Part 14

“Was that Gilder who came?” he asked, and, when she nodded: “The brute! Why didn’t you send for me?”

He saw her face, and, quickly:

“Is anything wrong, Leslie?”

“Yes,” she said, and marvelled herself at the evenness of her tone. “He came about some money that was in your care--a part of the estate of Lady Chelford.”

She saw from the quick change in his face that all that Gilder had said was true; but then, she had never doubted that.

“Does Dick know?” she asked.

“Yes, he knows. I wonder what you think of me?” he asked huskily.

She shook her head.

“Does it matter, Arthur, what I think? What will happen if the money isn’t found?”

“I’ve got a week yet,” he said. “How did he come to know?”

“Can you get the money?”

It was a useless question.

“Dick said he will do his best.”

“Nothing can be done with Harry, I suppose?” she asked. “No, that’s too impossible to think about. What will happen when the truth comes out?”

He drew a deep breath.

“I don’t know; imprisonment, I suppose. It’s horribly rough on you, Leslie. I’ve said that before, but words mean very little, and I am at the end of words.”

His voice broke for a second, but he caught hold of his weakness in time, and, seeing the fight he was making, there came a look of admiration to her eyes.

“You poor soul!” she said softly.

Another long pause.

“What did Gilder want--just to tell you that?”

“Partly that.”

“And to make you an offer?” There was just a hint of eagerness in his tone; the drowning man was gripping hard on a straw. It made her heart ache to think that, even at that moment, when he knew he deserved nothing but her loathing, he could contemplate yet another sacrifice upon her part without protest.

“He made me an offer--yes,” she said. “And I don’t know what I shall do. I’m going to see Dick.”

“Is that necessary?” he asked anxiously.

She nodded.

“I’m going to see Dick,” she said. “I will ’phone him.”

She moved to the instrument and lifted the receiver from the hook, when he caught her arm.

“I shouldn’t be guided--too much by Dick,” he said breathlessly. “Gilder’s a brute, but you might be happier with him than with Harry.”

She shook off his arm and gave a number. The servant who replied told her that Dick was out, that he had gone to London that afternoon, and would not be back until late at night. She hung up the instrument, went back to the drawing-room, and took up the paper on which Gilder had written his address.

“You have six days, Arthur,” she said. “I have less than twenty-four hours. I don’t know whose case is the worse, but I rather fancy it is mine.”

He heard her go up to her room, and after a while followed and tried the door. It was locked.

“Leslie!” he called anxiously, but she did not hear him.

With her face buried in the pillow, she was saying good-bye to Dick Alford, and her heart was breaking.

XXXVIII

Passing down Wardour Street that afternoon, Dick Alford had seen a familiar face. A man came out of a shop with a bundle under his arm, and, recognizing the young man, turned on his tracks and walked rapidly away. Dick grinned; there was no mistaking Thomas, and he wondered what was the nature of his purchase.

He glanced at the window of the store and was puzzled; for Thomas did not seem the kind of man who would indulge in the frivolities which were exhibited behind the plate glass.

He was not in any very good spirits. He had made two calls, and on each occasion had suffered a gentle rebuff. He was going now to see his last hope. The big City bank was closed when he arrived, but a porter admitted him to the presence of the old man who had been his father’s best friend. The war had turned plain Mr. Jarvis, a country banker of the ’eighties, into Lord Clanfield, the head of the greatest banking corporation in Europe.

He gave Dick a hearty welcome, for the boy had been a favourite of his.

“Sit ye down, Dick. What has brought you to this square mile of trouble?”

Plainly and briefly Dick stated his business, and Lord Clanfield frowned.

“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear boy! Do you want it for yourself?”

“No, I want it for a very dear friend of mine.” It required an effort to describe Arthur in these flattering terms. “He has got into a scrape.”

His lordship shook his head.

“It couldn’t be done, Dick. If it was for you, to get _you_ out of a scrape--but then, you’re not the kind of lad who’d ever get into one--I’d give it to you out of my own pocket.”

“You couldn’t lend it to me on my personal security?”

The banker smiled.

“Lending it to you, Dick, would be giving it to you! What chance have you of repaying fifty thousand pounds? A second son! Harry is marrying this year, and there will be an heir to the estate next year! No, no, old boy, it would be impossible.”

Then, in his desperation, Dick Alford told the story, suppressing only the names. The old man listened with a grave face.

“He has got to go through with it, Dick,” he said. “If you get him out of this trouble he’ll probably get into worse. The poor little girl--I’m sorry for her. Of course, you’re speaking about Gwyn? No, no, you needn’t be afraid, I sha’n’t say a word. But I’ve had my suspicions for a long time. Let him take his medicine, Dick, and do what you can for the girl. Once that fellow is behind bars and the whole wretched trouble is at an end, come to me for any money you want--for the girl. I knew her father and her uncle, and the great-uncle who left her a lot of money, which I suppose has gone up in smoke with the rest, and I’m willing to go a long way to help her. But you mustn’t pledge your credit, Dick, for that worthless man.”

Dick came away from the City, weary and sick at heart, too dispirited even to interview the fourth man he had intended to see. His only hope now was his brother, and he knew Harry’s obstinacy too well to expect help from that quarter, which could not even be asked for except by betraying as the borrower the man for whom he had conceived an unreasoning hatred.

Monkey Puttler met him at the station and had a piece of news to impart.

“That bird Thomas is still in the neighbourhood,” he said. “He’s been living in Gilder’s cottage.”

“Indeed?” said Dick. He was really not concerned with Thomas or Gilder or anything in the wide world except the heartbreak that awaited Leslie Gwyn.

“Gilder’s been down to-day. Ascot’s all over, isn’t it? Anyway, he was dressed like a doctor in new clothes--top hat and everything.”

“Where has he been?” asked Dick, with sudden interest.

“I don’t know. I guess he went to call on Mr. Gwyn. I saw his car coming out of the drive, and he looked very pleased with himself. And I’ve found the rifle.”

“Where did you find it?” asked Dick quickly.

“Up against the river. Someone must have thrown it in, but didn’t throw hard enough. There were three or four cartridges still in the magazine--a sporting Lee-Enfield. They’ve tried the knife and they’ve tried the gun; I wonder what new one they’ll put out on us.”

“Have you seen Harry?”

“Saw him this afternoon,” said the cheerful Puttler. “He worked that chesil gag on me, but I didn’t give him my views.”

In spite of his anxiety, Dick smiled.

“Have you any views on chesils?”

“Yes, sir,” said the other confidently. “He thinks chesil is an instrument. He doesn’t seem to realize that in Elizabethan times ‘chesil’ meant ‘gravel’ or ‘shingle.’”

Dick stopped and stared at him.

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Ever heard of a place called Chelsea?” said the informative Mr. Puttler. “Do you know what ‘Chelsea’ means? It means ‘Chesil Ey’ or Shingle Island. Why, the word isn’t even obsolete; you’ll find it in any dictionary. The new ‘chesil’ that is spoken of in the Diary is a load of shingle he got from Brighthelmstone. That’s Brighton. Now, why did the old bird want shingle? Obviously to put in some kind of concrete or mortar.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t start on the treasure, or I shall go mad!” groaned Dick. “At any rate, you don’t believe in its existence, thank goodness!”

“I do,” said the surprising man emphatically. “I’m as sure that those thousand bars of gold are in existence as I’m certain you and I are walking up this road. Your brother’s got a book down that shows all Queen Elizabeth’s private accounts; there’s the million she stole from the Spanish ships that put into an English port when they were on their way to Holland; there’s the money she got from Drake and the other seagoing burglars; but there’s not a hint of the Chelford gold.”

“Then where is it?” asked Dick in exasperation.

“Ask me before I go,” replied the other cryptically.

XXXIX

A dozen letters were written and burnt in the fireplace of her bedroom before Leslie composed the one that was eventually placed in an envelope and addressed to “Fabrian Gilder, Esq., 35, Regency Mansions, London.” She had written:

Dear Mr. Gilder:

I agree to your terms. The money or equivalent shares must be deposited in the Horsham branch of the Southern & Midland Bank, in the name of Leslie Gilder, so that I may have control of the account from the moment I am married. I do not expect you to trust the word of one of my family, and I presume that you will wish the marriage to take place in the next few days. Will you please make arrangements for the ceremony, and tell me when and where I am to meet you? I expect it to be at a registrar’s office by special license. I can only say that, although this marriage is not of my seeking, you may trust me to be a loyal wife.

Very sincerely, Leslie Gwyn.

The last post was collected by a motor-cyclist postman at ten o’clock from a little wall box not a hundred yards from the house. There was an earlier collection, but somehow she could not bring herself to post the letter until the very last moment. Ten o’clock was an unusually late hour for a country collection, but it was the last box on the postman’s route and was an especially convenient arrangement, not only for the inhabitants of Fossaway Manor, but for the tenant farmers who wished to notify their daily consignments.

She saw Arthur at dinner after the letter was written, but beyond the exchange of a few commonplaces they did not speak. He went back to his study, carrying his coffee with him, and she was left alone to the contemplation of the dark future. She wished she had seen Dick before she wrote, but it was too late now. Gilder had asked her to give him his answer that night, and she had promised.

What would Dick say? She screwed up her eyes tightly as though to hide the vision of him, and her lips trembled.

“No weakness, Danton!” It was a favourite quotation of her childhood, and had been the slogan at all moments when tears were near at hand.

She took the letter from her bag and looked at it. Stamped, addressed, she had but to drop this into the little letter box, and thereafter the angle of life was twisted to a new prospect: the bleakest, dreariest prospect that any woman had faced.

And it had to be done. The hands of the clock moved slowly and inexorably round. Nine o’clock--a quarter after--twenty minutes before ten; she set her teeth and got up from the little table where she had been trying in vain to concentrate her mind upon a game of patience, went upstairs and put on her hat and coat, and, with the letter tightly gripped in her hand, stole down across the hall, opened the door, and went out.

It was very dark; she could scarcely see her way down the drive. Clear of the overhanging trees, her eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness, made out the road. She thought that she saw somebody on the road ahead and heard footsteps, but she was nervous, she told herself. Nevertheless, she stopped and listened. She heard nothing and went on.

A few minutes’ walk brought her to the pillar box, and here she waited. A big spot of rain fell upon her hand; she heard the sough of the wind through the trees; and then, far away, she saw a tiny star of light and heard the faint clank of the postman’s cycle. She thrust the letter into the box and turned to retrace her steps.

Then it occurred to her that the postman would pass her, and she did not wish to see him. Which way should she go? Her heart and inclinations beckoned to Fossaway Manor. Dick--she must see Dick. She fought against the madness; the postman’s light grew brighter. Then she ran down toward the cut road, through the gate and up the slope to the Abbey. There she sat down to recover her breath, and presently she saw the reflection of a lamp, heard the thunder of the postman’s motor-cycle as it passed.

There went fate, on that dark road, noisily, bumpily. The red light faded from sight, and she got up, walked leisurely past the Abbey ruins, without one thought of ghosts or haunting spirits, and took the lower and shorter path to the Manor.

She was halfway across the long meadow when she stopped. Fear was clutching at her heart; she could feel the flesh creep on her neck, and, turning, looked back. Somebody was following her. Consciously she had heard no sound, but to her heart flashed a warning signal that set it racing. She could see nobody. It must be her imagination, she told herself; yet here, reason and instinct were at variance, and instinct won. She _knew_ there was somebody immediately behind her, less than twenty yards away.

She could intercept the long drive to Fossaway Manor before she could reach the house. She decided to make the longer journey, and, turning abruptly, walked with quick strides across the velvety grass-land in the direction of the elms which flanked the drive. Once she looked back, and thought she saw a moving shape. She quickened her steps, broke into a gentle run. She must not allow blind panic to overcome her, she told herself.

Again she looked back but saw nothing, and, ashamed of her fear, she slowed to a walk and reached the elms and the drive with heartfelt thankfulness. Exactly how she should break in upon Dick she did not know. She hoped he would be in his study, and that she could call him out from the lawn.

Nearer and nearer she came to the house, and then, of a sudden, she whipped round. Somebody was behind her: she was sure of it now. She heard the sound of feet upon the gravelled road.

“Who is there?” she called.

There was no answer, but the footsteps stopped. They might be walking on the grassy verge, she thought, and, turning, ran up the drive. Whoever followed was running, too. She heard a sibilant whisper and her blood turned cold. Then, as she emerged from the trees, she saw a figure against the gray sheen of the round pound, saw the shape of it--the long habit and the heavy cowl. With a scream she flew.

The drive continuing past the window would bring her to Dick’s study. She saw with a gasp of relief that the door was open and a light shining inside. Over her shoulder she saw the queer shape again, and screamed. In an instant Dick was out of the study and had caught her in his arms.

He listened to her breathless story, then, almost carrying her to his room, he put her in a chair and ran out into the night. In a few minutes he came back.

“I saw nothing,” he said. “It was the Black Abbot, you say?”

“I don’t know; something in a cowl and habit: I’m sure of that.”

It was a bad introduction to the story she had to tell; indeed, in her terror, she almost forgot the object of her visit.

“Did Arthur come with you?”

She shook her head.

“Dick, I know,” were the first words she said when she had recovered her breath.

“You know what?”

“About Lady Chelford’s money.”

She saw his face change.

“Did he tell you?” he asked, the red coming into his face.

“Not Arthur, no. It was Gilder.”

“Mr. Gilder told you? I knew he had been and I knew he had called. Was that why he came?”

She nodded.

“For nothing else?”

“Yes; he came to offer me the money.”

She saw his eyes narrow.

“He did? At a price, of course?”

She nodded.

“And you--what did you say?”

She found a difficulty in breathing; speech for the moment was impossible without making a fool of herself.

“You agreed?”

She nodded again.

“I have just posted the letter to him,” she said.

She saw him bite his lip and a red spot of blood showed. If he had stormed at her, cursed her, she could have borne it; but he did no more than look at her. There was nothing in his gaze that was uncharitable.

“Oh, Dick, Dick!” She was sobbing on his breast and his arms were about her, comforting her.

“You can’t do it, my dear. Anything is better than that.”

She shook her head, incapable of speech.

“I tell you anything is better than that.” His voice was hard, uncompromising. “Better Arthur go down for five years than that you should live in hell all your life! I know that man--I know his kind--it isn’t his years, it’s his mind and his evil heart. If he were twenty I would say, ‘No, you can’t do it, Leslie.’”

She pushed herself gently away from him and dried her eyes.

“I must, Dick; I have given my word. I cannot trick him. The last thing I said to him was ‘If I tell you I will marry you, you can make the arrangements about the money--I will not fail you.’ I cannot fail him; I cannot fail myself.”

His face was drawn and haggard.

“This can’t be!” he said. “Something will happen. I don’t know what----”

He stopped.

“What’s that?” she gasped, terrified.

From somewhere in the grounds came a shrill shriek that was hardly human. Again it came: a sobbing, blubbering shriek that turned her heart to ice.

“Stay here,” said Dick, as he made for the open window, but she flung herself upon him.

“You sha’n’t go! You mustn’t go!” she cried wildly. “Dick, something dreadful is happening. Oh, God! listen, Dick!”

This time the shriek was shriller, and died away into a thin wail of sound.

He pushed her aside and ran out on to the lawn.

“From which way did it come, do you think?”

“Over there.” She pointed ahead to the drive.

“Let me come with you--do, please do!” she begged. “I dare not be left alone.”

He hesitated.

“Come,” he said roughly, and took her arm with a grip that made her wince.

Together they ran toward Elm Drive, and then he stopped.

“Go back and get my hand lamp. It’s on my writing table,” he said. “I will wait here for you.”

She fled back to the room, took up the lamp with fingers that trembled so violently that she could scarcely hold it, and rejoined him.

“It was over there. I heard something a second ago. If I hadn’t promised to wait…”

He turned on the light, swinging its rays over the ground before him, and going ahead of her. Presently she saw him stop and a circle of light focus on something black that lay huddled on the grass.

“Stay where you are,” he commanded, “and turn your back.”

A voice hailed him in the distance: it was Puttler, and, guided by the lamp, he came on the scene.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Dick in a low voice.

At his feet was the huddled figure of a man. He was lying on his face, and was attired from head to foot in a long black habit around which a rope was girdled.

“The Black Abbot?” said Puttler incredulously. “Is he dead?”

“Look,” said Dick, and pointed to the wet shoulder and the horror of the throat.

Puttler knelt down, and, putting his arms under the figure, turned it on its back.

The face was covered by a black cowl, and this he gently raised.

“Merciful God!” said Dick, in a hushed voice.

He was looking into the gray face of Thomas, the footman.

XL

“Thomas--the Black Abbot!”

Dick looked at the pitiable thing, bewildered; and then he remembered the girl and, with a low word of instruction to Puttler, went back to her.

“Is he--dead?” she asked fearfully.

“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”

“Who--who is it?”

“One of the servants,” he said evasively.

“Not Thomas?”

Why she should think it was Thomas she could not for the life of her tell.

“Yes--Thomas.”

She made no inquiries, and they walked back without a word to his room. He rang the bell, and, to the footman who answered:

“Ask Mr. Glover to come to me,” he said.

The old butler came apprehensively. All the servants had heard the scream in the park.

“Where is his lordship?”

“He went up to bed about five minutes ago, Mr. Alford.”

“Had he heard--anything?”

“No, sir. He’s so particular about our talking of the Black Abbot----”

“How do you know it was the Black Abbot?” asked Dick sharply, and the butler explained that somebody had seen the figure in the grounds.

“He was trying to open a window. One of the maids looking out of her window saw him walking on the paved path below, and raised an alarm. Has he hurt anybody, Mr. Richard?”

“No, he has hurt nobody,” said Dick.

He drew the butler out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

“A man has been found in the grounds in the dress of a black abbot--and he is dead--murdered!”

“Good Lord, sir!” said the startled servant. “Is it anybody we know?”

“Thomas,” said Dick laconically, and the old man staggered back against the panelled wall.

“Not our Thomas? Thomas Luck, the man who was dismissed?”

Dick nodded.

“Get the servants to bed. Tell them that the scream came from somebody who was skylarking and that we caught him--anything you like.” Then, catching a glimpse of the man’s ashen face: “First of all you’d better go down into the dining-room and help yourself to a good stiff glass of brandy and water; you look a corpse, man!”

“Thomas!” muttered the old man. “It’s terrible! Do you think----”

Dick cut short his question.

“Do as I tell you; get the servants to bed. The police will be up here soon enough, but I’ll arrange that your staff are not questioned till the morning.”

He went back to the girl.

“As for you, young lady,” he said, with a grim smile, “I seem to spend my life taking you back to your home.”

“Couldn’t I stay?” she asked timidly.