CHAPTER VIII.—THE SEARCH—CONCLUSION.
Rising early in the morning, mine host’s solitary guest had ventured out on foot for a walk through the village. Having passed the last of the straggling cottages, he now stood beneath the frowning portal of the ruined monastery. It was Christmas morning, and all was silent here, silent as the voices of those who built the pile which they vainly thought would have ‘canopied their bones till Doomsday.’ Of the stately abbey church which had once lifted its head so proudly over the fen, and beneath whose shadow slept the ill-fated baronet, but one ruined wing remained, and in this the snowdrift had accumulated to the depth of several feet. Straight from the north-east, soaring through the dark mist that gathered thickly out to the seaward, a screaming gull flapped on its way—a certain harbinger of more rough weather to come. As it passed near, the bird’s discordant cry roused Ainslie from the moralising train of reflections in which he had been indulging, and turning back, he slowly retraced his steps to the Saxonford Arms.
Breakfast having been partaken of in the quaint old room up-stairs, mine host saw no more of his visitor for the rest of the morning. A few customers dropped in from the hamlet, and under the combined influence of strong ale and lusty singing, the company—old Hobb included—got quite merry. Dinner-time came at last, and Christmas cheer was conveyed to the solitary guest above.
More of the villagers put in their appearance during the afternoon, and the babel of tongues in the Saxonford bar waxed somewhat deafening. It is quiet enough up-stairs. As the evening draws on, the merry-makers gather closely round the fire, and one of them—an uncouth figure with restless eyes—relates a weird Jack-o’-lantern tale. Afterwards come more songs, finishing with a right rousing chorus, and then the company leave in a body, to return again later on for still more uproarious merriment. Old Dipping, who is now left alone, steals to the foot of the stairs and listens, inwardly hoping that his visitor has not been disturbed by the confusion and noise which for the past two hours have gone on beneath him. He does not wait there long. The sound of a door opening is heard, and then an excited voice shouts from above: ‘Landlord!’
‘He must be in a temper,’ thinks old Hobb, as he slowly toils up the staircase and enters his visitor’s dining apartment.
The lieutenant’s eye is wild and his manner strange. He motions to Dipping to shut the door.
‘I’m sorry, sir’—— begins the landlord apologetically.
‘Sorry! What for?’ interrupts Reginald. ‘Look at that! Do you mean to tell me you are sorry, now?’
On the table was the black box!
Old Dipping could only stand and gape. ‘Where did you find it, sir?’ he at length falters out.