Part 17

“My dear,” said Mary, “I’m not so sure I shall stay here to-night. This place is full of shocks! I’d like to see your brother very much indeed, but you can tell him all about the room under the Abbey, can’t you? That’s where the gold is--you mark my words!”

“The gold?” Leslie for a moment did not understand. “Oh, you mean the Chelford treasure?”

The horrible thing! It was behind all this misery; behind the killing of Thomas and the disappearance of Harry. She said as much, and Miss Wenner, not pausing in her typewriting, calmly expressed the view that it was very likely.

Shock followed shock indeed! At half-past four Leslie’s maid brought a letter which had come by special delivery. It was in Arthur’s writing; she tore it open and read:

Dear Leslie:

You are under no circumstances to marry Gilder. I refuse to allow you to sacrifice yourself for me, now or at any time. I am going away to France for a few months, and will return when things have blown over.

Ordinarily quick-witted, it was a long time before Leslie could understand the significance of this message. When she did, she took the letter to Dick, and he read it without comment and handed it back to her.

“What does that mean, Dick?”

“It means that Arthur has taken the line of least resistance,” he said. “To put it vulgarly, he has bolted!”

Her heart sank, and in that moment she felt terribly alone. As if he read her thoughts, he went on:

“He has certainly precipitated the crisis, but I don’t see exactly how it will affect you. There was nothing else in the letter?”

She shook her head and opened the envelope, and then saw a slip of paper which she had overlooked. It was an authority to sell his business, drawn up in legal form, and had evidently been added as an afterthought.

“If there are no further defalcations that ought to be worth something,” said Dick. “I’ll see what I can do.”

But on this point she was firm.

“I think you’ve enough trouble without mine,” she said quietly. “Did you find anything in the ruins?”

He started.

“Why--no,” he said, a little unconvincingly. “Did you see me go back?”

“I’m afraid I spied on you,” she said, with a pathetic little smile. “Dick, I’m so worried about you; I wish you wouldn’t go into these places alone.”

“There was nothing to fear,” he said. “I thought I saw something on the floor which gave me a clue to Harry’s fate, but it was nothing--nothing.”

He changed the subject abruptly. She had a feeling that he was not telling her all that he had seen.

Mary and she had dinner alone, and Mr. Glover, the butler, free from the restraining presence of Dick Alford, was inclined to be talkative.

“There’s no doubt Mr. Alford looks after the policemen. I have had to get a food basket ready--thermos flask and everything the heart can desire. Personally, miss, I don’t believe in pampering the police. They’re only dissatisfied when they go back to their own homes. He won’t have anybody take the basket down to them either. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it myself. You have it ready at nine o’clock, put it just outside the servants’ door.’ My own opinion is that they’d be much more pleased with bread and cheese and a bottle of beer. What’s the good of making chicken sandwiches for policemen? And having a bottle of the best wine up from the cellar! It’s a waste of good food!”

Leslie listened, petrified. Now she understood!

The food was not for the police--it was for Harry! Harry, held prisoner in Chelford Abbey--by whom?

XLVIII

The bane of life that day had been the London reporters. The Red Lion Inn at Chelfordbury was already filled with them, and not an hour passed that one did not make his way to the house in a vain endeavour to interview the Second Son. One intercepted him in Elm Drive, and to him, as to the rest, he gave the same reply.

“You boys can’t expect me to tell you any more than I already know,” he said, at bay. “My brother has disappeared, but I believe he is still alive.”

“Who do you think is responsible for these outrages, Mr. Alford?” asked the reporter.

Dick shook his head.

“If I knew, it isn’t reasonable to suppose that I should be discussing the matter with you.”

“Is it the Black Abbot?”

“The Black Abbot has nothing whatever to do with this crime,” said Dick shortly. “Unless I credit you with being so foolish as to believe in ghosts, it is unnecessary for me to tell you that there is no such thing as a Black Abbot, and the figure that has been seen in these grounds was somebody masquerading for his own purpose.”

“A practical joke?” suggested the newspaper man.

Dick shook his head.

“I don’t think it was a practical joke; indeed, I am sure there is something very serious behind it. But I can’t tell you any more.”

“Mr. Alford,” said the reporter, “I’m going to ask you a very delicate question, and I hope you won’t think it an impertinence. If your brother is dead, then the title comes to you, does it not?”

“Yes,” said Dick.

“You won’t be offended if I tell you that there is a little talk in the village of some antagonism between your brother and you. I am told there have been frequent quarrels.”

Dick mastered his anger with a great effort, realizing that the reporter was not intending to be impertinent, but simply epitomizing the gossip of the countryside.

“My brother was very nervous and quick-tempered,” he said, “but I’ve never had a serious quarrel with him in my life.”

“Is it true that Lord Chelford’s fiancée, Miss Leslie Gwyn, recently broke off her engagement with your brother?”

“Perfectly true,” said Dick, stifling his impatience.

“And yet she is staying at Fossaway Manor as your guest?” The keen eyes of the reporter were watching him closely. He saw the blood mount to his victim’s cheeks and hastened to add: “I’m merely telling you what other people will tell you, Mr. Alford. I have a much wider experience of the uncharity and suspicion that surround every man associated with a crime like this. If you are annoyed with me I can understand it, but I can assure you that I only want to help you.”

“That I quite believe,” said Dick with a smile. “But you can understand just how embarrassing your questions are. I will tell you the truth and you may put it into your paper. I am satisfied there is a very terrible danger overhanging Miss Leslie Gwyn, and it is for that reason, and that reason alone, I have asked her to stay at the hall, which is under police protection and where I know she will be safe. Her brother has gone abroad, and I cannot allow her to stay at Willow House alone.”

“You mean she is in danger from the same person that killed Thomas the footman, and who is responsible for the disappearance of Lord Chelford?”

Dick nodded, and the newspaper man made a mental note.

“Thank you,” he said. “You will find that this little talk has cleared the air. In cases like this, if you clear up the minor mysteries as you go along, it makes for everybody’s comfort.”

Dick, who had been trembling with anger through the interview, had to agree, in the calm moments which followed, that the reporter had taken a sane view of the matter. When he met Leslie a few minutes later, he told her of the interview. She was in the study alone, and had just finished writing a letter, which lay face downward on the blotting-pad. She saw him glance at the envelope and turned it up. It was addressed to Fabrian Gilder.

“What have you said?” he asked.

“I’ve told him that I’ve considered the matter, and I’ve decided that I could not marry him--in any circumstances it would be impossible now, so soon after Harry’s disappearance.”

He picked up the letter and, taking out his pocket case, tore off a stamp and affixed it.

“I’ll see that this goes,” he said grimly. Then, seeing her tired face: “Poor old girl, you’re having a bad time.”

The pressure of her hand, the love and sympathy in her voice, were almost too much for him, and he had to set his teeth or he would have taken her in his arms, and, in that place of tragedy and horror, told her of the love that was shaking him, and which had added a new and fearful burden to his overstrung nerves.

“Go to bed early,” he said, with an effort at gaiety, “and rise with the dawn. I shall be busy till very late.”

“The butler was telling me that you have ordered a basket of food for the policemen.”

Not a muscle of his face moved.

“That is so; one or two men who are patrolling the cutting need a little light refreshment. They cannot get to the house and we haven’t men to relieve them.”

She was sensible enough not to pursue the subject.

It was only on her earnest entreaty that, as the night grew on, Mary Wenner remained. The girl was a bundle of nerves, started at every sound, paled and flushed with the opening of a door, and the sound of a falling plate in the servery whilst they were at dinner had made her scream.

“I can’t help it, my dear; I’m naturally temperamental,” she explained. “And this house has got me shivering. I can’t leave another young lady without a chaperon, or I’d fly off to London before it got dark.”

She had been in the library that afternoon, she told Leslie, and the sight of that familiar room with its empty chair had been almost the last straw.

“I had to have a good cry,” she confessed, “and I’m not ashamed of it. Harry was one of the best--you don’t mind me calling him Harry, do you, dear?” And, when Leslie shook her head: “I can’t say that I was fond of him as a young girl ought to be fond of a man she loves, but he was very nice. He had his tempers, the same as the rest of us, but they were only his high spirits. I could never understand why he hated Mr. Alford.”

Leslie looked at her incredulously.

“Hated Mr. Alford?” she repeated. “Surely you’re mistaken? They were very good friends.”

Mary shook her head.

“No, they weren’t,” she said. “It all arose out of her ladyship’s picture.”

“The late Lady Chelford?”

“That was the lady,” nodded Mary. “It happened three years ago. Dick Alford suggested that the portrait should be moved to the gallery. I think he was silly to say it, knowing how Harry adored his mother, and when he said the picture was depressing--and that was the silliest thing of all--Harry got right up in the air! It was dreadful, the things he said to Mr. Alford--and before me, too! Dick Alford realized his mistake: I could see that, and he tried to pacify Harry, but for a fortnight they didn’t speak.”

Leslie was silent. Slowly the inner life of Fossaway Manor was beginning to reveal itself to her; she had seen nothing of these cross-currents, had not suspected, even dimly, the conflicting antagonism which must have been visible to Harry Chelford’s secretary.

“They were very friendly sometimes. You’d think that Harry was fond of him, and I think he was,” Mary continued; “but the quarrels used to break out every now and then, once because Dick always stood with his back to the picture, and never looked at it at all. He hated it, I’m sure of that. Of course, he never took me into his confidence. We were not what you might term good friends. I suppose it was foolish of me to take up Harry’s quarrel, but I never liked Dick--you don’t mind me calling him Dick?--after that.”

She glanced nervously through the window. The sun had set, and dusk was creeping over the great park.

“If I get any sleep to-night I’ll be lucky,” she said. “Do you mind if I leave my door open and keep a light burning?”

“Why, of course not,” smiled Leslie.

“There is a lock on the door, and I asked Glover to find me the key,” Miss Wenner went on. “And I’ll tell you frankly, Leslie, that if he hadn’t found it I wouldn’t have stayed, not for all the money in the world.”

Leslie felt that it would be indiscreet to offer encouragement to a further discussion of this subject, for she was as reluctant to spend the night under that roof as her new-found friend.

XLIX

Though she waited up till nearly eleven, she did not see Dick, and, in response to the repeated hints of the girl, they went upstairs together.

The Manor was lighted by a power plant which was accommodated in a small shed midway between the house and the Ravensrill, and owed its installation to Dick’s enterprise.

Harry had always had candles in his room, Mary told her, but had accepted the lighting of his library as a compromise.

“It’s a very strange thing,” said Mary from her inner room, “but Harry was afraid of electricity. In thunderstorms he always went down into the cellar and stayed there until they were over. He used to have a bed which was made every day in the summer, in case of a storm coming on in the night, and----”

At that moment all the lights in the room went out.

“Have you turned the lights off?” asked Mary’s anxious voice.

“No, I haven’t been near the switch; I expect a fuse has gone,” said the girl.

There were matches and candles on the dressing table, she remembered, and, groping her way to the table, she lit the two candles. Mary was standing in the doorway, very pale and wide-eyed.

“What was the meaning of that?” she asked, her voice sharp with fear, which was beginning to communicate itself to Leslie.

She forced a smile.

“That happens in the best regulated houses,” she said, with spurious gaiety. “The door is locked, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

And then she heard footsteps in the corridor; there was a knock at the door that made Mary jump.

“Are you there, Leslie?” It was Dick’s voice. “Something has gone wrong with the lighting arrangements; we’ll put it right in a minute or two.”

“Are the lights out everywhere?” asked Mary, but he was gone.

Twenty minutes passed and again Leslie heard his footsteps approaching.

“I’m afraid we sha’n’t be able to fix up the lights till the morning. Have you candles? Did Glover put a flash light for you?”

“We’ve everything we want,” said Leslie. “Don’t worry about us: we shall be asleep in ten minutes.”

“Not me,” murmured Miss Wenner tremulously. “I sha’n’t sleep a wink!”

By the light of her candle she had replaced most of the garments she had discarded when the lights went out.

“I knew I oughtn’t to have stayed--there’s somebody coming along the corridor!”

“It is only Mr. Alford.”

But her ears caught the sound of two pairs of feet, and presently Dick’s voice spoke.

“Do you mind if I leave one of Puttler’s men outside your door?” he asked. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear him walking about in the night.”

“Is anything wrong, Dick?”

“No, no, nothing wrong; only I knew Miss Wenner was rather nervous.”

“I am,” quavered Miss Wenner loudly. “It’s very good of you, Mr. Alford.”

“You had better keep your windows fastened,” said Dick. “There is a system of ventilation in the room, so you needn’t be afraid of waking with a headache. Good-night.”

When he had gone, Mary Wenner looked solemnly at her companion.

“Did you hear what he said about keeping the windows shut?” she asked hollowly. “My Gawd!”

“Don’t be silly, Mary.”

Leslie was past feeling comfortable, but she had need to set an example.

“Come along, I’ll help you fasten the windows.”

“‘Keep the windows fastened,’” repeated Mary Wenner. “There’s something doing!”

They went from one to the other of the leaded windows, closed them and pressed down the catches. Suddenly Mary clutched the girl’s arm fiercely.

“There’s a man under my bed!” she gasped, staring wildly at the drooping counterpane.

With a fluttering heart Leslie lifted the cover, and pulled out a pair of riding boots, the soles of which the frightened secretary had seen, and they both laughed hysterically.

“I wish I could bring my bed into your room.” Mary looked helplessly at the heavy four-poster to which she had been assigned.

“You can come and sleep with me,” said Leslie. “I’ve got a big bed.” And this offer was most gratefully accepted.

“Have a look under your bed first,” said Miss Wenner nervously, and not till this ritual had been observed did she commence very slowly to undress.

Down below in the library, Dick was in consultation with Puttler, who had just returned from a hasty visit to Scotland Yard.

“The batteries were smashed, and an attempt had been made to cut the main cable,” reported Dick. “I got to the power house just after it happened, but I saw nobody.”

Puttler pulled at his comic little nose and there was a look of trouble in his brown eyes.

“The Commissioner thinks you ought to have a dozen men down here and make a clean-up,” he said. “I’ve brought three, and I think they all ought to be inside the house. One we’ve got in the east wing, another in the west, and a patrol in the hall. That will leave you and me and the local ‘flatties’ for the grounds. Though I think we might as well stay here--you want a battalion to patrol the estate properly. By the way, when I was looking round early this morning I found a great mound of earth in the northeast corner of the estate, near the river. One of your gamekeepers told me it was called Chelford Greed. What is the idea?”

Dick was not in an archæological mood, but he explained.

“One of my ancestors--I don’t know which one--planned and carried out a big steal. You probably know that the charter by which we received these lands from King Henry confines the northern boundary of the estate to the course of the Ravensrill, and the ingenious Chelford of the times had the idea of changing the course of the Ravensrill so that the estate would embrace another thousand acres. The Chelford Greed was the dam he built. The natural course of the Ravensrill runs through the Long Meadow. It was one of those clever little pieces of robbery that have made us landed proprietors what we are! As I say, I don’t know which of the Chelfords planned this piece of larceny, because there is no written record, and the legend has come down from mouth to mouth, so to speak.”

He looked up at the big portrait above the fireplace and shook his head.

“Lady,” he said softly, “you’ve given me a lot of trouble!”

Puttler was interested.

“As how?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you one of these days,” said Dick. “I wonder if those girls are asleep?”

He stole quietly up the stairs. The man on duty in the corridor flashed a lamp upon him as he approached.

“No sound,” he whispered, and Dick crept downstairs again.

It was arranged that he and Puttler should snatch a few hours’ sleep in turn, the other patrolling round and round the block of buildings. At two o’clock in the morning he was aroused from a deep slumber to feel Puttler shaking gently at his shoulder.

“Nothing has happened,” said the detective, eyeing with a friendly look the sofa from which Dick struggled. “I’ve warmed up some grub for you.”

A spirit stove was burning on the desk and the kettle above was steaming. Dick poured the black coffee into a glass and scalded himself to wakefulness.

“One of the local men thought he saw somebody moving and challenged,” reported Puttler, settling himself down with a luxurious sigh. “But it was probably only a bush. These birds are jumpy--they see a Black Abbot in every shadow!”

Dick sipped at the boiling fluid and broke a biscuit with his disengaged hand.

“Thank God, this can’t go on much longer!” he said. “By the way, did you bring those papers from London?”

“I gave them to you in the library: they were in the blue envelope.”

Dick put down the glass.

“I’d better keep them in my safe,” he said. “I don’t want the servants to see them.”

He crossed the hall, unlocked the door of the library and went in, mechanically switching on the light, and only then remembering that for the time being Fossaway Manor was denied the service of the little power house. He went back to the study and got his lamp and picked his way across the room to the desk. The envelope was where he had put it, and he slipped this into his pocket. As he did so, he was aware that a cold wind was blowing. He sent his light along the windows. That at the end was open; one of the curtains, which had been drawn across lay in a heap on the ground.

He went to the door and called Puttler softly and the detective joined him.

“Somebody has been here,” he said, and pointed to the curtain and the twisted pole that had supported it.

It was easy to see how the intruder had made his way into the library. Two of the panes near the iron handle which fastened one leaf of the window had been broken, and evidently the midnight visitor, in entering, must have fallen and, catching hold of the curtain to save himself, brought it to the ground, breaking away the pole which was hanging drunkenly.

“I passed here ten minutes ago, and the window was shut then,” said Puttler.

“He may have been inside at the moment,” replied Dick thoughtfully. “I wonder what has been taken?”

He examined the desk. Evidently the intruder had not opened any of the drawers, though, if he had done so, his labours would have been in vain, since Dick had cleared every document out of the room early in the day. As they circulated the room, Puttler stumbled over something.

“Where did this come from?” he asked.

It was a light ladder, and Dick recognized it as one of two that were part of the library furniture, and was employed to reach books from the top shelf of the lower tier.

“When I saw this last it was standing at the end of the room,” he said.

He flashed his lamp up on to the shelves, looking for a gap in the long line of books. So doing, his lamp swept across that space intervening between the shelves which was covered by the portrait of the late Lady Chelford. He could see the big gold frame, caught a glimpse of one white hand hanging gracefully, and then something brought his lamp back. He heard the churchwarden detective swear softly. Himself, he was speechless. The light of his lamp focussed on the place where the woman’s face had been, and where now was a black emptiness.

The face and shoulders of the picture had been cut from the frame, and the ragged strands of canvas told him that it had been cut by an unskilful hand.

L