Mr. Marx's Secret

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:

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.