Jack Harkaway and His Son's Escape from the Brigands of Greece

CHAPTER XIX.

JACK AND HARRY GIRDWOOD AFLOAT—THE SQUALL—THE SHIPWRECKED
BOY—DEEDS OF HEROISM—THEIR REWARD—A DEADLY PERIL.

"Down with sail, Jack; we shall be over if we are not sprightly," said Harry.

Young Jack laughed.

The thought of danger actually made him merry, and so proved that he was every inch a Harkaway—a thorough chip of the old block.

"There's no fear, old fellow," he said.

A sudden gust of wind caught the sail, and caused the boat to give such a lurch at this very moment that both the boys were sent flying.

They got some hard knocks.

But neither was afraid of a little rough usage, and so they only scrambled to their feet, laughing boisterously, as if there was great fun in barked shins and bruised arms.

"I told you so, Jack," said Harry Girdwood.

"No harm done," retorted Jack, rubbing a damaged part and grinning.

"No, but don't let us be too foolish; we might get into trouble."

Young Jack roared at this.

"Soho-ho!" he cried. "Shipped another passenger, Harry, have you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you've got Captain Funk aboard."

"Not I," returned Harry, "only if we get into any foolish scrape, they won't let us come out for a sail again, and as this is the only jaunt left us, we may as well keep ourselves quiet."

"There's something in that," said young Jack,

So saying, he set about reefing the sail with all possible despatch.

Now it was barely accomplished when a violent gust of wind drove the little craft along at a furious rate.

It was only just in time.

A moment more and the sail would have been shredded, or, what was still worse, the boat would have been capsized for a certainty.

Harry Girdwood lowered the oars and pulled sharply along before the fury of the gale, while young Jack baled out a little water that had been shipped in the first heavy lurch, before the youthful mariners had been fully prepared for such violent treatment, and steered at the same time.

In this way they contrived to elude the violence of the gale for the present, at least.

But the danger was by no means overcome.

They had not got through the worst of their trouble as yet, little as they anticipated any serious danger.

The gale had come on with strange suddenness, and the truth was that they could hardly realize the extent of their danger.

It was great.

There was, perhaps, a special providence in their ignorance of their real peril, for their coolness alone gave them any chance in the present emergency.

They were brave boys both—never were there braver—yet it is no disparagement of them to say that there was very great probability of their losing their sang froid if they had known how very critical their position actually was.

As it happened, they did the very best thing to do under the circumstances.

They kept their boat before the wind, and by vigorous rowing, they contrived to drive along at a rate which was literally tremendous.

And so on they scudded for about ten miles, when the wind dropped a little, and the pace began to tell upon them both.

"Keep her off shore, Jack," cried Harry Girdwood.

"Right."

The wind and rain had half blinded young Jack, and although he had said "Right," he steered decidedly wrong.

He could not see where they were going.

"Look out!"

Harry Girdwood only just spoke in time for young Jack to take heed of the warning, for a minute later and they shot past some sharp, jagged rocks, into which they would inevitably have dashed but for a lucky tug at the rudder at the very last moment.

Now the roar of the wind and waters had just begun to lull a little, when a loud cry for help was heard.

And then, for the first time, they perceived that a boat had just been launched by a boy at not more than thirty yards along the beach, and being carried out to sea by a huge receding wave, had become unmanageable.

They could see with half an eye that the boy had no skill in handling a boat.

"Help, help!" cried the strange lad, waving his hand in distress towards their boat.

"All right," shouted young Jack. "We're there."

Harry Girdwood pulled vigorously towards the venturesome youth.

A few strokes brought them within twenty feet of the imperilled youth, and he would have been got away in safety but for his own folly and imprudence.

"Sit still," shouted young Jack. "Sit still."

"He'll be overboard," ejaculated Harry, glancing over his shoulder.

The words of the latter proved but too prophetic

A cry from young Jack—a piercing shriek from the other boat.

When Harry Girdwood glanced over his shoulder again, he saw the other boat, keel upwards, floating away.

The unfortunate youth, its late occupant, was nowhere to be seen.

"He's gone!"

"He has," cried young Jack, starting up, "and by all that's unlucky, he can't swim. Pull on, pull hard. Pull for mercy's sake."

And young Jack stood up in the boat, tearing off his jacket and waistcoat.

"What are you after?"

"I'm in after him."

"Jack, Jack, you'll never live in this heavy sea."

"Never fear, old boy, I'll try."

"You shall not, I say. You—"

"Here goes," cried young Jack.

And before Harry Girdwood could interfere, over he went, head first, into the boiling waves.

Harry Girdwood held his breath in sheer fright.

He shipped his oars and peered over the boat's side.

Where was he?

Would he never come up?

Oh, Heaven! what a fearful time it seemed that the intrepid boy was under water.

It seemed an age.

In reality it was but a minute, no more, before young Jack struck up to the surface.

He struck out with one hand—the other grasped something.

"Harry."

"Yes, Jack."

"I've got him."

"Hold tight."

"I mean to," responded young Jack, with great coolness, all things considered.

And now Harry could see that Jack's left hand was twined in the black flowing hair of the half senseless boy.

The latter had no sooner reached the air and gulped down a breath or two greedily, than consciousness came partly back, and he threw his arms about his preserver and struggled desperately.

"Leave go," cried young Jack. "Let go, or we shall both go down together."

But it is not easy to reason with a drowning man.

Young Jack found himself now in a desperate strait indeed.

The frantic efforts of the rescued boy impeded his movements, entirely baffling the heroic Jack's best efforts.

Harry Girdwood saw it all, and his terror increased every moment.

Well it might.

The mad struggles of the stranger imperilled both.

"Dive, Jack, dive," cried Harry Girdwood, frantically; "dive with him, or it is all up with both of you."

Jack heard him.

Twisting like an eel in the embrace of the boy he would save, he dived down, dragging the stranger with him.

In the space of a few seconds he reappeared again upon the surface, observing his former tactics.

Striking out with his right arm, while with his left hand he grasped the stranger's long black hair.

"Catch hold of him," gasped young Jack; "never mind me."

Harry Girdwood leant over the boat's side and caught at the stranger by the collar.

"There; hold on like that," said young Jack.

The weight coming all upon one side of the boat, however, threatened to capsize it, and so they had to act with the greatest precaution.

Young Jack, however, struck out and swam round the boat, so that his weight, clinging upon the further side of the boat, served to steady it while Harry Girdwood completed the rescue of the stranger.

"Bravo!" cried young Jack.

"It was a tough job," said Harry.

"And a narrow squeak for all of us."

"Right; but let's look after this poor fellow. He's alive."

"Yes."

"I'm glad of that; it would have been precious hard after all the work, not to mention the risk run, to have let him slip his cable in spite of us."

"Well, it is not his fault that he's alive now."

"Alive." quoth young Jack, "by George! He looks more dead than alive as it is."

"Don't fear for him, Jack; he's as good as twenty dead men so far, but how are you getting on?"

"Hearty. Rather damp outside, nothing more."

"And inside?"

"Damp too. Why, I shipped a bellyful of salt water last drop down; enough to salt a barrel of junk."

Harry turned his attention to the stranger.

"He keeps insensible a very long time," he said to young Jack; "it begins to look serious."

"Move the scat," said young Jack, "and let us lay him flat down upon his back at the bottom of the boat. I have always heard that that is the proper thing to do."

No sooner said than done.

Presently they were rewarded for their pains by detecting a faint breathing.

"How white his neck is," said Harry Girdwood.

"And how small and delicate his hands," said young Jack.

"One would almost take him for a woman."

"He'd pass very well for one if he wore petticoats."

"I'm almost inclined as it is to think that—"

"Ha! He's coming round."

The youth opened his eyes and stared about him.

He looked half scared at first one and then the other.

"You are better now," said young Jack, taking his hand.

He stared.

Jack had spoken in English in his anxiety.

He put the same sentiment into the best Greek he could muster.

"Yes, yes," replied the stranger, "better, better," and then he appeared to grow more and more confused; "but what is this? Have I been ill?"

"Yes."

"Ah!"

"Not very; it is all well now. Don't you remember—"

The rocking of the boat furnished the missing link in the chain of memory, and the rescued boy showed, by a ray of intelligence in his bright face, that it had all come back to him.

A smile of grateful acknowledgment of their services shot over his countenance.

Then suddenly his expression changed.

"Where are we going?" he demanded, with the most extraordinary eagerness.

"Ashore."

"Oh, no, no, no!" he exclaimed; "not ashore here."

"Why not?"

"You must not go ashore here," said the youth, eagerly, "not for worlds."

"Why?"

Jack was questioning the stranger while Harry Girdwood shot the boat into a favourable creek.

Harry jumped out.

"Come along," he said cheerfully.

"Safe on shore."

"And precious glad of it," added young Jack.

The stranger looked upon him in anxious expectation, and finding they were alone, he turned eagerly to his young preservers.

"Put off again," he said; "put out to sea, I tell you."

"Why?"

"You have disarmed me; you have saved my life and shown me tenderness and care—aye, brotherly love. Oh," he added earnestly, "pray go now; at once, while you are free."

"Well," quoth young Jack, with a long whistle, "this is a rum go."

Before another word could be spoken, there was heard a whistle, which sounded like the echo of young Jack's note; an answer came from another direction, and half-a-dozen men sprang forward from no one could see where, and pounced upon our two bold boys, Jack and Harry Girdwood.

"Bravo, Theodora!" cried a familiar voice in English, "you play the part of decoy to perfection. We have got them at last."

Young Jack started.

He turned pale and haggard, looking in a moment to Harry.

"Do you know that voice?"

"I do," replied Harry Girdwood.

"We are sold, undone. It is the villain Hunston."

* * * * *

It was but a little while after young Jack and Harry Girdwood had been entrapped, when a strange scene took place.

Evening was coming on.

Brigand sentinels had been posted at each path by which their haunt could be approached, and one was perched high above on a flat rock, which overlooked everything, without having seen himself except by the very sharpest of eyes.

Hunston, after visiting the outposts and seeing that everything was safe for the night, climbed up to this spot, and seated himself on a large stone.

He felt feverish, and at that elevation he might feel something of the breeze, a thing unknown down below at the bivouac, which was closely surrounded by thick bushes.

Strange dreads and doubts filled Hunston's mind, dread of the future, dread of a lingering illness through his arm, which daily grew worse, dread of death, which he felt convinced must be the end, and doubts whether eventually his enemy Harkaway would not triumph.

For Hunston's hatred of Harkaway knew no abatement; living or dying, the same fierce, unquenchable thirst after vengeance would fill his soul.

But what troubled him most now was his health.

The shoulder to which the mechanical arm was attached was so painful, it could scarcely bear the pressure of the clothing he wore; the blood in his veins, after flowing through that part of the system, seemed to return to his heart heated almost to boiling point, but that heat did not stimulate him to exertion.

On the contrary, he felt languid and scarcely able to do the duties that devolved upon him as Toro's lieutenant.

Nor was his brain so clear as in former days.

Ideas he had in plenty, but they seemed to jostle and confuse each other in their endeavours to settle down into a connected train of thought.

Emmerson's vengeance was working.

As he sat there, the sentinel remained motionless, leaning on his carbine and peering over the edge of the precipice.

Presently Diana, the widow of Mathias, came up the rock, and Hunston rose to greet her.

"Your husband is to a certain extent avenged," said he.

"How?"

"Harkaway's boy is in our power,"

"That is something, at all events. That girl Theodora, the niece of Tomaso, has done her work well. Vengeance has commenced."

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"There is a hitch in the proceedings. The girl is softhearted, and begged hard for their lives."

"She is a fool! By Heaven, I am half inclined to do the deed myself with this dagger."

"In which case Toro would probably do for you."

"What, is he turned craven?"

"No; but he is sweet on Theodora, and for her sake is inclined to spare them."

Hunston knew well enough that all this was false, as, unless certain conditions were promptly complied with, Toro would certainly kill both of them without the slightest hesitation or compunction.

But he did not tell Diana.

"But," he continued, "what is your idea of vengeance?"

"I would wring other hearts as mine has been wrung. I would cause blinding tears to dim the brightness of other eyes besides mine. I would cause the stern judge Death to pass a decree of divorce upon others besides myself and Mathias. When Harkaway is a widower, or his wife a widow, then I shall consider my vengeance partly accomplished."

"Humph! for a woman you are tolerably moderate. I shall not be satisfied till the Harkaways and the Harveys are destroyed root and branch-till the other accursed detective, Nabley, his American friend Jefferson, the negroes, the wooden-legged ass Mole, till every one of the party is swept away out of my path. Harkaway taught me to hate, and I swear by all the eternal powers of earth, heaven, and hell, he shall see how I have profited by the lesson."

Diana was silent for a few moments; then, with something like a sneer, said—

"You are a brave man—in words, Signor Hunston."

"My acts speak for themselves."

"And little have they said for some time past. But listen; I have sworn a deep and deadly revenge."

"Well."

"This evening I depart."

"Good."

"When I return again, you may expect to hear that Harkaway is dead or his wife."

The excited woman glided away, and Hunston, after smoking a cigarette, followed her.

"Good?" chuckled Hunston to himself, "I could not have a better ally than that woman; for she can go where I dare not show myself, and will find opportunities for carrying out her plans unsuspected. Beware, Harkaway! for though I have waited years for revenge, it is now within my grasp."

CHAPTER XX.

THE HARKAWAYS LEARN ALL—MR. MOLE EXPLAINS AND GETS INTO
TROUBLE IN CONSEQUENCE.

Words cannot describe the trouble of the Harkaway family at the loss of young Jack and his stout-hearted comrade, Harry Girdwood.

At first their indignation had been so great, that their first impulse was to use violent means to effect the recovery of the boys.

But the first person to oppose this was Jack Harkaway himself.

"If we were to attack them in force," he said, "it would be imprudent upon every hand. In the first place they would have the advantage of us, of course, in a mountain skirmish."

"I don't know that they would get the best of it," said Harvey.

"Nor I," said Jefferson.

"We can do nothing at present as far as I can see," said Harkaway. "Only wait."

"To what end?"

"Their object must be plunder—money—ransom."

"Supposing that they demand a sum?"

"I shall pay it as soon as ever I can rake it up. If it is more than I possess in the world," said Jack Harkaway, seriously, "then I shall borrow of my friends to make it up."

The poor fellow turned away to hide his emotion.

"What guarantee have you that they would give up the boys for the ransom?"

"None. But I should not send the money first. They would have to send the boys here first."

"They might doubt you."

"Why, yes. But Hunston and Toro are with them, and they know that Jack Harkaway's word is his bond, no matter with whom he is dealing, let them be the veriest scum on the face of the earth."

"Which they are."

"Which they are, as you say."

"Very good," said Jefferson. "Now I don't want to play the part of the wet blanket, and to dash your hopes to the ground before they are half formed, but I wish to guard against running away upon a false track."

"In what way?"

"All your hopes of ransoming the boys rest now upon the fact of Hunston and Toro being with the brigands."

"Yes."

"Well," added Jefferson, "how do you know that Hunston and Toro are really in the band? You only suppose that."

"I can answer positively for that," said a voice at the door.

They turned.

There stood Nabley, the detective.

"Nabley!"

"Nabley here!"

"Himself," said the indefatigable officer, coming forward. "Hunston is with the brigands, very much with them, in fact."

"That we know," said Harkaway, who then related the death of Pike, and the supposed abduction of young Jack.

"I have been very ill," said Nabley. "I fainted in the street, and, in falling, severely injured my head. But do you know how that Hunston finds out all about you and your doings?"

"No."

"Well, it is through one of your own household."

"Explain," said Harkaway.

"What do you mean?" asked Harvey.

"I can't talk much; Mr. Mole will tell you perhaps better. Here, Mr. Mole."

Mr. Mole stepped forward, looking just a little sheepish.

"Mr. Mole!"

"Mr. Mole!" exclaimed a dozen voices in chorus.

"Yes, my friends," said the old gentleman, stepping forward with his well-known modesty, "it is even so; your much-wronged Mole."

"Tell us how it occurred," said Harkaway.

"I was down in the dancing garden, seated in a species of small summer house, taking a glass of—I mean a cup of tea—ahem!—when I fell asleep—I dozed, in fact."

"You would," said Harvey. "I've often noticed that you doze after a glass of—I mean a cup of tea."

Mole glared at the speaker.

"The heat of the day quite overcame me."

"It would," said Dick, in the same compassionate manner.

"When I woke up, I heard two persons conversing close by the green arbour where I sat."

"Yes."

"Two familiar voices."

"Ha!" exclaimed Harkaway, eagerly.

"Now guess," said Mole, "who the two familiar voices belonged to?"

"Can't."

"Out with it."

"One of the voices," said Mr. Mole, "was Hunston's, the other was—"

"Toro's?"

"No."

"No! Whose then?"

"Marietta's."

"Marietta—what, the maid here?"

"Yes."

"Impossible."

"Was it, egad? I thought so, but I am not easily mistaken."

"Unless you dreamt."

"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, with ineffable contempt; "fiddlesticks!"

"But did you suppose she was in league with Hunston?" demanded Emily with great eagerness.

"No."

"What then?"

"He was bamboozling her, twisting her round his finger, as one might say. He had got up a casual chat, persuading her that he was a private friend of yours, so he pumped and pumped her about the boys, where they went, and so forth."

"And did she say any thing that could serve him in his vile purpose?" asked Mrs. Harkaway.

"Plenty to help them, the miscreants, I suppose."

"The girl must be a downright idiot to get into conversation with a strange man after all that has taken place, and after all the danger which she knows they ran."

"Not far short of it," said Jefferson.

"He spoke particularly about the boys not venturing out to the mountains, that they were permitted only to sail about in their boat, and—"

Harkaway broke in here with an exclamation that startled them all.

"That explains all," he said. "All, all, I see it now."

"Do you? Explain."

"They have put out to sea and taken the boys, perhaps by stealth, perhaps by violence."

"Likely enough."

"Poor boys, poor boys!"

"And where did all this take place?" demanded Jefferson; "in one of the public promenades, did you say?"

"Mr. Jefferson," replied old Mole saucily, "you want your nose filed. I said in the dancing garden."

"Oh, de dancing garden, was it, Massa Ikey?" said a voice in his ear, which caused him to palpitate nervously.

It was Mrs. Mole.

When he had spoken of the dancing garden, he had not noticed his better half's presence.

"Yes, my dear," he said timidly, trying to look dignified the while before the company.

"And what was you—doing in such a place as a dancing garding, Mister Mole, sar?" demanded his dusky rib, in a voice which sounded dangerous.

"I went, my dear, to study character," said Mr. Mole timidly....

"What?" thundered Mrs. Mole.

He trembled, and faltered something almost inaudibly.

"Studyin' character," said the lady with great contempt; "losing your character, you silly old pump—"

"My dear," remonstrated the old gentleman.

"Don't 'my dear' me," said Mrs. Mole; "you're gwine off your silly old cokernut, you bald-headed old coon."

"Mrs. Mole!"

"You go to dat dancin' garding for to see dem gals jump about and dance and make fools ob demselves, ignorant critters."

"No such thing, I tell you," said Mole, indignantly.

"Oh, yes, it is," said his better half, "and you's a bushel more indelicate dan dey is, you silly old possum."

This started the company off generally in a noisy fit of laughter, before which poor Mole was forced to beat a retreat, followed by his irate partner.

"Poor Mole," said Jefferson, laughing heartily, "it is an unlucky admission for him. Chloe will give it to him sorely for this, I'm afraid."

* * * * *

They went deeply into the question of ransoming the boys, for they were convinced that they had really fallen into the hands of the brigands.

But do what they would, say what they would, they could only come back to one result.

They must wait.

Patience was difficult under the circumstances, but there was no help for it.

"Wait till to-morrow," said Jefferson; "it is a hard job, I know, but I feel certain that if the boys are with the brigands, to-morrow morning will bring a message from them."

"But can nothing be done meanwhile?" said Emily.

"No."

"Nothing."

"Stay; you may get some papers printed and circulated everywhere, offering a heavy reward for the recovery of the boys."

"To what end?"

"It can do no harm, and may do good. At any rate, it will show the brigands that we are ready to pay the piper for our boys' sake."

"That's true," said Jefferson.

"Let's do it," said Harkaway, who was pacing up and down impatiently; "at any rate, any thing is better than remaining inactive."

CHAPTER XXI.

A HOUSE OF MOURNING—THE LETTER FROM THE ENEMY—A STRANGE
CORRESPONDENCE—THE INCIDENT AT THE OPEN WINDOW—HUNSTON'S
REVENGE—DESPAIR.

It was as Jefferson had predicted.

The notices were printed and circulated everywhere by well-chosen and energetic agents.

Early next morning, a letter was found fastened to the garden gate.

It was brought to Harkaway, who was already up and busy.

He tore it eagerly open, and found the following written in a disguised handwriting and in English—

"TO Mr. JOHN HARKAWAY:

"If you would save the lives of your son and your protégé, his companion, the only way to do it is to bring the sum of five hundred pounds sterling to the stone cross by the old well at two o'clock this afternoon. Those who have the two boys in their keeping will be on the watch. Come along, as you value your happiness and their safety."

"Not very likely," said Jack Harkaway.

Instead of complying with this very shallow request, he wrote an answer in these terms:

"TO HUNSTON AND HIS FELLOW-VILLAINS:

"Send the lads back here. Within half-an-hour of their return, the money shall be sent to where you will and when you will. This I promise, and swear upon my honour. None knows better than yourself that this may be implicitly relied upon.

"HARKAWAY."

This letter he sent by a trusty messenger to the spot appointed for the meeting place, and they waited impatiently for the further result.

It was not long coming.

Before two o'clock, Marietta discovered another letter tied to the garden gate, but how it came there they were unable to decide.

Be that as it may, it was soon discovered to be of the highest importance to them in the present state of affairs.

It was brief and startling, and ran as follows—

"We do not bandy words with you. We offer our conditions. You refuse. Well and good. The consequences be upon your own head. If the money be not paid by four to-day, at six the boys will lose an ear each."

"The villains!" cried poor Harkaway. "Oh, villains!"

But he was powerless to help them.

He knew well enough that, do what he would, he could not hope to get the boys back without paying, and paying through the nose too.

Nor indeed did he desire to try to achieve this.

The only question was, would they deliver up their prisoners, once they had received the five hundred pounds?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

If not, they would be in as much peril as they were already.

Nay, more.

He guessed shrewdly enough that once they had received such a handsome sum as five hundred pounds, they would think that they had drained him dry, or as nearly so as it was possible to arrive at, and so might make short work of young Jack and Harry Girdwood.

What was to be done?

He could not say.

He would gladly have risked all that he possessed in the world for the chance of having his boys back.

Aye, his boys, for Harry Girdwood was second only in Harkaway's affection to young Jack.

But he did not wish to reward the miscreants for ill-treating the unfortunate lads.

At length he came to the conclusion that he would persist in his resolve to have the boys back before he parted with any money at all.

Accordingly he wrote another note to the brigands.

This he dispatched by the same means as the former note.

"Release the two lads. Restore them to us, and the ransom of a king shall be yours. Fix upon any sum, however great, provided that it be within my means to pay it, and you shall not ask twice. Moreover, I shall do nothing more to molest you or interfere with you in any way. Play false, or harm a hair of my boys' heads, and beware. You may know that Jack Harkaway is not the man to make an enemy of."

The answer to this was not long in coming.

An ugly scrawl upon a dirty piece of paper, and with it was a small parcel.

"We despise your threats, and laugh you to scorn. That you may know how little we are to be trifled with, we send you their ears in proof that we have kept our word. By this hour to-morrow the two boys die, unless you pay down the sum as fixed upon by us, both in manner and in amount."

Jack Harkaway turned faint and sick.

He dared nor open the parcel which accompanied the letter.

He sent for Jefferson and Harvey, and unable to trust himself to speak, he placed the letter in the latter's hands.

"Read, read," he said, with a horror-stricken look.

Harvey glanced down the letter, and his countenance fell as he passed it on to Jefferson.

"What is to be done?"

"I don't know," replied Jefferson; "I am at a loss. This is too horrible."

"What do you say, Dick?"

Harvey hung his head.

"Speak, Dick. Tell me, old, friend, what I ought to do," said Harkaway, imploringly. "I am bewildered—dazed—at my wits' end. What ought I to do?"

"Pay the money."

Accordingly the money, all in gold, was placed in a bag in the spot which they had indicated in the first note addressed by the brigands to Jack Harkaway.

This done, they awaited the result.

It soon came.

Too soon for the latter's peace of mind.

As the family and their friends were seated in moody silence and in sorrow around the dinner-table, so strong was the sense of oppression upon everyone that they only conversed in whispers.

"The heat is really overpowering," said Mrs. Harkaway.

"Shall I open the window?"

"If you please."

He hastened to comply with her request, when at that very instant something shot past him into the room.

It fell with a clatter upon the table, and cannoned off a dish on to Jack Harkaway, striking him a rather sharp blow in the chest.

"What's that?"

"Hullo!"

"A stone."

"Yes, a stone with a paper wrapped round it."

"So it is."

"A letter, I should think," suggested Dick.

"If so," said Harkaway, smiling sadly, "it is evidently meant for me."

"You have a striking proof of that," said Dick.

Harkaway undid the paper and scanned it through.

His countenance fell as he read on.

His pale face grew pallid, and rising from his seat, he ran, or rather staggered, to the window.

"Gone!"

"What is the matter?" demanded Dick, jumping up.

"See after the man who threw this letter in," exclaimed Harkaway. "Come with me—come, come immediately!"

And with this somewhat wild exhortation, he tottered out of the room, followed by Dick.

Everybody arose from the table in confusion.

Dismay, alarm, was depicted in every face.

"What can it be?" ejaculated Mrs. Harkaway. "Oh, Mr. Jefferson, go and see, and bring me the news."

"I will. Calm yourself, my dear Mrs. Harkaway; it is very likely to be good news which thus agitates poor Jack."

Away he went.

"I fear it is the reverse," said Emily, shaking her head.

Jefferson overtook Harkaway and Dick Harvey in the gardens, where an active search was going forward after the man, or individual of either sex, who could have thrown the stone with its strange letter.

"Let me see the letter, Jack."

The latter placed it in his hand, and then, to Jefferson's horror and dismay, he found it contained the following words—

"TO HATED HARKAWAY.

"I have had years and years of patience, and my turn has come at last. As your eyes glance at these lines, your boy is vainly supplicating for mercy. Before you reach the signature at foot, your accursed brat will be dead—mark that—dead! No power on earth can save him. Had you sent the money demanded as his ransom more promptly, you could have saved him. May the knowledge of this wring your heart as you have wrung mine in bygone years.

"HUNSTON."

CHAPTER XXII.

A HOUSE OF MOURNING—HARVEY'S RESOLVE—A TIME OF TROUBLE.

"Horrible!" cried Jefferson; "horrible!"

Dismay and terror were on every face.

The dreadful news paralysed their movements, and rendered them momentarily helpless.

Dick Harvey was the first to break the silence.

He sprang to his feet, and made for the grounds, motioning the others to follow him.

"Let us try and catch the postman," he exclaimed; "if we get hold of him, we may learn something worth knowing."

"Bravo!" responded Jefferson; "a capital idea."

They were flying all over the grounds immediately.

But the result may be guessed in advance.

Not a sign was there of the bearer of this alarming letter.

They gave up the search only when there was not the faintest vestige of a hope left, and crestfallen and disappointed, they returned to the house.

"Come," said Dick to the bold American; "we must move; we must be stirring."

"What for?"

"For several reasons," replied Dick, "but firstly for the purpose of giving Jack something to do. It will never do to let a man in his condition brood."

They sought poor Harkaway again, and led him off to hold a consultation.

"Jack," said Harvey, brusquely, "you must not give way to despondency. I say positively, must not. You will certainly undermine your health."

"Do not fear for me, Dick," returned Harkaway, "I shall be better for a little quiet."

"Indeed you'll not. Besides, it is not just to the boys."

Harkaway's lips quivered, and a big lump rose in his throat.

He swallowed it with considerable difficulty, and silently wrung Dick's hand.

"Don't, don't, old friend," he faltered, in a broken-hearted voice. "I can't bear the mention of their names. Poor boys! poor boys!"

"But you must," insisted Harvey. "I don't mean to leave them in the lurch."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. We must not give up the search."

"Ah, Dick, you would persuade me, if you can't persuade yourself."

"You are wrong," replied Harvey. "I have the deepest conviction on the point."

"To what effect?"

"That they live—both live."

Jack Harkaway looked positively frightened at this reply.

"Dick, Dick," he exclaimed, mournfully, "what are you saying, old friend?"

"What I mean. They yet live," returned Harvey boldly.

"No, no."

"But I say, yes, yes."

"I should rather say that they were murdered long before we received their last message."

"Come, come, Jack," he said; "rouse yourself, man. Whatever can make you believe this to be true?"

"The letter."

Dick laughed at this.

"That is the very first thing to raise my doubts," replied Dick. "Why, we have known Hunston all his life, and never found him any thing but the most notorious liar."

"True; but—"

"He told lies as a boy—lies as a youth—lies as a man. His life has been one long lie, and yet you choose to make yourself wretched and all of us too upon the strength of such a vagabond's word. Bah!"

Harkaway hung his head and sighed.

"That is not all, Dick," he said; "I have the direst presentiment upon me—"

"Presentiment!" ejaculated Dick, interrupting him.

"Well, Jack, I will not quarrel with you about presentiments, since I am urged on to what I am about to say and do by presentiments—only my presentiments are of the most hopeful description."

"Dick," said Harkaway, looking him straight in the face, "you are trying to deceive me."

"I swear I am not," retorted Harvey, with warmth. "And you shall soon see whether or not I am in earnest."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am going to fetch the boys."

"What wildness are you talking, Dick? What is this?"

"Simply that to-morrow at daybreak I shall start off on the search."

"Whither?"

"To the mountains."

Harkaway looked frightened at this.

"Not to trust yourself in the brigands' clutches?"

"I mean to beard the tigers in their lair," echoed Dick firmly; "not a word, Jack," he added, as he saw Harkaway about to interrupt him, "not a word; the worthy Richard Harvey will not go, but his spirit in another skin will go."

"You are never going to trust yourself in a disguise."

"I am."

"Why, Dick, old friend, were you that unhappy man Protean Bob himself, Hunston would penetrate your disguise; the eye of hate—"

"Nonsense. If I were Protean Bob, Hunston would be too glad not to recognise me."

"Perhaps."

"Now, Jack, you must listen to me, and not give advice. My determination is taken; nothing can shake it. Hilda and the family generally must suppose that I have gone to the port to arrange about our departure, since they all appear to be so thoroughly bent upon leaving here."

"But they will never believe a word about it."

"That I can not help, but at all events I leave here to-morrow, at daybreak, and may the shade of one of their victims aid me to throw dust in the eyes of Hunston and the Italian villain Toro."

"Amen," said Harkaway, seriously.

* * * * *

Surely enough, at daybreak, someone set forth from the villa, but although we who are behind the scenes can give a shrewd guess at who it was, the early wanderer looked about as unlike Dick as you could well imagine.

Was it indeed Dick?

CHAPTER XXII.

THE SILK DRESS—MURDER!

The morning after the interview between Hunston and the widow of Mathias, that woman was missing from the camp.

No one doubted that she had gone on her errand of vengeance, for Hunston had told Toro and one or two others of her threats against the Harkaways; but the question was how and when she did so?

No one knew.

The sentinels who all night long had guarded each known path leading to or from the bivouac were questioned, but neither of them had seen her depart.

Toro was rather annoyed at this; not that he had any great objection to her slaughtering the whole of the Harkaway family, although he certainly would prefer to perform that task himself. But he could not help thinking that a secret path might admit foes, as well as permit the exit of friends.

However, we must leave Toro to his reflections, and follow the brigand's widow.

It was between one and two in the morning when she quitted the bivouac without being observed, and walked slowly towards the town where the Harkaways were located.

There was no occasion for hurry.

At that hour of the morning she could not hope to gain admittance to the house where her foes were located.

A day must pass, and evening come again, before any thing could be done.

Diana's brain was in a whirl.

Deep-seated, poignant grief for the loss of one whom she had loved with all the passion her impetuous nature was capable of, made the thought and hope of revenge grow stronger and stronger.

Vengeance! aye, and a terrible one was what her soul craved.

Let once the deadly blow be stricken, and what matter then even if she fell into the hands of the authorities? What matter even if her life was pronounced a forfeit to the law? for life now had little charm for her.

As the sun rose, she sat down a little way out of the road and tried to form some connected plan for carrying out her purpose.

But no! her brain was too confused for deep thought, and after a brief interval she resolved to act upon no plan whatever, but simply do as the course of events might dictate.

At about the hour when she thought the inhabitants of the town would begin to stir, Diana walked into the place.

She knew the residence of the Harkaways well, but scarcely glanced at it as she passed and proceeded to a little house not far from it, where, according to an inscription over the door, one might obtain food, drink and lodging.

Entering this place, Diana made a slender meal, and then, telling the ancient dame who kept the house that she was fatigued, demanded to be shown where she could repose for an hour or two.

The old woman ushered her into a small, meanly-furnished apartment at the front of the house.

"Do not disturb me. I will rest till noon if not later," said Diana.

"You shall not be interrupted," was the response, and Diana was left alone.

She tried to sleep, so that she might be stronger and cooler for the business she had in hand; but the excitement under which she laboured effectually chased away drowsiness.

A little after noon the woman of the house looked in, and finding her lodger awake, entered into conversation, commencing by suggesting some refreshment.

Diana shook her head.

"Ah, my food is very plain and humble," said the old woman. "I can't give you such dainties as the people over yonder eat."

She jerked her thumb in the direction of the Harkaway residence.

"What people are they?" asked Diana, with an assumed indifference she was far from feeling.

"Some English."

"Do they, then, eat and drink the best?"

"The very best; oh, they are rich."

"What do they want here?"

"They have come to destroy the brigands; is it not droll?"

"Ha! have they succeeded?"

"No; but if they are not careful, the brigands will destroy them. They are so careless."

Diana was afraid to exhibit too much interest in the doings of the Harkaways, lest she should arouse suspicion.

So she simply nodded, and listened most anxiously to what the garrulous old woman would say next.

"So very careless; anyone might get into their house by the side door," said the ancient dame.

"Well, it is their own fault if they are robbed."

"True. But it would be little credit to the robber; they think the brigands are afraid to enter the town, so they don't take many precautions."

Diana treasured up every word of this.

Presently the old woman, finding her guest was not conversationally inclined, went out again, and Diana was left alone.

The sun set, and darkness began to gather rapidly when she went out, and after going a little way down the street, returned, and sought the side door of Harkaway's house.

She turned the handle softly and entered.

There was no one in the kitchen where she found herself, but the subdued noise of knives and forks in another apartment convinced her that they were at dinner or some other meal.

Diana, as soon as she had ascertained that fact, glided like a spectre up the stairs, and noiselessly examined various bedchambers.

At length she decided on hiding herself in one which seemed better furnished than the others.

"This must be it," she thought.

And she was right.

It was the apartment of Mrs. Harkaway.

On the dressing-table was a folded paper.

Diana opened it, and found that it was a milliner's bill against Mrs. Harkaway.

"For making a pearl-grey silk dress, etc., etc."

To hide herself was Diana's next move.

Clutching her sharp dagger firmly in her hand, the vengeful woman concealed herself behind some tapestry and waited.

Nor had she long to wait.

A light foot was heard without.

The door was opened, and a second afterwards, a graceful female form was seated before the mirror, with its back towards Diana.

And a female voice said—

"This pearl-grey silk suits my complexion far better than I thought it would. But it fits me badly. These Greek milliners are not to be compared with those of London or Paris."

Then the wearer of the pearl-grey silk heaved a deep sigh, and Diana softly moved the curtain aside a little to get a view of the person who had spoken.

The face was not visible, but from the figure generally, Diana had not the slightest doubt it was Mrs. Harkaway.

"I want some new jewellery sadly," continued "pearl-grey silk;" "but yet, after all, it would be scarcely safe to wear it here, while the brigands are in the neighbourhood. But they will soon be done for."

The widow glided out from her hiding-place as the wearer of the silk dress continued—

"We have one villain safe enough, and another, Mathias, was smothered in a chimney—ha, ha, ha, ha—oh!"

The laugh ended in a deep groan, and never more came the slightest sound from those lips that a moment before had been so merry.

Diana had struck so hard and surely that no second blow was needed, for the first pierced a human heart.

"That laugh was an insult to the memory of my dead husband," she said. "Let none dare scoff at Mathias."

Like a shadow, she glided away, leaving the wearer of the pearl-grey silk sitting motionless before the mirror. Dead!

The silk dress soaked with her heart's blood.

A few minutes later, some one entered Mrs. Harkaway's apartment, and then arose the fearful cry—

"Help! murder!"