He did not even take with him the key of the box, but having attached to it a small piece of paper, on which were some written instructions, he hid it in the caravan, and started off upon his journey.
It was a dark, gloomy morning, giving every promise of coming storms. As he passed through the wood which surrounded Monkshurst House, the wind whistled softly among the trees, making a moan like the sound of human voices.
“A gloomy place,” said Brinkley; “a fit residence for such as he. Any dark deed might be committed here, and who would know?”
The path which he followed was a neglected carriage-drive, strewn with stones, overgrown with weeds, and bordered on either side by the thick trees of the forest. Presently the trees parted, and he came in view of the house.
A large gloomy-looking building, as neglected as the woodland in the centre of which it stood. It seemed as if only part of it was inhabited, and the large garden at its back was unprotected by any wall, and full of overgrown fruit trees.
The door was opened by a grim elderly woman. He inquired for Mr. Monk, and was informed that he was at home. The next minute he was standing in a lonely library, where the owner of the house was busy writing. Monk rose, and the two stood face to face.
CHAPTER XI.—BURIED!
It is not my purpose to describe the interview which took place between my hero and Mr. Monk. Suffice it to say that when the young man again emerged from the gloomy shadows of the dwelling there was a curious smile upon his face, while Mr. Monk, who had followed him to the door, and watched his retreating figure, wore a horrible expression of hatred and fear.