Rees could have bitten his tongue out. He leaned against the uneven and slippery wall, shivering with alarm and disappointment. Had he fatally betrayed himself? Who was the intruder? All that he could tell as yet was that it was the voice of a young man. Rees kept quite still and silent, hoping against hope that the man would not see the opening in the floor of the vaulted chamber. The day was so dark that this was just possible. But the hope was vain. Rees heard footsteps, and then another exclamation as the tiny light of a match appeared for a few moments at the opening in the floor above him and then went out.
At that moment his foot slipped, making a slight noise.
“Who’s there?” cried the voice above. “Not Rees, not Rees Pennant? For God’s sake, answer?”
Rees recognised the voice by this time. It was that of Sep Jocelyn, one of his most devoted admirers and friends.
This Sep was a short and rather thick-set fair man, without hair on his face, who was five-and-thirty, but looked ten years younger until you examined quite closely the little thread-like wrinkles which crossed and recrossed his face in all directions, and the white streaks in his thick fair hair. While still very young, he had been left an orphan with command of money; as usual in such cases, he had been ruined in character and fortune in the most commonplace way—by bad women, worse men, and drink. At three-and-thirty he had been discovered in abject circumstances by an old aunt, the widow of an admiral, who had carried him off with her to her house in Carstow, where she could still keep up some show of state on an extremely limited income.
Here she tried hard to regenerate him, and as far as that could be done, she succeeded. That is to say, he became entirely respectable, lived soberly, went to church, and was a most submissive, affectionate, and good-humored companion to his aunt, of pleasant, if somewhat effeminate manners. But at heart he was blasé and cynical, with a surprised feeling that any one could be so misguided as to bestow on him so much attention and kindness, which he certainly was not worth. And yet he was grateful, in a certain way, making due allowance for the facts that his aunt had wanted a companion, and that she belonged to the sex which has a fondness for the reclamation of ne’er-do-weels. Belonging to that class of men who, incapable of leading, have an instinct of attaching themselves where they will be led, he had become the devoted satellite of Rees Pennant, whose handsome face and dashing manner fascinated and enchained him.
Rees, who made the not unnatural mistake of rating Sep’s devotion higher than it was worth, felt intensely relieved on learning who his discoverer was. In an instant he made up his mind to confide in him. Knowing, as he did, that he must have help to prosecute his researches further, it seemed, indeed, that no better assistant could be obtained.
“S-h!” he hissed, and creeping up three or four of the rough steps as quickly and quietly as he could, he asked in an eager whisper, “Who is with you?”
“Little Jack, Mrs. Crow’s boy. He’s outside. I told him not to come down; the room above us is ankle deep in mud. What are you doing down there? What a pickle you’re in!”
“I’m clean to what I shall be before I’ve done,” said he, in a low voice, as he crept up the remaining steps, replaced the grating with Sep’s help, and taking off his waistcoat, laid it upon the bars and shovelled a layer of earth on to it.