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MR. MARX’S
SECRET

BY
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of “Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo,” “The Double Traitor,” “The Illustrious Prince,” etc.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
F. VAUX WILSON

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1916

Published, January, 1916
Reprinted, January, 1916 (twice)
February, 1916

Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

“I am going to put that beast out of his misery,” he answered.
Frontispiece. [See page 132.]

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER] PAGE [I.—News from the Pacific] 11 [II.—Mr. Francis] 15 [III.—The Murder at the Slate-Pits] 18 [IV.—My Mother’s Warning] 23 [V.—Ravenor of Ravenor] 27 [VI.—A Doubtful Visitor] 39 [VII.—A Meeting and a Metamorphosis] 43 [VIII.—An Abode of Mystery] 49 [IX.—Mr. Marx] 58 [X.—Lady Silchester] 65 [XI.—The Cry in the Avenue] 70 [XII.—A Dark Corner in the Avenue] 76 [XIII.—The Cloud Between Us] 81 [XIV.—A Meeting in the Coffee-Room] 85 [XV.—A Tête-à-tête Dinner] 89 [XVI.—Miss Mabel Fay] 93 [XVII.—Behind the Scenes at the Torchester Theatre] 98 [XVIII.—At Midnight on the Moor] 103 [XIX.—A Strange Attack] 111 [XX.—The Monastery Among the Hills] 115 [XXI.—A Message from the Dead] 124 [XXII.—For Life] 127 [XXIII.—My Guardian] 135 [XXIV.—My First Dinner Party] 138 [XXV.—Mr. Marx’s Warning] 144 [XXVI.—A Lost Photograph] 148 [XXVII.—Leonard de Cartienne] 157 [XXVIII.—“As Rome Does”] 164 [XXIX.—A Dinner Party Sub-rosa] 169 [XXX.—Écarté with Mr. Fothergill] 174 [XXXI.—A Startling Discovery] 182 [XXXII.—Forestalled] 190 [XXXIII.—A Gleam of Light] 195 [XXXIV.—Dr. Schofield’s Opinion] 199 [XXXV.—An Invitation] 204 [XXXVI.—A Metamorphosis] 209 [XXXVII.—Mr. Marx is Wanted] 218 [XXXVIII.—I Accept a Mission] 223 [XXXIX.—My Ride] 225 [XL.—My Mission] 229 [XLI.—The Count de Cartienne] 232 [XLII.—News of Mr. Marx] 240 [XLIII.—About Town] 246 [XLIV.—A Midnight Excursion to the Suburbs] 252 [XLV.—A Mysterious Commission] 258 [XLVI.—A Brush with the Police] 261 [XLVII.—Light at Last] 264 [XLVIII.—A Page of History] 269 [XLIX.—I will Go Alone] 278 [L.—I Meet my Father] 280 [LI.—Dawn] 284 [LII.—Where is Mr. Marx?] 287 [LIII.—Messrs. Higgenson and Co.] 293 [LIV.—A Raid] 299 [LV.—The Mystery of Mr. Marx] 304 [LVI.—The End of It] 308

MR. MARX’S SECRET

CHAPTER I.
NEWS FROM THE PACIFIC.

My home was a quaint, three-storeyed, ivy-clad farmhouse in a Midland county. It lay in a hollow, nestled close up against Rothland Wood, the dark, close-growing trees of which formed a picturesque background to the worn greystone whereof it was fashioned.

In front, just across the road, was the boundary-wall of Ravenor Park, with its black fir spinneys, huge masses of lichen-covered rock, clear fish-ponds, and breezy hills, from the summits of which were visible the sombre grey towers of Ravenor Castle, standing out with grim, rugged boldness against the sky.

Forbidden ground though it was, there was not a yard of the park up to the inner boundary fence which I did not know; not a spinney where I had not searched for birds’ nests or raided in quest of the first primrose; not a hill on which I had not spent some part of a summer afternoon.

I was a trespasser, of course; but I was the son of Farmer Morton, an old tenant on the estate, and much in favour with the keepers, by reason of a famous brew which he was ever ready to offer a thirsty man, or to drink himself. So “Morton’s young ’un” was unmolested; and, save for an occasional good-humoured warning from Crooks, the head-gamekeeper, during breeding-time, I had the run of the place.

Moreover, the great estates of which Ravenor Park was the centre knew at that time no other master than a lawyer of non-sporting proclivities, so the preserves were only looked after as a matter of form.

I was eight years old, and an unusually hot summer was at its height. It was past midday, and I had just come out from the house, with the intention of settling down for an afternoon’s reading in a shady corner of the orchard. I had reached the stack-yard gate when I stopped short, my hand upon the fastening.

A most unusual sound was floating across the meadows, through the breathless air. The church-bells of Rothland, the village on the other side of the wood, had suddenly burst out into a wild, clashing peal of joy.

In a country district everybody knows everyone else’s business; and, child though I was, I knew that no marriage was taking place anywhere near.

I stood listening in wonderment, for I had never heard such a thing before; and, while I was lingering, the bells from Annerley, a village a little farther away, and the grand, mellow-sounding chimes from the chapel at Ravenor Castle, breaking the silence of many years, took up the peal, and the lazy summer day seemed all of a sudden to wake up into a state of unaccountable delight.

I ran back towards the house and met my mother standing in the cool stone porch. The men about the farm were all grouped together, wondering. No one had the least idea of what had happened.

And then Jim Harrison, the waggoner, who had just come in from the home meadow, called out quickly, pointing with his finger; and far away, along the white, dusty road, we could see the figure of a man on horseback riding towards us at a furious gallop.

“It be the master!” he cried, excitedly. “It be the master, for sure! There bean’t no mistaking Brown Bess’s gallop. Lord-a-mercy! how ’e be a-riding her!”

We all trooped out on to the road to meet my father, eager to hear the news. In a few moments he reached us, and brought Brown Bess to a standstill, bathed in sweat and dust, and quivering in every limb.

“Hurrah, lads!” he shouted, waving his whip above his head. “Hurrah! There never was such a bit o’ news as I’ve got for you! All Mellborough be gone crazy about it!”

“What is it, George? Why don’t you tell us?” my mother asked quickly. And, to my surprise, her hand, in which mine was resting, was as cold as ice, notwithstanding the August heat.

He raised himself in his stirrups and shouted so that all might hear:

“Squire Ravenor be come to life again! They ’a’ found him on an island in the Pacific, close against the coral reef where his yacht went down six years ago! He’s on his way home again, lads. Think of that! Sal, lass, bring us up a gallon of ale and another after it. We’ll drink to his homecoming, lads!”

There was a burst of applause and many exclamations of wonder. My mother’s hand had moved, as though unconsciously, to my shoulder, and she was leaning heavily upon me.

“Where did you hear this, George?” she asked, in a subdued tone.

“Why, it be in all the London papers this morning,” he answered, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. “The steamer that’s bringing him home ’a’ sent a message from some foreign port, and Lawyer Cox he’s got one, and it’s all written up large on the walls of the Corn Exchange. I reckon it’ll make those deuced lawyers sit up!” chuckled my father, as he slowly dismounted.

“Lord-a-mercy! Only to think on it! Six year on a little bit o’ an island, and not a living soul to speak a word to! And now he’s on his way home again. It beats all story-telling I ever heerd on. Why, Alice, lass, it ’a’ quite upset you,” he added, looking anxiously at my mother. “You’re all white and scared-like. Dost feel badly?”

She was standing with her back to us and when she turned round it seemed to me that a change had crept into her face.

“It is the heat and excitement,” she said quietly. “This is strange news. I think that I will go in and rest.”

“All right, lass! Get thee indoors and lie down for a bit. Now, then, lads. Hurrah for the squire and long life to him! Pour it out, Jim—pour it out! Don’t be afraid on it. Such news as this don’t coom every day.”

And, with the vision of my stalwart yeoman father, the centre of a little group of farm-labourers, holding his foaming glass high above his head, and his honest face ruddy with heat and excitement, my memories of this scene grow dim and fade away.

CHAPTER II.
MR. FRANCIS.

I was alone with my father in the kitchen, and he was looking as I had never seen him look before. It was late in the afternoon—as near as I can remember, about six weeks after the news had reached us of Mr. Ravenor’s wonderful adventures. He had just come in for tea, flushed with toil and labouring in the hot sun. But as he stood on the flags before me, reading a letter which had been sent up from the village, the glow seemed to die out from his face and his strong, rough hands trembled.

“It’s a lie!” I heard him mutter to himself, in a hoarse whisper—“a wicked lie!”

Then he sank back in one of the high-backed chairs and I watched him, frightened.

“Philip, lad,” he said to me, speaking slowly, and yet with a certain eagerness in his tone, “has your mother had any visitors lately whilst I ’a’ been out on the farm?”

I shook my head.

“No one, except Mr. Francis,” I added doubtfully.

He groaned and hid his face for a moment.

“How often has he been here?” he asked, after a while. “When did he come first? Dost remember?”

“Yes,” I answered promptly, “It was on the day Tom Foulds fell from the oat-stack and broke his leg. There was another gentleman with him then. I saw them looking in at the orchard gate, so I asked them if they wanted anything, and the strange gentleman said that he was thirsty and would like some milk, so I took him into the dairy; and I think that mother must have known him before, for she seemed so surprised to see him.

“He gave me half a crown, too,” I went on, “to run away and watch for a friend of his. But the friend never came, although I waited ever so long. He’s been often since; but I don’t like him and——”

I broke off in sudden dismay. Had not my mother forbidden my mentioning these visits to anyone? What had I done? I began to cry silently.

My father rose from his chair and leaned against the oaken chimney-piece, with his back turned towards me.

“It’s he, sure enough!” he gasped. “Heaven forgive her! But him—him——”

His voice seemed choked with passion and he did not finish his sentence. I knew that I had done wrong, and a vague apprehension of threatening evil stole swiftly upon me. But I sat still and waited.

It was long before my father turned round and spoke again. When he did so I scarcely knew him, for there were deep lines across his forehead, and all the healthy, sunburnt tan seemed to have gone from his face. He looked ten years older and I trembled when he spoke.

“Listen, Philip, lad!” he said gravely. “Your mother thinks I be gone straight away to Farmer Woods to see about the colt, don’t she?”

I nodded silently. We had not expected him home again until late in the evening.

“Now, look you here, Philip,” he continued. “She’s gone to bed wi’ a headache, you say? Very well. Just you promise me that you won’t go near her.”

I promised readily enough. Then he bade me get my tea and he sank back again into his chair. Once I asked him timidly if he were not going to have some, but he took no notice. When I had finished he led me softly upstairs and locked me in my room. Never to this day have I forgotten that dull look of hopeless agony in his face as he turned away and left me.

CHAPTER III.
THE MURDER AT THE SLATE-PITS.

It was late on this same evening. All day long the thunder had been rumbling and growling, and now the storm seemed close at hand.

I had partly undressed, but it was too hot to get into bed, so I leaned out of my wide-open window, watching the black clouds hanging down from the sky, and listening to the rustling of leaves in the wood—sure sign of the coming storm.

The air was stifling; and, longing feverishly for the rain, I sat in the deep window-sill and looked out into the scented darkness, for honeysuckle and clematis drooped around my window and the garden below was overgrown with homely, sweet-smelling flowers.

Suddenly I started. I was quick at hearing, and I had distinctly caught the sound of a light, firm step passing down the garden path beneath. My first impulse was to call out, but I checked it when I recognised the tall, graceful figure moving swiftly along the gravel walk in the shade of the yew-hedge. It was my mother!

I watched her, scarcely believing my eyes. What could she be wanting in the garden at this hour? And while I sat on the window casement, wondering, a cold shiver of alarm chilled me, for I saw a man creep stealthily out from the wood and hurry across the little stretch of meadow towards the garden gate, where she was standing.

The moon was shining with a sickly light through a thick halo of mist and I could only just distinguish the figures of my mother and this man, side by side, talking earnestly. I watched them with riveted eyes until I heard a quick step on the floor behind me and a hand was laid upon my mouth, stifling my cry of surprise.

“It’s only me, Philip, lad,” whispered a hoarse, tremulous voice. “I didn’t want you to call out—that’s all. Hast seen anything of this before?” And he pointed, with shaking finger, towards the window, from which he had drawn me back a little.

I looked at him, a great horror stealing over me. His ruddy face was blanched and drawn, as though with pain; and there was a terrible light in his eyes. I was frightened and half inclined to cry.

“No,” I faltered. “It’s only Mr. Francis, isn’t it?”

“Only Mr. Francis!” I heard my father repeat, with a groan. “Oh, Alice, lass—Alice! How could you?”

He staggered blindly towards the door. I rushed after him, piteously calling him back, but he pushed me off roughly and hurried out.

I heard him leave the house, but he did not go down the garden. Then, in a few minutes, every one of which seemed to me like an hour, the low voices at the gate ceased and my mother came slowly up the path towards the house.

I rushed downstairs and met her in the hall. She seemed half surprised, half angry, to see me.

“Philip,” she exclaimed, “I thought you were in bed long ago! What are you doing here?”

“I am frightened!” I sobbed out. “Father has been in my room watching you at the gate and he talked so strangely. He is very angry and he looks as though he were going to hurt someone.”

My mother leaned against the wall, every vestige of colour gone from her face, and her hand pressed to her side. She understood better than I did then.

“Where is he now?” she asked hysterically. “Quick, Philip—quick! Tell me!”

“He is gone,” I answered. “He went out by the front door and up the road.”

A sudden calmness seemed to come to her and she stood for a moment thinking aloud.

“He has gone up to the wood gate! They will meet in the wood. Oh, Heaven, prevent it!” she cried passionately.

She turned and rushed into the garden, down the path and through the wicket gate towards the wood. I followed her, afraid to stay alone. A vast mass of inky-black clouds had sailed in front of the moon and the darkness, especially in the wood, was intense.

More than once I fell headlong down, scratching my face and hands with the brambles; but each time I was on my feet immediately, scarcely conscious of the pain in my wild desire to keep near my mother.

How she found her way I cannot tell. Great pieces of her dress were torn off and remained hanging to the bushes into which she stepped; and many times I saw her run against a tree and recoil half stunned by the shock.

But still we made progress, and at last we came to a part of the wood where the trees and undergrowth were less dense and there was a steep ascent. Up it we ran and when we reached the top my mother paused to listen, while I stood, breathless, by her side.

Save that the leaves above us were stirring with a curious motion, there was not a sound in the whole wood. Birds and animals, even insects, seemed to have crept away to their holes before the coming storm. We could see nothing, for a thick mantle of darkness—a darkness which could almost be felt—had fallen upon the earth. We stood crouched together, trembling and fearful.

“Thank Heaven for the darkness!” my mother murmured to herself. “Philip,” she went on, stooping down and feeling for my hand, “do you know where we are? We should be close to the slate-pits.”

I was on the point of answering her, but the words died away on my parted lips. Such a sight as was revealed to us at that moment might have driven a strong man mad.

Although half a lifetime has passed away, I can see it now as at that moment. But describe it I cannot, for no words of mine could paint the thrilling beauty and, at the same time, the breathless horror of the scene which opened like a flash before us.

Trees, sky, and space were suddenly bathed in a brilliant, lurid light, the like of which I have never since seen, nor ever shall again. It came and went in a space of time which only thought could measure; and this is what it showed us:—

Yawning at our feet the deep pit and sullen waters of the quarry, for we were scarcely a single step from the precipitous edge; the huge piles of slate and the sheds with the workmen’s tools scattered around; and my father, his arms thrown upwards in agony, and a wild cry bursting from his lips, at the very moment that he was hurled over the opposite side of the chasm!

We saw the frantic convulsions of despair upon his ashen face, his eyes starting from their sockets, as he felt himself falling into space; and we saw the dim outline of another man staggering back from the brink, with his hands outstretched before his face, in horror at what he had done.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the fierce glare vanished. The heavens—only a moment before open and flooding the land with sheets of living fire—were black and impenetrable, and the crashing thunder shook the air around and made the earth tremble, as though it were splitting up and the very elements were being dissolved.

With a cry, the heartrending anguish of which will ring for ever in my ears, my mother sank down, a white, scared heap; and I, my limbs unstrung and my senses numbed, crouched helpless beside her. Then the rain fell and there was silence.

CHAPTER IV.
MY MOTHER’S WARNING.

For many weeks after that terrible night in Rothland Wood, I lay wrestling with a fierce fever, my recovery from which was deemed little short of miraculous. A sound constitution, however, and careful nursing brought me round, and I opened my eyes one sunny morning upon what seemed to me almost a new world.

The first thing that I can clearly remember after my return to consciousness was the extraordinary change which had taken place in my mother. From a beautiful, active woman, she seemed to have become transformed into a stern, cold statue.

Even now I can recall how frightened I was of her during those first days of convalescence, and how I shrank from her constant presence by my bedside with a nameless dread.

The change was in her appearance as well as in her manner. Her rich brown hair had turned completely grey, and there was a frigid, set look in her face, denuded of all expression or affection, which chilled me every time I looked into it. It was the face—not of my mother, but of a stranger.

As I began to regain strength and the doctors pronounced me fit to leave the sick-room, she began to display signs of uneasiness, and often looked at me in a singular kind of way, as though there were something which she would say to me.

And one night I woke up suddenly, to find her standing by my bedside, wrapped in a long dressing-gown, her grey hair streaming down her back and a wild gleam in her burning eyes. I started up in bed with a cry of fear, but she held out her hand with a gesture which she intended to be reassuring.

“Nothing is the matter, Philip,” she said. “Lie down, but listen.”

I obeyed, and had she noticed me closely she would have seen that I was shivering; for her strange appearance and the total lack of affection in her manner, had filled me with something approaching to horror.

“Philip, you will soon be well enough to go out,” she continued. “People will ask you questions about that night.”

It was the first time the subject had been broached between us. I raised myself a little in the bed and gazed at her, with blanched cheeks and fascinated eyes.

“Listen, Philip! You must remember nothing. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I answered faintly.

“You must forget that you saw me in the garden; you must forget everything your father said to you. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” I repeated. “But—but, mother——”

“Well?”

“Will he be caught—the man who killed father?” I asked timidly. “Oh, I hope he will!”

Her lips parted slowly, and she laughed—a bitter, hysterical laugh, which seemed to me the most awful sound I had ever heard.

“Hope! Yes; you may hope—hope if you will!” she cried; “but remember this, boy: If your hope comes true, it will be an evil day for you and for me! Remember!”

Then she turned and walked to the door without another word. I sat in bed and watched her piteously, with a great lump in my throat and a sore heart. The moonlight was pouring in through my latticed window, falling full upon the long, graceful lines of her stately figure and her hard, cold face. I was forlorn and unhappy, but to look at her froze the words upon my lips.

Merciless and cruel her features seemed to me. There was no pity, no love, not a shadow of response to my half-formed, appealing gesture. I let her go and sank back upon my pillows, weeping bitterly, with a deep sense of utter loneliness and desolation.

On the following day I was allowed to leave my room and very soon I was able to get about. As my mother had anticipated, many people asked me questions concerning the events of that hideous night. To one and all my answer was the same. I remembered nothing. My illness had left my memory a blank.

Long afterwards I saw more clearly how well it was that I had obeyed my mother’s bidding.

A brief extract from a county newspaper will be sufficient to show what the universal opinion was concerning my father’s murder. I copy it here:

“In another column will be found an account of the inquest on the body of George Morton, farmer, late of Rothland Wood Farm. The verdict returned by the jury—namely, ‘Wilful murder against John Francis’—was, in the face of the evidence, the only possible one; and everyone must unite in hoping that the efforts of the police will be successful, and that the criminal will not be allowed to escape. The facts are simple and conclusive.

“It appears from the evidence of Mr. Bullson, landlord of the George Hotel, Mellborough, and of several other habitués of the place, that only a few days before the deed was committed, there was a violent dispute between deceased and Francis and that threats were freely used on both sides. On the night in question Francis started from Rothland village shortly after nine o’clock, with the intention of making his way through the wood to Ravenor Castle. Owing, no doubt, to the extraordinary darkness of the night, he appears to have lost his way, and to have been directed by Mrs. Morton, who noticed him wandering about near her garden gate.

“Mrs. Morton declines to swear to his identity, owing in the darkness; but this, in the face of other circumstances, must count for little in his favour. He was also seen by the deceased, who, enraged at finding him on his land and addressing his wife, started in pursuit, followed by Mrs. Morton and her little boy, who arrived at the slate-pits in time to witness, but too late to prevent, the awful tragedy which we fully reported a few days since.

“In face of the flight of the man Francis, and the known fact that he was in the wood that night, there is little room for doubt as to his being the actual perpetrator of the deed, although the details of the struggle must remain, for the present, shrouded in mystery. Mr. Ravenor, who has just arrived in England, has offered a reward of £500 for information leading to the arrest of Francis, who was a servant at the Castle.”

CHAPTER V.
RAVENOR OF RAVENOR.

It was generally expected that my mother would be anxious to depart as soon as possible from a neighbourhood which had such terrible associations for her. As a matter of fact, she showed no intention of doing anything of the sort. At the time I rather wondered at this, but I am able now to divine her reason.

It chanced that the farm, of which my father had been tenant for nearly a quarter of a century, was taken by a neighbour who had no use for the house, and so it was arranged that we should stay on at a merely nominal rent. Then began a chapter of my life without event, which I can pass rapidly over.

Every morning I walked over to Rothland and received two hours’ instruction from the curate, and in the afternoon my mother taught me modern languages. The rest of the day I spent alone, wandering whithersoever I pleased, staying away as long as I chose, and returning when I felt inclined. The results of such a life at my age soon developed themselves. I became something of a misanthrope, a great reader, and a passionate lover of Nature. At any rate, it was healthy, and my taste for all sorts of outdoor sport prevented my becoming a bookworm.

It had its influence, too, upon my disposition. It strengthened and gave colour to my imagination, expanded my mind, and filled me with a strong love for everything that was vigorous and fresh and pure in the books I read.

Shakespeare and Goethe were my first favourites in literature; but as I grew older the fascination of lyric poetry obtained a hold upon me, and Shelley and Keats, for a time, reigned supreme in my fancy. But my tastes were catholic. I read everything that came in my way, and was blessed with a wonderful memory, which enabled me to retain much that was worth retaining.

Meanwhile, the more purely technical part of my education was being steadily persevered in; and so I was not surprised, although it was rather a blow to me, when the clergyman who had been my tutor walked home with me through the wood one summer evening, and told my mother that it was useless my going to him any longer, for I already knew all that he could teach me.

I watched her covertly, hoping that she would show some sign of gratification at what I felt to be a high compliment. But she simply remarked that, if such was the case, she supposed the present arrangement had better terminate, thanked him for the trouble he had taken with me, and dismissed the matter. I scanned her cold, beautiful face in vain for any signs of interest. The cloud which had fallen between us on the night of my father’s murder had never been lifted.

The curate stayed to tea with us, and afterwards I walked back through the woods with him, for he was a sociable fellow, fond of company—even mine.

When I reached home again I found my mother looking out for me, and I knew from her manner that she had something important to say to me.

“Philip, I have heard to-day that Mr. Ravenor is expected home,” she said slowly.

I started and a little exclamation of pleasure escaped me. There was no man whom I longed so much to see. What a reputation was his! A scholar of European fame, a poet, and a great sinner; a Crœsus; at times a reckless Sybarite, at others an ascetic and a hermit; a student of Voltaire; the founder of a new school of philosophy. All these things I had heard of him at different times, but as yet I had never seen him. Something more than my curiosity had been excited and I looked forward now to its gratification.

My mother took no note of my exclamation, but her brow darkened. We were standing together on the lawn in front of the house and she was in the shadow of a tall cypress tree.

“I do not suppose that he will remain here long,” she continued, in a hard, strained tone; “but while he is at the Castle it is my wish that you do not enter the park at all.”

“Not enter the park!” I repeated the words and stared at my mother in blank astonishment. What difference could Mr. Ravenor’s presence make to us?

“Surely you do not mean this?” I cried, bitterly disappointed. “Why, I have been looking forward for years to see Mr. Ravenor! He is a famous man!”

“I know it,” she interrupted, “and a very dangerous one. I do not wish you to meet him. The chances are that he would not notice you if he saw you, but it is better to run no risks. You will remember what I have said? A man of his strange views and principles is to be avoided—especially by an impressionable boy like you.”

She left me dumbfounded, crossed the lawn with smooth, even footsteps, and entered the house. I watched her disappear, disturbed and uneasy; Something in her manner had conveyed a strange impression to me. I could not help thinking she had other reasons than those she had given for wishing to keep Mr. Ravenor and me apart. It seemed on the face of it to be a very absurd notion, but it had laid hold of me and her subsequent conduct did not tend to dispel it.

On the afternoon of his expected arrival I lingered about for hours in the orchard, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, for the gates of the park, opposite our house, were the nearest to Mellborough Station. But I was disappointed. He came, it is true, but in a closed brougham, drawn by a pair of swift, high-stepping bays, which swept like a flash by the hedge over which I was looking, leaving a confused recollection of glistening harness, handsome liveries, and a dark, noble face, partly turned towards me, but imperfectly seen. It was a glimpse which only increased my interest; yet how to gratify my curiosity in view of my mother’s wishes I could not tell.

That night she renewed her prohibition. She came to me in the little room, where I kept my books and Penates, and laid her hand upon my shoulder. Mr. Ravenor had returned, she said—how did she know, save that she, too, had been watching, for the flag was not yet hoisted?—and she hoped that I would remember what her wishes were.

I promised that I would observe them, as far as I could, although they seemed to me ridiculous, and I did not hesitate to hint as much. What was more unlikely than that Mr. Ravenor, distinguished man of the world, should take the slightest notice of a country boy, much more attempt to gain any sort of influence over him? The more I thought of it and of my mother’s nervous fears, the more I grew convinced, against my will, of some other motive which was to be kept secret from me.

A week passed and very little was seen of Mr. Ravenor by anyone. As usual, many rumours were circulated and discussed. He was reported to have shut himself up in his library and to have refused admission to all visitors. He was living like an anchorite, fasting and working hard, surrounded by books and manuscripts all day and night, and far into the small hours of the morning. He was doing penance for recent excesses; he was preparing for some wild orgies; he was writing a novel, a philosophical pamphlet, an article for the reviews, or another volume of poems.

Among all classes of our neighbours nothing else was talked about but the doings, or supposed doings, of Mr. Ravenor.

One afternoon chance led me into the little room which my mother called her own, a room I seldom entered. There was a small volume lying on the table and carelessly I took it up and glanced at the title. Then, with a quick exclamation of pleasure, I carried it away with me. It was Mr. Ravenor’s first little volume of poems, which I had tried in vain to get. The Mellborough bookseller of whom I had ordered it told me that it was out of print. The first edition had been exhausted long since and the author had refused to allow a second edition to be issued.

I met my mother in the hall and held out the volume to her.

“You never told me that you had a copy of Mr. Ravenor’s poems,” I said reproachfully. “I have just found it in your room.”

She started, and for a moment I feared that she was going to insist upon my giving up the book. She did not do so, however; but I noticed that the hand which was resting upon the banister was grasping the handrail nervously, as though for support, and that she was white to the very lips.

“No; I had forgotten,” she said slowly—“I mean that I had forgotten you had ever asked for it. Take care of it, Philip, and give it me back to-night. It was given to me by a friend and I value it.”

I promised and left the house. My range of pleasures was in some respects a limited one, but it did not prevent me from being an epicure with regard to their enjoyment. I did not glance inside the book, although I was longing to do so, until I had walked five or six miles and had reached one of my favourite halting-places. Then I threw myself down in the shadow of a great rock on the top of Beacon Hill and took the volume from my pocket.

It was a small, olive-green book, delicately bound, and printed upon rough paper. It had been given to my mother, evidently, for her Christian name was inside, written in a fine, dashing hand, and underneath were some initials which had become indistinct. Then, having satisfied myself of this, and handled it for a few moments, I turned over the pages rapidly and began to read.

The first part was composed almost entirely of sonnets and love-poems. One after another I read them and wondered. There was nothing amateurish, nothing weak, here. They were full of glowing imagery, of brilliant colouring, of passion, of fire. Crude some of them seemed to me, who had read no modern poetry and knew many of Shakespeare’s and Milton’s sonnets by heart; but full of genius, nevertheless, and with the breath of life warm in them.

The second portion was devoted to longer poems and these I liked best. There was in some more than a touch of the graceful, fascinating mysticism of Shelley, the passionate outcry of a strong, noble mind, seeking to wrest from Nature her vast secrets and to fathom the mysteries of existence; the wail of bewildered nobility of soul turning in despair from the cold creeds of modern religion to seek some other and higher form of spiritual life.

I read on until the sun had gone down and the shades of twilight had chased the afterglow from the western sky. Then I closed the book and rose suddenly with a great start.

Scarcely a dozen yards away, on the extreme summit of the hill, a man on horseback sat watching me. His unusually tall figure and the fine shape of the coal-black horse which he was riding, stood out against the background of the distant sky with a vividness which seemed almost more than natural. Such a face as his I had never seen, never imagined. I could neither describe it, nor think of anything with which to compare it.

Dark, with jet-black hair, and complexion perfectly clear, but tanned by Southern suns; a small, firm mouth; a high forehead, furrowed with thought; aquiline nose; grey-blue eyes, powerful and expressive—any man might thus be described, and yet lack altogether the wonderful charm of the face into which I looked. It was the rare combination of perfect classical modelling with intensity of character and nobility of intellect. It was the face of a king among men; and yet there were times when a certain smile played around those iron lips, and a certain light flashed in those brilliant eyes, when to look into it made me shudder. But that was afterwards.

He remained looking at me and I at him, for fully a minute. Then he beckoned to me with his whip—a slight but imperious gesture. I rose and walked to his side.

“Who are you?” he asked curtly.

“My name is Philip Morton,” I answered. “I live at Rothland Wood farmhouse.”

“Son of the man who was murdered?”

I assented. He gazed at me fixedly, with the faintest possible expression of interest in his languid grey eyes.

“You were very intent upon your book,” he remarked. “What was it?”

I held it up.

“You should know it, sir,” I answered.

He glanced at the title and shrugged his shoulders slightly. There were indications of a frown upon his fine forehead.

“You should be able to employ your time better than that,” he said.

“I don’t think so. I am fond of reading—especially poetry,” I replied.

The idea seemed to amuse him, for he smiled, and the stem lines in his countenance relaxed for a moment. Directly his lips were parted his whole expression was transformed and I understood what women had meant when they talked about the fascination of his face.

“Fond of reading, are you? A village bookworm. Well, they say that to book-lovers every volume has a language and a mission of its own. What do my schoolboy voices tell you?”

“That you were once in love,” I answered quickly.

A half-amused, half-contemptuous shade passed across his face.

“Youth has its follies, like every other stage of life,” he said. “I daresay I experienced the luxury of the sensation once, but it must have been a long time ago. Come, is that all it tells you?”

“It tells me that men lie when they call you an Atheist.”

He sat quite still on his horse and the smile on his lips became a mocking one.

“Atheism was most unfashionable when those verses were written,” he remarked. “Any other ‘ism’ was popular enough, but Atheism sounded ugly. Besides, I was only a boy then. Perhaps I had some imagination left. It is a gift which one loses in later life.”

“But religion is not dependent upon imagination.”

“Wholly. Religion is an effort of imagination and, therefore, is more or less a matter of disposition. That is one of its chief absurdities. Women and sensitive boys are easiest affected by it. Men of sturdy common-sense, men with brains and the knowledge how to use them, are every day bursting the trammels of an effete orthodoxy.”

“And what can their common-sense and their brains give them in its place?” I asked. “I cannot conceive any practical religion without orthodoxy.”

“A little measure of philosophy. It is all they want. Only the faint-hearted, who have not the courage to contemplate physical annihilation, console themselves by building up a hysterical faith in an impossible hereafter. There is no hereafter.”

“A horrible creed!” I exclaimed.

“By no means. Let men devote half the time and the efforts that they devote to this phantasy of religion to schooling themselves in philosophic thought, and they will learn to contemplate it unmoved. To recognise that the end of life is inevitable is to rob it of most of its terrors, save to cowards. The man who wastes a tissue of his body in regretting what he cannot prevent is a fool. Annihilation is a more comfortable doctrine and a more reasonable one, too. Don’t you agree with me, boy?”

“No; not with a single word!” I cried, growing hot and a little angry, for I could see that he was only half in earnest and I had no fancy to be made a butt of. “Imagination is not the groundwork of religion; common-sense is. Why——”

“Oh, spare me the stock arguments!” he broke in, with a slight shudder. “Keep your religion and hug it as close as you like, if you find it any comfort to you. Where have you been to school?”

“Nowhere,” I answered. “I have read with Mr. Sands, the curate of Rothland.”

He laughed softly to himself, as though the idea amused him, looking at me all the time as though I were some sort of natural curiosity.

“Fond of reading, are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes. Fonder than I am of anything else.”

“And your books—where do they come from?”

“Wherever I can get any. From the library at Mellborough, or from Mr. Sands, most of them.” He laughed again and repeated my words, as though amused.

“No wonder you’re behind the times,” he remarked. “Now, shall I lend you some books?”

I shook my head feebly, for I was longing to accept his offer.

“I’m afraid your sort of books would not suit me,” I said. “I don’t want to be converted to your way of thinking. It seems to me that there is such a thing as overtraining of the mind.”

“So you look upon me as a sort of Mephistopheles, eh? Well, I’ve no ambition to make a convert of you. To be a pessimist is to be——”

“An unhappy man,” I interrupted eagerly, “and a very narrow-minded one, too. It is a city-born creed. No one could live out here in the country and espouse it!”

“Boy, how old are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Seventeen next birthday, sir,” I answered.

“You have a glib tongue—the sign of an empty head, I fear.”

“Better empty than full of unhealthy philosophy,” I answered bluntly.

He laughed outright.

“The country air has sharpened your wits, at any rate,” he said. “You’re a fool, Philip Morton; but you will be happier in your folly than other men in their wisdom. There’s a great deal of comfort in ignorance.”

He gave me a careless yet not unkind nod and, wheeling his great horse round with a turn of the wrist, galloped down the hillside and across the soft, spongy turf at a pace which soon carried him out of sight. But I stood for a while on a piece of broken rock on the summit of the hill gazing after his retreating figure, and watching the twinkling lights from the many villages stretched away in the valley below. The sound of his low, strong voice yet vibrated in my ears, and the sad, beautiful face, with its languid grey eyes and weary expression, seemed still by my side. Already I began to feel something of the influence which this man appeared to exercise over everyone whom he came near; and I felt vaguely, even then, that if suffered to grow, it would become an influence all-powerful with me.

When I reached home it was late—so late that my mother, who seldom betrayed any interest or curiosity in my doings, asked me questions. I felt a curious reluctance at first to tell her with whom I had been talking, and it was justified when I saw the effect which my words had upon her. A look almost of horror filled her eyes and her face was white with anger. It was as though a long-expected blow had fallen.

“At last! at last!” she murmured to herself, as though forgetful of my presence. Then her eyes closed and her lips moved softly. It seemed to me that she was praying.

I was bewildered and inclined to be angry that she should carry her dislike of Mr. Ravenor so far. Did she think me so weak and impressionable that a few minutes’ conversation with any man could bring me harm?

“You carry your dislike of Mr. Ravenor a little too far, mother,” I ventured to say. “What can you know of him so bad that you see danger in my having talked with him for a few minutes?”

She looked at me fixedly and grew more composed.

“It is too late now, Philip,” she said, in a low tone. “The mischief is done. If I could have foreseen this we would have gone away.”

“To have avoided Mr. Ravenor?” I cried, wondering.

“Yes.”

CHAPTER VI.
A DOUBTFUL VISITOR.

Late in the afternoon of the following day a visitor rode through the stack-yard and reined in his horse before our door. I was reading in the room which my mother chiefly occupied and, when I glanced out of the side-window, overhung and darkened by jessamine and honeysuckle, I had a great surprise. The book dropped from my fingers and I stood still for a moment, uncertain what to do. For outside, sitting composedly upon his fine black horse and apparently considering as to the best means of making his presence known, was Mr. Ravenor.

He saw me and, with a curt but not ungracious motion of the head, beckoned me out. I went at once and found him dismounted and standing upon the step.

“I want to see your mother, boy,” he said sharply. “Is there no one about who can hold my horse? Where are all the farm men?”

I hesitated and stood there for a moment, awkward and confused. My mother’s strange words concerning him were still ringing in my ears. Supposing she refused to come down and receive, as a visitor, the man of whom she had spoken such mysterious words? Nothing appeared to me more likely. And yet what was I to do?

He watched me, as though reading my thoughts. That he was indeed doing so I very quickly discovered.

“Quick, boy!” he said. “I am not accustomed to be kept waiting. I know as well as you do that I am not a welcome visitor, but your mother will see me, nevertheless. Call one of the men!”

I passed across the garden and entered the farmyard. Jim, the waggoner, was there, turning over a manure-heap, and I returned with him at my heels. Mr. Ravenor tossed him the reins and, stooping low, followed me into our little sitting-room.

He laid his whip upon the table and, selecting the most comfortable chair, sat down leisurely and crossed his legs. He was, of course, entirely at his ease, and was watching my discomposure with a quiet, mocking smile.

“Now go and tell your mother that I desire to see her!” he commanded.

With slow steps I turned away, and, mounting the stairs, knocked at her door.

“Mother, there is a visitor downstairs!” I called out softly. “It is——”

“I know,” she answered calmly. “Go away. I shall be down in a few minutes.”

I went downstairs again and into the sitting-room, breathing more freely. Mr. Ravenor had not stirred, and when I entered appeared to be deep in thought. At the sound of my footsteps, however, his expression changed at once into its former impassiveness. He glanced round the room with an air of lazy curiosity and his half-closed eyes rested upon my little case of books.

“What have you there?” he inquired. “Read me out the titles.”

I did so, with just an inkling of reluctance, for my collection was altogether a haphazard one, precious though it was to me. Half-way through he checked me.

“There, that’ll do!” he exclaimed, laughing softly. “This is really idyllic. ‘Abercrombie’ and ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Jeremy Taylor’ and ‘Thomas à Kempis.’ My poor boy, if you have a headpiece at all, how it must want oiling!”

I was a little indignant at his tone and answered him quickly.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that I should care for your kind of books very much.”

He arched his fine eyebrows and the smile still lingered around his lips.

“Indeed! And why not? And how have you been able to divine what sort of books mine are, without having seen them?”

“Well, perhaps I don’t mean that exactly,” I answered, sitting on the edge of the table, and thrusting my hands deep down into my trousers pockets, with the uncomfortable sensation that I was making a fool of myself. “I was judging from what you said you were last night. If study has only brought you to pessimism, I would rather be ignorant.”

“You really are a wonderfully wise boy for your years,” he said, still smiling. “But you must remember that there are two distinct branches of study. One, the more popular and the more commonly recognised, leads to acquired knowledge—the knowledge of facts and sciences and languages; the other is the pure sharpening and training of the mind, by reading other men’s thoughts and ideas and theories—in short, by becoming master of all the philosophical writers of all nations. Now, it is the latter which you would have to avoid in order to retain your present Arcadian simplicity; but without the former, man is scarcely above the level of an animal.”

“I think I see what you mean,” I admitted. “I should like to be a good classical scholar and mathematician, and know a lot of things. It seems to me,” I added hesitatingly, “that this sort of knowledge is quite sufficient to strengthen and train the mind. The other would be very likely to overtrain it and prove unhealthy, especially if it leads everyone where it has led you.”

“Oh, I wanted no leading!” he said lightly. “I was born a pessimist. Schopenhauer was my earliest friend, Voltaire my teacher, and Shelley my god! Matter of disposition, of course. I had too little imagination to care a rap about cultivating a religion, and too much to be a moralist. Your mother is coming at last, then?”

The door opened and I looked up anxiously. The words of introduction which had been trembling upon my lips were unuttered. I stood as helpless and dumbfounded as a ploughboy, with my eyes fixed upon my mother.

CHAPTER VII.
A MEETING AND A METAMORPHOSIS.

That it was my mother I could not at first believe. She wore a plain dark dress, with a black lace kerchief about her neck; but a dress, simple though it was, of a style and material unlike any that I had ever before seen her wear. Although I knew nothing of her history, I had always suspected that she was of a very different station from my father’s, and at that moment I knew it, for it seemed as though she had, of a sudden, made up her mind to assume her proper position. Not only were her dress and the fashion of arranging her hair unusual, but her manners, her voice, her whole bearing and appearance were utterly changed. It was as though she had, without the slightest warning, dropped the mask of long years, and stepped back, like a flash, into the personality which belonged to her.

Nor was this the only change. A slight pink flush had chased the leaden pallor from her cheeks, and her eyes, which had of late seemed dull and heavy, were full of sparkling light and suppressed animation. Her manners, as well as her personal appearance, all bore witness to some startling metamorphosis. I was more than astonished; I was thunderstruck. What seemed to me most wonderful was that a visit from the man against whom she had so solemnly and passionately cautioned me should thus have galvanised her into another state of being.

Mr. Ravenor rose at her entrance and bowed with the easy grace of a man of the world. My mother returned his greeting with a stately self-possession which matched his own; but it struck me, watching them both closely, that, while he was perfectly collected, she was in reality far from being so. I could see the delicate white fingers of her left hand fold themselves convulsively around the lace handkerchief which she was carrying, and when she entered a shiver—gone in a moment and perceptible only to me, because my eyes were fastened upon her—shook her slim, lithe figure.

But in the few commonplace remarks which first passed between them there was nothing in speech or manner that betrayed the least embarrassment. She answered him as one of his own order, graciously, yet just allowing him to see that his visit was a surprise to her and that she expected him to declare its purpose. I have dwelt somewhat upon this meeting for reasons which will be sufficiently apparent when I have finished my story.

After a few remarks about the farm, the crops, and the favourable weather, he gave the wished-for explanation.

“I have come to say a few words to you about your son, Mrs. Morton,” he began abruptly.

She and I looked equally astonished.

“I am a man of few words,” he continued. “The few which I desire to say upon this subject had better be said, I think, to you alone, Mrs. Morton.”

I would have left the room at once, but my mother prevented me. She laid a trembling hand upon my shoulder, and drew me closer to her.

“You can have nothing to say to me, Mr. Ravenor, which it would not be better for him to hear, especially as you say that it concerns him.”

He shrugged his high, square shoulders, as though indifferent; but I fancied, nevertheless, that a shade of annoyance lingered in his face for a moment.

“Very good!” he said shortly. “Rumour may have told you, Mrs. Morton, if you ever listen to such things, that I am a very wicked man. Possibly! I don’t deny it! At any rate, I am, by disposition and custom, profoundly selfish. I owe to your son a luxury—that of having found my thoughts withdrawn from myself for a few minutes—with me a most rare event.

“I met him last evening and talked with him. He talked like a fool, it is true, but that has nothing to do with it. Afterwards I thought of him again; wondered what you were going to do with him; remembered—pardon me!—that you must be poor; and remembered, also, that you have suffered through a servant of mine.”

He paused. For nearly half a minute they looked one another in the face—my mother and this man. There was something in her rapt, fascinated gaze, and in the keen, brilliant light which flashed from his dark eyes as he returned it, which seemed strange to me. It was like a challenge offered and accepted—a duel in which neither was vanquished, for neither flinched.

“It occurred to me then,” he continued calmly, “to call and ask you what you intended doing with him, and to plead, as excuses for the suggestion which I am about to make, the reasons which I have just stated. I am a rich man, as you know, and the money would be nothing to me. I wish to be allowed to defray the expenses of finishing your son’s education.”

It seemed to me a magnificently generous offer, but a very simple one. I could not understand the agitation and apparent indecision which it caused my mother. Her prompt refusal I could have understood, although it would have been a blow to me. But this mixture of horror and consternation, of emotion and dismay, I could make nothing of. The feeling which I had imagined would surely be manifested—gratitude—was conspicuous by its absence. What did it all mean?

My mother sat down and Mr. Ravenor leaned back in his armchair, apparently content to wait for her decision. I moved across the room to her side and took her cold fingers into mine.

“Mother,” I cried, with glowing cheeks and voice trembling with eagerness, “what is the matter? Why do you not say ‘yes’? You know how I have wanted to go to college! There is no reason why you should not consent, is there?”

Mr. Ravenor smiled—a very slight movement of the lips.

“If your mother considers your interests at all,” he said calmly, “she will certainly consent.”

I was about to speak, but my mother looked up and I checked the words on my lips.

“Mr. Ravenor,” she said quietly, “I accept your offer and I thank you for it. That is all I can say.”

“Quite enough,” he remarked nonchalantly.

“But there is one thing I should like you to understand,” she added, looking up at him. “I consent, it is true; but, had it not been for another reason, far more powerful with me than any you have urged, I never should have done so. It is a reason which you do not know of—and which I pray that you never may know of,” she added, in a lower key.

He made no answer; indeed, he seemed little interested in my mother’s words. He turned, instead, to me and read in my face all the enthusiasm which hers lacked. I would have spoken, but he held up his hand and checked me.

“Only on one condition,” he said coldly. “No thanks. I hate them! What I do for you I do to please myself. The money which it will cost me is no more than I have thrown away many times on the idlest passing pleasure. I have simply chosen to gratify a whim, and it happens that you are the gainer. Remember that you can best show your gratitude by silence.”

His words fell like drops of ice upon my impetuosity. I remained silent without an effort.

“From what you said just now,” he continued, “I learn that it has been your desire to perfect your education in a fashion which you could not have done here. Have you any distinct aims? I mean, have you any definite ideas as to the future?”

I shook my head.

“I never dared to encourage any,” I answered, truthfully enough. “I knew that we were poor and that I should have to think about earning my living soon—probably as a schoolmaster.”

“You mean to say, then, that you have never had any distinct ambitions—everything has been vague?”

“Except one thing,” I answered slowly. “There is one thing which I have always set before me to accomplish some day, but it is scarcely an ambition and it has nothing to do with a career.”

“Tell it to me!” he commanded.

I did so, without hesitation, looking him full in the face with heightened colour, but speaking with all the determination which I felt in my heart.

“I have made up my mind that some day I will find the man Francis—the man who murdered my father!”

He was silent. I could almost have fancied that he was in some measure moved by my words, and the refined beauty of his dark face was heightened for a moment by the strange, sad look which flashed across it. Then he rose and took up his riding-whip from the table.

“A boyish enthusiasm,” he remarked contemptuously, as he made his way towards the door. “Where the cleverest detectives in England have failed, you hope to succeed. Well, I wish you success. The rascal deserves to swing, certainly. You will hear further from me in a day or two. Good-morning!”

He left the room abruptly and I followed him, stepping bareheaded out into the sunshine to look about for Jim, who was leading his horse up and down the road.

When I returned, Mr. Ravenor was still standing upon the doorstep watching me intently.

“I am going back to speak to your mother for a moment,” he said slowly, withdrawing his eyes from my face at last. “No; stop where you are!” he added imperatively. “I wish to speak to her alone.”

I obeyed him and wandered about the orchard until I saw him come out and gallop furiously away across the park. Then I hurried into the house.

“Mother!” I exclaimed, calling out to her before I had opened the door of the parlour—“mother, what do you—”

I stopped short and hurried to her side, alarmed at her appearance. Her cheeks, even her lips, were ashen pale and her eyes were closed. She had fainted in her chair.

CHAPTER VIII.
AN ABODE OF MYSTERY.

For the first time in my life I was on my way to Ravenor Castle, summoned there by a brief, imperious note from Mr. Ravenor. Often had I looked longingly from the distant hills of the park upon its grey, rugged towers and mighty battlements; but I had never dared to clamber over the high wall into the inner grounds, nor even to make my way up the servants’ drive to win a closer acquaintance with it.

One reason why I had abstained from doing what, on the face of it, would seem a very natural thing to do, was a solemn promise to my mother, extracted from me almost as soon as I was able to get about by myself, never to pass within that great boundary-wall which completely encircled the inner grounds and wardens of the castle. But, apart from that, the thing would have been impossible for me, in any case.

I have already said that Mr. Ravenor bore the character of being a remarkably eccentric man. Perhaps one of the most striking manifestations of this eccentricity lay in the rigid seclusion in which he chose to live while at the Castle, and the extraordinary precautions which he had taken to prevent all intruders and visitors of every sort from obtaining access to him.

From the outer part there was indeed no attempt to exclude anyone belonging to the neighbourhood who chose to ramble about there, and in Mr. Ravenor’s absence visitors who had obtained permission from the steward were occasionally permitted to drive through; but to the grounds and the Castle itself access was simply an impossibility. Had Ravenor Castle been the abode of a sovereign, and the country around in possession of a hostile people, the precautions could scarcely have been more rigorous.

The high stone wall, which encircled the Castle and gardens for a circuit of three-quarters of a mile, effectually shut them off from the outside world. The postern-gates with which it was pierced were of solid iron, and the locks which secured them were said to have been fashioned by a Hindoo whom Mr. Ravenor had once brought home with him from India, and to be perfectly unique in their design and workmanship. The two main carriage entrances, about half a mile apart, were remarkable for nothing but the fine proportions of the towering iron gates; but they were always kept jealously locked and barred, and the fate of the uninvited guest who presented himself there was inevitable. There was no admittance.

The afternoon was drawing towards a close when I turned the last corner of the winding avenue and approached the entrance. It had been a wild, blustering day; but just before I started from home the wind had dropped and a watery sun, feebly piercing the masses of heavy clouds with which the sky was strewn, was shining down, with a wan, unnatural glow, upon the clumps of fir-trees on either side of the way and the massive, frowning towers of the Castle close above me.

Under foot and around me everything was wet. With the faintest stir of the dying breeze showers of raindrops fell from shrubs and trees, and at every step my feet sank into the soft, soaked gravel, or sent the moisture bubbling up from the layers of rotten leaves and twigs which the morning’s gale had scattered along the road.

It was an afternoon to damp anyone’s spirits; and it was perhaps to the influence of the weather that I owed the sudden sinking of heart and courage which came over me as I slackened my pace before the grim-looking lodges and barred gate. I had started from home, notwithstanding my mother’s white face and nervous, trembling manner, in a state of pleasurable excitement.

I was about to penetrate into a mystery which had been the curiosity of my boyhood; I was to become one of those favoured few who had been permitted to pass within the portals of Ravenor Castle; and, more than that, I was about to visit there as the guest of a man whose marvellous reputation, personality, and career had kindled within me an almost passionate reverence—a man who had long been the object of my devoted, although boyish and unreasonable, hero-worship. Yet, though it would seem that I had everything to gain and nothing to fear or lose from the coming interview, no sooner had I arrived within sight of my destination than my spirits sank to zero.

A woman would have called it a presentiment and have accepted it with mute despair. To me it seemed only an unreasonable reaction from my previous state of suppressed excitement—a feeling to be crushed at any cost, lest I should stand, with gloomy, unthankful face, before the man in whose power it lay to raise me from my present distasteful position and prospects. So I threw my head back and quickened my steps, keeping resolutely before me in my thoughts all that I had ventured to hope from my forthcoming interview; and by the time I stood before the great iron gates and stretched out my hand to ring the bell, the depression had almost passed away, and the eagerness which I felt was, no doubt, fully reflected m my countenance.

I had no need to ring. My last quick footstep had fallen upon a harder substance than the gravel upon which I had been walking, and the contact of my feet with it made my presence known in a manner which surprised me not a little. There was a shrill ringing from the lodge door on my right, and almost simultaneously it opened and a servant came out in the dark Ravenor livery.

“Will you be so good, sir, as to step off the planking?” he said.

I moved a yard or two backwards, and the bell—it was an electric bell, of course—instantly ceased. It was my first experience of any such means of communication, and I stood for a moment looking down in some bewilderment.

“Your name and business, sir?” the man inquired respectfully. “Did you wish to see Mr. Clemson?” Mr. Clemson was the steward.

“My name is Morton, and my business is with Mr. Ravenor,” I answered. “I want to see him.”

“I am afraid that Mr. Ravenor will not be able to see you, sir,” he said. “Have you an appointment?”

“Yes; for five o’clock,” I answered. And the words had scarcely left my lips before the first stroke of the hour boomed out from the great Castle clock. Perhaps, more than anything else could have done, that sound brought home to me the realisation of where I was. Hour after hour, all through my life, from the depths of Rothland Wood, from the home meadows, or in my long rambles over the far-away Barnwood Hills, I had heard those deep, throbbing chimes; sometimes faint and low, when the wind bore the sound away from me, sometimes harsh and piercing in the storm, and often as dear and distinct as though only a sheet of water stretched between us. And now I stood almost within a stone’s throw of them, and marvelled no longer that the deep, resounding notes should travel so far over hill and moor that I had never yet been able to wander out of hearing of them.

The man accepted my explanation after a moment’s hesitation, and, standing aside from the doorway out of which he had issued, motioned me to enter. I did so and received a fresh surprise. Instead of finding myself in the home of one of the servants of the estate, which would have seemed the natural thing, I found myself in a most luxuriously furnished waiting-room, hung with mirrors and oak-framed paintings upon a dark panelled wall. My feet sank into a thick carpet, and I subsided, a little dazed, into a low, crimson velvet chair, and found beside me a table covered with magazines.

The man followed me into the room, and, as he passed on his way to its upper end, he wheeled towards me a smaller table on which were decanters and glasses and a long box of cigarettes. Scarcely glancing at them, I watched him unlock a tall cupboard and half vanish inside it.

He remained there for a space of almost five minutes. Then he stepped out, carefully locked it and advanced towards me. I fancied that there was a shade more respect in his manner and certainly some surprise.

“Mr. Ravenor’s servant will be here in a few minutes, sir, to show you the way to the Castle.”

I thought that I could have found it very well by myself, but, of course, I could not say so. I occupied myself by examining the contents of the room, and struggled for a few moments between a feeling of strong curiosity and a natural disinclination to ask questions of a servant, especially one whose manner seemed so little to invite them. Finally the former conquered.

“How did you find that out without leaving this room?” I asked.

He pointed to the cupboard.

“We have a telephone there in connection with the Castle, sir,” he explained. Then he busied himself arranging some papers on a table at the other end of the apartment, with the obvious air of not desiring to be questioned further.

The explanation was so simple that I smiled. I began to realise the very insufficient causes which had given rise to the stories which were always floating about concerning the mystery in which the master of Ravenor Castle chose to dwell. What more natural than that a man of liberal education, with a passion for absolute solitude, should seek to insure it by some such means as these, by the application of very simple scientific devices, common enough in a city, but unheard of in our quiet country neighbourhood?

I was kept waiting for about a quarter of an hour. Then the door was opened noiselessly from without and a tall, dark man, clean-shaven and dressed in black, relieved by an immaculate white tie, entered and looked at me. I rose to my feet and threw down the magazine which I had been pretending to read.

“You are Mr. Morton?” he inquired, in a subdued tone, glancing steadily at me the while with somewhat puzzled, criticising gaze, which, perhaps unreasonably, annoyed me extremely. It was an annoyance which I took pains not to show, however, for something about the personality of the man impressed me. His manner, though studiously respectful, was not without a certain quiet dignity, and his thin oval face—thin almost to emaciation—had in it more than a suspicion of refinement. My first glance, whilst I was undergoing his brief scrutiny, assured me that this was no ordinary servant.

“That is my name,” I answered. “You have come to take me to Mr. Ravenor?”

“If you will be so good as to follow me, sir.”

I took up my cap and did so, taking long, swinging strides up the steep ascent, hoping thereby to gain his side and ask him a few questions about the place. But he prevented this by hurrying on when I was close behind him; so, after the third attempt I gave it up, and contented myself by looking around me as much as I could, and making the most of the short walk.

On one side of the drive—I had been along few highways as wide—was a tall yew hedge, which shut out little from my view, for the thick black pine-wood which overtopped and formed so striking a background to the grand old Castle had never been thinned in this direction, and stretched away in a wide, irregular belt, skirting the long line of out-buildings to the hills and beyond. But on the right hand only a low ring-fence separated us from the grounds immediately in front of the Castle, which a sudden bend in the sharply winding road brought into full view.

My absolute ignorance of architecture forbids my attempting to describe it, save in its general effect. I remember even now what that effect was upon me when I stood for the first time almost at its foot. At a distance its frowning battlements and worn grey turrets had a majestic appearance; but, standing as I did then, within a few hundred yards of its vast, imposing front, and almost under the shadow of its walls and towers, its effect was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

I almost held my breath as I gazed upon it and the terrace lawns, sloping away below, smooth-shaven, velvetty, the very perfection of English turf. Not that I had much time to look about me. On the contrary, my conductor never once slackened his pace, and when I involuntarily paused for a moment, with eyes riveted upon the magnificent pile before me, he looked round sharply and beckoned me impatiently to proceed.

“Mr. Ravenor is not used to be kept waiting, sir,” he remarked, “and will be expecting us.”

I pulled myself together with an effort and followed him more closely. We passed under a bridge of solid masonry, moss-encrusted, and indented with the storms of ages and the ruder marks of battering-ram and cannon, across a wide, circular courtyard protected by massive iron gates, which rolled slowly open before us with many ponderous creakings and gratings, as though reluctant to admit a stranger, into a great, white, stone-paved hall, dimly lighted, yet sufficiently so to enable me to perceive the long rows of armoured warriors which lined the walls, and the lances and spears and shields which flashed above their heads.

We passed straight across it, our footsteps awakening clattering echoes as they fell on the polished flags, through a door on the opposite side, into a room which nearly took my breath away. From the high, vaulted ceiling to the floor, on every side of the apartment, were books—nothing but books.

Two men—one old, the other of about my own age—looked up from a table as we entered and paused in their work, which seemed to be cataloguing; but my guide passed them without remark or notice, and walked straight across the room to where a crimson curtain, hanging down in thick folds, concealed a black oak door. Here he knocked, and I waited by his side until the answer came in that clear, low tone, which, though I had heard it but once or twice before, I could have recognised in a thousand. Then my guide turned the handle and, silently motioning me to enter, left me.

CHAPTER IX.
MR. MARX.

At first I had eyes only for the dark figure seated a few yards away from me at a small writing-table drawn into the centre of the room. He was bending low over his desk and never even raised his eyes or ceased writing at my entrance. Before him on the table, and scattered around his chair on the floor, were many sheets of white foolscap covered with his broad, firm handwriting, some with the ink scarcely dry upon them; and while I stood before him he impatiently swept another one from his desk and, without waiting to see it flutter to the ground, began a fresh sheet.

A glass of water, a few dry biscuits, and a little pile of books—some turned face-downwards—were by his side. Nothing else was on the table, save a great pile of unused paper, a watch detached from its chain, and a heavily-shaded lamp, which threw a ghastly light upon his white, worn face, and his dry, brilliant eyes, under which were faintly engraven the dark rims of the student.

I watched him for a while, fascinated. Then, as he took not the slightest notice of me, my eyes began to wander round the room. It was hexagonal and, on every side save one, lined from the floor to the high ceiling with books. The furniture was all of black oak, as also were the bookshelves, and the carpet and hangings were of a deep olive-green. The mantelpiece and inlaid grate were of black marble, faintly relieved with gold, and within the polished bars of the grate a small fire was burning.

There was nothing cheerful about the apartment; on the contrary, it struck me as being, though magnificent, sombre and heavy, wrapped as it was in the gloom of a dismal twilight, which the flickering fire and the shaded lamp failed to pierce. From the high French windows, I could catch a glimpse of a long stretch of soddened lawn, beyond which everything was shrouded in the semi-obscurity of the fast-falling dusk, deepened by the grey, cloudy sky. But I chose, after my first glance around the room, to keep my eyes fixed upon the man who sat writing before me, the man in whom already I felt an interest so strong as to deaden all the curiosity which I might otherwise have felt as to my surroundings.

At last he seemed conscious of my presence. Lifting his eyes, to give them a momentary rest, he encountered my fixed gaze. For a moment he looked at me in a puzzled manner, as though wondering how I came there. Then his expression changed and, putting down his pen, he pushed his papers away from him.

“So you have come, Philip Morton,” he said.

To so self-evident a statement I could return no answer, save a brief affirmative. He seemed to expect nothing more, however.

“How old did you say you were?” he asked abruptly.

“Seventeen, sir.”

It was quite five minutes before he spoke again, during which time he sat with knitted brows and eyes fixed intently but absently upon me, deep in thought, and thought of which it seemed to me somehow that I must be the subject.

“Where were you born?”

“At the farm, sir—at least, I suppose so.”

It flashed into my mind at that moment that I had never heard the period of my earliest childhood spoken of either by my father or mother. But it was only a passing thought, dismissed almost as soon as conceived. Had we not always lived at the farm? Where else could I have been born?

“Do you know any of your mother’s relations?” Mr. Ravenor asked, taking no notice of the qualifying addition to my previous answer.

I shook my head. I had never seen or heard of any of them, and it was a circumstance upon which I had more than once pondered. But my mother’s reserved demeanour towards me of late years had checked many questions which I might otherwise have felt inclined to ask her. There was a brief silence, during which Mr. Ravenor sat with his face half turned away from me, resting it lightly upon the long, delicate fingers of his left hand.

“You are a little young for college,” he said presently, in a more matter-of-fact tone; “besides which, I doubt whether you are quite advanced enough. I have decided, therefore, to send you for two years to a clergyman in Lincolnshire who receives a few pupils, my own nephew among them. He is a friend of mine, and will give some shape to your studies. There are one or two things which I shall ask you to remember when you get there,” he went on.

“First, that this little arrangement between your mother, yourself, and me remains absolutely a secret among us. Also that you seek, or, at any rate, do not refuse, the friendship of my nephew, Cecil, Lord Silchester. From what I can learn I fear that he is behaving in a most unsatisfactory manner, and, as I know him to be weak-minded and easily led, his behaviour at present and his character in the future are to a great extent dependent upon the influence which his immediate companions may have over him. You understand me?”

I assented silently, for words at that moment were not at my command; my cheeks were flushed, and my heart was beating with pleasure at the confidence in me which Mr. Ravenor’s words implied. That moment was one of the sweetest of my life.

“I do not, of course, wish you to play the spy in any way upon my nephew,” Mr. Ravenor continued, “but I shall expect you to tell me the unbiassed truth should I at any time ask you any questions concerning him; and if you think, after you have been there some time and have had an opportunity of judging, that he would be likely to do better elsewhere, under stricter discipline than at Dr. Randall’s, I shall expect you to tell me so. In plain words, Philip Morton, I ask you to take an interest in and look after my nephew.”

“I will do my best, sir,” I answered fervently.

“A youthful Mentor, very!”

The words, accompanied by something closely resembling a sneer, came from neither Mr. Ravenor nor myself. Either a third person must have been in the room before my arrival and during the whole of our conversation, or he must have entered it since by some means unknown to me, for almost at my elbow, on the side remote from the door, stood the man who had broken in, without apology or explanation, upon our interview.

Both from the strange manner of his attire and on account of his personality, I could not repress a strong curiosity in the new-comer. He was above the average height, but of awkward and ungainly figure, its massiveness enhanced by the long black dressing-gown which was wrapped loosely around him. His hair and beard were of a deep reddish hue, the former partly concealed by a black silk skull-cap, and he wore thick blue spectacles, which by no means added to the attractiveness of his face; his features—those which were visible—were good, but their effect was completely spoilt by the disfiguring glasses and his curious complexion. There was an air of power about him difficult to analyse, but sufficiently apparent, which altogether redeemed him from coarseness, or even mediocrity; and his voice, too, was good. But my impressions concerning him were very mixed ones.

He was evidently someone of account in the household, for he stood on the hearthrug with his hands thrust into his loose pockets, completely at his ease, and without making any apology for his unceremonious appearance. When I first turned to look at him he was examining me with a cold, critical stare, which made me feel uncomfortable without knowing why.

“Who is the young gentleman?” he asked, turning to Mr. Ravenor. “Won’t you introduce me?”

Mr. Ravenor took up some papers lying on the table before him and began to sort them.

“It is Philip Morton, the son of the man who was murdered in Rothland Wood,” he answered quietly. “I am going to undertake his education.”

“Indeed! You’re becoming quite a philanthropist,” was the reply. “But why not send him to a public school at once?”

“Because a public school would be just the worst place for him,” Mr. Ravenor answered coldly. “His education has been good enough up to now, I dare say, but it has not been systematic. It wants shape and proportion, and Dr. Randall is just the man to see to that.”

The new-comer shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t believe in private tutors,” he remarked.

“That scarcely affects the question,” Mr. Ravenor answered, a little haughtily. “Are you ready for me, Marx?”

“I shall be presently. I had very nearly finished when the sound of voices tempted me out to see whom you had admitted into your august presence. You have not completed the introduction.”

Mr. Ravenor turned to me with a slight frown upon his fine forehead.

“Morton,” he said, “this is Mr. Marx, my private secretary and collaborator.”

We exchanged greetings, and I looked at him with revived interest. The man who was worthy to work with Mr. Ravenor must be a scholar indeed, and, on the whole, Mr. Marx looked it. I almost forgave him his supercilious speech and patronising manner.

“You have quite settled, then, to send this young man to Dr. Randall’s?” Mr. Marx said calmly.

“I have. There are one or two more matters which I have not yet mentioned to him, so I shall be glad to see you again in half an hour,” Mr. Ravenor remarked, glancing at his watch.

Mr. Marx nodded to me in a not unfriendly manner, and, lifting a curtain, which I had not noticed before, disappeared into a smaller apartment.

Mr. Ravenor waited until he was out of hearing and then turned towards me.

“I do not know whether it is necessary for me to mention it, as you may possibly not come into contact again,” he said slowly; “but in case you should do so, remember this: I wish you to have as little to do with Mr. Marx as possible. You—”

He broke off suddenly and I started and looked round, half amazed, half frightened. The continuous sound of an electric-bell, which seemed to come from within a few feet of me, was echoing through the room.

CHAPTER X.
LADY SILCHESTER.

Mr. Ravenor sat like a man stunned by a sudden shock, while the shrill ringing grew more and more imperative. Then suddenly, when I least expected it, he spoke, and the fact that his calm, even tone betrayed not the slightest sign of agitation or anything approaching to it, was a great relief to me. After all, his silence might have meant indifference.

“Go over there,” he said, pointing to the corner of the room from which the sound came.

I did so and saw just before me what seemed to be a dark mahogany box let into the wall.

“Touch that knob,” he commanded, “and put your ear to the tube.”

I had scarcely done so when a quick, agitated voice, which I recognised as the voice of the man who had admitted me at the lodge gate, began speaking. I repeated his words to Mr. Ravenor.

“I am very sorry, sir; but while I stepped in here to announce her, Lady Silchester has driven through. She is alone.”

Mr. Ravenor made no sign of annoyance or surprise. I could not tell whether the news was a relief to him, or the reverse.

“Is there any answer, sir?” I inquired.

“Yes. Tell him to come to the steward for his wages in an hour’s time and be prepared to leave this evening.”

I hesitated and then repeated the words. Mr. Ravenor watched me keenly.

“You are thinking that I am a stern master,” he said abruptly.

It was exactly what had been passing through my mind and I confessed it. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I like to be obeyed implicitly, and to the letter,” he said. “If a quarter of the people who present themselves here to see me were allowed to pass through to my Castle, my leisure, which is of some value to me, would be continually broken in upon. Anderson has been careful hitherto, however, and this must be a lesson to him. You can tell him as you go out that I will give him one more chance.”

I rose, with my cap in hand, but he waved me back.

“I have a letter to write to your mother,” he said, drawing some notepaper towards him. “Wait a minute or two.”

I strolled over to the high French windows and looked out upon the grey twilight. I had scarcely stood there for a moment when the sound of horses’ feet and smoothly rolling wheels coming up the broad drive told me that Mr. Ravenor’s visitor was at hand, and immediately afterwards a small brougham flashed past the window and, describing a semi-circle, pulled up in front of the hall door. A footman leaped down from the box and several servants stood on the steps and respectfully saluted the lady who had alighted from the carriage. A moment or two later there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” answered Mr. Ravenor, without looking up, or even ceasing his writing, for I could hear the broad quill dashing away without a pause over the notepaper.

A servant threw open the door and announced “Lady Silchester,” and a tall woman, wrapped from head to foot in dark brown furs, swept past him and entered the room.

A single glance at the slim, majestic figure, and at the classical outline of her face, told me who she was and told me rightly. It was Mr. Ravenor’s sister.

Mr. Ravenor rose and, without putting his pen down, welcomed Lady Silchester with cold, frigid courtesy, which she seemed determined, however, not to notice.

“Quite an unexpected visit, this, isn’t it?” she exclaimed, sinking into an easy chair before the fire with a little shiver. “I never was so cold! These autumn mists are awful, and I’ve had a twelve-mile drive. What a dreary room you have made of this!” she added, looking round with a little shrug of her shoulders and putting her hands farther into her muff. “How can you sit here in this ghostly light with only one lamp—and such a fire, too?”

He smiled grimly, but it was not a smile which heralded any increase of geniality in his manner.

“I am not in the habit of receiving ladies here,” he remarked, “and I did not expect you. Where have you come from? I thought you were in Rome.”

She shook her head.

“I wish we were. We came back last week and I went straight down to the Cedars—Tom’s place at Melton, you know. I don’t think I’ve been warm since I landed in England. Just now I’m nearly frozen to death.”

“I think you would find one of the rooms in the other wing more comfortable,” he said, after a short pause; “besides which I am engaged at present. You dine here, of course?”

“By all means,” she answered. “You wouldn’t send me back to Melton dinnerless, would you, even if I have come without an invitation? I am dying for a cup of tea.”

“Mrs. Ross shall send you anything you want,” he said. “I will ring for her.”

She rose and shook out her skirts. Her eyes fell upon me.

“You have a visitor,” she remarked. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

She looked at me fixedly as I moved a few steps forward out of the deep shadows which hung about the further end of the apartment. Then she turned from me to Mr. Ravenor, who was holding open the door for her. He met her gaze steadily, with a calm, inquiring look in his deep eyes, as though wondering why she lingered.

“Won’t you introduce your visitor?” she asked slowly.

He appeared wishful for her to go, yet resigned.

“Certainly,” he answered, “if you wish it. Cecilia, let me present to you Mr. Philip Morton, the son of a former neighbour of mine. You may be interested to hear that Mr. Morton is about to complete his education with Dr. Randall. Morton, this is my sister, Lady Silchester.”

Lady Silchester held up a pair of gold eye-glasses and looked at me steadily. I was not used to ladies, but Lady Silchester’s manner did not please me, and, after a very slight bow, I drew myself up and returned her gaze without flinching. She turned abruptly away.

“Yes, I am interested—a little surprised,” she said, in a peculiar tone. “Let me congratulate you, my dear brother, on——”

“Did I understand you to say that you would be ready in a quarter of an hour, Cecilia?” he interrupted calmly. “Permit me to order your horses to be put up.” And he moved across the room towards the bell and rang it.

She hesitated, bit her lip, and turned towards the door without another word. A servant stood upon the threshold, summoned by the bell.

“Let Mrs. Ross attend Lady Silchester at once,” Mr. Ravenor ordered. “Her ladyship will take tea in her room, and will dine with me in the library at half-past eight.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door was closed and we were alone again. Mr. Ravenor returned to his letter, with his lips slightly parted in a quiet smile. I stood still, hot and uncomfortable, wondering in what possible manner I could have offended Lady Silchester. The meaning of the little scene which had just taken place was beyond my comprehension. But I knew that it had a meaning, and that I was somehow concerned in it.

CHAPTER XI.
THE CRY IN THE AVENUE.

The letter which Mr. Ravenor had been writing to my mother was finished and sealed at last. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked steadily at me.

“I shall not see you again before you go, Philip Morton,” he said, “so I wish to impress upon you once more what I said to you about my nephew, who is Lady Silchester’s son, by-the-bye. I know that he is going on badly, but I wish to know how badly. Unfortunately, he has no father, and, from what I can remember of him, I should imagine that he is quite easily led, and would be very amenable to the influence of a stronger mind. If yours should be that mind—and I do not see why it should not—it will be well for him. That delightfully Utopian optimism of yours is, at any rate, healthy,” he added dryly.

I felt my cheeks burn and would have spoken, but Mr. Ravenor checked me.

“Let there be no misunderstanding between us,” he said. “I desire no gratitude from you and I deserve none. What I am doing I am doing for my own gratification—perhaps for my own ultimate advantage. That you are a gainer by it is purely a matter of chance. The whim might just as well have been the other way. I might have taken a fancy to have you turned out of the place and, if so, I would have done it. On the whole, it is I who should be grateful to you for not baulking me in my scheme and for letting me have my own way. So understand, please, after this explanation, that I shall look upon any expression of gratitude from you as a glaring mark of imbecility, apart from which it will annoy me exceedingly.”

I listened in silence. What could one reply to such a strange way of putting a case? Mr. Ravenor’s manner forbade any doubt as to his seriousness and I could only respect his wishes.

“As you won’t let me thank you, sir, I think I’d better go,” I said bluntly. “I’m sure to forget if I stay here much longer.”

“A good discipline for you to stay, then,” he answered.

Again the tinkle of the telephone bell rang out from the corner and interrupted his speech. Mr. Ravenor motioned me towards it.

“Go and hear what it is and repeat it to me,” he said.

I put my ear to the tube and repeated the words as they came:

“A man desires to see you, sir, but refuses to give his name. I have told him that it is quite useless my communicating with you without it; but he is persistent and refuses to go away. He is respectably dressed, but rather rough-looking.”

Mr. Ravenor shrugged his shoulders and took up his pen, as though about to resume his writing.

“Tell him to go to the deuce!” he said briefly.

I repeated the message faithfully, but its recipient was evidently not satisfied. In less than a minute the bell sounded again.

“His name is Richards, sir—or, rather, he says he is known to you by that name—and he is very emphatic about seeing you—and, begging your pardon, sir, a little insolent. He says that his business is of the utmost importance.”

I repeated the message and stood as though turned to stone. Was my fancy playing tricks with me in the dimly-lit room, or had Mr. Ravenor’s face really become ghastly and livid, like the face of a man who sees the phantom shadows of a hideous nightmare passing before his fixed gaze? I closed my eyes for a moment’s relief and looked again. Surely it had been fancy! Mr. Ravenor was writing with only a slight frown upon his calm, serene face.

“Let Mr. Richards—or whatever the fellow’s name is—be given to understand that I distinctly refuse to see him,” he said quietly. “If he has any business with me he can write.”

I repeated this and then took up my cap to go. Mr. Ravenor put down his pen and walked with me to the door. I had expected that he would have offered me his hand, but he did not. He nodded, kindly enough and held the door open while I passed out. So I went.

As I walked across the great hall on my way out I came face to face with Lady Silchester, who was thoughtfully contemplating one of a long line of oil-paintings dark with age, yet vivid still with the marvellous colouring of an old master. To my surprise she stopped me.

“Are you a judge of pictures, Mr. Morton?” she asked. “I was wondering whether that was a genuine Reynolds.” And she pointed to the picture which she had been examining.

I shook my head, briefly acknowledging that I knew nothing whatever about them. I was quite conscious at the time that the question was only a feint. What was a farmer’s son likely to know of the old masters?

“Ah, never mind!” she remarked, shutting up her eyeglasses with a snap. “I can ask Mr. Ravenor this evening. I thought, perhaps, that as you were here so often he might have talked to you about them. I know that he is very proud of his pictures.”

“Had I been here often he might have done so,” I answered. “As it happens, however, this is my first visit to Ravenor Castle.”

“Indeed? And yet Mr. Ravenor seems to take a great interest in you. Why?”

I hesitated and wished that I could get away; but Lady Silchester was standing immediately in front of me.

“Your ladyship will pardon me,” I said, “but might not your question be better addressed to Mr. Ravenor?”

She bit her lip and moved haughtily to one side. I made a movement as though to pass her, but she turned suddenly and prevented me.

“Mr. Morton,” she said, a little nervously, “my brother said that you were going to Dr. Randall’s, I believe?”

I admitted that such was the fact.

“I daresay you know that my son is there,” she continued, “and I am afraid he’s not behaving exactly as he should. Of course, we don’t hear anything definite; but Cecil is very good-natured, easily led into anything, and I am a little doubtful about his companions there. Now, Mr. Morton, you’re not much more than a boy yourself, of course; but you don’t look as though you would care for the sort of thing that I’m afraid Cecil gets led into. I do wish that you and he could be friends, and that—that—”

She broke off, as though expecting me to say something, and I felt a little awkward.

“It’s very kind of you to think so well of me, when you don’t know anything about me,” I said, twirling my cap in my hands; “but you forget that I am only a farmer’s son, and perhaps your son would not care to be friends with me.”

“My son, whatever his faults may be, has all the instincts of a gentleman,” Lady Silchester answered proudly; “and if he liked you for yourself, it would make no difference, even if you were a tradesman’s son. Promise me that, if you have the opportunity, you will do what you can?”

“Oh, yes; I’ll promise that, with pleasure!” I assured her.

Lady Silchester smiled, and while the smile lasted I thought that I had never seen a more beautiful woman. Then she held out a delicate little hand, sparkling with rings, and placed it in mine, which in those days was as brown as a berry and not very soft.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Morton.”

She looked up at me quite kindly for a moment. Then suddenly her manner completely—changed. She withdrew her eyes from my face, with a slight flush in her cheeks, and turned abruptly away.

“Good evening, Mr. Morton. I am much obliged to you for your promise,” she said, in a colder tone.

I drew myself up, unconscious of having said or done anything which could possibly offend her, and feeling boyishly hurt at her change of manner.

“Good evening, Lady Silchester,” I answered, with all the dignity I could command. Then I turned away and left the Castle.

I walked down the broad avenue slowly, casting many glances behind me at the vast, gloomy pile, around which the late evening mists were rising from the damp ground. Many lights were twinkling from the upper windows and from the east wing, where the servants’ quarters were situated, but the lower part of the building lay in a deep obscurity, unilluminated, save by one faint light from Mr. Ravenor’s study. There seemed something unnatural, almost ghostly, about the place, which chilled while it fascinated me.

What was that? I stood suddenly still in the middle of the drive and listened. A faint, muffled cry, which seemed to me at first to be a human cry, had broken the deep evening stillness. I held my breath and remained quite motionless, with strained hearing. There was no repetition of it, no other sound. I was puzzled; more than half inclined to be alarmed. It might have been the crying of a hare, or the squealing of a rabbit caught by a stoat. But my first impression had been a strong one, improbable though it seemed. Poachers, however daring, would scarcely be likely to invade the closely-guarded inner grounds, where the preserves were fewer and the risk of capture far greater than outside the park. Besides, there had been no discharge of firearms, no commotion, no loud cries; only that one muffled, despairing moan. What could it mean?

A steep ascent lay before me. After a moment’s hesitation I hurried forward and did not pause until I reached the summit and had clear view around through the hazy twilight.

CHAPTER XII.
A DARK CORNER IN THE AVENUE.

Far away below me—for Ravenor Castle stood on the highest point in the country—a dull-red glow in the sky, and many twinkling lights stretched far and wide, marked the place where a great town lay. On my right hand was a smooth stretch of green turf, dotted all over with thickly growing spreading oak trees. On the left was a straggling plantation, bounded by a low greystone wall, which sloped down gradually to one of the bracken-covered, disused slate-quarries, with which the neighbourhood abounded.

Breathless, I stood still and looked searchingly around. Save in the immediate vicinity, the fast falling night had blotted out the view, reducing fields, woods, and rocks to one blurred chaotic mass. But where my eye could pierce the darkness I could see no sign of any moving object. By degrees my apprehension grew less strong. The cry, if it had not been wholly a trick of the imagination, must have been the cry of some animal. I drew a long breath of relief and moved forward again.

Immediately in front of me the avenue curved through a small plantation of fir trees, which, growing thick and black on either side, made it appear almost as though I were confronted with a tunnel; around its mouth the darkness was intense, but my eyesight, always good, had by this time become quite accustomed to the uncertain light, and just as I was entering it I fancied that I could see something moving only a few yards in front of me. I stopped short at once and waited, peering forwards into the gloom with straining eyes and beating heart. My suspense, though keen, was not of long duration, for almost immediately the dark shape resolved itself into the figure of a man moving swiftly towards me.

My first impulse was, I am afraid, to turn and run for it, my next to give the advancing figure as wide a berth as possible. With that idea I stepped swiftly on one side and leaned right back against the ring fence which bordered the drive. But I was too late, or too clumsy in my movements, to escape notice. With a quick, startled exclamation, the man whom I had nearly run into stopped and, just at that moment the moon, which had been struggling up from behind a thick mass of angry clouds, shone feebly out and showed me the white, scared face of Mr. Ravenor’s secretary.

“Good heavens!”

It seemed to me as though the ejaculation was hurled out from those trembling lips. Then, with a sudden start, he recovered himself, and so changed was his manner that I could almost have fancied that his first emotion of terror had been imagination on my part.

“Am I so formidable that you should leap out of my way as though you had seen a ghost?” he said, with a short laugh. “Come, come; a young man of your size should have more pluck than that.”

I felt rather ashamed of myself, but I answered him as carelessly as possible.

“I don’t think I was any more startled than you were. We came upon one another suddenly, and it’s a very dark night.”

“Dark! Dark is not the word. This part of the drive is a veritable Hades.”

“By-the-bye, Mr. Marx,” I remarked, “I fancied that I heard a cry a few min——”

“A cry! What sort of a cry?” he interrupted sharply, in an altered tone.

“Well, it sounded to me very much like the moan of a man in pain,” I explained, looking half fearfully around. “Of course, it might have been a hare, but it was wonderfully like a human voice. Listen! Can’t you hear something now?” I cried, laying my hand upon his arm.

We stood close together in silence, listening intently. A faint wind had sprung up, and was sighing mournfully through the trees, which were soaked and weighed down by the heavy rain. Drip, drip, drip. At every sigh of the breeze a little shower of rain-drops fell pattering on to the soddened leaves and the melancholy music was resumed.

It was altogether very depressing and I was palpably shivering.

“I can hear nothing,” he said, with chattering teeth. “It must have been your fancy, or a hare squealing, perhaps.”

“I suppose so,” I admitted, glad enough to be forced into this conclusion.

“I wouldn’t say anything about it at the lodge,” he remarked, preparing to depart. “Anderson is as nervous as a cat already.”

“All right, I won’t. Good night.”

“You’re not frightened, are you?” he asked. “If you like, I’ll walk down to the lodge with you.”

“Not in the least, thanks,” I answered, a little indignantly. “I thought that noise was queer, that’s all. Good night.”

I walked swiftly away, listening all the time, but hearing no unusual sound. In a few minutes I reached the gates and found Anderson waiting about outside. He let me through at once.

“May I go in here for a minute?” I asked, pointing to the room in which I had been kept waiting on my way up to the Castle. “I have a message to give you from Mr. Ravenor.”

“Certainly, sir,” he answered, opening the door. I stepped inside, half expecting to see the man whom Mr. Ravenor had refused to receive; but it was quite empty.

“So Mr. Richards has decided not to wait, after all?” I remarked, looking round. “He was wise. I’m sure Mr. Ravenor wouldn’t have seen him.”

“Yes, sir,” the man answered; “he slipped out without leaving any message or anything, while I had gone across the way for some coal. I was a bit taken aback when I returned and found the place empty, for he’d been swearing ever so a minute or two before that he’d see Mr. Ravenor, or stop here for ever.”

“He can’t have gone on up to the Castle, can he?” I asked, looking around.

The man shook his head confidently.

“Impossible, sir! The gates were locked and the keys in my pocket, and there are no windows to this room, you see, on the Castle side.”

“But there is a door,” I said, pointing to the upper end of the apartment.

“Go and look at it, sir,” Anderson answered, smiling.

I did so and examined it closely. There were no bolts, but it was fastened with a particularly strong patent lock.

“Who keeps the key?” I inquired.

“Mr. Ravenor, sir. I haven’t got one at all. You were saying something about a message?”

“Yes. Mr. Ravenor was annoyed with you for letting Lady Silchester through, but he has decided to overlook it this time. You need not go up to the Castle for your money.”

The man was evidently pleased.

“I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” he said warmly. “That’s good news and no mistake. It isn’t a place that one would care to lose.”

“Well, good night, Anderson. Oh, I say,” I added, turning back on a sudden impulse, “how long is it since Mr. Marx was here?”

Anderson looked puzzled.

“Mr. Marx, sir! Why, I haven’t seen him all day!”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“I haven’t seen him all day. He hasn’t been here,” the man repeated.

I stood still, breathless, full of swiftly rising but vague suspicions.

“Not seen him to-day! Why, I met him in the avenue just now,” I declared.

“I daresay, sir,” the man remarked quietly. “He often walks down this way. In fact, he does most evenings before dinner. Queer sort he is, and no mistake.”

The man’s words changed the current of my thoughts, and my half-conceived suspicions faded away almost before they had gathered shape. I made some trifling remark and started homewards.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE CLOUD BETWEEN US.

It was late when I reached home and, from the darkness in all the windows, I concluded that my mother and the one country domestic who comprised our little household had already retired. My hand was raised to rap at the closed door, when it occurred to me that I might just as well effect an entrance without disturbing anyone. Our sitting-room window opened on to the front garden in which I stood and was seldom fastened, so I stole softly over the sodden grass and pressed the sash upwards. It yielded easily to my touch and, gently raising myself on to the low stone window-sill, I vaulted into the room.

At first I thought it was, as I had expected to find it, empty. But it was not so. Through the open window by which I had just entered the moonlight was streaming in, casting long, fantastic rays upon the well-worn carpet and across the quaint, old-fashioned furniture and on the white tablecloth, on which my homely evening meal had been left prepared. But my eyes never rested for a moment on any of these familiar objects, scarcely even noticed them, for another and a stranger sight held me spellbound. At the farther end of the room, where the shadows hung darkest and the moonbeams but feebly penetrated, was the kneeling figure of a woman.

Her perfectly black dress threw the ghastly hue of her strained, wild face into startling prominence, and her slender arms were stretched passionately upwards in a gesture full of intense dramatic pathos. Her eyes were fixed upon a small ebony crucifix which hung against the wall, and the words were bursting from her white, trembling lips, but whether of prayer or confession, I could not, or, rather, would not, hear, for I closed my eyes and the sound of her voice reached me only in an indistinct moan. It was a sight which has lived in my memory and will never fade.

Since that awful night in Rothland Wood, my mother’s behaviour towards me had been a source of constant and painful wonder. She had become an enigma, and an enigma which I somehow felt that it would be well for me not to attempt to solve.

But even at the times when my loveless surroundings and her coldness had plunged me into the lowest depths of depression, it had never been an altogether hopeless state, for somehow I had always felt that her coldness was not the coldness of indifference, but rather an effort of will, and that a time would come when she would cast it off and be to me again the mother of my earlier recollections. But the change was long in coming.

She was a devout Roman Catholic—a religion in which I had not been brought up—and in all weathers and at all times of the year, she paid long and frequent visits to the monastery chapel over the hills. But to see her as she was now was a revelation to me. I had seen her pray before, but never like this. She had always seemed to me more of a martyr than a sinner and her prayers more the prayers of reverent devotion than of passionate supplication. But her attitude at this moment, her wild, haggard face, and imploring eyes, were full of revelation to me. Another possible explanation of her lonely, joyless life and deep religious devotion flashed in upon me. Might it not be the dreary expiation, the hard penance of her church meted out for sin?

Half fearing to disturb her, I remained for a brief while silent, but, as the minutes went on, the sight of her agony was too much for me and I cried out to her:

“Mother, I am here. I did not know that you were up! I came in through the window!”

At the first sound of my appealing tones her face changed, as though frozen suddenly from passionate expressiveness to cold marble. Slowly she rose to her feet and confronted me.

“Mother, are you in trouble?” I said softly, moving nearer to her; “cannot I share your sorrow? Cannot I comfort you? Why am I shut out of your life so? Tell me this great trouble of yours and let me share it.”

For many years I had longed to say these words to her, but the cold impressiveness of her manner had checked them often upon my lips and thrust them back to my aching heart. Now, when a great sorrow filled her face with a softer light and loosened for a moment its hard, rigid lines, I dared to yield to the impulse which I had so often felt—and, alas! in vain—in vain!

Keener agony, deeper disappointment, I have never felt. Coldness and indifference had been hard to bear, but what came now was worse. She shrank back from me—shrank back, with her hands outstretched towards me and her head averted.

“Philip, I did not know that you were here. I cannot talk to you now. Go to your room. To-morrow—to-morrow!”

Her voice died away, but her sudden weakness inspired me with no hope, for it was a physical weakness only. There were no signs of softening in her face, no answering tenderness in her tones. So what could I do but go?

CHAPTER XIV.
A MEETING IN THE COFFEE-ROOM.

It was eleven o’clock on the following morning. I had been reading in the garden for some time, and was just thinking of starting for a walk, when a dogcart from the Castle stopped at the gate, and Mr. Ravenor’s servant—the man who had conducted me from the lodge to the Castle—was shown into the house. I went to him at once and he handed me a note.

“Mr. Ravenor has sent you this, sir,” he said respectfully.

I tore it open and read (there was no orthodox commencement):

“Before going to Dr. Randall’s there are a few things which you are not likely to have which you will find necessary. Remember that it is part of the education which I intend for you that you should associate with the other pupils on equal terms. Therefore, be so good as to go into Torchester with Reynolds and place yourself entirely in his hands. He has my full instructions.—R.”

I folded the note up and put it into my pocket.

“Am I to come with you now?” I asked.

“If you please, sir.”

I went upstairs to get ready and in a few minutes was prepared to start. The groom offered me the reins, but I declined them and mounted instead to the vacant seat by his side, which Reynolds had silently relinquished to me.

Torchester was scarcely a dozen miles from the farm, but, nevertheless, this was my first visit to it. Many a time I had looked down from Beacon Hill upon the wide-spreading, dirty-coloured cloud of smoke from its tall factory chimneys, which seemed like a marring blot upon the fair, peaceful stretch of country around, and by night at the dull red glow in the sky and the myriads of twinkling lights which showed me where it stood. But neither by day nor night had the scene been an attractive one for me. I had felt no curiosity to enter it. I had never even cared to figure to myself what it would be like.

So now, for the first time in my life, I found myself driving through the streets of a large manufacturing town. It was the dinner-hour and on all sides the factories were disgorging streams of unhealthy-looking men and women and even children. The tramcars and omnibuses were crowded, the busy streets were lined with swiftly rolling carriages, smart-looking men, and gaily-dressed girls and women. Within a few yards I saw types of men and women so different that it seemed impossible that they could be of the same species.

“This is the ‘Bell,’ sir, where we generally put up,” remarked Reynolds, at my elbow. “You will have some lunch, sir, before we go into the town?”

I shook my head, but he was quietly though respectfully insistent. So I let him have his way and allowed myself to be piloted into a long, dark coffee-room, where my orders, considerably augmented by Reynolds in transit, were received by a waiter whom we discovered fast asleep in an easy-chair, and who seemed very much surprised to see us.

Afterwards we went out in the town, Reynolds and I, and began our shopping. I was measured at the principal tailor’s for more clothes than it seemed possible for me to wear out in a lifetime, from riding-breeches to a dress-coat; and the quantity and variety of hats, boots, shirts, and ties which Reynolds put down as indispensable filled me with half-amused astonishment, although I had made up my mind to be surprised at nothing. But our shopping was not finished even when Reynolds, to my inexpressible relief, declared my wardrobe to be as complete as could be furnished by a provincial town. The gunsmith’s, the sporting emporium, and the horse-repository were all visited in turn. And when we returned to the hotel about six o’clock I was the possessor of two guns, which were a perfect revelation to me, a cricket-bat, a tennis racquet, a small gymnasium, a set of foils, and, besides other things, a stylish, well-built dogcart and a sound, useful cob.

I sank into an easy-chair in the coffee-room and, refusing to listen to Reynold’s suggestion as to the propriety of dining before setting out homewards, ordered a cup of tea. While the waiter had left the room to fetch it I strolled to the window to look out at the weather, which had been threatening for some time and on my way I discovered that I was not alone in the apartment. A man was seated at one of the further-most tables, dining, and as I passed he looked up and surveyed me with a cool, critical stare, which changed suddenly into a pleasant smile of recognition.

“Mr. Morton, isn’t it?” he said, holding out his hand. “Mr. Ravenor told me that I should probably come across you.”

I was so surprised that for a moment I forgot to accept the offered hand. Mr. Ravenor’s secretary was the last person whom I should have expected to find eating a solitary dinner in a Torchester hotel.

CHAPTER XV.
A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER.

“What have you been up to in Torchester, eh? Shopping?” Mr. Marx inquired. I saw no reason for concealing anything from him, nor did I do so. Rather awkwardly I told him of Mr. Ravenor’s note to me, and that I had been with Reynolds all the afternoon. Perhaps I spoke with a little enthusiasm of our somewhat elaborate purchases. At any rate, when I had finished, he laughed softly to himself—a long, noiseless, but not unpleasant laugh.

“Well, I’m glad I met you,” he said, his lips still twitching, as though with amusement. “Sit down and have some dinner with me.”

I hesitated, for just at that moment Mr. Ravenor’s words concerning his secretary flashed into my mind. Besides, I was not at all sure that I liked him. But, on the other hand, what alternative was there for me? What excuse could I find for declining so simple an invitation? In a few minutes the waiter would appear with the modest meal which I had ordered, and it would be impossible for me to order him to set it down in another part of the room, or to leave it and walk out of the hotel, just because this man was there. To do so would be to tell him as plainly as possible that I had some particular desire for avoiding him, and he would instantly divine that I was obeying a behest of Mr. Ravenor’s. No; it was unavoidable. I had better accept his invitation, and, briefly, I did so.

“That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “It’s a queer fancy of mine, but I hate dining alone. Waiter, bring some more soup at once. This gentleman will dine with me.”

During dinner our conversation was interrupted. Hat in hand, Reynolds was standing before us, looking at Mr. Marx and then at me and the table before us with a look on his face which I did not altogether understand, although it annoyed me excessively. He spoke to me:

“The dogcart has come round, sir.”

I half rose and threw down my napkin, though with some reluctance. I held out my hand regretfully to Mr. Marx, but he refused to take it.

“You needn’t go home with Reynolds unless you like,” he said. “I have a brougham from the Castle here, and I can drop you at the farm on my way home.”

I hesitated, for the temptation to stay was strong. In fact, I should have accepted at once, only that Reynolds’s grave, frowning face somehow reminded me of Mr. Ravenor’s injunction. Reynolds, like a fool, settled the matter.

“I think Mr. Morton had better return with me, sir,” he said to Mr. Marx. “If you are ready, sir,” he added to me. “The mare gets very fidgety if she’s kept waiting.”

My boyish vanity was wounded to the quick by the style of his address, and his unwise assumption of authority, and I answered quickly:

“You’d better be off at once, then, Reynolds. I shall accept Mr. Marx’s offer.”

He was evidently uneasy and made one more effort.

“I think Mr. Ravenor would prefer your returning with me, sir,” he said.

Mr. Marx had been leaning back in his chair, sipping his coffee somewhat absently, and to all appearance altogether indifferent as to which way I should decide. He looked up now, however, and addressed Reynolds for the first time.

“How the deuce do you know anything about what your master would prefer?” he said coolly.

Reynolds made no answer, but looked appealingly at me. I chose not to see him.

“I should imagine,” Mr. Marx continued, leaning back in his chair again and deliberately stirring his coffee, “that if Mr. Ravenor has any choice about the matter at all, which seems to me very unlikely, he would prefer Mr. Morton’s riding home in safety with a dry skin. Listen!”

We did so, and at that moment a fierce gust of wind drove a very deluge of rain against the shaking window-panes.

“That decides it!” I exclaimed. “I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Marx, if you don’t mind.”

“By far the more sensible thing to do,” he remarked carelessly. “Have a glass of wine, Reynolds, before you start. You’ve a wet drive before you.”

Reynolds shook his head, and, wishing me a respectful good evening, withdrew.

Mr. Marx watched Reynolds leave the room and then shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“Honest, but stupid. Well, now you’re in my charge, Morton, I must see whether I can’t amuse you somehow. Ever been to the theatre?”

I could not help a slight blush as I admitted that I had never even seen the outside of one.

Mr. Marx looked at me after my admission as though I were some sort of natural curiosity.

“Well, we’ll go if you like,” he said. “There’s a very good one here, I believe, for the provinces, and it will be a change for you.”

“It will make us very late, won’t it?” I ventured to say.

“Not necessarily. I suppose it will be over about half-past ten and the carriage can meet us at the door.”

I said no more, for fear that he would take me at my word and give up the idea of going. In a few minutes Mr. Marx called for his bill and settled it, and, glancing at his watch, declared that it was time to be off. The waiter called a hansom, and we drove through the busy streets, Mr. Marx leisurely smoking a fragrant cigarette, and I leaning forward, watching the hurrying throngs of people, some pleasure-seekers, but mostly just released from their daily toil at the factory or workshop.

It was a wet night and the streets seemed like a perfect sea of umbrellas. The rain was coming down in sheets, beating against the closed glass front of our cab and dimming its surface, until it became impossible to see farther than the horse’s head. I leaned back by Mr. Marx’s side with a sigh, and found that he had been watching me with an amused smile.

“Busy little place, Torchester,” he remarked.

“It seems so to me,” I acknowledged. “I have never been in any other town except Mellborough.”

“Lucky boy!” he exclaimed, half lightly, half in earnest. “You have all the pleasures of life before you, with the sauce of novelty to help you to relish them. What would I not give never to have seen Paris or Vienna, or never to have been in love, or tasted quails on toast! But here we are at the theatre!”

CHAPTER XVI.
MISS MABEL FAY.

The cab pulled up with a jerk underneath a long row of brightly burning lights. We dismounted, and I followed Mr. Marx up a broad flight of thickly carpeted stairs into a semi-circular corridor draped with crimson hangings and dimly lit with rose-coloured lights. A faint perfume hung about the place, and from below came the soft melody of a rhythmical German waltz which the orchestra was playing. I almost held my breath, with a curious mixture of expectation and excitement, as I followed Mr. Marx and an attendant down the corridor.

The latter threw open the door of what appeared to be a little room and we entered. Mr. Marx at once moved to the front, and, throwing the curtains back, beckoned me to his side. I obeyed him and looked around in wonder.

It happened to be a fashionable night and the place was crammed. On the level with us—we were in a box—were rows of men and women in evening attire; above, a somewhat disorderly mob in the gallery; and below, a dense throng—at least, it seemed so to me—of seated people were betraying their impatience for the performance by a continual stamping of feet and other rumbling noises.

To a regular playgoer it was a very ordinary sight indeed; to me it was a revelation. I stood at the front of the box, looking round, until Mr. Marx, smiling, pushed a chair up to me and bade me sit down. Then I turned towards the stage and remained with my eyes fixed upon the curtain, longing impatiently for it to rise.

Alas for my expectations! When at last the time came it was a charming picture indeed upon which I looked, but how different! A group of girls in short skirts and picturesque peasant attire moving lightly about the stage and singing; a man in uniform making passionate love to one of them, who was coyly motioning him away with her hand and bidding him stay with her eyes. A pretty picture it all made and a dazzling one. But what did it all mean?

Mr. Marx had been watching my face, and leaned over towards me with a question upon his lips.

“What does it all mean?” I whispered. “This isn’t a play, is it? I don’t remember one like it.”

“A play? No; it’s a comic opera,” he answered.

I turned away and watched the performance again. I suppose I looked a little disappointed; but by degrees my disappointment died away. It was all so fresh to me.

Towards the close of the first act, in connection with one of the incidents, several fresh characters—amongst them the girl who was taking the principal part—appeared on the stage. There was a little round of applause and I was on the point of turning to make some remark to Mr. Marx, when I heard a sharp, half-suppressed exclamation escape from his lips and felt his hot breath upon my cheek.

I looked at him in surprise. He had risen from his chair and was standing close to my elbow, leaning over me, with eyes fixed upon the centre of the stage and an incredulous look on his pale face. Instinctively I followed the direction of his rapt gaze. It seemed to me to be bent upon the girl who had last appeared, and who, with the skirts of her dark-green riding-habit gathered up in her hand, was preparing to sing.

He recovered from his surprise, or whatever emotion it was, very quickly, and broke into a short laugh. But I noticed that he pushed his chair farther back into the box and drew the curtains a little more forward.

“Is anything the matter, Mr. Marx?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and frowned a little.

“Nothing at all. I fancied that I recognised a face upon the stage, but I was mistaken. Good-looking girl, isn’t she—the one singing, I mean?”

I thought that good-looking was a very feeble mode of expression, and I said so emphatically. In fact, I thought her the most beautiful and most graceful creature I had ever seen; and, as the evening wore on, I found myself applauding her songs so vigorously that she glanced, smiling, into our box, and Mr. Marx, who was still sitting behind the curtain, looked at me with an amused twitching of the lips.

“Morton, Morton, this won’t do!” he exclaimed, laughing. “You’ll be falling head over ears in love with that young woman presently.”

I became in a moment very red and uncomfortable, for she had just cast a smiling glance up at us and Mr. Marx had intercepted it. I was both ashamed and angry with myself for having applauded so loudly as to have become noticeable; but Mr. Marx seemed to think nothing of it.

“There is a better way of showing your appreciation of that young lady’s talents—Miss Mabel Fay, I see her name is—than by applause. See these flowers?”

I turned round and saw a large bouquet of white azaleas and roses, which the attendant must have brought in.

“You can give them to her if you like,” Mr. Marx suggested.

I shook my head immediately, fully determined that I would do nothing of the sort. But Mr. Marx was equally determined that I should. It was quite the correct thing, he assured me; he had sent for them on purpose and I had only to stand up and throw them to her. While he talked he was writing on a plain card, which he pinned to the flowers and then thrust them into my hand.

How it happened I don’t quite know, but Mr. Marx had his own way. It was the close of the act and everyone was applauding Mabel Fay’s song. She stood facing the house, bowing and smiling, and her laughing eyes met mine for a moment, then rested upon the flowers which I was holding and finally glanced back into mine full of mute invitation.

I raised my hand. Mr. Marx whispered, “Now!” And the bouquet was lying at her feet. She picked it up gracefully, shot a coquettish glance up towards me, and then the curtain fell, and I sat back in my chair, feeling quite convinced that I had made an utter fool of myself.

About the middle of the third act Mr. Marx rose and walked to the door. Holding it open in his hand for a moment, he paused and looked round.

“I am going to leave you for a few minutes,” he said. “I shall not be very long.”

Then he went and I heard him walk down the corridor.

An hour passed and he did not return. The last act came, the curtain fell and, with a sigh of regret, I rose to go. Still he had not come back.

I put on my coat and lingered about, uncertain what to do. Then there came a knock at the box-door, but, instead of Mr. Marx, an attendant entered, and handed me a note. I tore it open and read, hastily scrawled in pencil:

“I am round at the back of the house. Come to me. The bearer will show you the way.—M.”

CHAPTER XVII.
BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE TORCHESTER THEATRE.

I followed my guide to the end of the corridor, through a door which he unlocked and carefully locked again, and past the side of the deserted stage, on which I paused for a moment to gaze with wonder at the array of ropes and pulleys and runners which the carpenters were busy putting to rights, and at the canvas-covered, unlit auditorium, which looked now—strange transformation—like the mouth of some dark cavern. After picking our way carefully, we reached a door on which was painted “Manager’s Room.” A voice from inside bade us enter and I was ushered in.

Mr. Marx was seated in an easy-chair, talking somewhat earnestly to a slim, dark young man, who was leaning against the mantelpiece. An older man was writing at a table at the other end of the room, with his back to the door.

Mr. Marx welcomed me with a nod, and introduced me briefly to the young man by his side:

“Mr. Morton—Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Isaacs is the manager of the company who are playing here.”

Mr. Isaacs turned an unmistakably Jewish face towards me and extended his hand.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Morton! Hope you liked the performance,” he said, with a smile, which disclosed the whole of a very white set of teeth. “Very fair, wasn’t it? Ha, ha, ha!”

I replied that I had enjoyed it exceedingly, and looked at Mr. Marx, wondering how long he meant to stay. I had taken a sudden but strong dislike to Mr. Isaacs.

“Shall you be very long, Mr. Marx?” I asked.

“I have sent for the carriage,” he answered; “it will be here in ten minutes.”

It seemed to me that there was something a little strange in Mr. Marx’s manner and the way in which he kept glancing towards the door.

Just at that moment someone knocked at the door.

“Come in!” cried Mr. Isaacs.

A lady obeyed his summons and swept into the room with a most unnecessary rustling of silk skirts. Mr. Isaacs welcomed her effusively.

“Miss Fay, your most humble servant!” he exclaimed, bowing low. “Let me introduce two of my friends, Mr. Morton and Mr. Marx.”

The lady put out her ungloved hand, covered with a profusion of rings.

“I know this young gentleman by sight,” she said, in a loud and rather high-pitched tone. “You threw me those lovely flowers, didn’t you? So good of you—awfully good! I’ve sent them home by my young woman.”

I stammered out some incoherent response and heartily wished myself a hundred miles away. What a disenchantment it was! I looked at her thickly pencilled eyebrows, at the smeared powder and paint which lay thick upon her face: at her bold, staring eyes, the crow’s-feet underneath, which art had done what it could to conceal and failed; at the masses of yellow hair, which intuitively I knew to be false, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame that I should have been tricked into admiring her for a moment. Unfortunately, she put down my embarrassment to another cause, for it seemed partly to gratify, partly to amuse her.

“My young friend and I admired your performance equally, Miss Fay, although, perhaps, he was the more demonstrative,” said Mr. Marx, coming forward. “Will you accept the congratulations and thanks of a provincial who seldom has the pleasure of seeing such acting or hearing such a voice?”

She thanked him with an affected little laugh, which suddenly died away and she looked into his face intently.

“Haven’t we met before?” she asked curiously. “There is something about your face or voice which seems familiar to me.”

He returned her gaze steadily, but shook his head with a slight smile.

“I am afraid I may not claim that honour,” he said. “If we had there could not possibly have been any uncertainty in my mind about it. It would have been a treasured memory.”

She looked doubtful, but turned away carelessly.

“I suppose it is my mistake, then,” she remarked. “You certainly seem to remind me of someone whom I have known. Fancy, perhaps. Mr. Isaacs, I came to beg for your escort home.” (Here she shot a quick glance at me, which made my cheeks hot again.) “I have sent Julia on, and I can’t go alone, can I, Mr. Morton?” she asked, turning to me.

“I—I suppose not,” I answered, devoutly wishing that Mr. Marx would take his departure. But, as though on purpose, he had gone to the other end of the room and had his back turned towards me.

There was a brief silence. Mr. Isaacs glanced at me, whistled softly to himself, and then strolled slowly over to the window, as though to see what sort of a night it was. Miss Fay glanced at me impatiently, with a slight contraction in her eyebrows. I longed desperately to get away, but for the life of me could think of no excuse.

“You won’t offer your escort, then, Mr. Morton?” she whispered.

“I can’t. I don’t know the town—never was here before—and we have a twelve-mile drive before us. We are expecting the carriage every moment. Ah, there it is!” I added, with a sudden sense of relief, as I heard the sound of horses’ feet stamping and pawing outside and the jingling of harness. “Mr. Marx, Burdett has come!” I called out.

He looked up, frowning.

“All right; there’s no hurry!” he said. “If you’re not ready, pray don’t study me. I should enjoy a cigar and a brandy-and-soda down at the ‘Bell’ before we start.”

“I’m quite ready, thanks,” I answered slowly, for his words and manner had given me something to think about. “If you don’t mind, I should like to be getting away. It’s a long way, you know.”

“Oh, pray don’t let me detain you!” Miss Fay exclaimed, tossing her head. “Mr. Isaacs, if you’re ready, I am. Good-night, Mr. Marx; good-night, Mr. Morton!”

She drew me a little on one side—a manœuvre which I was powerless to prevent—and whispered in my ear:

“You shy, stupid boy! There!”

She shook hands with me again and left something in my palm. When they were gone and I was in the passage, I looked at it. It was a plain card and on it was hastily scribbled an address:

Miss Mabel Fay,

15, Queen Street.

I felt my cheeks flush as I tore it into pieces and flung them on the ground. Then I followed Mr. Marx out to the carriage and, leaning back among the cushions by his side, I began seriously to consider an idea which every trifling incident during the latter part of the evening had pointed to; Mr. Marx had deliberately tried to lead me into making a fool of myself with Miss Mabel Fay. Why?

CHAPTER XVIII.
AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MOOR.

We were more than half-way home before Mr. Marx broke a silence which was becoming oppressive.

“Well, have you enjoyed your evening?” he asked.

“Of course I have, and I’m very much obliged to you for taking me to the theatre,” I added. After all, perhaps I was misjudging him. What possible motive could he have for being my enemy?

“Oh, that’s all right,” he declared, carefully lighting a cigar and throwing the match out of the window. “I’m afraid you’ve had more than one illusion dispelled this evening, though,” he went on, smiling. “You must have had plenty of time and opportunity, too, for weaving them, out here all your life. Have you never been away to visit your relations, or anything of that sort?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t believe I have any relations,” I said. “I never heard of any. My father used to say that he was the last of his family.”

“But your mother? Surely you know some of her people?”

“I have never even heard her speak of them,” I answered shortly.

“Strange! You don’t happen to remember her maiden name, do you?”

“I don’t know that I ever heard it,” I told him.

I began to wish that Mr. Marx would choose some other topic of conversation. Doubtless, it was exceedingly kind of him to take so much interest in my affairs and his questions proceeded from perfectly genuine motives, but my inability to answer any of them was becoming a little embarrassing.

“One more question I was going to ask you and it shall be the last,” he said, as though divining my feeling. “Were you born here?”

“I suppose so. I never heard that I was born anywhere else.”

There was another long silence and it seemed to me that Mr. Marx was very deep in thought. I was beginning to feel sleepy and, closing my eyes, I leaned right back among the soft, yielding cushions.

It was one of the wildest and roughest nights of the year. Both the carriage-windows were streaming with raindrops, and we could hear the wind howling across the open country, and whistling mournfully among the leafless trees.

We had accomplished about three-quarters of our journey and had just entered upon the blackest part of it. On either side of the road and running close up to it, without even the division of hedges, was a stretch of bare, open country, pleasant enough in summer time, but now a mere plain, on which were dotted about a few straggling plantations of sickly, stunted fir trees, among which the hurricane was making weird music.

We were in the middle of this dreary region. Mr. Marx was still smoking his cigar, but with closed eyes, and was either dozing or deep in thought. I, with my share of the fur rug wrapped closely around my knees, was trying in vain to sleep—in vain, for my head was still in a whirl, after what had been for me such an exciting day.

Exciting though it had been, however, its close was to be more so. Suddenly, without the least warning, we felt a sharp jerk, and heard the coachman calling out to his horses, who were plunging furiously. Mr. Marx and I both leaned forward, and, just as we did so, there was a tremendous crash of breaking glass, and, through the splintered carriage window, on the side nearest to him, came a heavy piece of rock, followed by a confused mass of stones and gravel and other débris.

Mr. Marx leapt to his feet, with his hand on the door handle and the blood streaming from his forehead. Before he could open the door, however, a strange thing happened. Outside, half visible through the remains of the glass and half without any intervening obstruction, flashed for one single second the white, ghastly face of a man peering in upon us. It came and went so swiftly that I could gain only the very faintest idea of the features; but with Mr. Marx it seemed to be otherwise. Like a flash of lightning, a look passed across his face which has never died out of my memory. Every feature seemed to be dilated and shaken with a spasmodic agony of horrified recognition. For a moment he seemed struck helpless, with every power of movement and every nerve numbed. Then a low cry, such as I have never before or since heard from human throat, burst from his shaking lips and his right hand tore open his coat and sought his breast-pocket.

The door of the carriage burst open as he sprang into the road like a wild animal, and long streaks of fire flashed from the gleaming revolver which he grasped in his hand—a lurid illumination which gave me sudden glimpses of his white, bleeding face as he stood in the road, firing barrel after barrel into the darkness.

I jumped out and hurried to his side, looking eagerly around into the dark night and together we stood and listened in a breathless silence. Across the wild, open moor the wind came rushing towards us with a deep booming sound, and among the bare tree tops of a small plantation before us we heard it shrieking and yelling like the hellish laughter of an army of witches. The ink-black clouds lowering close above our heads were dissolving in a mad torrent of rain, and the darkness was so intense that, although we could hear the frantic plunging of the horses behind us, we could neither see them nor the carriage. The elements seemed to have declared themselves on the side of our mysterious assailant. The blackness of the night and the roaring of the wind and rain blotted out all our surroundings and deadened all sound save their own.

“Wait here!” cried Mr. Marx, in a harsh, unnatural tone. And before I could open my mouth he had vanished out of sight and it seemed as though the black, yawning darkness had swallowed him up.

For a while I stood without moving. Then a cry for help from the coachman behind and the renewed sound of struggling horses reminded me of their plight, and I groped my way back to the road again.

I was only just in time. The horses, fine, powerful creatures, very nearly thoroughbred, were perfectly mad with fright, and the groom, who had been holding and striving to subdue them, was quite exhausted. Between us we managed to pacify them after a brief struggle, and as soon as I could find sufficient breath I began to question Burdett—who had stuck to his place on the box like an immovable statue—about the first cause of their alarm.

“What was it they shied at first?” I asked. “Did you see anyone?”

“Just catched a glimpse of the blackguard, sir, and that was all,” Burdett answered. “We were a-spinning along beautiful, for they knew as they were on their way home, them animals did, when, all of a sudden like, Dandy shies, and up goes the mare on her hind legs and as near as possible pitches me into the road. I slackened the reins and laid the whip across them, while Tom jumped down. And just then I saw a figure in the middle of the road and heard a crash through the carriage window. Tom, he’d catched hold of their heads by then, which was lucky; for when the firing began they was like mad creatures and I could never have held them. It’s a mercy we aren’t altogether smashed up, and no mistake. The Lord save me from ever being out wi’ my ’osses again on such a night as this!”

“You didn’t see the face of the man who attacked us, then?” I asked eagerly.

“Not being possessed of the eyes of a heagle or a cat, sir, I did not,” Burdett replied. “Just you look round and see what sort of a night it is. Why, I can only just make out your outline, sir; although I’ve been looking at you this five minutes, I can’t see nothing of your face.”

“Neither did you, I suppose, Tom?” I asked the groom.

“No, sir; nothing except just a black figure. Good thing that you was neither of you hurt, sir.”

“I’m not sure that Mr. Marx isn’t,” I answered; “his face was bleeding a good deal. I wish he’d come back.”

Never did time pass so slowly as then, when we waited in the storm and rain for Mr. Marx’s return. It must have been nearly an hour before we heard him hailing us in the distance, and soon afterwards saw his figure loom out of the darkness close at hand. He was alone.

Splashed from head to foot with mud, hatless, and with great streaks of blood clotted upon his forehead and cheeks, he presented at first a frightful figure. But his face had lost that dreadful expression of numbed horror which had made it for a moment so terrible to me, and, as he sank back breathless and exhausted, among the cushions, he even attempted a smile.

“All in vain, you see,” he said. “Couldn’t find a single trace of anyone anywhere.”

“Are you much hurt, sir?” asked the groom, who was tying up the broken carriage-door.

“Not at all. Only a scratch. Tell Burdett to drive home as fast as he can now, Tom, there’s a good fellow.”

We were left together to talk over this strange affair. Mr. Marx seemed to have made up his mind about it already.

“Without doubt,” he said deliberately, “it was some tramp, desperate with want or drink, who made up his mind to play the highwayman. He started well, and then, seeing two of us instead of one, funked it and bolted. I don’t think I ever had such a start in my life.”

“You came off the worst,” I remarked, pointing to his forehead.

“It wasn’t that that upset me,” he answered. “It was a horrible idea which flashed upon me just for a moment. The face which peered in at the window—you saw it—was horribly like the face of a man who is dead—whom I know to be dead. It gave me, just while the idea lasted, a sensation which I hope I shall never experience again as long as I live. It was ghastly.”

The face of the dead! It was not a cheerful thought. But I looked at the wrecked door and window of the carriage and felt immediately reassured. Our assailant, whoever he might have been, was no ghostly one. There was undeniable evidence of his material presence and strength in the shattered glass, the wrenched woodwork, and the wound on Mr. Marx’s forehead.

The carriage pulled up with a jerk. We had reached my home.

“Hadn’t you better come in and bathe your forehead, Mr. Marx?” I suggested hesitatingly.

He shook his head and declined.

“No, thanks. I’ll get back to the Castle as soon as I can and doctor it myself. Good-bye, Morton. If I don’t see you again before you go, I wish you every success at Mr. Randall’s.”

I thanked him warmly, shook his offered hand, and, shutting the carriage-door, called out to Burdett to drive on. For a moment or two I stood in the road watching the lights as they rapidly grew fainter and fainter in the distance. Then I turned slowly up the path towards the house.

Half-way there I stopped short and, holding my breath, listened intently. The wind had dropped and the rain had almost ceased, but the night was still as dark as pitch. I listened with strained ears and beating heart and soon I knew that I had not been mistaken. Coming down the hill between Rothland Wood gate and where I was, along the road by which we had just come, I could hear the faint, but nevertheless unmistakable, sound of light, running footsteps. Turning back, I stole softly down the path and stood in the middle of the road, waiting.

CHAPTER XIX.
A STRANGE ATTACK.

It could not in reality have been more than a minute or two, although it seemed to me then a terribly long while, before I again heard the sound which had attracted my attention. When I did, it was quite close at hand, just at the beginning of the range of farm-buildings which skirted the road. There was no possibility of any mistake. The situation was sufficiently plain, at any rate. Scarcely fifty yards away a man was coming running towards me, either barefooted or with very soft shoes on; and it was past midnight, pitch dark, and a lonely road.

Nearer and nearer the steps came, and my heart began to beat very fast indeed. At last, peering earnestly through the gloom, I made out the shadowy figure of a man only a yard or two away from me, running in the middle of the road, and a pair of wild, burning eyes glistened like fire against the dark background. I felt his warm, panting breath upon my cheek, heard a low, fierce cry, and a second later saw the figure give a spring sideways and vanish in the shade of the barn wall.

I followed cautiously; but, although I groped about in all directions, I could see nothing. So I stood quite still with my back to the wall, and called out softly:

“Who are you? Why are you hiding from me?”

No answer. I tried again:

“I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t do you any harm. I only want to know who you are, and what——”

I never finished the sentence. I became suddenly conscious of two glaring eyes looking at me, like pieces of live coal, from a crumpled heap on the ground. Then there was a quick, panting snort, a spring, and I felt a man’s long, nervous fingers clutching my throat. Gasping and choking for breath, I flung them off, only to find myself held as though in a vice by a pair of long arms. Drawing a deep breath, I braced myself up for the struggle with my unknown assailant.

More than once I gave myself up for lost, for my opponent was evidently a powerful man, and seemed bent on strangling me. But, fiercely though he struggled at first, I soon saw that his strength was only the frenzy of nervous desperation and that it was fast leaving him. By degrees I began to gain the upper hand, and at last, with a supreme effort, I threw him on his back and, before he could recover himself, I had my knee upon his chest and drew a long breath of relief.

I spoke to him, shouted, threatened, commanded; but he took no notice. Then I peered down close into his upturned face and fierce eyes, and the truth flashed upon me at once. I had been struggling with a madman, a hopeless, raving lunatic, and it was probably he who had made the attack upon us in the carriage.

My first impulse was one of deep gratitude for my escape; then I began to wonder what on earth I was to do with him. He was lying like a log now, perfectly quiet; but I knew that I had only to relax my hold upon him and the struggle would begin again—perhaps terminate differently. I could not take him into the house, for there was no room from which he could not easily escape. The only place seemed to me to be the coach-house. It was dry and clean, with no windows, save at the top, and with a good strong padlock. The coach-house would do, I decided, if only I could get him there.

I drew my handkerchief from my pocket, and, knotting it with my teeth, secured his hands as well as I could. Then, seizing him by the collar, I half dragged, half helped him up the garden path till we reached the coach-house, and, opening the door with one hand, I thrust him in. He made no resistance; in fact, he seemed utterly cowed; and a pitiable object he looked, crouched on the floor, with his face turned to the wall. I struck a match to obtain a better view of him.

His only attire was a grey flannel shirt and a pair of dark trousers, both of which were torn in places and saturated with rain. Of his face I could see little, for it was half hidden by the hair, matted with dirt and rain, and by his bushy whiskers and beard, ragged and unkempt. His feet were bare and black with a thick coating of mud; hence his soft, stealthy tread. Altogether, he was a gruesome object, as he lay a huddled heap against the wall, muttering to himself some unintelligible jargon.

Loosing his hands, I left him there, and, softly entering the house, found some food and rugs and took them out to him. He eyed the former ravenously, and before I could set it down he snatched a piece of bread from my hands and began eagerly to devour it. I put the remainder down by his side and, throwing the rugs over him, stole away.

CHAPTER XX.
THE MONASTERY AMONG THE HILLS.

When I awoke in the morning the sun was already high in the heavens and it was considerably past my usual hour of rising. I jumped out of bed at once and began my toilet. I had scarcely finished my bath when there came a loud tap at the door.

“Hallo!” I cried out. “Anything the matter?”

“Yes, sir. Please, sir, John wants to know whether you locked anything up in the coach-house last night. There was——”

“Yes, I did,” I interrupted quickly. “Tell him not to go there till I come down.”

“Please, sir, it’s too late,” the girl answered, in a frightened tone. “It’s got away, whatever it is.”

I dropped the towel with which I had been rubbing myself and hurried on my clothes. In a few minutes I was down in the yard, where several men were standing together talking. John left them at once and came to me.

“Why did you want to go to the coach-house so early?” I exclaimed, glancing at the wide-open door and empty interior. “I had an awful job to get that man in there last night, and now you’ve let him go.”

“Well, sir, it was a fearful row he was a-making,” explained John. “Soon as I came this morning, about five o’clock, I was passing through the stack-yard when I heard an awful thumping at the coach-house door from the inside. Of course, I knew nowt about there being anyone theer, so I just goes straight up and opens the door, to see what was the matter, like, and, lor, I did ’ave a skeer, and no mistake! It wur quite dark, and I could see nowt but a pair o’ heyes a-glaring at me as savage as a wild animal’s. ‘Coom out o’ this ’ere and let’s ha’ a look at yer,’ I says, for, d’ye see, I thought as it wur someone who had crept in unbeknown in the daytime and got locked in by mistake. There warn’t no answer, and I wur just about to strike a match and ’ave a look at ’im, when he springs at me like a wild cat. I tried to hold him and I’m darned if he didn’t nearly make his teeth meet through my hand.”

He touched his right hand lightly, and I noticed for the first time that it was bandaged up.

“He got away from you, then?” I remarked.

“Got away from me?” John repeated, in a tone of utter disgust. “He warn’t such a sweet-looking object, or sweet-tempered ’un either, that I wur over-anxious for the pleasure of his company, he warn’t! I just got my hand out of his jaws and let him go as fast as he liked, with a jolly good kick behind to help him on, too. You see, sir, I didn’t know as you’d anything to do with putting him in there,” the man added apologetically. “I thought he’d got in quite promiscuous-like.”

To tell the truth, although I had been alarmed at first, I did not particularly regret what had happened. At any rate, it saved me the bother of going over to the police-station at Mellborough. Still, the thought that he might even now be lurking about in the vicinity, with plenty of opportunities to provide a weapon for himself, was not altogether a pleasant one.

“Who might he have been, sir?” John inquired curiously.

“Just what I should like to know,” I answered. “He’s a lunatic and a dangerous one, that’s certain—escaped from some asylum, I should think.” And I told him of my adventure on the previous night, to which the whole group listened open-mouthed.

“I’m thinking, sir,” John remarked, when I had finished, “that it’d be as well for Foulds and I to have a scour round and see if we can’t find him, or he’ll be doing someone a mischief.”

“If you are not very busy I wish you would,” I said. “I don’t feel quite easy at the thought of his wandering about round here. If you do find him, lock him up and send word to the police-station at Mellborough.”

After breakfast that morning my mother made a request which startled me almost as much it delighted me.

“I am going to walk over to the monastery, Philip,” she said quietly. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will, mother,” I answered promptly. “Nothing could give me greater pleasure. When will you start?”

“I shall be ready in half an hour,” she said, with a faint smile, as though she were pleased at my ready acquiescence. Then she left the room to get ready.

In about the time she had mentioned she came into the garden to me and we started on our walk. It was a very uneventful one, but I don’t think that I shall ever forget it. My mother seemed, after her brief relapse into comparative kindness, to have become more inaccessible than ever; and she walked along by my side, with downcast eyes and a nervous, thoughtful expression on her pale face.

I, too, felt somewhat depressed at starting, but soon the fresh, pure air, becoming stronger and stronger as we left the road and followed the footpath by Beacon Hill, had its invariable effect upon my spirits. All perplexing thoughts and forebodings of trouble passed away from me like magic, and my heart beat and the blood flowed through my veins with all the impetuous ardour of sanguine youth.

At the top of the hill we paused, I to look round upon my favourite scene, my mother to rest for a moment. Then we saw how great had been the storm of the night before.

Here and there were the bare trunks of trees and many a cattle-shed and barn stood roofless. The storm seemed to have worked havoc everywhere, save where, on the summit of its wooded hill, Ravenor Castle, with its great range of mighty battlements, its vast towers, and grey walls of invincible thickness, frowned down upon the country at its feet. Looking across at it, it seemed to me that the place had never seemed so imposing as then.

My mother stood by my side and noticed my intent gaze.

“You admire Ravenor Castle very much, Philip?” she said quietly.

I withdrew my eyes with an effort.

“I do, mother,” I confessed; “very much indeed. The place has a sort of fascination for me—and the man who lives there!”

My mother had turned a little away from me and stood with face upturned to heaven and mutely moving lips. Out of her eyes I could see the tears slowly welling, and her tall slim figure was convulsed with sobs. I sprang to her side and caught hold of her hand.

“What is it, mother?” I cried. “Tell me!”

She shook her head sadly.

“Not now, Philip—not now. Come, let us go!”

Side by side we began to descend the hill. Our path wound around several freshly-planted spinneys and then led through a plantation of pine-trees.

Then we turned with regret, so far as I was concerned, into the muddy road again and walked for more than a mile between high, straight hedges. At last, soon after mid-day, we turned to the left, passed through a farmyard and along a winding path, which led us, now by the side of turnip fields, now across bracken-covered open country, to the summit of our last hill.

Here again we paused. Below us, close up against the background of the colourless hills, drearily situated in the bleakest spot of the austere landscape, the straight spires and severely simple buildings of the monastery were clustered together. A little above it, on an artificial eminence of rock, a rude cross stood out in vivid relief against the sky, and on this my mother’s eyes were fixed with a sort of rapt wistfulness, as we stood side by side on the top of the hill looking downwards.

It was a fitting spot that these men—who counted it among their virtues that in their rigid self-immolation they had cut themselves off even from the beauties of Nature—had chosen for their habitation. But although the place had a peculiar impressiveness of its own, which never failed to exercise a sort of fascination upon me, I was glad to-day when my mother moved forward again.

As we neared the end of our journey and turned in at the long, straight avenue which led to the monastery doors, the strange agitation which I had noticed in my mother’s manner during the earlier part of the day visibly increased. The cold inexpressiveness which had dwelt for so long in her face vanished, and into it there crept a look which, having once seen, I cared not to look upon again. It seemed as though she were endeavouring to brace herself up for some tremendous ordeal, and I would have given anything to have been able to put into words the sympathy which had risen up strongly within me.

Unnatural, cold, severe and, at the best of times, indifferent, as she had lately been to me, she was still my mother and I loved her. But I dared not break in with words upon the fierce anguish which was already beginning to leave its marks upon her white, strained face. Only when we stood before the bare stone front of the monastery, and with feeble fingers she had pulled the great iron bell, could I speak at all, and then the words were not such as I wished to speak. Afterwards, when I thought of them—and I often did think of them and of every trifling incident of that memorable walk—they seemed to me weak and ill-chosen.

But, such as they were, I am glad that I spoke them.

She listened as one whose thoughts were far away, but when I ceased, breathless, she laid her hand upon my arm and, with her dim, sad eyes looking into mine, said simply:

“This is for your sake, Philip—for your sake!”

Then, before I could ask her what she meant, the great door slowly opened and the guest-master stood before us. She passed him with a silent salutation and vanished on her way to the chapel; and, though I watched her longingly, I dared not follow. Then, declining Father Bernard’s invitation to go to his room and rest, I turned away from the door and wandered into the grounds.

Hour after hour of the brief winter’s day passed away. Father Bernard came out in search of me and offered me refreshments; but I shook my head. I could not eat, nor drink, nor rest. A strange but powerful apprehension of some coming crisis in my life—some great evil connected with my mother’s visit to this place—had laid hold of me, and all my struggles against it were impotent.

It was late in the afternoon before she came. I had climbed up to the top of “Calvary” and, with sick heart and longing eyes, was watching the door from which she must issue. Suddenly it was opened and she stood for a moment upon the threshold looking around for me. To my dying day I shall think of her as I saw her then.

Her face was the face of a saint—calm, passionless, and happy, with a gentle, chastened happiness. I knew, when I looked upon her, that she had left the burden of her great sorrow behind. But she had paid a price for it. Pale and fragile as she had always appeared, she seemed now to have been wasted by some fierce, scathing ordeal, which had driven out of her features everything human and left only a spiritual life. As she moved slowly forward into the drive and I saw her even more distinctly, she seemed to me to have gained a strange, new beauty; but it was a beauty which made me look upon her with a sudden shuddering fear.

I hurried down to her side and she welcomed me with a smile such as I had seldom seen on her face, and which was altogether in harmony with her softened expression. Then she took my arm and we turned towards home.

“You are happier now, mother?” I ventured to ask her, and she answered me by silently pressing my arm.

We passed down the avenue, thickly strewn with decaying leaves, along the winding lane, and through the gate which led up to Ive’s Head Hill. Once or twice as we were making the ascent I fancied that she hung heavily upon my arm and I asked if she were tired; but she only shook her head. We had reached the summit before the terrible fear which had been gnawing at my heart took definite shape. Then, for the first time since we had started upon our return journey, I was able to look into her face, which she had been keeping averted from me, and when I saw the ghastly change which had crept into it, my heart stood still and all my senses seemed numbed with fear.

“Mother,” I cried, “you are ill! What is the matter? Oh, speak to me—do!”

She had fallen into my arms, and her hands, which touched mine as they fell to her side, were as cold as ice. Her face was like the face of one who has already triumphed over the shadows of death. Far away at our feet the Cross of Calvary was standing out with rugged vividness against the fast darkening sky and upon it her closing eyes were steadily fixed. Her lips were slightly parted in a happy, confident smile, and her whole being seemed absorbed in the most religious devotion. Once she whispered my name and faintly pressed my hand; then her lips moved again and I heard the dread sound of the solemn prayer, faltered out in a broken whisper, “In manus Tuas, Domine!”

In my heart I knew that she was dying, and that human help would be of no avail. Yet I was loth to abandon all hope, and setting her gently down I looked anxiously around. On the summit of the next range of hills a man was sitting on horseback, looking down upon the monastery—a motionless figure against the sky. I cried out to him, and at the sound of my voice he started round and looked towards us; then, suddenly digging the spurs deep into the sides of his great black horse, he came thundering up the side of the hill at a pace which made the ground shake beneath my feet like the tremblings of an earthquake.

“What is wrong?” he cried hoarsely; and, looking into his face, I recognised Mr. Ravenor.

I pointed to my mother’s prostrate figure, and, gazing at him with dry eyes, I answered mechanically:

“She is dying!”

The words had scarcely left my lips before he had leaped from his horse, and, passing his arm around her, bent over her pallid face.

“Oh, this is horrible!” he murmured. “You must not die—you must not die! I have——”

His voice seemed choked with emotion and he did not finish his sentence. She spoke to him, but so softly that I could not hear the words.

I walked a few yards away and once more looked wildly round. Far away on the dark hillside I could see the white-robed figures of the lay brethren bending over their labour. Nearer there was no one. The road below was deserted and a deep stillness seemed brooding over the bare, shadowy landscape. Sick at heart I turned back and fell on my knees by my mother’s side.

We remained there, fearing almost to look into her face, until the twilight deepened upon the hills and slowly blotted out from our view even the dark cross standing up against the grey sky. Then Mr. Ravenor leaned for a moment forward and a low groan escaped from his lips. It told me what I dreaded—that my mother was dead!

CHAPTER XXI.
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.

The paroxysm of my grief passed slowly away, and I rose to my feet and looked around with streaming eyes. Mr. Ravenor was still by my side, and together we carried my mother back to the monastery. The news of our approach had preceded us, and long before we reached our journey’s end the solemn minute-bell was tolling out to the silent night, awakening strange echoes in the hills and finding a reverberation of its mournfulness in my heart.

Austere and impressive as the great bare front of the monastery had always appeared to me, it had never seemed so cold and desolate as when our melancholy little procession wound round the Hill of Calvary and slowly approached the entrance. The gloom of a winter’s evening was hanging around the building, which, with never a ray of light from any part, looked like a habitation of the dead—a gigantic vault.

But suddenly, as we drew near, the front door was slowly opened and the dark figure of a monk, holding above his head a lighted taper, stood on the steps and in a low monotone repeated a Latin prayer. When he ceased there was a moment’s silence, and then from the chapel there came the sound of deep voices chanting slowly in solemn unison the Miserere.

The remainder of that night seems like a dream to me now, of which I can recall but little. But I remember that, long past midnight, when I had thrown myself down upon the stone floor of the guest-chamber, I heard soft steps and the rustle of garments approaching me, and, looking up, I saw the sweetest face I ever beheld in man or woman looking down into mine from the deep folds of a monk’s cowl.

He stayed with me for a while, speaking welcome words of comfort; then, gathering his robes about him, he stood up, prepared to leave. But first he handed me a small packet.

“This was left in my charge for you, Philip Morton,” he said. “Little did I dream that so soon I should be called upon to fulfil my trust. Take it, my son.”

The packet, which I opened with reverent fingers, was a very small one, and consisted of a single letter only. That I might see the more clearly to read it, I pushed open the narrow, diamond-framed window, and the moonlight filled the little room with a soft, mellowed light. Then I read:

“The Barnwood Monastery of St. Clement’s,

“November 19th, 18—.

“My dearest Son,—I write these lines to you, Philip, feeling happier than I have done for many years, because I have a deep and sure conviction that my life is drawing fast to a close, and that the end may come at any minute. Alas! my son, I feel that I have not been to you all that a mother should be. It may be that my coldness has alienated from me the love which I know you have been willing to give. It may be so; but I choose rather to believe that you will pity me when I tell you that the coldness which has grown up between us was none of my choosing, but was only part of a terrible punishment which I have had to bear for many weary years.

“What my sin—or let me be merciful to myself and call it my error—was, I do not purpose here to tell you. Some day the person at whose discretion I have left it may deem it well to tell you the whole story. For my sake, Philip, for the sake of the love which I know you bear me—and which, God knows, I have for you—I beg you to wait until that time comes and not seek to hasten it.

“Think of me as kindly as you can, dear. If the path which I chose to follow was not the wisest, I have, at least, suffered terribly for it. For many weary years grief and horror and remorse have been making my life one long purgatory. Yes, I have suffered indeed. But at last I have found peace.

“Do not marvel at what I am going to tell you, Philip. My will—the little I have to leave is yours—is drawn up and signed and I have appointed Mr. Ravenor your guardian. There are reasons for this which you cannot know, but he will be only too glad to accept the charge; and in all things, Philip, even if he should desire you altogether to change your position in life, follow his command and submit to his wishes.

“Farewell, my beloved son—farewell! God grant that your life may be good and happy, and that your last days may be as peaceful as mine. I can wish you nothing better. Once more, farewell!—Your affectionate

“Mother.”

CHAPTER XXII.
FOR LIFE.

My mother’s death marked an epoch in my life, for immediately afterwards a great change came over my circumstances and position. Of the dreary days just before and after the funeral I shall here say but little. Their sadness is for me and me alone.

Until after the ceremony I remained at the monastery, seeking relief from my thoughts by rambles over the hills, by watches at dead of night before the spot where, with many candles burning round her open coffin, my mother lay, and by long conversations with Father Alexander, my comforter. When the time of the funeral came, Mr. Ravenor stood by my side, the only other mourner, and I knew that the banks of choice white flowers, which smothered the coffin and perfumed the winter air, were his gift.

After it was all over he came to me where I stood, a little apart, and put his hand upon my shoulder.

“Philip, my boy,” he said kindly, “will you come back to the Castle with me? I am your guardian now, you know.”

I drew a long breath.

“Let me go back to the farm for a week by myself,” I said; “then I will come to you. Be ready to go to Dr. Randall’s.”

“Let it be so, then,” he answered. “Perhaps it is best.”

I said good-bye to the monks, especially to Father Alexander, with regret, for they had all been very good to me. Then I accompanied Mr. Ravenor to his carriage and was driven swiftly homewards.

The week that followed I spent in solitude, and as the days passed by the bitterness of my grief left me. Not that the memory of my mother grew less dear—rather the reverse; but I began to recognise that what had happened was best. Better that she should have died thus, full of thoughts of holy things and with a conscience at rest, than that she should still be bearing with aching heart a burden which she had never deserved.

On the last day of the week I was told that a visitor had arrived and wished to see me, and before I could ask his name he had entered the room. It was Mr. Marx.

The man was surely an admirable actor. Instinct told me that he cared not a jot for either my mother or me; but his few words of sympathy were excellently chosen and gracefully spoken. Then he at once changed the subject and talked pleasantly of other things; and as he went on I suddenly remembered that I had not seen him since the night of our drive home from Torchester, and that, therefore, he could know nothing of the adventure which had befallen me after his departure. I took advantage, therefore, of a pause in the conversation to tell him all about it; and, impassive though his face was, I could see that it made a great impression.

“Do you remember what the man was like?” he asked, knitting his brows. “Can you describe him?”

I did so as well as I could and in the midst of my narration, making some trivial excuse, he moved his chair out of the light into the shadows of the room. But if he wished to escape my scrutiny he was a little too late, for I had already noticed his blanched face and trembling hands. Evidently there was something more in this midnight attack than I had thought. Who was the lunatic? I wondered. I felt sure, looking at him closely, that Mr. Marx knew. No need now for Mr. Ravenor to warn me against the companionship of this man. Already my passive dislike had grown into an active aversion.

Instinctively I felt that he was both unscrupulous and untrustworthy. I felt that he was seeking me for ends of his own, and all the time I was half afraid of him.

Doubtless my manner showed that he was no welcome visitor, but still he lingered. At last my housekeeper brought me in my afternoon cup of tea and I was compelled to ask him to join me. He did so, drank it thoughtfully, and immediately afterwards rose to go.

“I have been wondering what can have become of this poor lunatic,” he said carelessly. “Scarcely a pleasant person to meet on a dark evening.”

I shrugged my shoulders as I walked out into the hall with him.

“It is nearly a fortnight ago,” I remarked; “he can hardly have remained in the neighbourhood and in hiding all this time.”

“Still, if he had been captured we should have heard of it,” Mr. Marx objected.

“Probably. And yet I don’t see why. I should not, at any rate, as I have been away at the monastery; and you, I don’t know how you would have heard of it, unless you read the local papers.”

“A weakness of which I am not guilty,” he answered drily. “Nor have I been outside the grounds. We have been hard at work.”

“Did you walk here?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I came down in a trap from the Castle, but the man was going to Mellborough and I told him not to wait for me. You won’t walk across the park with me, I suppose, just to get an appetite for dinner? It’s a splendid evening.”

I looked at him furtively, but closely. Yes, Mr. Marx was a coward, in addition to his other slight demerits.

“No, thanks,” I answered shortly. “I’ve had a long walk already today. Good evening!”

I turned back into the sitting-room, but before I had reached my easy-chair I began to think that I was scarcely behaving well. After all, Mr. Marx was a middle-aged man, and it was possible that his strength might have been sapped by the brain labour in which he was constantly engaged and his sedentary life.

Supposing he were to encounter this lunatic and suffer at his hands, perhaps even lose his life, should I not blame myself? I came to a speedy decision. I would let him have his fright, but I would follow him at a little distance and see that he came to no harm.

I took a short, heavy stick from the rack and, crossing the stackyard, vaulted over the palings into the park, purposely avoiding the gate. About a hundred yards in front Mr. Marx was walking quickly along, with both hands in his ulster pockets, and looking frequently around him. Men had been busy in the park on the previous day cutting the bracken, and along the side of the road were many stacks of it waiting to be carted away. I noticed that whenever Mr. Marx drew near one of these he gave it a wide berth and I smiled to myself at this evidence of his anxiety.

I was walking on the turf, that he might not hear my footsteps, and was able to keep him easily in sight, for it was a clear, frosty evening, and the full moon was shining in a cloudless sky. At a sudden bend in the road he came in sight of a place where stacks of bracken had been left on either side opposite to each other. I saw him pause as though hesitating which he should avoid, and at the same moment I distinctly saw some dark body crouched down behind one of them and swaying slightly backwards and forwards.

I broke at once into a run, but before the echoes of my warning shout had died away a figure sprang like a wild cat at Mr. Marx’s throat. There was a flash and a sharp report, but from the direction of the former I could see that the revolver had been knocked up into the air and exploded harmlessly.

When at last I reached the assailant and his victim it was a fearful sight I looked upon. The face of the lunatic was ghastly and his wild eyes almost started from their sockets in his rage.

White and emaciated as a skeleton’s, his face was still capable of expression—and such an expression. A frenzied desire to kill seemed to be his sole aim, and his long, skinny fingers clutched Mr. Marx’s throat as in a vice. The latter’s eyeballs were protruding from his head and his breath was coming in short, agonised pants; yet all the while Mr. Marx was holding the madman in such a fierce grip that I could hear his ribs snapping like whalebone.

My arrival saved Mr. Marx from a speedy death by strangulation. Though I lifted the lunatic up in my arms and strained every muscle to pull him away, his fingers never relaxed till I stopped his breath and rendered him momentarily unconscious.

I waited for Mr. Marx to come to himself, my foot resting lightly upon the prostrate body of his assailant. Soon he rose slowly to his feet and began groping about in the road.

“What do you want?” I asked. “Lost anything?”

“My revolver.”

I pointed to where it lay gleaming in the moonlight. He picked it up and set it to an undischarged barrel. I watched him curiously.

“You won’t want that again,” I remarked. “What are you going to do with it?”

[“I am going to put that beast out of his misery,” he answered.] “Stand out of the way!”

“Nonsense! You will do nothing of the sort!” I cried hotly. “What! kill an insensible man? He has as much right to live as you. You shall not commit murder in my presence: and, least of all, shall you kill a poor insane creature like this. Put that thing up!”

An awful look flashed into his face, and, as he suddenly raised his arm, I looked into the dark muzzle of his revolver.

With a quick spring I wrenched the revolver from his hand, and, bending backwards, threw it far away into the bracken.

“I don’t know what you were going to do, Mr. Marx,” I said, looking at him steadily, “but it seems to me that you are not a fit person to be trusted with firearms.”

He stood still, speechless with rage. I turned my back upon him and found, to my surprise, that the man whose life Mr. Marx had so much desired was lying on his side, looking at me with wide-open eyes.

“Well, have your own way,” Mr. Marx said, quietly; “I dare say you are right. There was no need to be violent, or to throw away my favourite revolver. What do you propose to do with him?”

Mr. Marx advanced, but at the sight of him the lunatic, who was leaning heavily upon my arm, and groaning with pain, shrank down upon the ground, cowering at my feet like a dog. He covered his face with his hands and broke into one of the most pitiful cries of distress that I have ever heard from human lips. I motioned Mr. Marx back.

“I can manage him alone, I think; and the sight of you upsets him. Will you follow us down?”

Mr. Marx advanced a step or two, his eyes flashing with anger. Then suddenly he turned his back upon us, and, without a word, walked rapidly away. I raised my prisoner, and half carried, half dragged him back to the farm.

In a few hours the doctor from Rothland had arrived and speedily set the broken bones. He seemed much interested in the case and made a careful examination.

“Do you think he has been a lunatic long?” I asked.

The doctor shook his head.

“On the contrary,” he replied, “I should say his madness has come on quite recently—the effect of some severe shock probably. If he is treated properly there is no doubt that he will regain his reason.”

In a few days the lunatic was pronounced well enough in health to be moved; and as all inquiries and advertisements about him proved fruitless, he was consigned to the county asylum at Torchester.

CHAPTER XXIII.
MY GUARDIAN.

On the third day after my adventure in the park Mr. Ravenor called to see me. He came in splashed from head to foot and had evidently ridden a long distance and fast. I offered him a chair and some refreshment, for he looked pale and tired, but he declined both, and walked slowly up and down the room, his hands grasping a long riding-whip behind his back.

“I can only give you a minute or two now, Morton,” he said, with some slight return of his former brusque hauteur; “I am expecting visitors from London to-night and must get back to receive them. But there is something I must say to you. You will be surprised to hear that your mother has left you a considerable property?”

I was very much surprised.

“Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Ravenor?” I ventured to ask. “My mother always spoke to me as though we were poor.”

“I do not make mistakes,” he answered, pausing in his walk and looking down upon me from his great height with knitted brows and piercing eyes, “least of all in matters of such importance. How much the exact sum will amount to I cannot tell yet, but it is more than twenty thousand pounds, so you will be able to choose your own profession. What will it be, I wonder—the Bar, the Army, the Church, agriculture? Come, you are a boy of imagination and have never been in love. You must have had day-dreams of some sort. Whither have they led you?”

“Not to any of the professions which you have mentioned,” I answered promptly.

“Then where? Tell me. I am curious to know.”

“My ideas have always been very vague,” I said slowly. “I should like to live quite away from any town, to read a good deal, and to spend the rest of my time out of doors; and then, perhaps, after a time, I might try to think something out and put it into words.”

“In short, you would like to be an author,” Mr. Ravenor broke in, with a slight smile.

“Yes; but I should not want to write to amuse people, or to become famous,” I went on, encouraged by Mr. Ravenor’s gravity. “I should like to make people think. I should like to make them turn aside from the groove of their daily life and realise that the world is full of greater and higher things than mere material prosperity. Men seem to me to find their daily work and pleasure too absorbing. They think of themselves and others only as individuals, never as limbs of a great common humanity with a mighty destiny. The world grows narrower and narrower for them as they grow older, instead of broader and broader. It is because they neglect the use of their imagination—at least, so it seems to me.”

“Have you read Hibbet’s little pamphlets?” Mr. Ravenor asked.

“Both of them,” I answered. “I like his ideas.”

“Have your clothes come from Torchester?” he inquired, with apparent irrelevance.

“Yes; they came last week,” I told him, wondering.

“Very well; put on your dress-suit and come up to the Castle at eight o’clock to-night. You shall dine with me and meet Hibbet.”

Meet Sir Richard Hibbet! Dine at the same table! My cheeks flushed and my heart beat fast. Life was opening out for me.

“Yes; he and Marris and Williams, the publisher, you know, are all staying at the Castle. There will be some more of them down to-night. Don’t be late. I will find time, if I can, to have some talk with you, for I want you to go to Dr. Randall’s next week.”

He nodded and took his departure. I watched him mount his horse and gallop away across the open park. Then I started for a solitary walk, to ponder my altered prospects.

CHAPTER XXIV.
MY FIRST DINNER PARTY.

At a quarter to eight I stood in the great hall of Ravenor Castle. On my first visit its vastness and gloom had somewhat chilled me; now it was altogether different. A small army of servants in picturesque livery and with powdered hair were moving noiselessly about. Soft lights were burning on many brackets, dispelling the deep shades which had hung somewhat drearily about; and there was a fragrant perfume of flowers and a pleasant sense of warmth in the air. I began to understand at once the stories I had heard of the luxury and magnificence with which Mr. Ravenor entertained his guests on the rare occasions when he threw open his doors.

Mr. Ravenor was in his private rooms, I was told, and his own groom of the chambers, who had been summoned to take my name, ushered me, after a moment’s hesitation, into the library. I walked to the fire, for I was cold, probably through being unused to wearing such thin clothes; and, standing there with my hands behind my back, looked around with a feeling almost of awe at the vast collection of books with which I was surrounded.

“And who are you, please?”

I started and looked in the direction from which the voice—a sweet, childish treble—came. Seated demurely in the centre of a large armchair, with tumbled hair, and a book upon her lap, was a very young lady. Her clear blue eyes were fixed calmly but inquiringly upon me, as though expecting an immediate answer, and there was a slight frown upon her forehead. Altogether, for such a diminutive maiden, she appeared rather formidable.

“I didn’t know that you were there,” I said, in explanation of my start. “My name is Morton—Philip Morton.”

She looked me over gravely and critically, and succeeded in making me feel uncomfortable. Apparently, however, the examination ended in my favour, for the frown disappeared and she closed her book.

“Philip is pretty,” she said condescendingly. “I don’t think much of Morton. I rather like Philip, though.”

“I—I’m glad of that,” I answered lamely. It was very ridiculous, but I could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to say something brilliant, but it wouldn’t come; so I stood still and looked at her and got rather red in the face.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“Haven’t the least idea,” I admitted.

She leaned her small, delicate head upon her hand and began swaying her feet slowly backwards and forwards.

“I am Lady Beatrice Cecilia—my mother is Lady Silchester,” she said. “Do you think it is a pretty name?”

“Very,” I answered, biting my lip; “much prettier than mine.”

“Do you know, I think you are a nice boy!” she proceeded. “I rather like you.”

“I’m so glad!” I answered, feeling unreasonably delighted. “I’m sure that I like you,” I added fervently.

“It’s very good of you to say so, when you’ve only just seen me,” she remarked; “but you can’t be quite sure. You don’t know anything about me, you see. I might be dreadfully disagreeable.”

“But I’m sure you’re not,” I answered, feeling that I was getting on.

She was good enough to seem pleased at my confidence; but she made no further remark for a minute or two, during which I racked my brains in vain for some effective remark, with my eyes fixed upon her. She certainly made a very charming picture, curled up in the great black oak chair, with the firelight playing upon her ruddy golden hair and glistening in her bright eyes.

“You’ve been reading, haven’t you?” I asked, pointing to the book which lay in her lap.

“It’s not a nice book at all!” she said decidedly. “I don’t like any of the books here. Oh!”

I turned round quickly, for I saw that she was looking behind me. Standing on the threshold of his inner room was the tall, dark figure of Mr. Ravenor, handsomer than ever, it seemed to me, in his plain evening dress.

Slowly he advanced out of the shadows, with a faint smile upon his pale face, and laid his hand upon her shoulder, looking first at my little hostess and then at me.

“So you’ve been entertaining one of my guests for me, Trixie, have you?” he said. “Rather late for you to be up, isn’t it? Your nurse has been looking for you everywhere.”

“Then I suppose I must go,” Lady Beatrice Cecilia remarked deliberately. She rose, shook her hair out, and, replacing the book which she had been reading upon the shelf, prepared to depart. But first she came up to where I was standing on the hearthrug and held out her little white hand.

“Good-night, Philip Morton,” she said, looking up at me with a grave smile. “I am very glad that you came in here to talk to me. I was so dull.”

I made some reciprocative speech, which, if it was somewhat awkwardly expressed, had at least the merit of earnestness, and my eyes followed her admiringly as she walked to the door and disappeared with a backward glance and a smile. Then I started and coloured, to find that Mr. Ravenor was watching me.

“I don’t know why they should have brought you here,” he said. “Come this way.”

I followed Mr. Ravenor across the hall into a suite of rooms hung with satin, opening out one from another, and seeming to my inexperience like a succession of brilliantly-lit fairy chambers. In the smallest and most remote room three men were standing talking together, and in a low chair by their side reclined Lady Silchester, holding a dainty screen of peacock feathers between her face and the fire, and listening to the conversation with a slightly bored air. She was in full evening toilette, and several rows of diamonds flashed and sparkled with every rise and fall of her snow-white throat. Afterwards I grew to look upon Lady Silchester as a good type of the well-bred society woman; but then she was a revelation to me—the revelation of a new species.

My appearance seemed at first to surprise and then slightly to discompose her, but both emotions passed away at once and she welcomed me with a charming little smile as she languidly raised her hand and placed it within mine for a moment.

At our entrance the conversation ceased for a moment. Mr. Ravenor laid his hand upon my shoulder and turned towards the little group.

“Sir Richard, let me introduce to you a young ward of mine and a disciple of yours. Sir Richard Hibbet—Mr. Morton; Professor Marris—Mr. Morton; Mr. Later—Mr. Morton.”

They all shook hands with me, and, widening their circle a little, continued the conversation.

This was interrupted presently by the announcement of dinner, the Professor taking in our hostess, the others following, Mr. Ravenor and I bringing up the rear.

There was no lack of conversation during dinner, though gradually it turned towards purely literary matters and remained there. To me it was altogether fascinating, although it was often beyond my comprehension.

Long after Lady Silchester had departed we sat round the small table glittering with plate and finely-cut glass, and loaded with choice flowers and wonderful fruits; and my senses were almost dazed by the brilliancy of my material surroundings, and the ever-flowing conversation, which seemed always to be teaching me something new and opening up fresh fields of thought. At times I scarcely knew which most to admire—the dry, pungent wit and caustic remarks of the Professor; the perfectly expressed, classical English of Mr. Later; the sound, good sense of Sir Richard, seasoned with an apparently inexhaustible stock of anecdotes and quotations culled from all imaginable sources; or the brilliant epigrams, the trenchant criticisms, and the occasional flashes of genuine eloquence by means of which Mr. Ravenor, with rare art, continually stimulated the talk.

Almost unnoticed, Mr. Marx, still in his morning coat, with pale face and dark rims under his eyes, had entered and sank wearily into a seat; but, although he listened with apparent interest, he took no part in the war of words which was flashing around him. Suddenly it all came to an end. Mr. Ravenor glanced at his watch and rose.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I must ask you to excuse me for an hour. If you care to see the library, Mr. Marx will show it you, or the smoking-room and billiard-room are at your service. Or if you care to remain here there is plenty more of the yellow-seal claret and the cigars are upon the table. Philip, I want you.”

I rose and followed him towards the door. As I did so I had to pass Mr. Marx, who had left his seat on some pretext. He leaned over towards me, haggard and pale, and pushed a slip of paper into my fingers.

“Read it at once,” he muttered, in a quick, low tone. Then he moved up and took Mr. Ravenor’s place at the head of the table.

I felt inclined to throw it back to him; but I did not. Passing across the hall, I unfolded it and read these few words, scrawled in a large, shaking hand:

“You must not go to Dr. Randall’s. Mr. Ravenor will give you a choice. Go anywhere but there. If you neglect this warning you will repent it all your life. I swear it. Tear this up,”

CHAPTER XXV.
MR. MARX’S WARNING.

My first impulse, on glancing through Mr. Marx’s brief note, was to show it to Mr. Ravenor; but, after a second’s consideration, I changed my mind. Mr. Marx was a complete mystery to me. At times it seemed possible that the interest which he undoubtedly showed in me was genuine and kindly, and I struggled against my dislike of the man. Then I remembered his brutal conduct to the lunatic and the other inexplicable parts of his behaviour, and the darkest suspicions and doubts began to take shape in my imagination.

There was something altogether mysterious about him—his connection with Mr. Ravenor and his manner towards myself. I was puzzled and more than half inclined to decide against the man whom personally I had grown to detest. But, on the other hand, I was young and still an optimist with regard to my fellow-men.

What harm had I done Mr. Marx, and why should he seek to injure me? It seemed improbable, almost ridiculous. So in the end a certain sense of fairness induced me to respect his postscript, and I said nothing to Mr. Ravenor about his secretary’s warning.

My interview with him was a very short one indeed. He led the way into the study in which I had first seen him and, closing the door, turned round and faced me upon the hearthrug. The room was dimly lit, but where he stood the fast-dying fire cast a faint glow around his tall, straight figure, and showed me a face cold and resolute as marble, but not unkind.

“Philip Morton,” he said slowly, “it has occurred to me that in wishing you to go to Lincolnshire, I may have been influenced to a certain extent by selfish considerations. If you have the slightest preference for a public school——”

I knew instinctively whence that idea had come and I interrupted him.

“Nothing should induce me to go anywhere else but to Dr. Randall’s!” I exclaimed firmly.

“In that case,” he continued, “I wish you to leave tomorrow. You will be ready?”

I assented at once.

“I, too, am leaving here—it may be for a very long while,” he went on. “In two months’ time I hope to start for Persia, and between now and then my movements will be uncertain. I cannot settle down here. It is useless.”

A great weariness shone out of his dark blue eyes and he stifled a sigh. Some thought or memory coloured with regret had flashed across his mind; but what it was I could not tell.

“You remember your mother’s letter to you and her dying request?” he continued, in a changed tone. “I cannot explain it now, although I must remind you of it. This packet”—and he passed me a large, sealed envelope—“contains a chequebook, the address of the lawyer who will manage your affairs, and a letter which you will not open unless you have certain news and proof of my death. You will find that you are, comparatively speaking, rich. How this comes about I cannot tell you now, and you must remember your mother’s dying injunction not to seek to find out until the time comes, when you will know everything. At present, I can only assure you that the money is yours by right, that it is not a gift, and that no one else has any claim to it. That is all I can say upon the subject. Are you satisfied?”

Curiosity seemed a mean thing to me as I listened to my guardian’s words and looked into his sad, stern face. All the old fascination which I had felt from the first in his presence was strong upon me that night. Whatever he had bidden me to do I should have done it. And so I answered:

“I am satisfied. What you tell me is mine I will take and ask no questions.”

“That is well,” he said quietly. “And now, one word about your future, Philip, for to-morrow you will take up some of the responsibilities of early manhood. A great man once said that the best adviser of youth was the man whose own life had been a failure. If this be anything more than a paradox, then there can be no one better fitted for that post than I. Already the flavour of life has become like dead ashes between my teeth; and the fault is my own. Mr. Marris was talking a great deal of nonsense in the drawing-room before dinner this evening. I want to say just one or two words to you on the same subject, and remember that I speak as an outsider, impersonally.

“Before I was twenty-one years old, I had studied in most of the schools of modern philosophy, and had thrown off my religion like an old rag. I was inflated with a sense of my own intellectual superiority over other men. It was philosophy which taught men to live, I declared, and philosophy which taught them to die. With that motto before me, I carefully set myself to annihilate every vestige of faith with which I had ever been endowed. I succeeded—too well. It is dead; and sometimes I fear that it will never reawaken. And what am I? As miserable a man as ever drew breath upon this earth. It seems to me as though I had crushed a part of my very life and the sore will rankle for ever.

“There is a part of man’s nature, Philip—that is to say, of such men as I have been and you will be—the sympathetic, emotional, reverential part, which cries out for some belief in a higher, an infinite Power, for some sort of religion which it can cling to and entwine with every action of daily life. You must satisfy that craving if you desire to know happiness. For me there is no such knowledge. I have deliberately committed spiritual suicide; I have torn up faith by the roots and have made a void in my heart, which nothing else can ever fill. Frankly, I tell you, Philip, that there are times when religion of any sort seems to me no better than a fairy-tale. It need not seem so to you. Shape out for yourself any form of belief—that of the Christian is as good as any other—and resolutely cling to it. It is my advice to you—mine who believe in no God and no future state. Follow it and farewell!”

He held out his hand and clasped mine for a moment. I would have spoken, but before I could find words he had disappeared through a curtained door into his inner apartment. So I turned away and went.

CHAPTER XXVI.
A LOST PHOTOGRAPH.

It was about five o’clock on as dreary an afternoon as I ever remember, when the slow train, which crawls always at a most miserable pace from Peterborough across the eastern counties, deposited me at Little Drayton. Besides the station-master there were but two people on the wet platform—one a porter, who made for my bags with almost wolflike alacrity after a moment’s amazed stare, at me, presumably at the rare advent of a passenger with luggage; the other was a thin, dark young man, clad in a light mackintosh with very large checks, and smoking a long cigar. Whilst I was collecting my things he came leisurely up and accosted me.

“Your name Morton?” he inquired, without removing his cigar from his teeth.

I assented.

“Have you come down to meet me?” I asked.

“Yes; old Randall’s gone out to dinner, so he asked Cis and me to come and fetch you. Cart’s outside; but we can’t take all the luggage. Just look out what you want, will you, and we’ll send for the rest to-morrow.”

I selected a portmanteau and followed him out of the station. A light, four-wheeled brown cart was waiting, drawn by a pair of small, clever-looking cobs, altogether a very smart turnout.

“Pitch that bag in behind, porter,” ordered my new acquaintance. “Now, then, Mr. Morton, if you’re ready we’ll be off. Your train’s half an hour late, and Cis will be wondering what’s become of us.”

“Is Cis Mr. Ravenor’s nephew, Silchester?” I asked, as I clambered up beside him.

“Oh, yes! By the bye, I ought to have introduced myself, oughtn’t I? My name is de Cartienne—Leonard de Cartienne.”

“And are you Dr. Randall’s other pupil?” I inquired.

“Yes; I’m doing a grind there. Beastly slow it is, too. You’ll be sorry you’ve come, I can tell you, before very long.”

Looking around me, I was inclined to think that that was not improbable. It was too dark to see far, but what I could see was anything but promising. The country was perfectly flat, dreary, and barren, and the view was unbroken by tree, or hedge, or hill. By the side of the road was a small canal, over the sullen waters of which, and across the road, brooded spectral-like clouds of mist. The rain still fell rapidly, and the wheels of our cart ran noiselessly in the sandy, paste-like mud.

“Ghastly night, isn’t it?” remarked my companion, breaking the silence again.

“Rather!” I assented vigorously. “What a flat, ugly country, too! I never saw anything like it.”

“Beastly country! beastly place altogether!” de Cartienne agreed. “I’m jolly sick of it, I can tell you! Steady, Brandy! steady, sir!” giving the near animal a cut with the whip.

“What do you call your horses?” I asked curiously.

“Brandy and Soda. Jolly neat name for a pair. Don’t you think so?”

“Uncommon, at any rate,” I answered ambiguously. “Didn’t you say that we were to call for Silchester somewhere?”

“Mean Cis? Oh, yes; we’ve got to pick him up at the Rose and Crown.”

“A hotel?”

“Well, hardly. Fact is,” de Cartienne continued, dropping his voice a little, and glancing behind to see whether the groom was listening—“fact is, Cis is a bit inclined to make a fool of himself. There’s a pretty girl at this place and he puts in an uncommon lot of time there. Awfully pretty girl she is, really,” he added confidentially. “Won’t stand any nonsense, either. The place is only a pub., after all, but everyone who goes there has to behave himself. She won’t have a lot of fellows dangling about after her, though she might have the whole town if she liked. Makes her all the more dangerous, I think.”

“And Lord Silchester——”

“Hang the ‘lord’!” interrupted my companion, whipping his horses.

“Well, Silchester, then! I suppose he admires her very much?”

“Admires her! I should think he does! He’s awful spoons on her! It’s quite sickening the way they go on sometimes. There’s a regular stew on there to-night, though, tremendous scene.”

“What about?”

“Well, it seems that Milly’s father—he’s the landlord of the place, you know—left home about a month ago, saying he was going up to London on some business. He was expected back in a fortnight or three weeks; but he’s never turned up and he hasn’t written. So at last Milly sent up to the place where he always stops in town and also to some friends whom he was going to see. This morning a reply comes from both of them. Nothing has been seen or heard of him at all. Of course, Milly imagines the worst at once, goes off into hysterics, and, when we called this evening on our way down, was half out of her mind.”

“And so Silchester stopped with her to console her?”

“Exactly,” assented de Cartienne, with a queer smile. “Shouldn’t wonder if he succeeded, either!”

We entered the street of an old-fashioned, straggling town, the glimmering lights of which had been in sight for some time. de Cartienne, sitting forward a little, devoted his whole attention to the horses, for the stones were wet and slippery, and Brandy seemed to shy at everything and anything which presented itself, from the little pools of water glistening in the lamplight, which lay in the hollows of the road, down to his own shadow. I looked round curiously. The old-fashioned market-place, the quaintly built houses, the dimly lit shops, and little knots of gaping rustics, whom our rapid approach scattered right and left, were, at any rate, more interesting and pleasanter to look upon than the damp, miserable country outside. Suddenly we pulled up with a jerk outside a small, but clean-looking inn, and the groom leaped down from behind and made his way to the horses’ heads.

“Take them up the street a little, John,” said de Cartienne, as he descended. “No need to advertise Cis’s folly to the whole town,” he added, in a lower tone. “Come on, Morton, we’ll go and rout him out.”

I stepped across the wet pavement after him and, stooping low down, crossed the threshold of the “Rose and Crown.” We passed by a room in which several labouring men were drinking mugs of beer, and entered the bar, in which a rosy-cheeked country damsel was exchanging noisy and not too choice badinage with one or two young men who hung about her. From here another door led into an inner room and at this de Cartienne somewhat ostentatiously knocked. There was a second’s pause; then a clear, pleasant voice sang out “Come in!” and we entered.

It was a small, cosy room, not ill-furnished, and with a cheerful fire burning in the grate. Leaning against the mantelpiece, with his face towards us, was Cis, whose likeness to Lady Beatrice was so remarkable that I liked him heartily before we had exchanged a word. Standing by his side, with her head suspiciously near his shoulder, was a very fair girl, with nice figure and complexion and large blue eyes. Her face was certainly pretty, but it was not of a very high type of prettiness. The features, although regular of their sort, were not in any way refined or spirituelle, nor was there anything in her expression to redeem her from the mediocrity of good looks.

Still, she was undoubtedly a nice-looking girl, quite pretty enough to be the belle of a country place, and, on the whole, I was rather relieved to find her attractions of so ordinary a kind. There could scarcely be anything dangerous, I thought, in this good-humoured doll’s face; she did not appear to have the daring or character to lead her boyish admirer over the borders of a spooning sentimentality. At any rate, that was not written in her face. A blunt physiognomist would probably have declared that there was not enough of the devil in her to fire the blood even of an impetuous, generous boy and urge him on to recklessness. It seemed so to me and I was glad of it.

Just at present there were traces of tears in her face and a generally woe-begone expression. Her companion, too, looked upset and sympathetic; but he glanced up with a bright smile when we entered.

“You’re Philip Morton, I suppose?” he exclaimed, holding out his hand. “Glad to see you! Heard of you from my uncle, you know!” I shook hands with him and he introduced me formally to the young woman at his side, calling her Miss Hart. Then he turned to me again.

“I quite meant to have been at the station to meet you,” he said; “but we called here first and I—I was detained.”

“It’s of no consequence at all,” I assured him. “Mr. de Cartienne was there.”

“And Mr. de Cartienne having had to wait half an hour in the rain at that infernal old shed they call a station, requires a little refreshment,” chimed in the person named. “Will the fair Millicent condescend, or shall I ring?”

She rose and, crossing the room, opened the door into the bar.

“Brandy-and-soda for me,” ordered de Cartienne. “Cis is drinking whisky, I see, so he’ll have another one, and we’ll have a large bottle of Apollinaris between us. Morton, what’ll you have?”

I decided upon claret and hot water, never having tasted spirits. de Cartienne made a wry face, but ordered it without remark.

“I say, Morton, I don’t know what you’ll think of us shacking about in a public-house like this, and bringing you here, your first night, too!” exclaimed Silchester, dragging his chair up to mine. “Bad form, isn’t it? But it is so dull in the evenings and Milly’s no end of a nice girl. No one could help liking her. Besides, she’s in dreadful trouble just now,” he continued, dropping his voice. “Her father has disappeared suddenly. Awfully mysterious affair and no mistake. We can’t make head or tail of it.”

“It is uncommonly queer,” admitted de Cartienne, who was lounging against the wall beside us. “I should have said that he’d gone off on the spree somewhere, but he couldn’t have kept it up so long as this.”

“Besides, he’d only a few pounds with him,” Cecil remarked.

“Seems almost as though he’d come to grief in some way,” I said.

“I daren’t tell Milly, but I don’t know what else to think,” Cecil acknowledged.

A wild idea flashed for a moment into my mind, only to die away again almost as rapidly. It was too utterly improbable. Nevertheless, I asked Cecil a question with some curiosity:

“What sort of looking man was he?”

Cecil and de Cartienne both began to describe him at once, and, as de Cartienne modified or contradicted everything Cecil said, I was soon in a state of complete bewilderment as to the personality of the missing man. It seemed that he was short, and of medium height; that he was fair, and inclined to be dark, stout and thin, pale and ruddy. Milly put in a word or two now and then; and, what with de Cartienne dissenting from everything she said, and Cecil, a little perplexed, siding first with one and then with the other, the description naturally failed to carry to my mind the slightest impression of Mr. Hart’s appearance. At last, rather impatiently, I stopped them.

“I’m afraid I am guilty of a somewhat unreasonable curiosity,” I said, “for I haven’t any real reason for asking; but haven’t you a photograph of your father, Miss Hart? I can’t follow the description at all.”

I happened to be looking towards de Cartienne while I made my request, and suddenly, from no apparent cause, I saw him start, and a strange look came into his face. At first I thought he must be ill; but, seeing my eyes fixed upon him, he seemed to recover himself instantly, though he was still deadly pale.

“Why, what the mischief are you staring at, Morton?” asked Cecil.

“Oh, nothing!” I answered. “I thought that de Cartienne was ill, that’s all.”

Cecil glanced at him curiously.

“By George! he does look rather white about the gills, doesn’t he? Say, old chap, are you ill?”

de Cartienne shook his head.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” he said carelessly. “Don’t all stare at me as though I were some sort of natural curiosity, please. I feel a bit queer, but it’s passing off. I think, if Miss Milly will allow me, I’ll go and sit down in the other room by myself for a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you!” exclaimed Cecil, springing up. “Poor old chap!”

“No, don’t, please!” protested de Cartienne. “I would rather be alone; I would indeed. I shall be all right directly.”

He quitted the room by another door, and we three were left alone. Cecil and Miss Milly began a conversation in a low tone, and I, feeling somewhat de trop, took up a local newspaper and affected to be engaged in its contents. After a few minutes, however, Cecil remembered my existence.

“By the bye, Milly,” he said, “Morton was asking you whether you had not a photograph of your father. There’s one in the sitting-room, isn’t there?”

She nodded.

“Well, we’ll go and look at it and see how Leonard is. He looked uncommonly seedy, didn’t he? Come along, Morton.”

We crossed a narrow passage and entered a small parlour. Miss Hart walked up to the mantelpiece and Cecil and I remained looking round.

“Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Leonard isn’t here; I wonder where——”

He was interrupted by a cry of blank surprise from Miss Hart.

“What’s the matter now? How you startled me, Milly!” he exclaimed, hurrying to her side. “What is it?”

“Why, the photograph!”

“What about it?”

“It’s gone!”

CHAPTER XXVII.
LEONARD DE CARTIENNE.

We all three stood and looked at one another for a moment, Milly Hart with her finger still pointing to the vacant place where the photograph had been. Then Cecil broke into a short laugh.

“We’re looking very tragical about it,” he said lightly. “Mysterious joint disappearance of Leonard de Cartienne and a photograph of Mr. Hart. Now, if it had been a photograph of a pretty girl instead of a middle-aged man, we might have connected the two. Hallo!”

He broke off in his speech and turned round. Standing in the doorway, looking at us, was Leonard de Cartienne, with a slight smile on his thin lips.

“Behold the missing link—I mean man!” exclaimed Cecil. “Good old Leonard! Do you know, you gave us quite a fright. We expected to find you here and the room was empty. Are you better?”

“Yes, thanks! I’m all right now,” he answered. “I’ve been out in the yard and had a blow. What’s Milly looking so scared about? And what was it I heard you say about a photograph?”

“Father’s likeness has gone,” she explained, turning round with tears in her eyes. “It was there on the mantelpiece this afternoon and now, when we came in to look at it, it has gone!”

“I should think that, if it really has disappeared,” de Cartienne remarked incredulously, “the servant must have moved it. Ask her.”

Miss Hart rang the bell and in the meantime we looked about the room. It was all in vain. We could find no trace of it, nor could the servant who answered the summons give us any information. She had seen it in its usual place early in the morning when she had been dusting. Since then she had not entered the room.

“Deuced queer thing!” declared Cecil, when at last we had relinquished the search. “Deuced queer!” he repeated meditatively, with his hands thrust deep down in his trousers’ pockets and his eyes resting idly upon de Cartienne’s face. “But we can’t do anything more, that’s certain. We really must be off, Milly. We’ve been here almost an hour already, and Brandy and Soda must be getting restless, and you must be famished, I’m sure, Morton. Come along! Good-bye, Milly! Keep your spirits up, old girl! The governor’ll be bound to turn up again in a day or two. And don’t you worry about the photograph. It must be somewhere.”

“But it isn’t!” she declared tearfully. “We’ve looked everywhere! Oh, what shall I do?”

Cecil assumed a most lugubrious expression and looked down sympathetically into her tear-stained face. She certainly was uncommonly pretty.

“You go on, you fellows,” he said. “I’ll be out in a minute. I’ll drive, Leonard. Don’t think you’re quite up to it.”

de Cartienne nudged my arm and we went off together and made our way up the street to the inn, under the covered archway of which the trap was drawn up. In a few minutes Cecil joined us.

“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he said, as he lighted a cigarette and clambered up to the box-seat. “No, you come in front, Morton. That’s right. Very odd about that photograph, isn’t it? It’s gone and no mistake. We’ve been having another look round.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed de Cartienne impatiently. “What a fuss about a trifle! A girl has no memory at all! I expect she moved it herself. Bet you it turns up by the morning.”

“I think not,” Cecil replied quietly, as he gathered up the reins. “Now then, hold on behind!”

We rattled off down the street and out into the open country again at a pace which precluded any conversation. The low hedges and stunted trees by the roadside seemed to fly past us, and a sudden turn, which almost jerked me from my seat, brought us in sight of a wide semi-circle of twinkling lights, which seemed to stretch right across the horizon.

“What are they?” I asked, pointing forward.

“Those? Oh, fishing-smacks!” answered Cecil.

“Is that the sea, then?” I asked eagerly.

He burst out laughing.