“Once,” continued the servant in a low, fearful voice, “men came to the house, while I was there. He forced me to be present; and there followed a dreadful scene. The worst of them—bloody Jack Fern—was spokesman. Him you have seen, sir.”
“Have I? Aye, aye. I note the rascal’s white hair.”
“Yes, it is he. It seemed my master, the highwayman, held a great stone of value that they all claimed a share in. ’Twas called, as you will know, the Lake of Wine.”
“The plot opens out.”
“He denied them, with oaths of fury. They had been paid their price like any other clerks of office. They swore the stone was hid somewhere in the house and they would have it out. He barred the door and they made at him. It was numbers only that emboldened them, for he was bitter feared of all and a devil in strength and resource. He caught the first of them—oh, my God! I fall sick to think of it now—he was a blythe young fellow—and broke his neck across his knee. For years the snap and the cough sounded in my dreams.”
“Well, well. It was horrible, as you say.”
“At that, they all drew back, cowed as whipped dogs. I was half-fainting, and can remember little more. I was only a lad of eighteen at the time, and nerveless even then. But I know that they went carrying away their dead; and that they buried somewhere in the grounds. I have never dared to think where. Sir, it was only a day or two after that my master disappeared, and in the meantime I thought myself like to die, and fled upon his mere approach. But, on the night of his murder, they all came back—while he was swinging on the downs—and they forced entrance to the house. By Heaven’s mercy I escaped and hid myself in the woods. There I lay in hunger and wretchedness for days; till, desperate with starvation, I stole back for food. Then I saw the place ransacked and overturned—much as ’twas when you first came—and Mr. Creel taking inventory of the ruin. So ’twas evident a mad search had been conducted; but fruitless, as afterwards appeared.”
“A moment, my friend. I must needs marvel here a little. Why did you not quit Mr. Cutwater’s service when you were informed of Mr. Turk’s real character?”
Whimple slunk back against the bed-head, and put his hands before his face.
“And why did the gentleman take you of all people into his confidence?”