The Viking's Skull

by John R. Carling

"Godfrey was at Ravenhall that night," muttered the viscount uneasily.

"He was here—in this vault, I repeat, at three in the morning. And the scene he witnessed was past belief. It would do you good, Ivar, to listen to his story. It would really interest you; you, perhaps, more than any other person."

It is no exaggeration to say that at these words Ivar became green with fear. He turned his head from the earl in order to conceal his agitation. The secret which he had believed to be locked within his own breast was known to others—was being hinted at in the presence of his father, the very person from whom he most desired to conceal it. How much did Lorelie know? What would she be saying next? Words, perhaps, that would bring him to ruin.

"Ivar, I see, is persuaded of the truth of my statement. You are more sceptical, my lord, but you shall be convinced."

She detached the velvet bow from her neckband and flung it lightly beside Godfrey's note.

"Cut the threads of that; unfold the velvet, and you will find that its shape corresponds exactly with the little rent at the foot of that curtain. It was Dr. Rothwell who cut off this piece of velvet, bringing it away with him to prove—if proof should ever be required—that he has stood in the secret crypt of the Ravengars. Do you still doubt me, my lord, or do you require further proof?"

On the contrary he was so certain of the truth of her words that he did not attempt to verify them, but stood, fingering the velvet bow with a dark expression of countenance.

Looking upon Lorelie as an enemy to be silenced at all costs he had brought her to this vault intending that she should never leave it. Ivar was a reluctant accomplice, his reluctance arising not from any conscientious scruples, but from the dangerous consequences attending the commission of such a deed. The disappearance of the new viscountess on the second day of her coming to Ravenhall would be an event that could not fail to bring suspicion and inquiry in its train.

Lorelie had divined their plot, and having taken steps for its frustration, had fearlessly accompanied them to the destined scene of her death. And here she was, a slender, fragile woman, in a lonely situation, with no one to hear her cry for help, in the presence of two men desirous of her death, and yet, thanks to her forethought, as safe as if attended by an armed escort.

Her calm air, her radiant beauty, added fuel to the earl's secret rage. If he had followed his first impulse he would have seized her in his arms and twining his fingers around her throat have silenced her forever. But prudence compelled him to refrain from violence. The thought of having to face on the morrow the stern inquiring eyes of Godfrey acted as a potent check.