The Sapphire Cross

by George Manville Fenn

But, as might have been expected, Sir Murray Gernon could not fit together the pieces of the puzzle: he could not in his heart conclude that Norton had been associated with the burglarious party, and he was still brooding over the matter, when a note was placed in his hands—one which made him start as if stung by some venomous beast, and sit staring, with dilated eyes, till rage and disappointment got the better of surprise.

The note was very short, too, and merely to the effect that Captain Norton, while passing the park palings on the previous night, had heard an appeal for help, and had taken the liberty of trespassing that he might render some aid; but in the darkness and haste to get home and change his wet things, he had lost a portion of his clothes, containing letters of importance. Would Sir Murray Gernon kindly give orders that, if found, they might be restored?

Sir Murray Gernon sat for some minutes staring blankly at the paper as he mastered its contents. Here, then, was proof in the man’s own handwriting that he had trespassed upon the Castle grounds on the previous night—but for what?

Reason gave the answer at once, but suspicion refused the explanation. There must have been some underhanded motive. Lady Gernon was dressed: she had not been to bed. Could it be that an evasion had been planned and interrupted by the fortuitous visit of the burglars? It must be so; and, feeling that he was now upon the right scent, Sir Murray determined to double his precautions, and acting on that determination, he stooped more and more to the meanness of acting the part of spy.

He would have challenged Norton to meet him again and again, but he told himself, with a grim smile, that he was a poltroon—as great a coward as ever breathed—and he felt more bitter than ever against him. It seemed to Sir Murray that he had been hoaxed—that he had been made the object of a trick that should for a few hours make him believe in Norton’s death. He could not see that the acting of such a purposeless part would have been insensate to a degree, and that it was all due to the strength of his own imagination—an imagination now ever running riot in its wild theorising.

Norton might have smiled could he have read Sir Murray’s heart, in spite of the anger and pain he would have felt. For his own part, he had, on reaching the footway of the bridge, stood thoughtful for a few moments, and then, hearing Sir Murray’s voice, had come to the conclusion that the better plan would be to hurry away, and so avoid an encounter, feeling sure that his acts would be, in some way or other, misconstrued. He trusted that it would be supposed he had made his way to a place of safety; but, at all events, he was determined not to meet the baronet, and therefore proceeded quickly homewards, little thinking of the conclusions that would be arrived at, till towards the evening of the day following, when he recalled the fact that his recognition was certain in consequence of the clothes he had lost, the result being that he sent the note above alluded to. The writing of this note involved a full account to Mrs Norton of the night’s adventure, to her great discomfort, for beyond a bare outline given in explanation of the wet clothes, Mrs Norton had known little of the state of affairs. By degrees, though, that day the news of the attempted burglary had reached the Hall, and Norton comprehended the cause of the cry for help to which he had so opportunely responded. At the same time, though, he could not but regret that he had been the instrument called upon to save the men’s lives, the uneasiness brought upon him by the incident being excessive—an uneasiness fully shared, though in silence, by his wife.

Events in the life of Mr John Gurdon about this time began to succeed each other with great rapidity. An examination before the county magistrates resulted in his committal, and the assizes coming on within a month, the ex-butler stood his trial. The evidence was too strong against him; he had been, as it were, taken red-handed, and, with his companions, was condemned to cross the seas to a land where there should be fewer temptations for him. The judge, taking all things into consideration, seemed to think that Gurdon’s crime was more heinous even than that of his companions, and visited it accordingly; for, while the other two men were sentenced to transportation for fourteen years, John Gurdon’s sentence was almost equivalent to condemnation for life, inasmuch as he was to be exiled for twenty years.

“All right, gentlemen—all right,” he said, coolly; “but I shall come back again. And as for you, Sir Murray Gernon, I’ll bear you in mind till my return; for I’ve not done with you and yours.”

“Remove him at once!” said the judge, and a couple of officers seized the prisoner, and hurried him from the dock.

“And now, don’t be too hard on me, lassie,” said McCray, the day after the trial—for he had managed to encounter Jane in one of the passages—“don’t be hard upon me, lassie, for I only did my duty.”