“What is Thorndyke up to, Mayfield?”
“That is what I want to find out,” I replied.
“He is not acting on your instructions, then?”
“No; and the probability is that what he is doing is no concern of mine or of yours either. But I don’t know; and I have come here to make sure. Keep in the shadow. We don’t want the keeper to see us prowling about here.”
He stepped back into the shade and we pursued our way in silence; and even then, troubled and agitated as I was, I noted that he asked me no question as to what was in my mind. He was leaving the initiative entirely to me.
When we had crossed the park in the shelter of the trees and descended into the hollow by the little lake where we were out of sight of the gate-house, I led the way towards the boundary between the park and the cemetery. The two enclosures were separated, as I have said, by a low wall surmounted by a range of high, massive railings; and the wall and the cemetery beyond were partially concealed by an irregular hedge of large bushes. Pushing through the bushes, I moved along the wall until I came to the place which I intended to watch; and here I halted in the shade of a tall mass of bushes, and resting my arms on the broad coping of the wall, took up my post of observation with Wallingford, silently attentive at my side.
The great burial ground was enveloped in darkness so profound that the crowded headstones and monuments conveyed to the eye no more than a confused glimmer of ghostly pallor that was barely distinguishable from the general obscurity. One monument only could be separately identified: a solitary stone cross that rose above a half-seen grave some sixty yards from the wall. But already the mysterious procession could be seen threading its way in and out by the intricate, winding paths, the gleam of the lanterns lighting up now a marble figure and now a staring head-stone or urn or broken column; and as it drew ever nearer, the glare of the lanterns, the rumble of the barrow-wheels on the hard paths and the spectral figures of the men grew more and more distinct. And still Wallingford watched and spoke never a word.
At length, a turn of the path brought the procession into full view, and as it approached I could make out a man,—evidently by his uniform, the cemetery keeper,—leading, lantern in hand and showing the way. Nearer and nearer the procession drew until at last, close by the stone cross, the leader halted. Then, as Thorndyke and his companions—now clearly visible—came up, he lifted his lantern and let its light fall full on the cross. And even at this distance I could read with ease—though it was unnecessary—the single name STELLA.
As that name—to me so sacred—flashed out of the darkness, Wallingford gripped my arm. “Great God!” he exclaimed. “It is Stella Keene’s grave! I came here once with Barbara to plant flowers on it.” He paused, breathing hard and still clutching my arm. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he demanded:
“What can that devil be going to do?”