He bent over the step to stare at me.
“He wore a blue coat, Richard. Why do you ask?”
I gave a little gasp.
“Tell him,” said Harry again.
“Wait a moment!” I fluttered. “Why, who could say, Mr. Pilbrow, that thieves or the sea hadn’t taken this treasure long ago?”
“Abel,” he answered, in the same voice. “Abel, the direct consignee of the secret, which was sealed by Carolus Victor, and never opened or delivered till it came to light in our parlour. Abel, who knew this coast, had written guide-books, about it—misleading guide-books, indeed, to me in my killing search—and who was aware that the place, the actual caché of the treasure, still survived—or why should he have sought to hide the truth from me, and have fled in the night, himself like a thief? Abel, the cursed shadow that I follow, and cannot run to earth!”
“O, Dick, tell him!” cried Harry once more.
“Mr. Pilbrow!” I broke out, trembling with excitement. “I believe you have hunted counter; I believe we can show you where your shadow lies. It is in the hill under the abbey ruins, and you must take off your curse from it.”
CHAPTER XII.
RESCUE.
Confession, discussion, incredulity, conviction, with all their concomitants of amazement, awe, emotion, were long over; long put aside in reservation was the unsolvable problem of Rampick’s part in the dark mystery of the hill; long had our last exhausted consideration of these questions lapsed into something like a silence of despair, as we drifted, with gentle lap and wallow, over those immeasurable heart-breaking wastes.