Part 19

“Mr. Alford’s away, sir. Do you want to see Sergeant Puttler?”

“Is that the man who has been staying at the hall? What is he--a policeman?”

“A Scotland Yard man, sir,” said the Sussex policeman, with a certain pride. “Though I don’t know they’re much better than our own detectives. You’ll tell him you saw me, will you, and I asked you not to go to the house unless you had business?”

Evidently these were the policeman’s instructions; Gilder promised faithfully to supply this exoneration, and continued up the drive. There was nobody to meet him when he pulled up before the old carved porch, but he had hardly alighted when a long-armed, queer-faced man came from nowhere.

“Good-morning,” said the visitor.

“Good-morning, Mr. Gilder,” said Puttler. “Mr. Alford has had to go to town.”

“I want to see Miss Gwyn,” said Gilder, watching the man closely.

If he had expected an experienced detective-sergeant to betray himself, he was to be disappointed. Puttler did no more than fix him with his melancholy eyes.

“Want to see Miss Gwyn, do you? I’m afraid she’s not at home either.”

“Then perhaps I could see Miss Wenner?”

The sergeant scratched his chin.

“She’s not very well,” he said; “in fact, she’s lying down, and the doctor says she’s not to be disturbed.”

“Is there anything wrong with her?”

“No, there’s nothing very much wrong with her. At the same time,” said Puttler juridically, “there’s nothing very much right with her! It has rather got on her nerves sleeping in this place, and I can’t very well blame her.”

“Do you know where Miss Gwyn has gone?”

Puttler shook his head.

“No,” he said truthfully, “I can’t tell you that; she didn’t tell me.”

“Perhaps you will answer this question,” said the exasperated man: “Has anything happened to her?”

“So far as I know,” said the imperturbable officer, “nothing whatever has happened to her. Are you a friend of hers?”

“I am her fiancé,” said Gilder, on the spur of the moment.

Here he had the satisfaction of seeing that the sergeant was startled.

“Oh, yes, of course, you’re the gentleman she isn’t going to marry.”

It was said in all innocence, without any trace of impertinence, but Mr. Gilder went red and white.

“You see, Mr. Gilder,” the sergeant went on, “I’ve heard quite a lot about--affairs in this neighbourhood; in fact, I’m an authority upon all the gossip and scandal for the past twenty years. And I’m very glad you came, because there are one or two questions I wanted to ask you. For example, I wanted to know how it came about that you placed your cottage at the disposal of an ex-convict. Thomas Luck--so called.”

But here Gilder was ready with his answer.

“I had no idea the man was an ex-convict,” he said. “He told me he had been discharged from the Manor, and as I wanted a caretaker, and he offered to come for a very small sum, I employed him. I was terribly surprised and shocked to hear of his death, but even more shocked to learn of his character.”

Puttler was politely interested. But if he thought that he was going to get rid of Gilder so easily, it was because he did not know the man’s pertinacity.

“I think I must see Miss Wenner before I go,” he said. “At any rate, I’d be glad if you’d send up my name----”

Puttler shook his head.

“It can’t be done, Mr. Gilder,” he said almost cheerfully. “Just now I’m a combination of the Earl of Chelford and the family doctor. In other words, I’m in charge during Mr. Alford’s absence. If you care to wait until he comes back, the drawing-room is at your disposal, but you understand, Mr. Gilder, that you are not in any circumstances to question the servants. I am a great admirer of amateur detectives in my leisure moments, but this is one of my busy days and I can’t afford to have any interference in this case, however well meant it may be.”

Gilder had to accept this invitation. He was determined not to leave the house until he had learned the truth about Leslie Gwyn. The detective conducted him to the drawing-room, the long windows of which were open.

“I’ll ask you not to leave here until Mr. Alford arrives,” he said. “If you require anything, perhaps you will ring?” And, seeing the light in Gilder’s eyes, he added: “One of my men, who is a first-class footman, will attend to you.”

He had not long to wait, as it happened. Dick, who had torn up to town, breaking every speed rule, and so intent upon the object of his visit that he had forgotten even that he had put the bag in the boot, was lucky enough to get through with his interview in a quarter of an hour. It was a very important interview: one on which his own future very largely depended; and there were too many things to think about for him to give a thought to the bag and its contents. His car, white with dust, sped up the drive and came to a halt in the wide space before the porch. He identified the other car and recognized it as the machine that had nearly brought about a nasty accident that morning.

“Gilder, is it?” he said, as he got down.

“Gilder it is, and full of interrogation marks. You saw the secretary?”

Dick nodded.

“Yes. He was very kind, but rather vague. He has given me twelve hours to find Harry, dead or alive.”

“Did you tell him about Miss Gwyn?”

“He wasn’t even interested,” said Dick, with a hard laugh. “Harry, the estate, the title--everything except Leslie! That was the burden of his conversation. In twelve hours I must find him--and believe me, Puttler, in twelve hours I will!”

He went into the drawing-room and greeted Gilder curtly.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I wanted to know what has happened to Leslie Gwyn,” said Gilder.

“I wish to God I knew!” said Dick.

The man stared at him.

“Nothing bad has happened?” he asked in a low voice, and Dick forgave him everything for the sincerity of his concern.

“I’m afraid it is something very unpleasant,” he said, and told the story.

As he did so, he saw the man’s face change and a sceptical smile curved his lips.

“I’ve got something to say to you, and I’d like to say it before a witness, Alford.”

“To me?” said Dick, in surprise, and called over his shoulder to Puttler, who was passing the door. “Mr. Gilder has something he wants to say--I presume it’s something of an unpleasant character,” he said. “Perhaps you had better listen to this, Puttler.”

“Alford has just told me that Miss Gwyn has disappeared, and the inference is, of course, that the Black Abbot has spirited her away. I think that is extremely likely, because the Black Abbot has every interest in holding fast to that young lady.”

“Sensation,” murmured the detective, but Gilder did not notice the interruption.

“For some time past there’s been a queer spook haunting this countryside, an object of terror to Lord Chelford, designed, if anything, to cover the series of outrages which have recently been committed. Chelford’s a weakling--you know that, Alford--but weaklings have children, and once a child is born to Harry Chelford your hope of succession went like that!” He snapped his fingers.

“What are you suggesting?” asked Dick steadily.

“I’m suggesting that you are the Black Abbot!”

Not by so much as a flicker of his eyelid did Dick betray himself.

“I not only suggest it, but I’m prepared to prove it. On your way to town this morning you nearly collided with my car. As you skidded, your bag fell out of the dickey. I picked it up, threw it in the car and found it was open. In that bag was the robe of the Black Abbot, well worn, often used! Do you deny that?”

“You’ve got to bring proof of this.” It was Puttler who spoke.

“Proof!” cried the other triumphantly. “I’ll give you proof!”

He walked rapidly through the hall to where his car was, the two men following him. He had left the bag under a rug at the back of the car.

“There is the bag,” he said, as he pulled the rug from its place. “And here”--he snapped open the bag----

It was empty!

“And here?” said Puttler encouragingly.

“It was there a few minutes ago: I saw it before I came into the grounds. Somebody has taken it. You!” he accused Dick.

Dick smiled.

“Sergeant Puttler will testify that I came straight from my car into your august presence,” he said sarcastically.

“Why don’t you accuse me?” asked Puttler. “I was out here all the time.”

The baffled man looked from one to the other. It was impossible to believe that these two were in league. He knew Puttler by name to be one of the best officers Scotland Yard had ever had. He shrugged his shoulders and dropped his hands to his sides.

“You’ve beaten me, Alford,” he said, “for the time being. But I’m satisfied the girl is within a mile from this house, and I’m not going to rest until she is found. Heaven knows why you’ve done it--she’s fond of you, and there was no need----”

“Don’t be a fool, Gilder,” said Dick roughly. “If you want to help, help! But you’re not going to help by thinking that I’ve raised my hand against Leslie Gwyn. I don’t care whether you’re a friend or whether you are an enemy, but if you can help us bring her back safely I will go on my knees to you!”

Dick’s voice was trembling, vibrant; there was a look in his eyes which not even Gilder, for all his prejudice, could mistake. He held out his hand and Dick Alford took it with a grip that made him wince.

LIII

Despite all her gloomy prognostications as to her sleepless night, the head of Miss Wenner had hardly touched the pillow than her breathing became regular and even noticeable. Leslie Gwyn smiled to herself as she turned over and stealthily extinguished the candle. She had not been lying ten minutes before she realized, from past experience, that many a weary hour would pass before her eyes closed in sleep.

She had the alternative of relighting the candle and reading, or counting myriads of sheep, and the first plan was somewhat hampered in its achievement by the fact that there was nothing in the room to read, and she dare not disturb the sentry, because that would probably wake Mary. So she lay perfectly still, overcoming a mad desire to turn every few minutes, trying to make her mind an absolute blank.

With so much to occupy her thoughts, with the past twenty-four hours and all the terrible shocks they had brought, her effort to turn her mind into a cabbage was a hopeless failure.

She heard a distant village clock striking the half-hours and the hours and was grateful when one o’clock chimed, for she felt she had turned the hill of the night and was approaching the blessed day. There were queer creaks and noises in this old house: strange, stealthy footsteps that seemed very real; fingers brushing along wainscotings, queer little chatterings as of laughter. In spite of her courage, Leslie got up and lit the candle again and felt happier.

She lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling, striving to concentrate upon one little crack that ran from corner to corner; and it seemed as though, as she looked, the room went perceptibly darker, and was filled with a strange unearthly light.

And then she saw behind the door a great steel clothes hook that she did not remember having seen before; and attached was a cord and a shapeless something that hung with terrible limpness… a woman! She opened her eyes wide, almost screamed, but put her hand before her mouth in time.

She had been dreaming, she realized, and she reached out for her handkerchief to wipe her damp face. There was no hook behind the door--nothing. She shivered and turned on her side, looked for the twentieth time at her watch. Twenty-five minutes past one.

_Tap, tap!_

That was distinct enough. It came from the room which Mary Wenner was to have occupied.

A silence, and then the unmistakable sound of gravel being thrown against a window. Perhaps it was Dick and he wanted to see her. She slipped out of bed, pulled a dressing gown about her, opened the door of the dark room and went in. The windows were closed, but as she entered the room she was startled by a third handful of gravel that sounded with terrifying distinctness.

With trembling hands she pulled up the catch and pushed the casement open. A man was standing down below, and for a second she did not recognize him. And then everything went round; she had to grip the window ledge for support.

It was Harry Chelford!

“Is that you, my dear?” His voice was little above a whisper but remarkably clear.

She managed to answer:

“Yes.”

She was so dumbfounded that she could not ask one of the thousand questions which crowded to her lips.

“Harry! And alive!”

“You are in terrible danger,” he said. “Will you come down? I can get a ladder.”

Before she could answer he had disappeared, and presently he came back, carrying a triangular-shaped ladder, and planted it against the side. The top came within a foot of the window ledge.

“I can’t come, Harry; I’m not dressed. Besides, Miss Wenner is here.”

He raised his finger to his lips.

“Don’t wake her,” he said.

He had a little roll of something in his hand and she noticed that he was bareheaded.

“Can’t you dress? I must see you.”

“Shall I call Dick?”

“No, no.” In his energy he almost raised his voice and looked back over his shoulder. “That would spoil everything, and it would endanger his life. Dress quickly, my dear.”

What should she do? Her first instinct was to run to the door and tell the guard what she had seen; her second was to obey him. His earnestness and the terror in his voice made her yield to his suggestion. Quickly she dressed by candlelight, hoping and praying that Mary Wenner would wake up. Once she knocked against the girl’s bed, but Miss Wenner slept peacefully, a seraphic smile on her good-looking face, and the only notice she took of the disturbance was to murmur, “Dick!”

It needed that ludicrous interlude to restore Leslie’s courage; for she could not be amused and afraid at the same time.

Perhaps Dick was waiting below, she thought, and swinging herself over the sill, she reached out her foot, found the top rung of the ladder, and came down. Harry was standing on the grass plot, curiously alert and watchful.

“What is it, Harry?” she asked in a low voice, but he put his finger to his lips again and led her, not, as she expected, toward the front of the house, but by a wide circuit, keeping to the shadow of the trees, until they went past the rosary and near to the stables.

A dog barked as they passed in silence.

“I can’t go any farther, Harry.”

“You must, you must!” His voice was urgent, compelling. “I tell you that not only my life, but your own is in danger.”

“But what of Miss Wenner?” She drew back.

“They will not touch her. My mother’s spirit will watch that poor girl--she died in that room.”

Leslie gasped.

“Your mother?” she asked, in an awestricken whisper.

“Come!” He was impatient, caught her by the arm and led her farther down, until she saw near at hand the gleam of the Ravensrill.

“But, Harry, I can’t go any farther.” She stopped resolutely. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Where have you been all this time? Everybody has been looking for you and Dick has been terribly worried.”

He laughed. (It was the laugh that the watchman heard.)

“Dick is worried? That is rich!”

And now, as the challenge of a distant voice came to her, she saw his face in the moonlight. He was unshaven, unkempt, grimy of face and hands; he wore no collar, and stood, a collarless man in a long frock coat with a wild appearance. Slowly she drew back, dread and fear on her face, and then he clutched her by the wrists.

“If you scream I will throw you into the river and kneel on you until you are dead,” he whispered in so calm and matter-of-fact a tone that she could not believe he was serious.

And yet she had an extra sense which told her that he was not only serious, but that she was in deadly peril. He kept hold of her wrist, or she would have taken to flight, though she would have little chance of escaping one who in his school days was a noted sprinter.… She remembered something else now and felt sick. Harry Chelford had captained his public school team at Bisley and had carried everything before him. This pale, anæmic youth was the greatest shot of his time. The greatest shot! She remembered the bullet that was meant for her, and he felt her dragging on his hand but said no word. She must not lose her nerve at this moment of crisis.

They were making for the ruins. Near the edge of the cutting, Puttler had told her, were stationed two men; they must see her soon. But Harry went no farther than the broken tower, and here he paused and pulled the block of stone aside.

Now she knew; they were going down to that dreadful underground cavern where Dick had taken her. Dick Alford knew his brother was there! She knew this long before she saw the basket, still filled with food, that stood at the bottom of the steps.

LIV

Harry had lit a candle, and, guided by this, she went down the steep circular stairway.

“He brought me that, food--the devil!” He pointed his shaking finger to the basket.

“Dick brought it?” she faltered.

He nodded.

“Poisoned,” he said. “But he didn’t catch me. Poisoned every bit of it!”

He carefully unwrapped a white napkin and showed a dainty pile of sandwiches, took one and opened it.

“You can see the crystals glittering on the meat,” he said, in so calm and matter-of-fact a tone that she almost thought she saw something glitter on the white flesh.

Then he lifted the bottle and looked at it with a smile.

“It was too childish. Nobody but a fool would have dreamt I could be deceived.” He put the bottle and sandwiches back again carefully and covered them with the napkin that had been over the basket.

“Come,” he said, and they went farther into the apartment.

She saw a big gap in the floor and a stone standing straightly up from the centre.

“I have a lamp below. I prepared this place a very long time ago against such an emergency. Light and food--and all the water you want. Will you go first?”

He was very courteous and polite, took her hand to guide her, and held the light so that she could see the stairs, and came down immediately after, stopping to swing the stone into place.

“Will you hold the candle?” he asked.

She was trembling so violently that her fingers were soon covered with hot grease, but she did not feel the smart of the boiling wax; her eyes were fixed upon the man, fascinated.

He was lighting a new storm lantern which burnt, she guessed, paraffin gas, and it took some time before a brilliant bright light illuminated the room in which she found herself. It was twice the size of the apartment above, and neither the walls nor the floor had fallen into decay. It was almost as new-looking as it had been when the Norman builders had handed it to the Black Fathers of Chelfordbury.

The first unusual things she saw were two sporting rifles that stood in a corner of the room. Following her eyes, he smiled.

“I shall not sell my life without a struggle,” he said firmly.

The furniture consisted of a very old refectory table, the top of which must have been at least four inches in thickness, a long form, and a high chair that looked like a bishop’s throne. There were no visible windows, but the ceiling did not quite reach the wall, and there seemed a space all round the room where air was admitted.

“Excuse me,” he said.

He took the thing he had been carrying, unrolled it, and to her astonishment, kissed it passionately before he carried it to a truckle-bed that she had not noticed before and tacked it to a beam which showed between the stone courses and was in truth the only wood she had seen in the building.

She looked in amazement, and knew the picture instantly. It was the head of his mother.

“How lovely!” he sighed. “How wonderful! Do you know, I feel that nothing matters now, Leslie!”

He smiled at her, and looked at that moment so happy that she could have cried.

“Richard hated her,” he went on. “He never lost an opportunity of speaking ill of her. I am told that in my absence he used to bring the servants into the library and together they would laugh and gibe at this beautiful martyr.”

“How absurd, Harry! You know Dick would do no such thing,” she said, stirred to his defence.

But he was not angry, nor did he show any resentment at her championship.

“You don’t know Dick,” he said simply. “Dick, of course, is the Black Abbot. I only found it out a week or two ago, when I went into his room and discovered the costume in a box. He had forgotten to put it away.”

She did not believe the only truth he had told her so far but she felt that it would be undiplomatic, to say the least, to argue with him.

“Harry, I can’t stay here, you know,” she said. “There is only one room, and I have a weakness for a daily bath----”

He walked across the room and pulled aside a sacking that hid one corner, and pointed dramatically.

“You will find everything you require here,” he said. “This room is yours. I shall sleep upstairs, only coming below at the first hint of danger, either to you or to me. The position calls for courage and patience, and I know that my wife-to-be has those qualities to excess.”

He was his old, smiling, genial self.

“By-the-way, there are plenty of books to read--I brought some away from the house. They were rather heavy and I had to drag them a little bit, but thank heaven I got just what I wanted.”

She noticed them now for the first time, piled at one end of the refectory table. He took up a volume and turned the leaves lovingly.

“You do not read German? I think you told me that before. It is a pity, because this is a very fascinating narrative, told by an outsider of the Chelfords of the period. You will be pleased to learn that I have located the treasure. It was not difficult. I knew all the time that it was behind the second door in the room above.”

“Have you known this place for long?”

He nodded.