Burgo's Romance

by T. W. Speight

"My father, Mr. Marchment, died while still quite a young man."

Marchment bowed gravely. "In that case one can understand how it was they never met again. But even when on his deathbed my father did not forget what he owed to Lieutenant Brabazon (as he had become when he last heard of him), and he laid it on me as a sacred charge that, should I ever find myself face to face with him, or any of his kin, and should it be in my power to do him, or them, a service of any kind, no matter at what cost to myself, I should not fail to do it. His words have lived in my memory, and to-day, by rare good luck, I have been enabled to repay to the son some small portion of the debt originally owing to the father."

He paused for a moment while he looked at his watch.

"And now, Mr. Brabazon, I have said my say. The door is open, and you are a free man. But before we part, tell me frankly whether there is anything more I can do for you. If there is, you may command me to the full extent of my ability. The circumstances under which I find you here are exceptional, to say the least"--this with a frank smile--"consequently, without the slightest hankering to pry into matters which do not concern me, I may perhaps be allowed to say Me voici à votre service, cher monsieur!"

Few people could have helped being touched by an offer so frankly and spontaneously tendered, and Burgo was not one of those few.

"Mr. Marchment, for what you have already done for me I thank you from the bottom of my heart," he said in a tone which carried conviction with it. "But whether you can help me further is another matter, and one which it will rest with yourself to determine when you have been told to what circumstances I owe my enforced detention in this place. I don't forget that your time is precious, and three or four minutes will suffice for what I have to say."

"My best attention is yours, Mr. Brabazon."

"Again, thanks. In the first place, then, you must know that Sir Everard Clinton, the owner of this tower and of the house known as Garion Keep, which stands some threescore yards away from it, and between which and it there is an underground communication, is my uncle. He came from London to the Keep several weeks ago--he and his wife, the latter being an Italian by birth and a woman half his own age. Unknown to either, I followed them, somewhat later, and took up my quarters in the village. I had very cogent reasons for believing that my uncle was being slowly done to death, and my object was to rescue him from the hands of those in whose power he was. Only by stratagem could this be effected, because the evidence in my possession was not of a kind which admitted of my invoking the aid of the law. But before I could do anything my presence in the village was discovered, and one night I was murderously set upon, struck down, and brought here in a state of unconsciousness. Here I have been ever since, and no doubt the intention was to keep me under lock and key till the last act of the tragedy should have been consummated. But a certain person came to my help, who supplied me with a couple of files and a length of rope to enable me to effect my escape by way of the window; while, by means of a stratagem, Lady Clinton was temporarily got rid of. My hope was that to-morrow night would see me at liberty, when I should at once make my way to my uncle, explain to him for what purpose I was there, and induce him to leave the Keep with me before his wife's return. That once accomplished, I felt sure we should be able to set Lady Clinton at defiance, and--and in short, my dear old uncle would have been rescued from the jaws of death."

"And you had planned to carry this out in the course of to-morrow night?"

"I had."