A MAN FROM THE GRAVE
There was nothing to be done.
The possibility of recovering the Indian's body from the Wizard's Marsh was a remote one, and, even were it done, what would the advantage of such a recovery be? Christian burial would be denied to such a creature, and with good reason.
It was with a certain feeling of satisfaction, combined with horror at the nature of the Thug's end, that Laurence rode slowly home on his bicycle, accompanied by Nichols, mounted on the mare.
On their way they passed a woman, who was commencing the long trudge across the moor in somewhat tattered attire, and with a ponderous bundle on her shoulders.
Something in her figure being familiar to Laurence, he scrutinised her features as she tramped past.
"She" was the person who had taken refuge in the tree from the bloodhounds who were pursuing the fugitive Thug—the convict servant, Horncastle, from Durley Dene! What did it mean? Where was he going?
Laurence had not to wait long for an answer to these questions.
He took leave of Nichols, and entered the dining-room on arriving home.
Lena was not present, but the young man was surprised to find Mrs. Knox still engaged in breaking her fast. The final events in the unravelling of the mystery surrounding the Squire's enemy had not covered a very great space of time.
"Young man," said the worthy old lady, "I would have a word with you." And she tried to look extremely severe.
"Certainly, Mrs. Knox. I hope it is something pleasant."
"Well, that remains to be seen. What I want to know is this: are you interested in my niece?"
"Really, now you come to mention it, I believe I am."
"More than interested?" the lady pursued, stretching out her hand for the marmalade jar.
"Perhaps. Why?"
"Well, I was wondering whether you knew she was already engaged?"
"Engaged! Lena engaged! Impossible! She has—er—practically engaged herself to me, Mrs. Knox."
"Precisely. That is the engagement to which I refer! I merely desired to ascertain whether your intentions were entirely honest."
"I assure you, Mrs. Knox——"
"Quite so, Mr. Carrington; I understand. I have mentioned the matter to your papa, who leaves it entirely in my hands."
"Really! But don't you think Miss Scott and I are the first persons to be considered?"
"That, my dear boy, is a matter for you to decide between yourselves. Lena is in the drawing-room. Perhaps you would like to exchange a few words. I will not intrude just yet. As a matter of fact, I have only just begun my breakfast. I have been ailing lately. My appetite is not what it was, but there are one or two things your dear housekeeper has provided to-day which have tempted me to eat."
Laurence withdrew, leaving Mrs. Knox to congratulate herself on being an excellent match-maker. He entered the drawing-room, but was disappointed to find the room empty.
He hurried upstairs to the Squire's bedroom, where he was surprised to see Lena, who had been reading to the old gentleman.
"Father," he cried, "you are safe! He is drowned in the Wizard's Marsh!"
The Squire darted up in bed.
"Do you mean it? Is this true? How do you know?" he shrieked, clutching his son's arm, and staring into his face with eyes almost starting from their sockets.
"We traced him there. He was chased by the Marquis's bloodhounds. And this—this was found on the brink of the swamp. In trying to escape the hounds he plunged into the marsh, and, followed by them, has gone down into its unfathomable depths."
And he produced the dead man's "noose."
"Then I am safe!" yelled Squire Carrington.
Laurence had barely time to assure him that such was the case when the door opened and Kingsford appeared.
"A gentleman to see you," he informed the Squire mysteriously.
"Show him in; show him in," replied the old gentleman, to Kingsford's unbounded astonishment. Once he knew that the grim shadow of dread and death no longer enshrouded him, the Squire was something like he had been five-and-twenty years before—the dashing Indian officer, striving his hardest for promotion, so that he might claim for his bride the woman who had now been dead long years.
"Show him in," he said, almost hysterically, wriggling about in his bed until the pains in his neck compelled him to desist.
Kingsford departed, only to return in a couple of minutes, throw open the door, and announce in strident tones a name that caused the three occupants of the room to stare with unbounded astonishment in the direction of the doorway.
"Sir Bromley Lestrange," he said.
And, with light tread, there stepped into the room—"Doctor Orlando Meadows," alias "Major Jones-Farnell!"