.

"I was forced to return to Barbados," I replied, "and found that he had just arrived."

"Then, after you have seen your father again, you intend—"

"To hunt down Borio."

[Continued by Miss Elsie Selwyn.]

SEVERAL important events must now be recorded. The first of these is the funeral—the real funeral of Sir George Selwyn. Poor old man! I am sure he recognised me before his death, for he took my hand and laid it within his son's hand. It was his last act. But not a word of explanation did he give concerning his treatment by Borio and Jenkins.

The good Padre has nursed him as though he were an elder brother, and it was touching to see the tears trickle down his face as Mr. Goode read the English burial service. Since then the two priests have struck up quite a friendship though neither of them can understand the other's language.

The second matter concerns the discovery of my father's artificial foot in the locker of a cabin of a vessel running between Marseilles and the West Indies. It came into my cousin's possession through the captain of the mail steamer, who concluded that it belonged to a man named Alfonso Borio, at one time a passenger from Marseilles to the port of San Pierre in the island of Martinique. This was news indeed for we had not connected Borio with such a voyage.

As for my brother Jack he made no replies to our numerous questions, but when Sir Charles told him that an expedition was about to be undertaken to the island where dwelt Borio and his Spaniards, a gleam of satisfaction darted across his face and he even offered to act as guide.

We wondered, however, why he should be so ready to betray his former friend.

Thirdly, I must record the substance of a conversation which I had with Lucy Shaw. We were naturally anxious to know the cause of her disagreement with Joshua Wilkinson. She told me in her simple Yorkshire fashion how devotedly she and Joshua loved each other, and how happy had been the early days of their courtship, a happiness which was only marred by the fact that owing to his father's losses Joshua was not yet in a position to purchase a farm—a thing on which he had set his heart.

Then came the day when the girl listened in the mill to a conversation between the Colonel and his son, in which such references were made to Don Alfonso Borio. Then the truth concerning the babe and his abduction, of which she had often heard mention, was made clear to her.

Being caught by the two men she had been obliged to confess what she had overheard.

They offered bribes as a condition that she should hold her tongue, but at first she refused them. Then it occurred to her that she might purchase the farm from the Colonel (who was its owner), so that she might present it to Joshua Wilkinson.

To this he agreed, though the arrangements necessitated several visits of the Squire and his son to the cottage, with consequences to the relations between Lucy and Joshua which have been already narrated.

This misunderstanding was now happily at an end, Lucy's story having been completely confirmed by my brother Jack, who confessed in his usual gloomy tones that he could see no reason for keeping the matter a secret.

[Written ten days later.]

WE are now on route for the island—the terrible island! How I dread the encounter with those bloodthirsty Spaniards! My cousin has on board a considerable force of well-armed men, who understand island warfare; but nevertheless I can plainly see that they will all be in grave peril as soon as they have landed.

We are to remain on board the ship, protected by a strong guard.

* * * * *

THE island has risen into sight. I can now plainly see the place where I so nearly became the wife of Pedro Andulas. The thought of that hour, no less than the sight of this place makes me shudder.

* * * * *

THEY have gone ashore. I wonder whether Borio and his men are watching. The village on the face of the hill seems to be deserted. On the right I can see the high rock at the mouth of the creek from which Borio fired his fatal shot at Jenkins.

* * * * *

THE sound of firing has just reached us. Mr. Goode has offered up the prayer for those in battle. How fervently I pray that Sir Charles may return to me uninjured.

* * * * *

AFTER many hours of anxious suspense we can see Sir Charles and his men on the beach. They have prisoners. Yes, as the boats drew near, there is no doubt as to their identity. They are Borio and Andulas. I can see the Doņa Marie Adele too—poor creature! She is weeping and there are the other passengers.

* * * * *

ALAS! several of our people were killed and some wounded. The two men would not have been captured had it not been for Joshua Wilkinson, who engaged the pair in a mighty wrestle, finally bringing both to the earth.

[The narrative of Don Alfonso Borio abruptly concluded.]

IT was the meanest thing imaginable on the part of J.S. to show Sir Charles Selwyn the "back way" into our Stronghold. If that powerful Yorkshireman had not sprung upon Andulas and myself just as I fired, Jack Selwyn now would have been a dead man.

As it is, Jack Selwyn and Andulas have each got twenty years' penal servitude, and I—well, I have to dance on nothing, as I intended Sir Charles should do. What an uncertain world this is! So after all, I am not the heir to the Scamden estates, but only Colonel Selwyn's illegitimate son. To think that I am half-brother to J.S.—Bah! The Megworthy affair did the business, though! for I am informed that old Sir George came to life again (Moral: Make sure of your victim, and shoot him in a gentlemanly fashion).

I have had visitors! (The prison authorities are very kind to the inhabitant of the "condemned cell" in such matters)—no less than two persons, my mother, accompanied by Elsie Selwyn. How lovely she is!—Miss Selwyn, I mean. The sight of her brought again thoughts of repentance. She told me that she freely forgave me, and she hoped that I would see the chaplain. I said "Yes," to satisfy her, but did not mean it.

My mother wept, of course.

What a fraud I am! What a fraud is life! What is it in me which makes me what I am? Hark, the bell tolling for my execution! Horrid sound! Shall I repent? No, there is no time, and after all, I am glad I killed Megworthy and those gendarmes at Martinique . . . The warders are coming along the passage! In ten minutes I shall be a dead m. . . . .

[Extract from the very private diary of Maria Rawkesley.]

SO for as such a thing can be successful, the double wedding was a complete success. Of course I thoroughly and entirely disapprove of this mixing up of "the masses" with the "classes;" and when Elsie Selwyn told me that she and Sir Charles Selwyn were to be married on the same day, and at the same hour, and in the same church as that common Yorkshireman, Joshua Wilkinson and Lucy Shaw the sexton's daughter, I was completely horrified. But as I was not consulted when the arrangements were made I accepted the inevitable.

The service was performed by Mr. Goode. I saw a tear trickle down his cheek as he asked Elsie the question "Wilt thou have this man etc." As for Mrs. Goode she was radiant with happiness and made a truly admirable mistress of the ceremonies before, at, and after the wedding. Mr. Strafford (who was next to me in Church) declared that he had never seen a prettier or more touching sight. Old Dame Wilkinson sat in the very front pew in wonderful raiment, beaming alternately upon her son and foster-son, and exhibiting more emotion than I could have believed possible in a thoroughbred native of the West Riding.

As for Sir Charles, I noticed that there was a bright and happy smile on his handsome face as he left the altar with his bride on his arm; a smile which was only clouded when he looked up at the memorial tablet of "Isabel Selwyn, ye daughter of Sir Israel Selwyn, Bart.," on the wall of the chancel, and caught sight of the words—"was found slaine in ye pine woode not farre from this chapelle: Who did ye wicked deede God knoweth."

[Written a month later]

SIR CHARLES and Lady Selwyn (how strange it seems to call Elsie by that title!) have returned from their honeymoon and a grand entertainment and dance was given last night in the Scamden Mill—though Elsie confesses that at first she rather shrank from such a novel use of the place. Never before had such sounds of revelry resounded through those great rooms.

Rich and poor, gentry and peasantry, were there (though I cannot say that this met with my approval) and even danced together. Of course Joshua Wilkinson and his pretty bride were the centre of one group. I am given to understand that he is now the owner of the Hill-Top Farm, and an important man among the people of the countryside, for has he not "been to foreign parts?" Yes, and I must not forgot to record that the man actually had the audacity to extend his huge brown hand to me, saying:

"I'm varry glad I coom t' t' cottage an' looked at them theer maps o' yourn. 'Appen I'd never a got t' th' Indies, an' foun' Sir Charles an' my Lucy, if yo' 'adn't shewed me t' gate."

[From the Memoranda of Detective Inspector Hoile.]

I HAVE just seen Sir Charles Selwyn and his party. The Scamden Mill mystery is now cleared up, and the guilty persons are punished.

I find that one must not put trust in the big-wigs of Scotland Yard. They are not nearly so cute as they profess to be; for Sir Charles has just shown me the last half of the letter which I discovered. When the fragments are placed together it differs greatly from the Scotland Yard version:—


My dear Mr. Goode,—

Pardon the writing, I am in the train.

My hand shakes. I can only say that I am

heartily glad...to get away from that

mill. It will be some time before I return...

Possibly I may kill time in London by shopping.

I have...purchased a gun and cartridges

with a view to the...next murder!

—I beg you will not be...alarmed—

to wit, an onslaught on the rabbits...in the

Scamden wood. I need hardly say...

keep this to yourself.


[P.S. by Inspector Hoile.]

NOTHING has been so astonishing to my own mind throughout this case as the blindness of the Detective Department. Everything is now as plain as daylight. But the credit to ourselves is indeed small. It would seem, though, that Megworthy was on the right track when his terrible end came. For my own part I feel as though a few lessons from Mrs. Goode would sharpen my wits.

[Note added by Mr. Wilberforce Strafford.]

AUGUST 10th.

News has just reached me that Jack Selwyn has died at Portland in the convict prison.

I must also state that Sir Charles has determined to stock the Mill with machinery, and the people of the Scamden valley are anticipating a great revival of prosperity.


THE END


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