Philip Reilly, whose energy seemed indefatigable, although he was yet half an invalid, left me next morning and returned to town.

In council, in my airy little bedroom with the attic window embowered by creeping roses, we arrived at the conclusion that he would have more chance of success in gaining information than myself, therefore I dispatched him to London in order to keep an observant eye upon the address in Sterndale Road.

For several reasons I remained in the neighbourhood of Caldecott. First, I was apprehensive lest Purvis and his associates—for I felt convinced that he was not acting alone—might make a forcible attempt to investigate the Manor House. It was quite evident they suspected that the treasure might be hidden therein, otherwise they would not have been in treaty for a lease of the place. When they knew that I had forestalled them their chagrin would, I anticipated, know no bounds. Hence I felt constrained to remain on guard, as it were, until I could take possession of the place.

Those warm autumn days were charming. I had brought with me a camera, and, as excuse for remaining in that rural neighbourhood, took photographs. I found many picturesque pastoral scenes in the vicinity, and wandered hither and thither almost every day. The Countess of Cardigan kindly permitted me to photograph on her estate, and I took many pictures of the beautiful old hall at Deene, one of the most imposing and historic homes of Northamptonshire, the Park, and the picturesque lake, which was once the fishpond of the monks, when Deene was an abbey and carp the weekly fare on Fridays. To Laxton Hall, to Fineshade Abbey, to Blatherwycke Park, to Apethorpe Hall, the noble Jacobean seat of the Westmorland family, and to Milton, the fine Elizabethan house of the Fitzwilliams, I went, taking pictures for amusement, and endeavouring to make the villagers of Rockingham and Caldecott believe that I was a photographic enthusiast. Truth to tell, I was not. I entertain a righteous horror of the man with a camera, and if I were Chancellor of the Exchequer I would put a tax on cameras as upon dogs. The man who takes snap-shots can surely afford to pay seven-and-sixpence a year towards the expenses of his country.

Letters from Reilly showed that although he was keeping a careful observation upon 14, Sterndale Road—which had turned out to be the shop of a small newsvendor—he had not been able to meet the gaunt, fair-moustached individual whom we knew as George Purvis.

The days passed, for me long, idle days, when time hung heavily on my hands. Nothing occurred to disturb the quiet tenor of my life in that rural spot, until late one evening while I was walking along the high road from Caldecott back to Rockingham.

There had been a garden fête given by the Vicar, and in order to kill time I had attended it, returning home later than I had anticipated, because I had met Mr. Kenway and we had gossiped. He had found another house, and was to move a week later.

The Sonde Arms at Rockingham is by no means a gay hostelry. It is quiet, old-fashioned, and eminently respectable. Roysterers and hard drinkers like Ben Knutton were relegated to a “tap” at the rear of the premises, and were never encouraged by the innkeeper.

It was past eleven o’clock, a dark, overcast night, and as I trudged along the road to Rockingham, lonely at that hour, I was wondering what success Reilly had had in London. For some days I had received no word from him, and had become somewhat anxious, for it had been arranged between us that he should either write or wire every alternate day, so that we should always be in touch with each other.

I had traversed nearly half the distance between the two villages, and had entered the part of the road which, passing through a spinney, was lined on either side by oaks, which entirely shut out every ray of faint light, so that I was compelled to walk with my stick held forward to feel the way. The complete darkness did not extend for more than a hundred yards or so, but as there were, I knew, deep ditches at each side of the road I guided myself with caution.

Suddenly, without warning, I heard a stealthy movement behind me, and ere I could turn felt myself seized by the coat-collar in such a manner that I was unable to turn and face my assailant, while almost at the same instant I felt other hands going over me in front. My wrists were held while my money was carefully extracted from my pocket, and my wallet—probably because it was believed to contain bank-notes—was also taken from me. I shouted, but no one came to my assistance. I was too far from either village.

So dark it was that I could not distinguish the thieves, but I believed there were three of them. The hands that held my wrists were soft, as though unused to manual labour, but the muscles seemed like iron. I was utterly powerless, and even though I shouted again and again no single word was uttered by the robbers. They made short work of my pockets, save that they did not think to feel inside my waistcoat where, in a secret pocket I generally have there, I carried a serviceable Colt. I, however, had no opportunity for self-defence, because when they had finished I was run backwards, struck violently on the head, and tripped up into the ditch at the wayside, while they made good their escape. Fortunately, I fell upon my hands, and managed to save myself from going into the water.

In an instant I was on my feet, revolver in hand, standing on guard.

But as I stood with ears strained to the wind I heard the sound of footsteps hurrying in the distance, and from afar off there came to me a low, ominous whistle. The fellows were probably tramps, but I knew quite well that they were a desperate party, for in the struggle I had grasped a formidable life preserver which one of them was carrying. It was a pity that the darkness was too complete to allow me to see their faces. No doubt the final blow on the head had been delivered with the life preserver and was meant to stun me, but fortunately it did not.

The attack had been so sudden and complete that for a moment I remained stock still. Then, angered that I should have fallen so completely into their power, I walked on to Rockingham. I prized my watch and chain as a gift from my mother, long since dead. They were not valuable; indeed, no pawn-broker would have given three pounds for the lot, therefore the haul of the thieves had not been a great one so far as value was concerned.

Having reached the Sonde Arms and related my unpleasant experience, the village constable was called, and I gave him a description of the property stolen from me.

“I expect they were tramps, sir,” he said; “just lately I’ve noticed several suspicious-looking characters loitering in the neighbourhood and sleeping under haystacks. They mostly come from London. I made some inquiries a couple of days ago at an inn in Lyddington, where three of them had been drinking, and learnt that by his companions one of the men is called Bennett.”

“Bennett!” I repeated, wondering for the moment in what connexion that name had been impressed upon me. Then I recollected the scribbled warning of the Mysterious Man: —

“Beware of Black Bennett!”

“What you tell me is very interesting,” I exclaimed to the constable. “I think that in all probability this man Bennett had some connexion with the theft. If found, I hope the police will question and search him. I may be mistaken, but I believe that individual is well known by the appellation of Black Bennett.”

I gave the constable the description of my watch for circulation, and then, after a long chat with my host, the innkeeper, went to bed.

The days went by, but no word came from Philip Reilly. I wired to his father’s house at Upper Tooting, but received a reply expressing surprise, and stating that Philip had not been seen for ten days. A telegram to Mr. Staffurth brought no more satisfactory reply; therefore, as the Kenways were to give up possession of the Manor in a couple of days and my presence there would be essential to guard against any interlopers, I resolved to run up to London.

My anxiety for Reilly’s welfare increased when all my inquiries regarding his whereabouts were futile.

According to Mr. Staffurth, the young man came there in a great state of excitement about nine o’clock one evening. He was dressed in his oldest suit, wore a golf cap and carried a stout stick. He said that he had made certain inquiries regarding Purvis, had seen him and talked with him. But that night he intended to make a bold bid to get at the secret of our enemies and, if possible, to obtain possession of the all-important document that had been sold by the drunken Knutton.

He had taken some whisky and water with his uncle, and left about ten, without saying in what direction he was going or explaining all that he had found out.

He told his uncle, however, to inform me to be forewarned of a man named Bennett, and had explained his silence by saying that at present it was not wise for him either to wire or write to Rockingham, as there was some one there acting the spy.

This, then, accounted for his silence. But after his departure from his uncle’s house that night nothing had been seen or heard of him.

I called at my own rooms in Chelsea, where my landlady met me in great excitement. Not knowing my address she had been unable to write to me, but it appeared that one evening, three days before, some one had quietly entered the house with my latchkey, ascended to my rooms, and ransacked everything.

Now, my keys had been attached to one end of my watch-chain, and had, therefore, been stolen with the watch. The entry had been made on the night following the robbery from me, and although my roll-top writing-table had been opened and all my private papers and letters tossed about, I missed nothing.

The thieves had been in search of something; probably of that parchment-book of Bartholomew da Schorno which, fortunately, reposed in the strong-room at my bank.

All this, however, showed the ingenious and desperate character of our rivals. They would, I felt convinced, hesitate at nothing in order to obtain possession of the treasure.

The strange disappearance of Philip Reilly had now grown alarming. I made inquiries at the bank in Lombard Street, where he had been employed, but none of his friends there had seen him for weeks. His father, who was manager of a large linen warehouse in Cannon Street, was equally anxious as to his welfare.

We were playing a dangerous and exciting game, and my only fear was that, having made one or two discoveries, he had become too bold, and acted with the indiscretion of youth. He had, however, always seemed clear, level-headed, and cautious, and his father expressed a belief that he was not the kind of young man to fall into a trap.

I watched the small newsagent’s in Sterndale Road, Hammersmith, having sent an envelope, with a blank sheet of paper within, addressed to Purvis. I had arranged that Mr. Kenway should remain at the Manor a few days longer, and now turned my attention to finding the man who had bought the secret. Reilly had discovered him; why should I not be equally successful?

But although I waited in that street two long, never-ending days, I saw no tall, fair man enter there.

That some serious misfortune had occurred to Philip Reilly I felt convinced, but of what character I dreaded to contemplate. Twelve days had gone by, and not a word had been received from him by any one.

The mysteries of London are many—and profound.

On the second evening of my vigil in Sterndale Road my watchfulness was rewarded by seeing a neat and familiar figure pass up the street and enter the little newsagent’s.

It needed no second glance to tell me that the visitor to the shop was the mysterious girl who called me on that memorable night, from the dispensary at Walworth—Miss Bristowe.

Fortunately she had not noticed my presence. Therefore I at once concealed myself up a side passage and waiting till she emerged with a letter in her hand—the one I had addressed to Purvis, I expect—I started to follow her. Every moment I feared lest she might look round and discover me, for in those back streets of Hammersmith there is not much traffic. But I was determined on this occasion to follow her to her home or to the hiding-place of Purvis.

Turning down Brook Green Road, she walked as far as the Hammersmith Station of the Underground Railway, where she bought a ticket for Notting Hill and entered the next train going west. On alighting she traversed hurriedly the Lancaster Road, for it had begun to rain and she was without an umbrella, and, turning at last into the Cornwall Road, ascended the front steps of one of the dark, smoke-blackened houses in that thoroughfare, not far from the corner of Portobello Road. She rang, the door was immediately opened by a servant, and she disappeared within.

Then, after a brief wait, I passed the house near enough to note that its number was 120. She went in at half-past seven, and, although I waited in the rain until half an hour before midnight, she did not come forth again. I therefore concluded that I had at last gained knowledge of her place of abode.

I wondered whether Purvis lived in that same house. She had called for his letters at Sterndale Road, and would probably hand them to him at once. Therefore, after long reflection, I came to the conclusion that he must live at that address.

It was past one when I re-entered my own rooms, and for an hour before turning in, occupied myself in re-arranging the chaos effected by the unknown intruders. The latter had certainly been disappointed with the result of their investigation, for they had not troubled themselves about two of the valuable old manuscripts I had found on board the Seahorse—the Decretales Summa of the Monk Henry and the Book of John Trethemius—both of which were lying upon the mantelshelf. No, it was the key of the cipher of which they had been in such active search, but which was fortunately far beyond their reach.

Early next morning I renewed my vigil at the corner of the Portobello and Cornwall Roads, hoping to meet the pretty woman who had so charmed me.

Two hours I waited, until at last she emerged, as usual neatly dressed in black. Through the maze of complicated streets she walked to Westbourne Grove. She had made some purchases, and was gazing into one of Whiteley’s shop windows when I came up beside her and, raising my hat, greeted her.

She turned quickly, open-mouthed, and then, recovering from her surprise, at once gave me her hand and greeted me quite light-heartedly.

“Really, doctor,” she laughed, “you seem quite ubiquitous. You are always running up against me.”

“Well, it’s a doctor’s profession to go hither and thither quickly,” I answered. “How is your brother?”

“Greatly better,” was her prompt reply, although I thought I could detect duplicity in her answer. But she swiftly sought to change the subject, and as I walked beside her she chatted quite merrily. I did not, of course, let her know that I was aware of her abode, but, on the contrary, spoke of it as though it were away at Blackheath, and she did not seek to contradict me. Miss Bristowe was a clever woman in every sense of the word, but at the same time she was sweet and winning—most charming.

In her chatter was a light, irresponsible air that gave to her a chic seldom found in an Englishwoman, while her small hands and feet, her narrow waist, wide swinging hips, and the manner of her coiffure all savoured of the Parisienne rather than of the Londoner.

My object was to learn from her something definite regarding the man Purvis and his movements; her object was to conceal everything and to mislead me.

She seemed, however, nothing loth to allow me to accompany her into the several shops where she made small purchases. Once I referred to our meeting in Calthorpe Street, recollecting how cleverly Purvis had escaped me there, but she only laughed saying: —

“You must have thought me very rude to hurry away as I did, but I wanted to get home.”

There were many matters I wished she would explain, but how could I ask her point-blank? For what reason had she taken me to Blackheath that night on a fruitless errand, and what connexion had she with the mysterious Purvis?

Again, it occurred to me that if Reilly had watched that newsagent’s in Sterndale Road he had probably met her. He might even have become acquainted with her for aught I knew. I had, I remembered, given him a detailed description.

But if they were acquainted, she would be utterly unaware of the young man’s association with me; hence I dare not broach the subject.

While I lingered at her side I could not help remarking, within myself, upon her affable courtesy and modest reserve towards me. A mystery surrounded her; that was certain. But in that half-hour I spent with her in Westbourne Grove I felt that she was not an adventuress, as I had half believed her to be, and that, save for the fact that she scrupulously concealed her place of abode, she was open and honest-minded, with a pleasing grace and sweet smile.

Again, just as I had noticed on the first occasion we had met, I detected that concealed within her heart was some deep-rooted sorrow, some painful memory of the past, perhaps, that she could not forget, and that now and then the sympathetic chord was struck that brought it all back to her, causing that expression of sadness which appeared at intervals in her eyes, and those half-suppressed sighs which she believed I did not notice.

Near midday she took leave of me at Queen’s Road Station, for she would not allow me to remain with her longer.

“You are really mysterious, Miss Bristowe,” I laughed; “I’ve spent a most delightful hour, and am most unwilling to end our chat.”

“Ah,” she said, earnestly; “you must, doctor. You’ve been with me already too long. Among all these people passing there may be one who knows me, and has noticed me walking with a stranger.”

“Well, is it such a terrible sin?” I laughed.

“All sins are pleasant,” was her quick answer; “that included. But you must really leave me now. Please do.”

“When you took me to Blackheath you sent me back without satisfying my curiosity regarding your address,” I said, reproachfully. “Are you going to act to-day in the same manner? Surely I may know where I can write to you in order that we may one day enjoy another of these pleasant gossips,” I pleaded.

She shook her head. Yet I saw that my words had created an impression upon her, and furthermore that she was in no way averse to my companionship.

“Why do you send me away like this? Do you fear lest we should be seen together?”

She sighed that same sigh which had escaped her several times during our walk. Noticing her apprehension I attributed it to the fear of some jealous lover. A girl may flirt desperately, but she always hates to be thought false by the man who loves her.

If she had nothing to conceal from me, why did she not give me her true address in Cornwall Road? But she had much to hide from my knowledge, and with her honest woman’s heart it required all her nerve and ingenuity to successfully mislead me.

“No,” she faltered, at last; “we must not be seen together. You think the manner I treated you that night at Blackheath extraordinary. So it was. But it was imperative—for your sake!”

“I don’t understand you, Miss Bristowe,” I declared, quickly. “How was it for my sake?”

“Ah!” she cried, as though in distress. “Believe me, I acted for your own welfare! I can give you no further explanation.”

“But you mystify me!” I said. “My curiosity is but natural.”

“Certainly; but I’m sorry that at present I am unable to satisfy it,” and her lips compressed themselves as a slight sigh again escaped them.

I was undecided whether she was wilfully deceiving me or whether it was under dire compulsion that she was concealing her motives.

“By your words you lead me to believe that you are my friend, Miss Bristowe; therefore it is surely permissible to give me an address where, in the future, I may write to you?”

“But I can’t see what good can come of it,” she responded, hesitatingly. “In fact, only harm can result in our acquaintanceship.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I have said. If we remain apart it will be better for both of us. Yet, somehow, Fate seems to throw us constantly into each other’s society.”

She was, of course, in ignorance of how I had traced her from Sterndale Road.

“True,” I remarked, “and that seems to me all the more reason why you should name some place where I may write.”

“Well,” she said at last, after long hesitation and blushing slightly; “if you should, at any time, really desire to write to me, you may address your letter to Farmer’s Library, Kensington High Street.”

Thanking her I scribbled the address, then tried to persuade her to allow me to remain longer. But she steadily refused.

“I must go now,” she said, “and although it sounds ungracious, I trust it may be a long time before we meet again.”

“Why!” I asked, in surprise.

“Because such meetings place us both in peril,” was her vague yet ominous answer.

“You perhaps object to my company?”

“On the contrary,” she hastened to reassure me, “I find it most agreeable. But it behoves all of us, at certain times, to be circumspect.”

She allowed me to shake her hand, then wishing me “Adieu!” turned back again towards Westbourne Grove, with an excuse that she had forgotten to make a purchase.

I saw through her ruse, and, by traversing the side streets, arrived at Cornwall Road before her, and standing in an entry unobserved watched her re-enter the house with a latch-key.

As far as that morning’s work was concerned it was highly satisfactory. The chief fact that worried me now was the remarkable disappearance of Philip Reilly. He was smart, wary, athletic, the very last fellow to fall into any trap. Yet my apprehensions, just as those of his friends, were rendered grave by reason of his continued silence. All I knew was that he had been successful in his observations on the newsagent’s shop in Sterndale Road, but in what manner he had not explained.

Like most young men who endeavour to solve a mystery, he had quickly become an enthusiast, with a fixed notion that we should discover the treasure.

Myself, I was far from sanguine, although, on the face of it, only that document sold by Ben Knutton stood between us and fortune. If we could but gain possession of that parchment for half an hour the secret of the hiding-place would be ours.

But George Purvis and his unknown but unscrupulous associates knew its value, just as we did, therefore it was far too well guarded.

During the three days that followed I kept watch in Cornwall Road, haunting the neighbouring thoroughfares of Ladbroke Grove, Silchester Road, Ledbury Road, and Powis Square, watching the movements of Miss Bristowe, and ever on the alert for the coming of that tall, fair-moustached individual, as the man Purvis had been described.

The girl whom I had found so charming went out often—once down to Catford to visit friends. Apparently she lived in apartments, and did her own shopping. She, however, had no male companion, and so close a watch did I keep upon the house that I arrived at the conclusion that Purvis did not live there after all.

Staffurth had grown very uneasy about his nephew, and although we put our wits together we could devise no plan by which the mystery of his disappearance might be solved. That the persons who were our rivals in the affair would not stick at trifles had already been proved, hence our apprehensions were of the gravest. Not being aware of the identity of these people we were heavily handicapped, for they were most probably cognizant of my every movement while I remained utterly in the dark as to theirs.

Matters were certainly growing serious. I had received a letter from Mr. Kenway telling me that he was compelled to remove his furniture from the Manor House on the morrow, therefore I would be obliged to go down to Caldecott again and do watch-dog duty. It was most important that Reilly should be with me, for I intended to commence a search throughout the house as soon as the Kenways had left. For that reason I bought a pick, shovel, and a quantity of other tools I thought might be useful, and had sent them down, packed in a case in order not to excite suspicion.

Sitting in my own room at Chelsea I pondered over the future, trying to decide upon some judicious plan of action. It was long past midnight. My green-shaded oil lamp was burning low and had already begun to splutter, but I could see no way out of the cul-de-sac. My first thoughts were, of course, for the safety of Philip, and he being still missing I did not feel myself justified in carrying the search farther before the mystery of his disappearance was cleared up.

I had found, on my return home, a letter from Seal, posted from Smyrna. It was a rather grimy note, bluff, brief, and written in that heavy hand that I knew so well in the log of the Thrush. The chief paragraph of the letter ran: —

“I hope you’ve got something out of Old Mystery by this time and also that you’re full sail, with a fair wind, towards that treasure. Don’t write to me, as I leave to-morrow straight for Fresh Wharf, and hope to see you within a fortnight.”

The clock on my mantelshelf struck two, and I was about to put out my light and turn in, when of a sudden there came a violent ringing of the bell. It startled me at that hour, and pulling aside my curtains I looked down into the street, only to discover, to my joy, that Philip Reilly stood below, looking up anxiously at my window.

“Come down, doc, and let me in!” he cried, and in response I soon unchained the front door and was wringing his hand.

Walking before me he ascended the stairs and not until he had come into the light of my room did I notice the change wrought in him.

“Good heavens, my dear fellow! Wherever have you been?” I cried, glaring at him in surprise, for his clothes seemed half torn from his back, his face dirty with a stubbly beard, as though he had not shaved for a week, while his trousers were caked with mud and his white face bore a nasty cut only half healed. It extended almost from the eye to the chin, and with the blood still caked there, gave him a hideous and forbidding appearance.

“Ah!” he gasped, throwing himself into an arm-chair, “you may well ask. I’ve had a splendid time of it. Have you got a drop of brandy or anything by you? I feel faint.”

He looked it, and I rushed to my cupboard and got out a bottle of Martell and a siphon of soda.

I allowed him to take a long steady drink before questioning him, in the meantime noting the terrible gash on his face. I saw also that his left hand had been cut on the inside.

“Well,” I said, “we’ve all been most anxious about you, fearing something bad had happened. Tell me all about it.”

“Anxious?” he laughed. “Not more anxious than I’ve been about myself, I can tell you. As for what happened, well I must collect my thoughts in order to tell you how it all began and what was the ultimate result. But before I begin I may as well give you my own opinion, and that is, I don’t believe that we shall ever find that treasure.”

“Why not?”

“Because the others know far more about it than we do,” was his reply. “When I resolved to take a share in the investigation I never dreamed that the game could be such a desperate one as it is. By Jove! those fellows would murder both of us without the least compunction. We must go armed in future.”

“But what occurred to you?” I asked, all anxiety to learn the reason of his long silence.

“Well,” he said, finishing his brandy at one gulp; “it happened like this. When I left you I came up to town and started to keep observation on that newsagent’s in Sterndale Road. The job was a terrible wearying one, but I was rewarded on the third evening by seeing the man you described—tall, fair, and freckled—call for a letter. Unobserved by him. I followed him home to St. Peter’s Square, Hammersmith. Then I resolved to exercise a strict vigil over that house in order to find out all about its inmates. During the following day I discovered that Purvis was a bachelor of means and was very often in the habit of receiving visits from men of rather shady character. By constant watchfulness I came to know by sight all these men, five in number, including one named Bennett.”

“Bennett?” I interrupted. “I wonder if he’s Black Bennett?”

“Don’t know,” was my friend’s rejoinder. “I can only tell you that they are as fine specimens of rascally adventurers as can be found at this moment in London. Purvis, being a good billiard player, often spends his evenings at the Crown, in Hammersmith Broadway, playing sometimes with Bennett and sometimes with one or other of his companions. Having obtained this piece of knowledge from observation, I took a bedroom at the Crown, in order that I might be able to saunter into the billiard-room at odd hours. As you know, I can play a fair game, and my object was to get into touch with Purvis by playing with him.

“I had not long to wait, for one evening he was there alone, and having made some casual remarks he invited me to play. From the first he seemed somewhat surprised to find that my form was slightly better than his, and before long I saw from his play that he was used to the ruses of sharks and thieves. He seemed to me to be rather well educated, the kind of man whose exterior was that of a gentleman, but who lives by his wits. He offered to bet me a sovereign on the game, and, in order to content him, I agreed. Very quickly the game was entirely in my hands, but so that he might become friendly I allowed him to win and paid him the sovereign.

“Bennett came in hurriedly just than and whispered something in an undertone, whereupon Purvis excused himself from playing further, put on his coat, and followed his friend out. That mysterious message aroused my curiosity; therefore as soon as the door was closed I threw on my coat and slipped out just in time to see the pair enter a hansom. They drove away and I drove after them, at a respectable distance, in order that they should not detect my vigilance.

“We drove for more than half an hour through Shepherd’s Bush and Kensal Green, until we entered the Edgware Road, near Kilburn Station, and, crossing it, Purvis and Bennett alighted before a house in a dark side-street. When they had disappeared inside I dismissed my own cab and took a good look at the exterior of the place. It was a semi-detached house of rather neglected appearance, approached by a small strip of garden lying behind the iron railings. The place was in total darkness, however—not even a light over the front door. They had entered so quickly that I believe they must have used a latch-key.

“Half-a-dozen times I passed and repassed the dark silent place, wondering what was the object of their journey there, until, the blinds being up and the front rooms all being unlit, it occurred to me that whatever was taking place was at the rear of the premises. So, resolving to try and ascertain for myself the reason of the hurried visit, I entered the little garden and crept silently round to the back, where in a room on the first floor was a light, and even from where I stood I could hear men’s voices. I saw that the yellow holland blind, having been pulled down violently, had given way from the roller, and a piece hung down. This would afford me a view of the room if only I could climb high enough. Now, beneath the window in question was a lean-to conservatory, built out from what was, I supposed, the drawing-room, but upon the roof of such a fragile structure I dared not venture. I noticed some iron piping going straight up, and, aided by the wooden lattice on the wall, it occurred to me that I might safely accomplish the feat. As you know, I am rather fond of climbing; therefore I quickly took off my boots and commenced to work my way up towards the coign of vantage.

“To reach a level high enough, however, was a task much more difficult than I had at first anticipated, especially as the creeper-covered lattice work, being old and rotten, gave way almost each time I grasped it. At last, however, swinging myself over, I succeeded in clutching what seemed like a safe piece of trellis close to the spot that afforded a view into the room. Just at that very moment, when my eyes came to the window where hung the corner of the blind untacked from its roller, a loud scream issued forth—the agonized cry of a woman.

“Clinging with hands and feet to the insecure woodwork I craned my neck until I could get a view of the interior of the room. The sight that greeted me was one that I was certainly unprepared for. The apartment was a back parlour, fairly well furnished. Within stood Purvis, Bennett, and two other men whom I recognized as constant visitors to St. Peter’s Square. The door was open, and one of the men stood holding by the arm a young, well-dressed woman. She had evidently been dragged in there against her will, for she had covered her pale face with her hand to shut out from her eyes the terrible object she had been brought there to see—the corpse of a young man.”

“What!” I cried, starting up; “have they actually committed murder?”

“I suppose so,” was Reilly’s reply. “I merely tell you what I saw with my own eyes. The dead man was in evening dress, and was lying on his back on the carpet, his limbs slightly drawn up. There was on his shirt-front a large ugly stain of blood, while his face was as white as paper. The unfeeling brutes actually compelled the poor girl to touch the dead man’s face, and she drew her fingers away from its cold contact as though she had been stung. Then Bennett, addressing her with biting sarcasm, said: ‘You didn’t believe us, miss, but you’ll believe now, I think, and recollect that if you do not act exactly as we order you’ll be served in the same way. You know me well enough to be aware that I never repeat a threat—I carry it out!’

“ ‘You are cruel—inhuman!’ she cried, facing the four men, with an angry passion suddenly lighting up her face. ‘He had done no harm, and you killed him!—killed him because you are cowards!’ ‘Enough girl!’ cried Bennett, and raising his fist he struck her on the mouth, cutting her lip, while the other blackguards stood there, not attempting to interfere. Purvis gave the body of the dead man a contemptuous kick, and then bending down took the watch and chain from the poor fellow’s pocket and, handing it to the man who stood in the doorway, said, ‘Here’s a souvenir of to-night’s work. Like to have it?’ The bearded ruffian grinned and slipped the dead man’s property into his pocket. ‘You shall pay for this!’ the girl cried, defiantly, staunching the blood with her handkerchief. ‘Oh!’ cried Bennett, ‘you dare to say a word and the rats will make a meal off you pretty quick—remember that! There!’ he exclaimed to the man who had pocketed the watch and who still held her arm, ‘take the wench away! She’ll know her manners before long.’ She was dragged out, and I heard her and her captor descending the stairs. Then, from my perilous position, I could overhear the other three discussing what should be done with the body, whereupon it was decided to convey it in a travelling-trunk to the cloak-room of one of the termini—which of them was not stated. I watched the trunk brought in—one of those large ones, of compressed cane—and saw them first mutilate the face of the corpse beyond all recognition.

“Then they packed the body in, locking the trunk and securing it with cord. This done, a careful examination was made of the room. One or two blood-stains were removed by Purvis with water and a sponge, and then all three carried the trunk down to the hall to await a four-wheeled cab. Purvis and Bennett returned again to the room where the light burned, and I heard the latter say: ‘That’s one the less—and without much trouble either. He might have proved a nuisance.’ Whereupon Purvis remarked: ‘The girl was, I believe, in love with him.’ ‘Love be hanged!’ Bennett returned, roughly. ‘That’s the very reason why I had her brought here—to show her that his death was due to her association with him. She’ll blame herself for the tragedy now, and be our servant more then ever; don’t you see?’

“Then a few minutes later, the man who had gone to the nearest cab-rank returned, and all four went out, after extinguishing the lamp. I heard the cab drive away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to attempt to follow it and ascertain where they deposited the evidence of their crime. In my haste I made a false move and felt the woodwork suddenly break from my hands. I tried to steady myself but could not, and, overbalancing backwards, fell with a crash through the conservatory roof, alighting upon the concrete floor.

“I know no more, save that when I came to I was lying in bed in an hospital with a policeman sitting by my side—under arrest for attempted burglary, they said. In two days I was sufficiently well to be taken to the police-court, where, having refused to give any account of myself, I was sent to prison for fourteen days as a rogue and vagabond. I saw it was useless to recount what I had witnessed in that house, as the marks of the crime had already been carefully obliterated; hence I did my fourteen days, which expired this morning.”

“But the woman?” I exclaimed, utterly dumfounded by his startling story. “Had you seen her before?”

“Yes, once, while I was waiting outside the newsagent’s in Sterndale Road. She had called there on two occasions.”

“Was it Miss Bristowe?” I asked, describing her.

“Exactly as you say; dark, pretty, with a rather pointed chin; dressed in black,” he answered.

Then a strange thought took possession of me. I wondered if by her refusal to conduct me to her brother’s bedside at Blackheath on that memorable night I had escaped a similar fate to that dead unknown.

The veil of mystery was certainly growing more than ever impenetrable.

Reilly’s story was a strange one. Although he had suffered imprisonment as a rogue—no burglarious instruments being found upon him—I could do nothing else than congratulate him upon his firm determination not to expose his hand. But the incident was no good augury for the future.

We were, of course, in possession of a fact that might prove of greatest use to us. He had seen the murdered man with his own eyes, although the identity of the victim was at present a mystery. Miss Bristowe knew him, too, and from her I hoped one day to obtain information as to who he really was.

Although Philip had passed through an exciting time, it had been by no means a futile one, for he had witnessed certain events which gave us true and adequate knowledge of what manner of persons we had to deal with. It was my friend’s belief that Miss Bristowe and the man who had conducted her to that house had left before the accident had occurred to him, and further, that the other three men, having left in a cab with the travelling trunk and its gruesome contents, remained in ignorance of his discovery by the neighbours, who were awakened by the crash.

We could, of course, fix the house wherein the assassination had taken place from the report in the police books regarding the discovery of Reilly, but, as he most wisely pointed out, the story of the murder would never be believed, and if he gave information—first, no traces would be found, and secondly, we should only prematurely betray our knowledge to our enemies.

So we resolved to remain, for the present, silent. I saw now quite well the reason of the tragic vein in the character of the sweet girl who had so charmed me. I alone knew the secret of how the man, who was probably her lover, had been murdered in cold blood by those scoundrels, who had carried their fiendishness so far as to compel her to touch the corpse.

I dressed the cut on Reilly’s face, for it appeared that on coming out of prison that morning he had taken off the bandage, although the doctor had forbidden him to do so. Believing that I must still be on guard at Caldecott, he had paid visits to several other people before coming to me. On hearing that the Kenways were leaving the Manor on the morrow, he was instantly keen on travelling down there and taking possession of the place.

He slept on the couch in my sitting-room, and next morning, at ten o’clock, we left London for Rockingham, having previously laid in a stock of various necessaries, including lamps, cord, candles, and matches, which we did not wish to purchase in the village.

At one o’clock we were back in our pleasant rustic quarters in the Sonde Arms, where we lunched off cold beef, bread, and ale, and then walked over to Caldecott, arriving there just before the van containing the household goods of the Kenways was driven away. The insurance agent and his wife were anxious to depart, therefore, after a hurried conversation, they gave me over the keys, and we watched the van lumber noisily out upon the highway over the moss-grown cobbles.

So we were left in possession of a rather dirty house minus a scrap of furniture. Indeed, it was only then that we were awakened to the fact that it would be necessary to obtain at least a table, a couple of camp bedsteads, and a couple of chairs, if we intended to inhabit the place.

Leaving Reilly in possession I hired a trap at the Plough, drove to Uppingham, and there purchased the necessary equipment of a cheap and temporary character, not forgetting a couple of drinking glasses, of course.

All were delivered by seven o’clock that night, and working in our shirt sleeves we cleaned out one of the big upstairs rooms and set up the narrow little beds, one in each corner. At first we thought of taking separate rooms, but decided that if any midnight attack were made upon us it would be best if we were in company.

We made a big wood fire in the room to air the mattresses and blankets, and filled two pails with water from the pump wherewith to perform our matutinal ablutions. Imagine how excited we were, possessors of a house wherein a great and valuable treasure awaited our discovery.

In order to avert village gossip we explained at the Plough that Mr. Reilly’s furniture was coming from Southampton, and what we had purchased was for temporary accommodation. But poor Reilly’s face, I still remember, was an ugly picture with the deep red scar where the glass roof had cut him. We made arrangements at the Plough to take our meals there, except tea, which we could brew ourselves, and it was nearly midnight when, sitting out in the garden yawning, we knocked out our pipes and went up to bed. Hours before we had been round to examine the catches and locks of doors and windows, and to fasten them; therefore we retired with a certain feeling that all was secure.

Beyond the thumping and squealing of rats beneath the boards, nothing disturbed our peace and we rose early, prepared to make our first tour of inspection. Therefore, after a wash and shave, we each took hammer and chisel from the box I had sent on in advance, and together had a superficial look round.

By tapping the panelling and walls we discovered dozens of hollow places, but a fact we had hitherto overlooked very soon occurred to us, that if we commenced to break down the walls we should injure the property to the tune of some hundreds of pounds, and be compelled to put it in order again; not a very bright out-look, especially as we had one of the chosen race as landlord.

One object we had to keep constantly in view was the satisfaction of the curiosity of the villagers. Two men cannot take an empty house and live in it, almost devoid of furniture, without exciting some comments; hence our story of the furniture in transit from the South of England.

The whole of the first day we devoted to a careful survey of the upstairs rooms as being the most likely spot where the treasure was concealed. In one of them—the one Reilly had suspected—the central room over the main entrance hall, the leopard rampant of da Schorno was sculptured in marble over the big open fireplace, executed evidently by an Italian hand. Probably, when old Bartholomew built the place or altered it according to his liking, he had with him one or two of his compatriots. To me it seemed as though one had been a sculptor, for on the stone balustrade of the stairs and around other fireplaces, wherein modern grates had since been placed, were fine specimens of sixteenth-century ornament.

On the following morning, after we had brewed our tea and boiled some eggs, we commenced investigations in that upstairs centre room, which had probably been at one time the best bedroom. The wall on the left, parting it from the next room, had attracted our attention, owing to its abnormal thickness, and when we sounded it with a hammer it seemed at one point to emit a hollow sound. This hollowness only extended for about two feet square, starting from the skirting-board.

We were neither carpenters nor plasterers, therefore we could not ourselves repair any damage that we might cause. But after some consultation we arrived at the conclusion that the only way was to make a thorough search, irrespective of consequences. Therefore, with hammer and chisel, I started to break into what I hoped would be a secret cavity. As soon as I commenced I saw that the wall was plastered at that point, and not of stone as in other parts. This encouraged me, and aided by Reilly we forced out the skirting-board, and had very soon made a considerable hole. The plaster was, however, fully six inches thick, and having penetrated it my chisel suddenly struck wood.

The dull sound caused the hearts of both of us to leap in expectation.

Another blow and a great piece of plaster came away.

“Why, there’s a door here!” I cried; “a small oak door that’s been fastened and plastered up.”

I stopped working while Philip examined it. He agreed that it was a hard panel of oak, but whether of a door it was impossible to say.

Again I resumed work, and within a quarter of an hour had laid bare the square strong door of a cupboard.

Reilly, by this time, was literally dancing with excitement. What, we wondered, could be contained therein?

It certainly had not been opened for centuries. Indeed, although the small door had long iron hinges stretching nearly right across it, there seemed no sign of lock or bolt.

“The way it’s closed is a secret, depend upon it, doctor,” my companion cried. “I really believe the treasure’s in here. Fancy digging out this at the first trial!”

But, myself, I was not so sanguine. I preferred to work steadily without undue excitement, for I saw that in such an investigation quietness and method were essential to success.

I don’t, of course, deny that I was actually on the tiptoe of expectation, for I, like Mr. Staffurth and Philip, had arrived at the firm conclusion that if the old Italian’s treasure still existed it was hidden somewhere in that house.

Therefore, at any blow of the hammer, the secret, so well guarded through three hundred years, might become revealed to us.

The clouds of white dust that I had raised rendered it thirsty work; therefore Philip, on going downstairs for the pickaxe, also brought up a bottle of ale, which we drank with avidity—from the bottle. That closed door proved a more formidable barrier than we had anticipated. Of well-seasoned oak, it was studded with rusty nails, and resisted all our efforts to prise it open. There was no lock, so far as we could see, nor any bolt; only the two long rusty hinges. Again and again we tried to insert a crowbar between the lintel and the door, but although both of us toiled through the greater part of the morning the door would not budge.

Reilly, with his long, athletic arms, attacked it with the pick, but the noise he made sounded through the empty house like the explosion of bombshells, and the dust raised was suffocating. All these efforts being futile, we resolved to cut the door out bodily, and with that object I commenced with centre-bit at a spot where the lock would, in ordinary circumstances, be situated. I drilled and drilled, slowly cutting a circular hole in the wood, and had penetrated to a depth of fully four inches when a harsh grating sound told us the unwelcome truth.

The back of the door was covered by an iron plate.

“We can’t cut it; that’s very certain!” I declared, withdrawing the drill. On examining the hole by aid of a candle I could see where the drill had cut a scratch on the face of the plate. I sounded the iron with a small crowbar and noted that it seemed of considerable thickness. Moreover, it was probably bolted to the woodwork by the nails which studded the side of the door towards us.

“There must be something inside,” Reilly declared. “No one would have taken such precaution if there was nothing of value within. Let’s persevere!”

“Of course,” I agreed, “but we must proceed scientifically; it’s useless working in the dark. Now, my own idea is that we might perhaps cut away the wall on the side where the door is fastened and thus get a hole for leverage. I believe that’s the only way.”

Reilly was of similar opinion, therefore we both set to work with a will, I holding the chisel and my companion swinging the heavy hammer. The plaster was, of course, soon cut out, but when we came to the rough stone of the wall our hard work commenced. By dint of constant labour, with pick and crowbar, we gradually loosened one of the larger stones, and in half an hour had levered it out upon the floor of the room.

It carried us but little farther, for the stone wall was far thicker than we anticipated. It had been built in a day long before contract jobs and jerry builders were known, and by men who constructed houses intended to last through centuries. There was no single brick in the whole place, only stone, of that kind known as Barnack rag.

The loosening of the first stone was hardest of all, and it being near one o’clock, our luncheon hour at the Plough, we washed, tidied ourselves, and sauntered along to the inn, smoking cigarettes, as though nothing had occurred. Our hands itched to be back at work again, but, having to act with circumspection in order not to betray the nature of our operations, we were compelled to eat our meal leisurely.

Soon after two we went eagerly back again, and stone after stone we succeeded in removing, until we obtained sufficient space between the stone and the door to allow of leverage.

Then, inserting our strongest crowbar, which was about four feet long and had a curved end, we both bore all our weight against it to break the door from its unseen fastenings. Time after time, yo-hoing like sailors and springing our full weight upon the bar, we endeavoured to force the stout old door, but alas! to no avail.

It then occurred to us that it opened into the room wherein we stood, but on examination of the wall, now broken through to the size of half a man’s hand, we discovered that it opened either way.

Suddenly another idea struck the ingenious Reilly. We had a screw-jack, and perhaps by its use might be able to force the door inwards.

A long time elapsed before we could fix it sufficiently securely to bear the enormous strain, but presently we got it adjusted, and began turning it. Then very soon the groaning of the old oak told its tremendous resistance and we steadily screwed on, until the creaking and splitting of the wood showed the enormous pressure it was still bearing.

Of a sudden, however, without warning, there was a loud report like the explosion of a cannon, as the bolts were broken off in their sockets, and before us was open a dark hole from which a cloud of suffocating dust belched forth into the room.