CHAPTER II

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*The Secret of the Black Box*

Sitting with his hands upon the box as though 'twere something which might jump away, my father tapped it gently, saying:

"That which I am about to show you, Michael, is what no eye save mine hath seen except one other. Yours will make a third; which goes to prove how thoroughly I trust you."

Unbuttoning his vest, he brought forth a curious-looking key, which hung by a narrow ribbon from his neck. With this he solemnly unlocked the box, and having thrown the lid back, laid it again upon the table. 'Twas lined with purple velvet, and, so far as I could see, contained two separate papers neatly tied with silk. The undermost of these he took out first and laid it on the table.

"Read that," he said, "and tell me what you think of it."

Greatly wondering, I undid the cord and scanned the contents of the paper. Then my hand shook, for this is what I read:

"Know all men, that our eldest and well-beloved child, James, Duke of Monmouth, is our rightful heir, in proof whereof we herewith give the marriage contract made between his mother, Lucy Walters, and ourselves.

"Given at our Palace of Whitehall, this sixteenth day of August, in the Year of Grace 1679.

"CHARLES R."

"Well, what think you of it?" asked my father, as our eyes met.

"Why," I answered eagerly, "it proves exactly what I said: that Monmouth is the rightful King of England."

"Ah! you say so," quoth my father grimly. "Now read this."

This was none other than the marriage contract mentioned in the foregoing letter. 'Twas dated from Cologne, set forth every detail of the matter, and was also signed by Charles.

"Well, and what now?" asked my father gloatingly, as I laid the parchment on the table.

"Well, 'tis clear as any pikestaff," I replied. "Monmouth should be King without a question."

"Ah! you think so," said my father shrewdly. "Small wonder either; but be not too hasty in your judgments, Michael. Now read that," he added, handing me the final paper with a glowing look of triumph.

This writing was my father's well-known hand, and 'tis small wonder that I read it with amazement; for this is how it ran:

"I, Gilbert Fane, of The Havering, by Lyme, in the County of Dorset, writing with full knowledge of the matter, do hereby solemnly declare the documents inside this Box to be rank forgeries.

"GILBERT FANE."

When, dumbfounded and bewildered, I raised my eyes from this amazing statement 'twas to find my father's fixed upon me with a hungry look.

"Ah! and what now?" he asked, drumming the table with his fingers.

For a moment I could find no words, then:

"Forgeries!" I fairly gasped.

"Yes, rank forgeries," replied the old man grimly.

"But--sir--" I stammered, "'tis the King's own writing."

"You are sure of that, eh?"

"Yes, sure as death."

"And why?"

"Because I saw a letter from King Charles at Sir John Berkeley's house but a week ago. 'Tis framed and hangs upon the wall; and the writing is the same as that," I added, pointing to the documents.

"You have good cause for saying that; yet 'tis not so."

"Well, at any rate two peas were never more alike. I remember thinking that the 'Charles' looked more like Charley--just as this one does. Yes, 'tis wonderfully like it."

"Ah! I am with you there," rejoined my father grimly. "As you say, 'tis wonderfully like indeed--and why? Because 'twas written by a wonderfully clever man."

"And who was that?" I asked point-blank.

"One Robert Ferguson," replied my father slowly.

"What! the great Ferguson?" I cried, astonished.

"Great if you choose to call him so," came the answer, in the same deep, measured tones. "But wicked, I should say. Ferguson the plotter!"--(here he raised his voice)--"Ferguson the traitor, liar, thief, and hypocrite! As black a scoundrel as e'er set foot upon God's earth!"

As, with blazing eyes and ever-rising voice, my father poured forth this fierce denunciation, my amazement broke all bounds. I knew this man, this wicked rogue, by cold repute--as who did not? for his name and deeds were blazoned everywhere. How he had been Churchman, Presbyterian, Independent, Writer, and Preceptor--everything by turn. How he had used religion as a cloak for vilest ends; how he had played false with every party; and how, in the end, when the Rye House plot leaked out (of which he was prime mover), he had, with a mocking laugh, abandoned his accomplices to their fate, while he, disguised, escaped abroad.

Yes, I knew this brazen, barefaced rogue right well; but that these documents--these fresh examples of his falsity and cunning--should have come into our house, was what so amazed me; and this perplexity was swiftly noted by my father, for while I yet sat there in blank bewilderment he smiled and said:

"This matter sorely puzzles you, I see."

"Puzzles me!" I cried. "Aye, sir, that it does and more. What can you have had to do with Ferguson, and how came you by those papers?"

"That is a natural question," he said, "and I will answer it as briefly as may be. About six years ago I met this man, this rogue, this Ferguson, in London; though I did not then know that 'twas he, for, as you know, he went by divers names, and had a separate lodging for each name. With me he passed as one Elijah Annabat, a scrivener, in the city; and, oh! shame on me for my blindness, Michael, but his words and ways were such that I counted him a right good fellow cursed with an ugly face. Nay, worse, I even trusted him with money. But I overrun my tale.

"At last we became so friendly that I went to visit him at his lodging in the Chepe, and there it was that I first saw him working on these forgeries. Night after night I found him bending over them, working like one possessed. He said that he was making copies for a man in high estate; but one night he chanced to leave a sheet uncovered at the bottom, and there I read 'Charles R.' 'Ah! "high estate" indeed', thought I, but of course said nothing. Well, to make few words of it, another night I chanced to catch him locking up his precious papers in this very box. This time methought he had an evil, hunted look upon his ugly face, but, though I had my doubts, I did not see my way to question him; and as my business took me home upon the morrow, I bade Elijah Annabat farewell. Now, as I said, I had been surpassing fool enough to trust him with some money, on which he did profess he could obtain great usury within a month. Well, I had been home at least two months, and yet had had no tidings of the matter, so I wrote to him. Another month passed, but no answer came. I wrote again; but still there was no answer. Then, while I was yet turning over in my mind what course to take, the Black Box tale leapt over England, and with it flashed into my memory what I had seen in London. 'Ah! I will pay a visit to Elijah Annabat,' said I: and forthwith posted up to town.

"By rare good chance I found him in, and, what was still more to my liking, there was he seated at a table with the Black Box in his hands. As I came suddenly upon him he turned a savage glance towards me; then, having quickly hid the box beneath some papers, he rose, and, holding out his hand, grinned like a cat and said:

"'Well met, good Master Fane!'

"'Well met, indeed, good Master Annabat!' quoth I, remaining stiff and frowning by the door. 'Where is my money?'

"His face changed instantly, as though a mask had fallen from it; and for a time he stood there stroking his bristly chin and shooting glances at me from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

"'Hum!' he said at last. 'Your money, eh, friend? Ah, to be sure, your money. Yes, of course. Well, friend, I fear 'tis like the sheep of which we read in Holy Scripture--lost!'"

"On hearing this, I paused a moment: then suddenly a wild idea seized me. 'That being so,' I said, 'I will have your Black Box in exchange for it.'

"Never have I seen a man so struck as he was by those words. His face went white, then red; and then, without a moment's warning, he sprang on me like a tiger.

"He was a younger and a stronger man than I, and moreover had the advantage of attack; but, as you know, I was something of a wrestler in my youth, and so by a well-proved trick I sent him flying from me. Reeling back, his head struck full upon the wall, and there he lay like one dead. Nor was this all, for, as he fell, a paper left his pocket. Picking it up I read 'To Robert Ferguson, Esquire.' That was enough for me. Taking the box I left him lying there, and started straightway on my homeward journey.

"As for Ferguson, I hoped devoutly he was killed, and still regret he was not; but, alack! within a fortnight from that time the Rye House Plot came out, and he was forced to flee the country, and, thank Heaven, hath never dared to show his wicked face in England since. So there you have the answer to your question, Michael," said my father, in conclusion. "Is all now clear to you, my son?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, "it is clear enough how you met Ferguson and got his box; but why, having such clear proof of his amazing falseness, did you not expose him to the world?"

"Because I dared not, Michael," replied the old man slowly. "Wrong breeds wrong, and violence violence. In my anger I had taken that to which I had no right; but, as you see, there is naught save my written word to prove I was not privy to these forgeries; nor would those in authority have believed it was not so. And remember that the law was even then, as ten times more so now, gathered up in one foul, cruel fellow--that bloody-minded man, Judge Jeffreys. Yea, verily, to be found with this," he added, tapping the box significantly, "would then, as now, have spelt death to any man. And although, even six years ago my days were not many, I had no wish to cut them short by dangling at a rope-end. Wherefore I kept the box, and--well, here it is."

"And Ferguson made no stir about it?"

"Nay, by the same token that he dare not, for would they not have asked how he had knowledge of it? What now? Hast any further questions, Michael?"

"Nay, sir," I answered, after thinking for a moment, "I have no more questions, but, if I may, I would make one suggestion."

"Ah, certainly; what is it?"

"Why, that in your written statement you should add unto the words 'Rank forgeries'--'by Ferguson, the Plotter.'"

"A right excellent suggestion, too," rejoined my father. "It shall be done forthwith."

Taking up his pen he did it, and was replacing the papers in their small black house, when I saw him add the letter concerning "A Certain Person", which, as you know, did not belong to him.

"Stay!" I interrupted, "why that one, sir?"

"Because 'tis the safest place for it," he answered, as he closed and locked the lid. "To give it to its rightful owner would need explanations, and those would be risky and might lead to trouble. Therefore let it rest here. And now," he added, pushing back the box, "I have told you everything. I always meant to do so on your eighteenth birthday, and glad am I 'tis done, for the sharing of a secret trustily brings great relief. As to the future; well, as I said before, when I am gone--when the secret is again one man's--you will do exactly as you please, but I would counsel you, when that time comes, to burn the box and all that it contains."

"Why not burn it now," I put in eagerly, "and be done with it for ever?"

My father drew the box towards him, and, as it seemed to me, caressed it.

"Because," he said, "I could not bring myself to do it. 'Tis perchance naught save an old man's foolish fancy, Michael, but I tell you I have kept this little thing so long that I--I love it, even as I fear it."

"Then why not burn the papers only?" I suggested.

"Ah! that would leave an empty shell indeed; and what is a body when the heart is taken from it? Nor would I trust the flames. No, no! When I am dead, burn as and what you please, but until then my little friend goes back into his resting-place. Come! let me show you how the panel may be opened."

With that, he replaced the box in its dark corner, and, having closed the cupboard door, was just showing me the secret of the spring, when we were once more startled by a noise outside--this time like that of snapping twigs.

For a moment we both stood stock-still, listening, then running to the window, looked out anxiously. But again there was nothing to be seen. The ancient, broad-leaved chestnut tree which grew quite close above a neighbouring wall and threw deep shadows on the lawn beneath, gave forth no sign.

"Ah, Michael," quoth my father, smiling, though his look was most uneasy, "methinks it is a case of guilty consciences begetting fearful thoughts. A bird, an animal it surely was, or----" He stopped; for suddenly, from nowhere, as it seemed to me, a great black cat sprang into view and fled helter-skelter down the garden walk, with a goodly length of narrow cord trailing from its neck.

We started back as though it had been the Evil One himself; then, as the brute dashed out of view, turned to each other and broke out a-laughing. But verily it struck me that our mirth was far from being hearty; and, looking back, it seems a mockery that we laughed at all.

"So much for the disturber of our peace," remarked my father. "A poor beast, doubtless tortured by some cruel lad, hath saved himself from--hanging."

"'Tis a case of gallows cheating, then," said I; "and one of blackness, too--a black cat there, a black box here."

I said this lightly, but my father cast a swift, uneasy glance towards the secret panel.

"That's true enough," he answered quickly. "But now for brighter matters. This is your eighteenth birthday, Michael, and I have here for you two presents which may help you on that way of soldiering which, as I knew, would be your choice."

Going to a corner he brought therefrom two parcels, a long one and a short one, neatly wrapped in cloth, and laid them on the table. The larger one he undid first, and there, to my great delight, I saw as fine a sword as any man could wish to wear; then, while I yet stood enraptured at so grand a thing, he brought forth from the other package a brace of handsome pistols with holsters all complete.

"Take these with a father's blessing," said the old man, bowing graciously. "And may you use them well and worthily, my son!"

"Sir!" I began, and forthwith tried to thank him, but the words came stumbling awkwardly.

Then he must needs strap on the sword himself, and make me stand while he surveyed the hang of it like any captain on parade.

"Yes, 'tis well enough, 'twill do," he said at last; "but remember, Michael, that the truest blade is naught unless there be a good, true heart behind it."

"Aye, sir, I will remember that," I answered solemnly.

"Ah, I am sure of it," rejoined my father. "And now I have it in mind to write to my friend Lord Feversham concerning you. It may be that he hath an ensignship or cornetcy to offer. Would that suit you?"

"With all my heart," I answered eagerly; "and may the chance to use this sword come soon!"

My father smiled.

"Ah, never fear," he said, "'twill come quite soon enough; perhaps too soon."

"You have no doubt, then, as to the meaning of that secret letter?"

"None whatever."

"And you feel certain that the Duke is coming on us?"

"Yes, quite certain, Michael."

"And where, think you, will he land?"

"Ah! there you ask too much. That is beyond my knowledge. But 'twill be somewhere in the West, beyond a doubt."

"Will you not warn them up in London, then, of such grave danger?"

"Ah, I have thought of that. But where would be the use? The King, and those around him, must know far more of this than I. Besides, rightly to warn, the letter must be shown, and that, as I said before, is fraught with real danger in such times as these."

I saw the truth of that, and was silent for a moment; then a thought struck me.

"What if Monmouth landed here at Lyme?" I said.

My father started at the words.

"God forbid!" said he. "Our little town hath had enough of fighting for all time. Enough! Let us leave warfare for the present, Michael; 'twill come quite soon enough--too soon, methinks. But that reminds me; I have been thinking much about your meeting with that cut-throat rascal on the road a few nights ago; and the more I think of it, the stranger doth it seem. His name, now, I am not sure of it--what was it?--Tubal something."

"Tubal Ammon."

"Ah, yes; and what a name it is! It rings of wickedness and cunning. Still, I greatly doubt if it be his real name; as I also doubt that fine long tale he told you of the Indians."

"Yet what of those strange things he showed me?"

"Ah, they do not greatly count, methinks; for as a sailor he might well have come by them in far-off countries. Perchance his story was half lies, half truth. But what most puzzles me, what in fact I cannot put away, is the man he told you of who died aboard that ship, and spoke of me and Lyme. If that be true, 'tis very strange."

"I scarcely think it was true, sir, but rather a piece of trickery to hold me in the lane. Having found out my name, that is, he made a tale to fit it."

"Perhaps you hit it rightly, Michael--and yet----"

"Well, sir, at any rate I fear it is impossible for us to prove it; for no doubt the rascal is far enough away by now."

Barely had I said those words when from without there came the loud snapping of a tree branch, followed by a heavy thud, and this again by the sound of swiftly-running feet.

Springing to the window, I looked out. As I have said, a lusty chestnut tree grew close above a neighbouring wall. This time its leaves were shaking violently, while a broken branch lay lodged upon the wall top; but there was no one to be seen, and so it was clear that whoever had fallen must have gone down on the far side of the wall, that is, the one on which the tree was rooted.

"What is it?" asked my father in an anxious whisper, leaning over me.

"A broken branch," I answered. "Someone was certainly in yonder tree."

The hand upon my shoulder trembled.

"Ah! say you so? Who could it have been?"

"That I will try to find out."

Climbing through the casement, which was but some ten feet above the ground, I dropped lightly to the lawn. Midway in the garden wall a little door led to a small demesne, of shrubbery and orchard. Full carefully I opened this, and, passing through, stood listening. Not a sound was to be heard, and as the grass had been mown but a day or two before, and still lay in a thick swath, there was little chance of finding tracks.

Going to the chestnut tree I examined it carefully, but found no marks upon the trunk. Beyond the broken branch (a smallish one) there was no sign of him who had disturbed us, save for a hollow in the hay beneath, where he had fallen.

Having made sure of this, I again paused to listen; then, as no sound reached me, I went in and out among the trees and shrubs, probing the latter with my sword and searching every likely place. In this fashion I had covered three parts of the ground, and had wellnigh given up all hope of finding anything, when suddenly there came a rending crash from the far end of the orchard, and by the sound of it not twenty yards from where I was then engaged in exploring the recesses of a laurel bush.

Darting off in the direction of the noise, I soon perceived the cause of it. Someone had gone by sheer force through a lofty hedge of privet, which served as a boundary to the orchard. Where one had thus escaped, another might be counted on to follow; taking a run, I hurled myself fiercely at the hedge, and after much struggling (for it was wondrous thick and strong) tumbled head foremost, out upon the other side.

Here a narrow foothold ended in a high, steep bank, and such was my eagerness that I had much ado to keep from rolling to the bottom; but by clutching at the grass I saved myself, and rising, looked about me. Below me lay a well-grown spinney, and from thence, though no one was in sight, came the sound of swiftly-running feet.

Next moment I was down the bank and speeding round the outskirts of the wood, with flying footsteps right ahead of me. I was reckoned very fleet in those days, but he whom I now pursued flew like the wind; and what with that, and the many bends and juttings of the wood, he beat me: run as I would I could not get a sight of him.

In this mad fashion we must have circled round the wood at least three times, and I was just wondering what the end of such a giddy chase would be, when suddenly the running footsteps of my quarry ceased behind a clump of bushes thirty yards or so ahead. Breathless, I stopped to listen. The hurried pad of feet was followed by a curious scraping noise--then all was still again.

Drawing my sword I crept up to the bushes and took a cautious peep beyond them. But there was no one visible, and, indeed, I had not thought there would be. Still, I was greatly puzzled, for it seemed certain that the fellow could neither have run on nor through the wood without my hearing him. Where, then, was he?

Asking myself that question, I fell to searching carefully with hand and sword among the bushes. But they proved innocent of harbourage; no one was there. In doing this I came beneath a thick-leaved oak tree, and chancing to glance up, was startled by the vision of a pair of shoeless, grey-hosed feet, which dangled from a lofty branch; no more of their owner was visible to me, the rest of him being hidden by the foliage.

So astonished was I by this sight, that at first I could do naught save stare in blank amazement. Then an idea came to me. Walking off as though I had not noticed anything, I covered twenty yards or more, then turned suddenly and faced the tree. Barely had I done this ere a pistol shot rang out, and, as the bullet whistled past my head, I saw the evil, crinkled mask of Tubal Ammon peering at me from the oak leaves.

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