COLONEL THORNDYKE'S SECRET

By G. A. Henty.

CONTENTS

PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.

“Colonel Thorndyke's Secret” is a story so far out of the ordinary that it
will not be inappropriate to speak a few words regarding the tale and its
unusually successful author, Mr. George Alfred Henty.

The plot of the story hinges upon the possession of a valuable bracelet,
of diamonds, stolen from a Hindoo idol by a British soldier in India. This
bracelet falls into the possession of Colonel Thorndyke, who, shortly
afterward, is sent home to England because of his wounds. The secret
concerning the bracelet is told to the Colonel's brother, a country
squire, and the treasure is left to younger members of the Thorndyke
family.

As is well known today, the theft of anything from a Hindoo temple is
considered an extraordinary crime in India, and when this occurs it
becomes a religious duty for one or more persons to hunt down the thief
and bring back the property taken from the heathen god.

The members of the Thorndyke family soon learn that they are being
watched. But this is at a time when highwaymen are numerous in this part
of England, and they cannot determine whether the work is that of the
“knights of the roads” or that of the Lascars after the famous bracelet. A
mysterious death follows, and the younger members of the family are almost
stunned, not knowing what will happen next. They would give the bracelet
up, but do not know where it is hidden, the secret having been in the sole
possession of the member now dead. In this quandary the young hero of the
tale rises to the occasion and determines to join the London police force
and become a detective, with the hope of ultimately clearing up the
mystery. Thrilling adventures of a most unusual kind follow, and at last
something of the mystery is explained. The bracelet and other jewelry are
unearthed, and it is decided to take the bracelet to Amsterdam and offer
it to the diamond cutters at that place. But the carrying of the bracelet
is both difficult and dangerous. How the mission is brought to a
conclusion, and what part the Lascars played in the final adventure, will
be found in the pages that follow.

It can truthfully be said that Mr. Henty is easily the most popular of all
English story tellers, his books for boys enjoying a circulation of from a
hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand per year. His
tales are all clean, and although some are full of exciting situations and
thrilling to the last degree, they are of a high moral tone, while the
English employed is of the best.

The present story is of peculiar value as giving a good insight into
country and town life in England over a hundred years ago, when railways
and telegraph lines were unknown and when the “knights of the road” were
apt to hold up any stagecoach that happened to come along. It also gives a
truthful picture of the dark and underhanded work accomplished at times by
those of East Indian blood, especially when on what they consider a
religious mission.

CHAPTER I.

Squire Thorndyke, of the Manor House of Crawley, was, on the 1st of
September; 1782, walking up and down the little terrace in front of the
quaint old house in an unusually disturbed mood. He was a man of forty
three or four, stoutly and strongly built, and inclined to be portly. Save
the loss of his wife four years before, there had been but little to
ruffle the easy tenor of his life. A younger son, he had, at his mother's
death, when he was three and twenty, come in for the small estate at
Crawley, which had been her jointure.

For ten years he had led a life resembling that of most of his neighbors;
he had hunted and shot, been a regular attendant at any main of cocks that
was fought within fifteen miles of Crawley, had occasionally been up to
London for a week or two to see the gay doings there. Of an evening he had
generally gone down to the inn, where he talked over, with two or three of
his own condition and a few of the better class of farmers, the news of
the day, the war with the French, the troubles in Scotland, the alarming
march of the Young Pretender, and his defeat at Culloden—with no
very keen interest in the result, for the Southern gentry and yeomen,
unlike those in the North, had no strong leanings either way. They had a
dull dislike for Hanoverian George, but no great love for the exiled
Stuarts, whose patron, the King of France, was an enemy of England.

More often, however, their thoughts turned upon local topics—the
holding up of the coach of Sir James Harris or Squire Hamilton by
highwaymen; the affray between the French smugglers and the Revenue men
near Selsea Bill or Shoreham; the delinquencies of the poaching gangs; the
heaviness of the taxes, and the price of corn.

At the age of thirty-three Squire Thorndyke married the daughter of a
neighboring landowner; a son was born and three years later Mrs. Thorndyke
died. Since then the Squire had led a more retired life; he still went
down to smoke his pipe at the inn parlor, but he gave up his visits to
town; and cock fights, and even bull baiting, were no longer attractions
to him. He was known as a good landlord to the three or four farmers who
held land under him; was respected and liked in the village, where he was
always ready to assist in cases of real distress; was of an easygoing
disposition and on good terms with all his neighbors.

But today he was unusually disturbed in his mind. A messenger had ridden
up two hours before with a letter from London. It was as follows:

“MY DEAR BROTHER JOHN:

“You will be surprised indeed at this letter from me, who, doubtless, you
suppose to be fighting in India. I have done with fighting, and am nearly
done with life. I was shot in the battle of Buxar, eighteen months ago.
For a time the surgeons thought that it was going to be fatal; then I
rallied, and for some months it seemed that, in spite of the ball that
they were never able to find, I was going to get over it, and should be
fit for service again. Then I got worse; first it was a cough, then the
blood used to come up, and they said that the only chance for me was to
come home. I did not believe it would be of any use, but I thought that I
would rather die at home than in India, so home I came, and have now been
a week in London.

“I thought at first of going down to my place at Reigate, and having you
and your boy there with me; but as I have certainly not many weeks,
perhaps not many days, to live, I thought I would come down to you; so the
day after you receive this letter I shall be with you. I shall not bring
my little girl down; I have left her in good hands, and I shall only bring
with me my Hindoo servant. He will give you no trouble—a mat to
sleep on, and a little rice to eat, will satisfy his wants; and he will
take the trouble of me a good deal off your hands. He was a Sepoy in my
regiment, and has always evinced the greatest devotion for me. More than
once in battle he has saved my life, and has, for the last three years,
been my servant, and has nursed me since I have been ill as tenderly as a
woman could have done. As I shall have time to tell you everything when I
arrive, I will say no more now.”

The news had much affected John Thorndyke. His brother George was five
years his senior, and had gone out as a cadet in the company's service
when John was but thirteen, and this was his first home coming. Had it not
been for a portrait that had been taken of him in his uniform just before
he sailed, John would have had but little remembrance of him. In that he
was represented as a thin, spare youth, with an expression of quiet
determination in his face. From his father John had, of course, heard much
about him.

“Nothing would satisfy him but to go out to India, John. There was, of
course, no occasion for it, as he would have this place after me—a
fine estate and a good position: what could he want more? But he was a
curious fellow. Once he formed an opinion there was no persuading him to
change it. He was always getting ideas such as no one else would think of;
he did not care for anything that other people cared for; never hunted nor
shot. He used to puzzle me altogether with his ways, and, 'pon my word, I
was not sorry when he said he would go to India, for there was no saying
how he might have turned out if he had stopped here. He never could do
anything like anybody else: nothing that he could have done would have
surprised me.

“If he had told me that he intended to be a play actor, or a Jockey, or a
private, or a book writer, I should not have been surprised. Upon my word,
it was rather a relief to me when he said, 'I have made up my mind to go
into the East India Service, father. I suppose you can get me a
cadetship?' At least that was an honorable profession; and I knew, anyhow,
that when he once said 'I have made up my mind, father,' no arguments
would move him, and that if I did not get him a cadetship he was perfectly
capable of running away, going up to London, and enlisting in one of their
white regiments.”

John Thorndyke's own remembrances were that his brother had always been
good natured to him, that he had often told him long stories about Indian
adventures, and that a short time before he went away, having heard that
he had been unmercifully beaten by the schoolmaster at Reigate for some
trifling fault, he had gone down to the town, and had so battered the man
that the school had to be closed for a fortnight. They had always kept up
a correspondence. When he received the news of his father's death George
had written to him, begging him to go down to Reigate, and to manage the
estate for him.

“Of course,” he said, “you will draw its income as long as you are there.
I mayn't be back for another twenty years; one gets rich out here fast,
what with plunder and presents and one thing and another, and it is no use
to have money accumulating at home, so just live on the place as if it
were your own, until I come home to turn you out.”

John had declined the offer.

“I am very well where I am,” he wrote, “and the care of the estate would
be a horrible worry to me; besides, I have just married, and if I ever
have any children they would be brought up beyond their station. I have
done what I can for you. I have seen the family lawyers, who have engaged
a man who has been steward to Sir John Hieover, and looked after the
estate during his son's minority. But the young blade, on coming of age,
set to work to make ducks and drakes of the property, and Newman could not
bear to see the estate going to the Jews, so, as luck would have it, he
resigned a month ago, and has been appointed steward at Reigate. Of
course, if you don't like the arrangement you must write and say so. It
will be a year before I get your answer, and he has only been engaged for
certain for that time; it must lie with you as to permanent arrangement.”

So Newman had taken charge of the Reigate estate, and had continued to
manage it ever since, although George had written home in great
displeasure at his offer being refused.

Inside the Manor the bustle of preparations was going on; the spare room,
which had not been used for many years, was being turned out, and a great
fire lighted to air it. John Thorndyke had sent a letter by the returning
messenger to a friend in town, begging him to go at once to Leadenhall
Street and send down a supply of Indian condiments for his brother's use,
and had then betaken himself to the garden to think the matter over. The
next day a post chaise arrived, bringing the invalid and his colored
servant, whose complexion and Indian garb struck the maids with an awe not
unmingled with alarm. John Thorndyke could hardly believe that the bent
and emaciated figure was that of his brother, but he remembered the voice
when the latter said, holding out his hand to him:

“Well, brother John, here I am, what is left of me. Gracious, man, who
would have thought that you were going to grow up such a fine tall fellow?
You are more fitted to be a soldier than I am. No, don't try to help me
out; Ramoo will do that—he is accustomed to my ways, and I would as
soon trust myself to a rogue elephant as to you.”

“I am sorry to see you looking so bad, brother George.”

“What must be must. I have had my fling; and after thirty years of
marching and fighting, I have no right to grumble if I am laid upon my
back at last.”

Leaning on Ramoo's arm, Colonel Thorndyke made his way into the house, and
when the Hindoo had arranged the cushions of the sofa, took his place
there in a half reclining position.

“I am not always as bad as this, John,” he said; “the jolting of your
confounded roads has been too much for me. If I were the King I would hang
every fellow who had anything to do with them—contractors, boards of
county magistrates, and the whole lot. If I had known what it was going to
be like I would have hired a sedan chair, and had myself carried down.
That is what I have been doing in London; but I would rather have had an
Indian palkee, that one could have lain down comfortably in.”

“What shall I get you first, George? I have got some lemons.”

“I want something better than lemons, John. Have you any Burgundy handy?”

“Yes, plenty.”

“If you give a bottle to Ramoo he will know how much water I want.”

Here the servants entered with a tray with a chicken and a dish of
kidneys.

“I sent up yesterday for some of the Indian things that you are accustomed
to, George, but they have not come down yet.”

“I brought a store down with me. This will do capitally for the present.
Ramoo will do the cooking for me in future. He need not go into the
kitchen to scare the maids. I could see they looked at him as if he had
been his infernal majesty, as he came in. He can do it anywhere; all he
wants is an iron pot with some holes in it, and some charcoal. He can
squat out there on the veranda, or, if it is bad weather, any shed will do
for him.

“Well, it is nice to be home again, John,” he went on, after he had eaten
a few mouthfuls of chicken and drunk a tumbler of Burgundy and water. “I
am glad to be back, now I am here, though I dare say I should not have
come home for another ten years if it had not been for this rascally
bullet. Where is your boy?”

“He is away at school.”

“Well, I think I will go up to bed at once, if you don't mind, John. I
shall be fitter to talk in the morning.”

The next day, indeed, Colonel Thorndyke was materially better. His voice
was stronger and more cheery, and when he came down after breakfast he
took his seat in an easy chair instead of on the sofa.

“Now, brother,” he said, “we will have a cozy chat. There are several
things I want done, but the chief of these is that when I am gone you
should go down to Reigate, as I wanted you to do ten years ago. I want you
to seem to be its master, as well as be its master, until Millicent comes
of age, if not longer. Her name is Millicent Conyers Thorndyke. I wish her
to be called Millicent Conyers, and to appear as your ward, and not as
your niece and heiress of the property. If there is one thing in the world
I have a greater horror of than another, it is of a girl being married for
her money. I don't suppose that anyone knows that I have a daughter—at
any rate, none beyond a few Indian chums. She was sent home with an ayah
under the charge of the widow of a comrade of mine. I had been away for
months, and only went back to Calcutta in time to see her mother die. So
that is all right.”

“I could not do such a thing as that, George. I should be living under
false colors. It is not that I mind so much leaving here and looking after
the child's interest at Reigate, but I could not possibly take possession
of the place as its owner when I should not be so. Besides, there are
other objections. Mark would grow up supposing himself to be the heir.”

“Mark will be all right. I have, since I have been in London, signed a
will, leaving the rest of my fortune between them. I had it drawn up by
our father's solicitors, relying upon your consent to do what I asked you.
I have explained the matter to them, and given them the assignment, or
whatever they call it, of the Reigate estate to you, until my daughter
comes of age, appointing them her guardians should you die before that.
Thus, you will be placed in a proper position; and should it be known by
any means that the child is my daughter, that deed will still be a proof
that you are carrying out my wishes, and are absolute master of the estate
until she comes of age.”

“I must think it all over, George. It is a singular proposal, and I own I
would rather things went on in their regular course.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that, John; but you see I have altogether set my
mind on this matter. I want to know that my girl is not going to be
married for her money; and, at any rate, that deed makes you master of the
Reigate estates for the next thirteen years; so the only thing that I
really want of you is to let the girl be called your ward instead of your
niece, and that she and everyone else shall be in ignorance that she is an
heiress. So far from doing the girl a wrong, you will be doing her a
benefit; and as I have explained the whole matter to our lawyers, no one
can possibly think that the thing has been done from any motive whatever
except that of affording me satisfaction.”

“I will think the matter over,” John repeated. “Of course, brother, it has
been in your mind for some time, but it comes altogether fresh to me, and
I must look at it in every light. For myself, I have no wish at all to
become master of our father's estate. I have been going in one groove for
the last twenty years, and don't care about changing it. You wished me to
do so ten years ago, and I declined then, and the ten years have not made
me more desirous of change than I was before.”

“All right; think it over. Please send Ramoo in to me; I have tired myself
in talking.”

John Thorndyke smoked many churchwarden pipes in the little arbor in his
garden that day. In the afternoon his brother was so weak and tired that
the subject of the conversation was not reverted to. At eight o'clock the
Colonel went off to bed. The next morning, after breakfast, he was
brighter again.

“Well, John, what has come of your thinking?” he asked.

“I don't like it, George.”

“You mayn't like it, John, but you will do it. I am not going to have my
girl run after by ruined spendthrifts who want her money to repair their
fortunes; and I tell you frankly, if you refuse I shall go up to town
tomorrow, and I shall make a new will, leaving all my property to your
son, subject to a life annuity of 200 pounds a year to the child, and
ordering that, in the event of his dying before he comes of age, or of
refusing to accept the provisions of the will, or handing any of the
property or money over to my daughter, the whole estate, money, jewels,
and all, shall go to the London hospitals, subject, as before, to the
annuity.

“Don't be an ass, brother John. Do you think that I don't know what I am
doing? I have seen enough of the evils of marrying for money out in India.
Every ship that comes out brings so many girls sent out to some relation
to be put on the marriage market, and marrying men old enough to be pretty
nearly their grandfathers, with the natural consequence that there is the
devil to pay before they have been married a year or two. Come, you know
you will do it; why not give in at once, and have done with it? It is not
a bad thing for you, it will be a good thing for your boy, it will save my
girl from fortune hunters, and enable me to die quietly and comfortably.”

“All right, George, I will do it. Mind, I don't do it willingly, but I do
it for your sake.”

“That is right,” Colonel Thorndyke said, holding out his thin bronzed hand
to his brother; “that is off my mind. Now, there is only one other thing—those
confounded jewels. But I won't talk about them now.”

It was not indeed till three or four days later that the Colonel again
spoke to his brother on any than ordinary matters. He had indeed been very
weak and ailing. After breakfast, when, as usual, he was a little stronger
and brighter than later in the day, he said to his brother suddenly:—

“I suppose there are no hiding places in this room?”

“Hiding places! What do you mean, George?”

“Places where a fellow could hide up and hear what we are talking about.”

“No, I don't think so,” the Squire replied, looking round vaguely. “Such
an idea never occurred to me. Why do you ask?”

“Because, John, if there is such a thing as a hiding place, someone will
be sure to be hiding there. Where does that door lead to?”

“It doesn't lead anywhere; it used to lead into the next room, but it was
closed up before my time, and turned into a cupboard, and this door is
permanently closed.”

“Do you mind stepping round into the next room and seeing if anyone is in
the cupboard?”

Thinking that his brother was a little light headed, John Thorndyke went
into the next room, and returned, saying gravely that no one was there.

“Will you look behind the curtains, John, and under this sofa, and
everywhere else where even a cat could be hidden? That seems all right,”
the Colonel went on, as his brother continued the search. “You know there
is a saying that walls have ears, and I am not sure that it is not so. I
have been haunted with the feeling that everything I did was watched, and
that everything I said was listened to for years; and I can tell you it is
a devilishly unpleasant thought. Draw your chair quite close to me. It is
about my jewels, John. I always had a fancy for jewels—not to wear
them, but to own them. In my time I have had good opportunities in that
way, both in the Madras Presidency and in the Carnatic. In the first
place, I have never cared for taking presents in money, but I have never
refused jewels; and what with Rajahs and Nabobs and Ministers that one had
helped or done a good turn to somehow, a good deal came to me that way.

“Then I always made a point of carrying money with me, and after a defeat
of the enemy or a successful siege, there was always lots of loot, and the
soldiers were glad enough to sell anything in the way of jewels for a
tithe of their value in gold. I should say if I put the value of the
jewels at 50,000 pounds I am not much wide of the mark. That is all right,
there is no bother about them; the trouble came from a diamond bracelet
that I got from a soldier. We were in camp near Tanjore. I was officer of
the day. I had made my rounds, and was coming back to my quarters, when I
saw a soldier coming out of a tent thirty or forty yards away. It was a
moonlight night, and the tent was one belonging to a white Madras
regiment. Suddenly, I saw another figure, that had been lying down outside
the tent, rise. I saw the flash of the moonlight on steel; then there was
a blow, and the soldier fell. I drew my sword and rushed forward.

“The native—for I could see that it was a native—was bending
over the man he had stabbed. His back was towards me, and on the sandy
soil he did not hear my footsteps until I was close to him; then he sprang
up with a cry of fury, and leaped on me like a tiger. I was so taken by
surprise that before I could use my sword the fellow had given me a nasty
stab on the shoulder; but before he could strike again I had run him
through. By this time several other, men ran out of the tent, uttering
exclamations of rage at seeing their fallen comrade.

“'What is it, sir?' they asked me.

“'This scoundrel, here, has stabbed your comrade,' I said. 'He did not see
me coming, and I ran up just as he was, I think, rifling him for booty. He
came at me like a wild cat, and has given me a nasty stab. However, I have
put an end to his game. Is your comrade dead?'

“'No, sir, he is breathing still; but I fancy there is little chance for
him.'

“'You had better carry him to the hospital tent at once; I will send a
surgeon there.'

“I called the regimental surgeon up, and went with him to the hospital
tent, telling him what had happened. He shook his head after examining the
man's wound, which was fairly between the shoulders.

“'He may live a few hours, but there is no chance of his getting better.'

“'Now,' I said, 'you may as well have a look at my wound, for the villain
stabbed me too.'

“'You have had a pretty narrow escape of it,' he said, as he examined it.
'If he had struck an inch or two nearer the shoulder the knife would have
gone right into you; but you see I expect he was springing as he struck,
and the blow fell nearly perpendicularly, and it glanced down over your
ribs, and made a gash six inches long. There is no danger. I will bandage
it now, and tomorrow morning I will sew the edges together, and make a
proper job of it.'

“In the morning one of the hospital attendants came to me and said the
soldier who had been wounded wanted to speak to me. The doctor said he
would not live long. I went across to him. He was on a bed some little
distance from any of the others, for it was the healthy season, and there
were only three or four others in the tent.

“'I hear, Major Thorndyke,' he said in a low voice, 'that you killed that
fellow who gave me this wound, and that you yourself were stabbed.'

“'Mine is not a serious business, my man,' I said. 'I wish you had got off
as easily.'

“'I have been expecting it, sir,' he said; 'and how I came to be fool
enough to go outside the tent by myself I cannot think. I was uneasy, and
could not sleep; I felt hot and feverish, and came out for a breath of
fresh air. I will tell you what caused it, sir. About two years ago a
cousin of mine, in one of the King's regiments, who was dying, they said,
of fever (but I know the doctors thought he had been poisoned), said to
me, “Here are some things that will make your fortune if ever you get to
England; but I tell you beforehand, they are dangerous things to keep
about you. I fancy that they have something to do with my being like this
now. A year ago I went with some others into one of their great temples on
a feast day. Well, the god had got on all his trinkets, and among them was
a bracelet with the biggest diamonds I ever saw. I did not think so much
of it at the time, but I kept on thinking of them afterwards, and it
happened that some months after our visit we took the place by storm. I
made straight for the temple, and I got the jewels. It don't matter how I
got them—I got them. Well, since that I have never had any peace;
pretty near every night one or other of our tents was turned topsy turvy,
all the kits turned out, and even the ground dug up with knives. You know
how silently Indian thieves can work. However, nothing was ever stolen,
and as for the diamonds, at the end of every day's march I always went out
as soon as it was quite dark, and buried the bracelet between the tent
pegs; it did not take a minute to do. When we moved, of course, I took it
up again. At last I gave that up, for however early I turned out in the
morning there was sure to be a native about. I took then to dropping it
down the barrel of my gun; that way I beat them. Still, I have always
somehow felt myself watched, and my tent has been disturbed a great deal
oftener than any of the others. I have had half a mind to throw the things
away many a time, but I could not bring myself to do it.”

“'Well, sir, I have carried the bracelet ever since. I have done as he
did, and always had it in my musket barrel—When we had fighting to
do I would drop it out into my hand and slip it into my ammunition pouch;
but I know that I have always been followed, just as Bill was. I suppose
they found out that I went to see him before he died. Anyhow, my tent has
been rummaged again and again. I have no doubt that fellow whom you killed
last night had been watching me all the time, and thought that I had come
out to hide the things. However, there they are, sir. One of my mates
brought my musket here a quarter of an hour ago, and emptied the barrel
out for me. Now, sir, you did your best to save my life last night, and
you killed that fellow who did for me, and you pretty nearly got killed
yourself. I have got no one else I could give the things to, and if I were
to give them to one of my mates in the regiment they would probably cost
him his life, as they have cost me mine. But you will know what to do with
the things; they are worth a lot of money if you can get them home. Mind,
sir, you have got to be careful. I have heard tales of how those priests
will follow up a temple jewel that has been lost for years, and never give
it up until they get it back again.'

“'I ought to give it up,' I said.

“'You don't know where it came from, sir,' he replied. 'I was one of a
party of convalescents who were sent up just before that fight, and my own
regiment was not there: it might have been here, and it might have been in
the Carnatic. Bill never told me, and I have no more idea than a babe
unborn.'

“The gems were certainly magnificent; and though I knew well enough that
these untiring Brahmins would not be long in guessing that the things had
come into my possession, I took the bracelet. I thought, anyhow, that I
might have a few hours' start; the fellow I had killed might, of course,
have one or two others with him, but I had to risk that. I got leave an
hour later, and went down to Madras, and got them put into a place of
safety. That I was watched all the time I was in India afterwards I have
no doubt, but no attempts were made to assassinate me. They would have
known that I went straight away, but whether I had buried them somewhere
on the road, or had given them to someone's care at Madras they could not
know, and there was, therefore, nothing for them to do but to wait till I
made a move.

“I have no doubt whatever that they came over in the same ship with me.
Two or three times during the week I was in London I saw colored men in
the street outside the hotel. Once it was a Lascar seaman, another time a
dark looking sailor in European clothes: he might pass for a Spaniard.
Several times as I was going about in a sedan chair I looked out suddenly,
and each time there was a dark face somewhere in the street behind. I had
a letter this morning from the lawyer, and he mentioned that two days ago
his offices had been broken into, and every strong box and drawer forced
open, but that, curiously enough, they could not find that anything had
been stolen, though in the cashier's box there were 30 pounds in gold. Of
course it was my friends. I have no doubt that one or two of them have
followed me down here; and for anything I know they may be lurking
somewhere in your garden at the present moment—that is, if they are
not standing beside us in this room.”

John Thorndyke looked round with an uncomfortable feeling.

“How do you mean, George?”

“I mean some of those Indian fellows can do all sorts of wonderful
conjuring tricks. I have seen them go up into the air on a rope and never
come down again, and for aught I know they may be able to render
themselves invisible. Seriously, I think that it is likely as not.”

“Well, and where are the things to be found now, George?”

“That I won't tell you, John. Before I go I will whisper it in your ear,
and give you the means of finding them, but not till then. No, I will
write it down on a piece of paper, and slip it into your hand. As soon as
you get out of the room you glance at it, and then put the piece of paper
into your mouth, chew it up and swallow it. I tell you I dare not even
whisper it; but whatever you do, take no steps in the matter until your
son comes of age.”

“There can surely be no danger in another twelve years, George; they will
have given up the search long before that.”

“Not they,” the Colonel said emphatically. “If they die others will take
their places: it is a sacred business with them. My advice to you is,
either sell them directly you get them into your hands, or go straight to
Amsterdam and sell them there to one of the diamond cutters, who will turn
them out so that they will be altered beyond all recognition. Don't sell
more than two stones at most to any one man; then they will never come out
as a bracelet again, and the hunt will be over.”

“I would almost rather leave them alone altogether, George.”

“Well, they are worth 50,000 pounds if they are worth a penny, and a great
deal more I should say; but you cannot leave them alone without leaving
everything alone, for all my gems are with them, and 52,000 pounds in
gold. Of course, if you like you can, when you get the box, pick those
diamonds out and chuck them away, but if you do you must do it openly, so
that anyone watching you may see you do it, otherwise the search will go
on.”

Two days later, as Ramoo was helping the Colonel to the sofa, the latter
was seized with a violent fit of coughing, then a rush of blood poured
from his lips. His brother and Ramoo laid him on the sofa almost
insensible.

“Run and get some water, Ramoo,” John Thorndyke said.

As Ramoo left the room the Colonel feebly placed his snuffbox in his
brother's hand with a significant glance; then he made several desperate
efforts to speak, and tried to struggle up into a sitting position;
another gush of blood poured from him, and as it ceased he fell back dead.

John Thorndyke was bitterly grieved at the death of his brother, and it
was not until he went up to his room that night that he thought of the
snuffbox that he had dropped into his pocket as his brother handed it to
him. He had no doubt that it contained the instructions as to the
treasure. It was of Indian manufacture. He emptied the snuff from it, but
it contained nothing else. He was convinced that the secret must be hidden
there, and after in vain endeavoring to find a spring, he took a poker and
hammered it, and as it bent a spring gave way, and showed a very shallow
false bottom.

In this was a thin gold coin, evidently of considerable antiquity, and a
small piece of paper, on which was written the word “Masulipatam.” John
Thorndyke looked at it in bewilderment; that it was connected with the
secret he felt certain, but alone it was absolutely useless. Doubtless his
brother had intended to give him the key of the riddle, when he had so
desperately striven to speak. After in vain thinking the matter over he
said:

“Well, thank goodness; there is nothing to be done about the matter for
another thirteen or fourteen years; it is of no use worrying about it
now.” He went to an old fashioned cabinet, and placed the coin and piece
of paper in a very cunningly devised secret drawer. The next morning he
went out into the garden and dropped the battered snuffbox into the well,
and then dismissed the subject from his mind.

CHAPTER II

Standing some two miles out of Reigate is the village of Crowswood, a
quiet place and fairly well to do, thanks in no small degree to Squire
Thorndyke, who owned the whole of the parish, and by whom and his tenants
the greater portion of the village were employed. Greatly had the closing
of the Manor House, after the death of old Squire Thorndyke, been felt.
There were no more jellies, soups, and other comforts to be looked for in
time of sickness, no abatement of rent when the breadwinner was sick or
disabled, no check to the drunkards, whom the knowledge that they would be
turned out of their cottage at a week's notice kept in some sort of order.
When, therefore, after ten years of absence of all government, John
Thorndyke, after the death of his brother, the Colonel, came down and took
possession, he found the place sadly changed from what it had been when he
had left it twenty years before. His first act was to dismiss Newman; who,
completely unchecked, had, he found, been sadly mismanaging affairs. It
was not long, however, before his hand made itself felt. Two out of the
three public houses were shut up in six months, a score of their habitual
frequenters had, weeks before, been turned out of their houses, an order
had been issued that unless a cottage was kept in good order and the
garden bright and blooming with flowers in the summer a fresh tenant would
be found for it. Every child must be sent to the village school; the
Squire was ready to do what there was to be done in the way of thatching
and whitewashing, repairing palings and painting doors and windows, but,
as he told the people, the village had to be kept clean and decent, and
anyone who would not conform to the rules was at liberty to leave without
a day's notice.

Many of the villagers grumbled under their breath, but public opinion was,
on the whole, favorable. There was someone to look after them now, someone
who would see that the greater portion of the wages was not spent at the
alehouse, who would take an interest in the people, and would lend a
helping hand in bad times. There was a feeling of regret that the Squire
was a widower, but the post of visitor and almoner was well supplied by
the lady who acted as companion and governess to the Squire's little ward
and regulated the affairs of his household.

John Thorndyke had never had much occasion for the display of energy
before, but he had an abundance of it, although hitherto latent. He had
come into this business against his will, but he took it up with a
determination to do well in it. The income was legally his until his niece
came of age, but he was determined he would take nothing out of the estate
beyond the necessary expenses of the position, and that all surplus should
be expended in improving it in every way possible, so that he could hand
it over to her in the most perfect condition. Therefore, when he came into
possession he made a close inspection of the farms, with their houses,
barns, and other tenements. Where he saw that the men were doing their
best, that the hedges and fields were in good order, he did everything
that was necessary without a word; but where there were slovenly farming
and signs of neglect and carelessness, he spoke out his mind sharply.

“This has all got to be amended,” he said. “What must be done I will do,
but unless I see things well kept up, the fences in good order, the hedges
cut, the cattle in good condition, and everything going on as it ought to
be, out you go next Christmas. The estate at present is a disgrace to the
county, but it shall not be so any longer if I can help it. I shall do my
share, and anyone who is not prepared to do the same had better look out
for another holding at once.”

No one rejoiced more at the coming home of the Squire than Mr. Bastow, the
Rector. He had had a pleasant time of it during the life of the old
Squire. He was always a welcome guest at the house; Mr. Thorndyke had been
ever ready to put his hand into his pocket for any repairs needed for the
church, and bore on his shoulders almost the entire expense of the village
school. In the latter respect there had been no falling off, he having
given explicit instructions to his solicitors to pay his usual annual
subscriptions to the school until his son's return from India. But with
the death of the Squire the Rector had gradually lost all authority in the
village.

For a time force of habit had had its effect, but as this wore out and the
people recognized that he had no real authority things went from bad to
worse. Drunken men would shout jeeringly as they passed the Rectory on
their way home from the alehouse; women no longer feared reproof for the
untidiness of their houses and children; the school was half emptied and
the church almost wholly so.

For seven or eight years Mr. Bastow had a hard time of it. It was, then,
both with pleasure as an old friend, and with renewed hopefulness for the
village, that he visited John Thorndyke on his return. The change in the
state of affairs was almost instantaneous. As soon as it became known that
the Rector was backed, heart and soul, by the Squire's authority, and that
a complaint from him was followed the next day by a notice to quit at the
end of a week, his own authority was established as firmly as it had been
in the old Squire's time, and in a couple of years Crowswood became quite
a model village. Every garden blossomed with flowers; roses and eglantine
clustered over the cottages, neatness and order prevailed everywhere.

The children were tidily dressed and respectful in manner, the women
bright and cheerful, and the solitary alehouse remaining had but few
customers, and those few were never allowed to transgress the bounds of
moderation. The Squire had a talk with the landlord a fortnight after his
arrival.

“I am not going to turn you out, Peters,” he said. “I hear that you make
some efforts to keep your house decently; the other two I shall send
packing directly their terms are up. Whether you remain permanently must
depend upon yourself. I will do up your house for you, and build a bar
parlor alongside, where quiet men can sit and smoke their pipes and talk
and take their beer in comfort, and have liberty to enjoy themselves as
long as their enjoyment does not cause annoyance to other people or keep
their wives and children in rags. I will do anything for you if I find the
place well conducted; but I warn you that I will have no drunkenness. A
man who, to my knowledge, gets drunk twice, will not get drunk a third
time in this parish, and if you let men get drunk here it is your fault as
much as theirs. Now we understand each other.”

Things once placed on a satisfactory footing, the Squire had but little
more trouble, and it soon came to be understood that he was not to be
trifled with, and that Crowswood was no longer a place for the idle or
shiftless. Two or three of the farmers left at the termination of their
year, but better men took their places, and John Thorndyke, having settled
matters to his satisfaction, now began to attend more to other affairs. He
had been, when he first came back, welcomed with great heartiness by all
the gentry of the neighborhood; his father had been a popular man, and
young Thorndyke had been regarded as a pleasant young fellow, and would in
any case have been welcomed, if only because Crowswood had become a
nuisance to the whole district. It was, indeed, a sort of rendezvous for
poachers and bad characters, it was more than suspected that gangs of
thieves and burglars made it their headquarters, and that even highwaymen
found it a convenient and quiet resort.

Thus, then, the transformation effected within a few months of Mr.
Thorndyke's return caused general and lively satisfaction, and a year
later he was put on the Commission of the Peace, and became one of the
most regular attendants at the Bench of Magistrates. Reluctantly as he had
taken up his present position, he found it, as time went on, a pleasant
one. He had not been conscious before that time hung somewhat heavily on
his hands, but here he had duties to perform and ample employment. His
nature was naturally somewhat a masterful one, and both as a magistrate
and a landlord he had scope and power of action. Occasionally he went up
to London, always driving his gig, with a pair of fast trotting horses,
and was known to the frequenters of the coffee houses chiefly patronized
by country gentlemen. Altogether, John Thorndyke became quite a notable
person in the district, and men were inclined to congratulate themselves
upon the fact that he, and not the Indian officer, his brother, had come
into the estate.

The idea of an old Indian officer in those days was that he was almost of
necessity an invalid, and an irritable one, with a liver hopelessly
deranged, a yellow complexion, and a hatred of the English climate. The
fact that, instead of leaving the army and coming home at his father's
death, George Thorndyke had chosen to remain abroad and leave the estate
to the management of agents, had specially prejudiced him in the eyes of
the people of that part, and had heightened the warmth with which they had
received his brother. John Thorndyke had upon the occasion, of his first
visit to the family solicitors spoken his mind with much freedom as to the
manner in which Newman had been allowed a free hand.

“Another ten years,” he said, “and there would not have been a cottage
habitable on the estate, nor a farm worth cultivating. He did absolutely
nothing beyond collecting the rents. He let the whole place go to rack and
ruin. The first day I arrived I sent him out of the house, with a talking
to that he won't forget as long as he lives.”

“We never heard any complaints about him, Mr. Thorndyke, except that I
think we did once hear from the Rector of the place that his conduct was
not satisfactory. I remember that we wrote to him about it, and he said
that the Rector was a malignant fellow, on bad terms with all his
parishioners.”

“If I had the scoundrel here,” John Thorndyke said with indignation, “I
would let him have a taste of the lash of my dog whip. You should not have
taken the fellow's word; you should have sent down someone to find out the
true state of things. Why, the place has been an eyesore to the whole
neighborhood, the resort of poaching, thieving rascals; by gad, if my
brother George had gone down there I don't know what would have happened!
It will cost a couple of years' rent to get things put straight.”

When the Squire was at home there was scarce an evening when the Rector
did not come up to smoke a pipe and take his glass of old Jamaica or
Hollands with him.

“Look here, Bastow,” the latter said, some three years after his return,
“what are you going to do with that boy of yours? I hear bad reports of
him from everyone; he gets into broils at the alehouse, and I hear that he
consorts with a bad lot of fellows down at Reigate. One of my tenants—I
won't mention names—complained to me that he had persecuted his
daughter with his attentions. They say, he was recognized among that
poaching gang that had an affray with Sir James Hartrop's keepers. The
thing is becoming a gross scandal.”

“I don't know what to do about him, Squire; the boy has always been a
trouble to me. You see, before you came home, he got into bad hands in the
village here. Of course they have all gone, but several of them only moved
as far as Reigate, and he kept up their acquaintance. I thrashed him again
and again, but he has got beyond that now, you see; he is nearly eighteen,
and openly scoffs at my authority. Upon my word, I don't know what to do
in the matter.”

“He is growing up a thorough young ruffian,” the Squire said indignantly,
“and one of these mornings I expect to see him brought up before us
charged with some serious offense. We had to fine him last week for being
drunk and making a disturbance down at Reigate. Why do you let him have
money? You may have no authority over him; but at least you should refuse
to open your purse to him. Don't you see that this sort of thing is not
only a disgrace to him, but very prejudicial to the village? What
authority can you have for speaking against vice and drunkenness, when
your son is constantly intoxicated?”

“I see that, Squire—none better; and I have thought of resigning my
cure.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Parson! If the young fellow persists in his present
course he must leave the village, that is clear enough; but that is no
reason why you should. The question is what is to be done with him? The
best thing he could do would be to enlist. He might be of some service to
his country, in India or the American Colonies, but so far as I can see he
is only qualifying himself for a jail here.”

“I have told him as much, Squire,” Mr. Bastow said, in a depressed voice,
“and he has simply laughed in my face, and said that he was very
comfortable where he was, and had no idea whatever of moving.”

“What time does he go out in the morning?” John Thorndyke asked abruptly.

“He never gets up till twelve o'clock, and has his breakfast when I take
my dinner.”

“Well, I will come in tomorrow morning and have a talk with him myself.”

The next day the Squire rode up to the door of the Rectory soon after one
o'clock. Mr. Bastow had just finished his meal; his son, a young fellow of
between seventeen and eighteen, was lolling in an easy chair.

“I have come in principally to speak to you, young sir,” John Thorndyke
said quietly. “I have been asking your father what you intend to do with
yourself. He says he does not know.”

The young fellow looked up with an air of insolent effrontery.

“I don't know that it is any business of yours, Mr. Thorndyke, what I do
with myself.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” the Squire replied. “This village and the people in it
are mine. You are disturbing the village with your blackguard conduct; you
are annoying some of the girls on the estate, and altogether you are
making yourself a nuisance. I stopped at the alehouse as I came here, and
have ordered the landlord to draw no more liquor for you, and unless you
amend your conduct, and that quickly, I will have you out of the village
altogether.”

“I fancy, Mr. Thorndyke, that, even as a justice of the peace, you have
not the power to dictate to my father who shall be the occupant of this
house.”

“What you say is perfectly true; but as you make your father's life a
burden to him, and he is desirous of your absence, I can and will order
the village constable to remove you from his house by force, if
necessary.”

The young fellow cast an evil glance at his father. “He has not been
complaining, has he?” he said, with a sneer.

“He has not, sir,” John Thorndyke said indignantly. “It is I who have been
complaining to him, and he admits that you are altogether beyond his
authority. I have pointed out to him that he is in no way obliged to
support you at your age in idleness and dissipation, and that it were best
for him and all concerned that he should close his doors to you. I don't
want to have to send the son of my old friend to prison, but I can see
well enough that that is what it will come to if you don't give up your
evil courses. I should think you know by this time that I am a man of my
word. I have taken some pains to purge this village of all bad characters,
and I do not intend to have an exception made of the son of the clergyman,
who, in his family as well as in his own person, is bound to set an
example.”

“Well, Mr. Thorndyke, I utterly decline to obey your orders or to be
guided by your advice.”

“Very well, sir,” the magistrate said sternly. “Mr. Bastow, do I
understand that you desire that your son shall no longer remain an inmate
of your house?”

“I do,” the clergyman said firmly; “and if he does so I have no other
course before me but to resign my living; my position here has become
absolutely unbearable.”

“Very well, sir, then you will please lock your doors tonight, and if he
attempts to enter, I, as a magistrate, should know how to deal with him.
Now, young sir, you understand your position; you may not take my advice,
nevertheless, I shall give it you. The best thing you can do is to take
your place for town on the outside of the coach that comes through Reigate
this afternoon, and tomorrow morning proceed either to the recruiting
officer for His Majesty's service, or to that for the East India
Company's. You have health and strength, you will get rid at once of your
bad associates, and will start afresh in a life in which you may redeem
your past and be useful to your king and country.”

Young Bastow smiled.

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically. “I have my own plans, and shall follow
them.”

“I would think, Mr. Bastow,” the Squire said quietly, “it would just be as
well for you to come home with me. I don't think that the leave taking is
likely to be an affectionate one.”

The Rector rose at once.

“I will come with you, Squire. I may tell you now, what I have not told
you before, that my son has more than once raised his hand against me, and
that I do not care to be left alone with him.”

“I judged him capable even of that, Mr. Bastow.”

“Goodby, Arthur,” his father said. “My heart is ready to break that it has
come to this; but for both our sakes it is better so. Goodby, my son, and
may Heaven lead you to better ways! If ever you come to me and say,
'Father, I have turned over a new leaf, and heartily repent the trouble I
have caused you,' you will receive a hearty welcome from me, and no words
of reproach for the past.”

The young man paid no attention to the offered hand, but laughed
scornfully.

“You have not got rid of me yet,” he said. “As for you, Squire Thorndyke,
I shall not forget your meddlesome interference, and some day, maybe, you
will be sorry for it.”

“I think not,” John Thorndyke said gravely. “I am doing my duty to the
village, and still more I am doing my duty to an old friend, and I am not
likely ever to feel any regret that I have so acted. Now, Parson, let's be
off.”

After leaving the house with the clergyman, the Squire stopped at the
house of Knapp, the village constable; and said a few words to him, then,
leading his horse, walked home with Mr. Bastow.

“Don't be cast down, old friend,” he said. “It is a terrible trial to you;
but it is one sharp wrench, and then it will be over. Anything is better
than what you must have been suffering for some time.”

“I quite feel that, Squire; my life has indeed been intolerable of late. I
had a painful time before, but always looked forward with hope to your
brother coming home. Since you returned, and matters in the parish have
been put straight, this trouble has come in to take the place of the
other, and I have felt that I would rather resign and beg for charity than
see my son going from bad to worse, a scandal to the parish, and a
hindrance to all good work.”

“It is a bad business, Bastow, and it seems to me that two or three years
in prison would be the best thing for him, as he will not take up the only
trade open to him. At any rate, it would separate him from his evil
associates, and give you peace while he is behind the bars. Where does he
get his money?”

“That I know not, Squire. He takes some from me—it used to be done
secretly, now it is done with threats, and, as I told you, with violence—but
that would not account for his always having money. He must get it
somewhere else, for when I have paid my bills, as I always do the hour
that I receive money, there is but little over for him to take. He is
often away all night, sometimes for two or three days together, and I dare
not think what he does with himself; but certainly he gets money somehow,
and I am afraid that I cannot hope it is honestly obtained.”

“I do not well see how it can be,” the Squire agreed.

“If I had before known as much as you tell me now, I would have taken some
steps to have him watched, and to nip the matter before it went too far.
Do you think that he will take your notice, and come no more to the
house?”

Mr. Bastow shook his head.

“I fear that the only effect will be to make him worse, even when he was
quite a small boy punishment only had that effect with him. He will come
back tonight probably half drunk, and certainly furious at my having
ventured to lay the case before you.”

“You must lock the doors and bar the windows.”

“I did that when he first took to being out at night, but he always
managed to get in somehow.”

“Well, it must be all put a stop to, Bastow; and I will come back with you
this evening, and if this young rascal breaks into the house I will have
him down at Reigate tomorrow on the charge of house breaking; or, at any
rate, I will threaten to do so if he does not give a promise that he will
in future keep away from you altogether.”

“I shall be glad, at any rate, if you will come down, Squire, for, to say
the truth, I feel uneasy as to the steps he may take in his fury at our
conversation just now.”

John Thorndyke took down from a wall a heavy hunting whip, as he went out
with the parson at nine o'clock. He had in vain endeavored to cheer his
old friend as they sat over their steaming glasses of Jamaica. The parson
had never been a strong man; he was of a kindly disposition, and an
unwearied worker when there was an opportunity for work, but he had always
shrunk from unpleasantness, and was ready to yield rather than bring about
trouble. He had for a long time suffered in silence, and had not the
Squire himself approached the subject of his son's delinquencies, he would
have never opened his mouth about it. Now, however, that he had done so,
and the Squire had taken the matter in hand, and had laid down what was to
be done, though he trembled at the prospect, he did not even think of
opposing his plan, and indeed could think of no alternative for it.

“I have told John Knapp to be here,” the Squire said, as they reached the
house. “It is just as well that he should be present if your son comes
back again. He is a quiet, trustworthy fellow, and will keep his mouth
shut if I tell him.”

Mr. Bastow made no reply. It was terrible to him that there should be
another witness to his son's conduct, but he saw that the Squire was
right. An old woman opened the door.

“Are all the shutters closed and barred?” John Thorndyke asked her.

“Yes, sir; I always sees to that as soon as it gets dark.”

“Very well; you can go to bed now, Elisa,” her master said. “Is John Knapp
here?”

“Yes, he came an hour ago, and is sitting in the kitchen.”

“I will call him in myself when I want to speak to him.”

As soon as the old servant had gone upstairs the Squire went into the
kitchen, Mr. Bastow having gone to the cellar to fetch up a bottle of old
brandy that was part of a two dozen case given to him by the old Squire
fifteen years before.

“Do you go round the house, John, and see that everything is properly
fastened up. I see that you have got a jug of beer there. You had better
get a couple of hours' sleep on that settle. I shall keep watch, till I am
sleepy, and then I will call you. Let me know if you find any of the doors
or windows unbarred.”

Five minutes later the constable knocked at the door of the parlor. “The
door opening into the stable yard was unbarred, Squire.”

“I thought it likely that it would be so, Knapp. You have made it fast
now, I suppose? That is right. Now lie down and get an hour or two of
sleep; it is scarce likely that he will be back until late.

“That was the old woman, of course,” he went on to his companion, when the
door closed behind the constable. “I thought it likely enough that he
might tell her to leave a way for him to come in. You told me that she had
been with you a good many years. I dare say she has left that door
unbarred for him many a time. I should advise you to get a man to sleep in
the house regularly; there are plenty of fellows who will be glad to do it
for a shilling or two a week, and I do not think that it is safe for you
to be here alone.”

An hour later he said to the Rector: “Now, Bastow, you had best go to bed.
I have taken the matter into my own hands, and will carry it through.
However, I won't have him taken away without your being present, and will
call you when we want you. Of course, if he will give a solemn promise not
to molest you, and, even if he won't enlist, to leave this part of the
country altogether, I shall let him off.”

“There is one thing, Mr. Thorndyke, that I have not told you,” the Rector
said hesitatingly. “Sometimes, when he comes home late, he brings someone
with him; I have heard voices downstairs. I have never seen who it was—for
what could I have done if I went down?—but I have heard horses
brought round to the stable yard, and heard them ride away:”

“It is just as well you told me,” the Squire said dryly. “If you had told
me this evening at the house, I would have dropped a brace of pistols into
my pocket. However, this hunting crop is a good weapon; but I don't
suppose they will show fight, even if anyone is with him. Besides, Knapp
has a stout oaken cudgel with him—I noticed it standing against his
chair as I went in—and as he is a strong active fellow, and we shall
have the advantage of a surprise, I fancy we should be a match even for
three or four of them.”

At one o'clock the Squire roused John Knapp. “It is one o'clock, John; now
take off your boots. I don't want him to know that there is anyone in the
house till we get hold of him. I am going to lie down on the sofa in the
parlor. The moment you hear footsteps you come and wake me.”

The clock in the kitchen had just struck two when the constable shook John
Thorndyke. “There are two horses just coming into the yard.”

“All right. I opened a window in the room looking down into the yard
before I lay down. I will go up and see what they are going to do. If they
try to break in anywhere down here, do you come at once quietly up to me.”

The Squire had taken off his boots before he lay down, and, holding his
heavy hunting crop in his hand, he went quietly upstairs. As he went to
the window he heard Arthur Bastow say angrily:

“Confound the old woman! she has locked the door; she has never played me
that trick before. There is a ladder in the stable, and I will get in at
that window up there and open it for you. Or you may as well come up that
way, too, and then you can stow the things away in my room at once, and
have done with it.”

The Squire went hastily down.

“Come upstairs, Knapp,” he whispered to the constable. “There are three of
them, and I fancy the two mounted men are highwaymen. Let them all get in,
keeping yourself well back from the window. The moon is round on the other
side of the house, but it will be light enough for us to see them as they
get in. I will take the last fellow, and I will warrant that he will give
no trouble; then I will fall upon the second, and do you spring on young
Bastow. The two highwaymen are sure to have pistols, and he may have some
also. Give him a clip with that cudgel of yours first, then spring on him,
and hold his arms tightly by his side. If I call you give him a back heel
and throw him smartly, and then come to my aid. I don't think I shall want
it, but it is as well to prepare for everything.”

They went upstairs and took their places, one on each side of the window,
standing three or four feet back. Just as they took up their positions the
top of the stable ladder appeared above the sill of the window. Half a
minute later young Bastow's head appeared, and he threw up the sash still
higher, and stepped into the room; then he turned and helped two men in,
one after the other.

“Follow me,” he said, “then you won't tumble over the furniture.”

As they turned, the heavy handle of John's Thorndyke's whip fell with
tremendous force on the head of the last man.

“What the devil is that?” the other exclaimed, snatching out a pistol and
turning round, as the falling body struck him, but he got no further.
Again the heavy whip descended, this time on his right arm; it dropped
useless by his side, and the pistol fell from his hand. Then John
Thorndyke fell upon him and bore him to the ground, snatched the other
pistol from his belt, and held it to his head.

“Now, my man,” he said quietly, “if you don't surrender I will blow out
your brains.”

“I surrender,” the man moaned. “I believe that you have broken my arm.
Curse you, whoever you are.”

The struggle between John Knapp and young Bastow was soon over. The young
fellow was lithe and sinewy, but he was no match for the constable, who,
indeed, had almost overpowered him before he was aware what had happened.

“Has he got pistols, Knapp?” the Squire asked.

“Yes, sir, a brace of them; I have got them both safely in my pocket.
There,” he went on, as a sharp click was heard, “I have got the darbys on
him. Now shall I help you, sir?”

“You had better run downstairs first and light a couple of candles at the
kitchen fire: you will find a pair standing on the parlor table. Don't be
long about it; the first fellow I hit was stunned, and he may come round
any moment.”

“I will make sure of him before I go, Squire. I have got another pair of
darbys in my pocket.”

As soon as he had fastened these upon the wrists of the insensible man he
ran downstairs, and in a minute returned with the candles.

“I am glad that you are back,” the Squire said. “I was afraid that young
rascal would try to escape.”

“I took good care of that, Squire; you see I put one of his arms round the
bedpost before I slipped the darbys on, and he cannot get away unless he
takes the whole bed with him; and as I don't think he would get it out
either by the window or the door, he is as safe here as he would be in
Newgate. What is the next thing to do, Squire?”

“You had better tie this fellow's legs. I will leave you a candle here,
and you can keep guard over them while I go and wake Mr. Bastow.”

The Rector needed no waking; he was walking up and down his room in great
distress. He had not undressed, but had thrown himself upon his bed.

“What has happened, Thorndyke?” he asked as the Squire entered. “I heard
two heavy falls, and I felt that something terrible had taken place.”

“Well, it has been a serious matter—very serious. That unfortunate
son of yours is not hurt, but I don't know but that the best thing that
could have happened would have been for him to have got a bullet through
his head. He brought home with him two men who are, I have little doubt,
highwaymen; anyhow, they each had a brace of pistols in their belt, and
from what he said I think they have been stopping a coach. At any rate,
they have something with them that they were going to hide here, and I
fancy it is not the first time that it has been done. I don't expect your
son had anything to do with the robbery, though he was carrying a brace of
pistols, too; however, we have got them all three.

“Now, you see, Bastow, this takes the affair altogether out of our hands.
I had hoped that when we caught your son in the act of breaking into your
house after you had ordered him from it, we should be able to frighten him
into enlisting, or, at any rate, into promising to disturb you no more,
for even if we had taken him before the bench, nothing could have been
done to him, for under such circumstances his re-entering the house could
not be looked upon as an act of burglary. As it is, the affair is
altogether changed. Even if I wished to do so, as a magistrate I could not
release those two highwaymen; they must appear as prisoners in court. I
shall hear down in the town tomorrow morning what coach has been stopped,
and I have no doubt that they have on them the proceeds of the robbery.
Your son was consorting with and aiding them, and acting as a receiver of
stolen goods, and as you have heard horses here before it is probable that
when his room is thoroughly searched we shall come upon a number of
articles of the same sort. I am sorry that I ever meddled in the matter;
but it is too late for that now. You had better come downstairs with me,
and we will take a turn in the garden, and try to see what had best be
done.”

CHAPTER III.

John Thorndyke opened the shutters of the parlor window, and stepped out
into the garden alone, for the Rector was too unnerved and shattered to go
out with him, but threw himself on the sofa, completely prostrated. Half
an hour later the Squire re-entered the room. The morning was just
beginning to break. Mr. Bastow raised his head and looked sadly at him.

“I can see no way out of it, old friend. Were it not that he is in charge
of the constable, I should have said that your only course was to aid your
son to escape; but Knapp is a shrewd fellow as well as an honest one. You
cannot possibly get your son away without his assistance, for he is
handcuffed to the bed, and Knapp, in so serious a matter as this, would
not, I am sure, lend himself to an escape. I have no doubt that with my
influence with the other magistrates, and, indeed, on the circumstances of
the case, they will commit him on a minor charge only, as the passengers
of the coach will, I hope, give evidence that it was stopped by mounted
men alone. I think, therefore, that he would only be charged with
consorting with and aiding the highwaymen after the event, and of aiding
them to conceal stolen goods—that is, if any are found in his room.

“That much stolen property has been hidden there, there is little reason
to doubt, but it may have been removed shortly afterwards. It was, of
course, very convenient for them to have some place where they could take
things at once, and then ride on quietly to London the next day, for, if
arrested; nothing would be found upon them, and it would be impossible to
connect them with the robbery. Later on they might come back again and get
them from him. Of course, if nothing is found in his room, we get rid of
the charge of receiving altogether, and there would be nothing but
harboring, aiding, and abetting—a much less serious business. Look
here, old friend, I will strain a point. I will go out into the garden
again and walk about for an hour, and while I am out, if you should take
advantage of my absence to creep up to your son's room and to search it
thoroughly, examining every board of the floor to see if it is loose, and
should you find anything concealed, to take it and hide it, of course I
cannot help it. The things, if there are any, might secretly be packed up
by you in a box and sent up to Bow Street, with a line inside, saying that
they are proceeds of robbery, and that you hope the owners will be traced
and their property restored to them. Not, of course, in your own hand, and
without a signature. There might be some little trouble in managing it,
but it could, no doubt, be done.”

John Thorndyke went out into the garden without another word. The hour was
nearly up when Mr. Bastow came out; he looked ten years older than he had
done on the previous day. He wrung his friend's hand.

“Thank God I have been up there,” he said. “I do not think they will find
anything.”

“Say nothing about it, Bastow; I don't want to know whether you found
anything. Now I am going to fetch two or three of the men from the
village, to get them to aid the constable in keeping guard, and another to
go up to the house at once and order a groom to saddle one of my horses
and bring it here.”

As it was now past five o'clock, and the Squire found most of the men
getting up, he sent one off to the house with the message, and returned
with two others to the Rectory. He told them briefly that two highwaymen
had been arrested during the night, and that as young Mr. Bastow was in
their company at the time, it had been necessary as a matter of form to
arrest him also. He went upstairs with them.

“I have brought up two men to sit with you, Knapp, until the Reigate
constables come up. You can take those handcuffs off Mr. Bastow, but see
that he does not leave the room, and do you yourself sit in a chair
against the door, and place one of these men at the window. How about
others?”

“The man you hit first, Squire, did not move until a quarter of an hour
ago; he has been muttering to himself since, but I don't think he is
sensible. The other one has been quiet enough, but there is no doubt that
his arm is broken.”

“I am going to ride down to Reigate at once, and will bring back a surgeon
with me.”

“You will repent this night's business, Thorndyke!” Arthur Bastow said
threateningly.

“I fancy that you will repent it more than I shall, Bastow; it is likely
that you will have plenty of time to do so.”

It was not long before the groom with the horse arrived. John Thorndyke
rode at a gallop down to Reigate, and first called on the head constable.

“Dawney,” he said, as the man came down, partially dressed, at his
summons, “has anything taken place during the night?”

“Yes, Squire, the up coach was stopped a mile before it got here, and the
passengers robbed. It was due here at one, and did not come in till half
an hour later. Of course I was sent for. The guard was shot. There were
two of the fellows. He let fly with his blunderbuss, but he does not seem
to have hit either of them, and one rode up and shot him dead; then they
robbed all the passengers. They got six gold watches, some rings, and,
adding up the amounts taken from all the passengers, about a hundred and
fifty pounds in money.”

“Well, I fancy I have got your two highwaymen safe, Dawney.”

“You have, sir?” the constable said in astonishment.

“Yes. I happened to be at the Rectory. Mr. Bastow had had a quarrel with
his son, and had forbidden him the house.”

The constable shook his head. “I am afraid he is a very bad one, that
young chap.”

“I am afraid he is, Dawney. However, his father was afraid that he might
come in during the night and make a scene, so I said I would stop with
him, and I took our village constable with me. At two o'clock this morning
the young fellow came with two mounted men, who, I have no doubt, were
highwaymen. We had locked up down below. Bastow took a ladder, and the
three got in at a bedroom window on the first floor. Knapp and I were
waiting for them there, and, taking them by surprise, succeeded in
capturing them before the highwaymen could use their pistols. The
constable and two men are looking after them, but as one has not got over
a knock I gave him on the head, and the other has a broken arm, there is
little fear of their making their escape. You had better go up with two of
your men, and take a light cart with you with some straw in the bottom,
and bring them all down here. I will ride round myself to Mr. Chetwynde,
Sir Charles Harris, and Mr. Merchison, and we will sit at twelve o'clock.
You can send round a constable with the usual letters to the others, but
those three will be quite enough for the preliminary examination.”

“Well, Squire, that is good news indeed. We have had the coach held up so
often within five miles of this place during the past three months, that
we have been getting quite a bad name. And to think that young Bastow was
in it! I have heard some queer stories about him, and fancied before long
I should have to put my hand upon his shoulder; but I didn't expect this.”

“There is not a shadow of proof that he had anything to do with the
robbery, Dawney, but he will have difficulty in proving that he did not
afterwards abet them. It is serious enough as it is, and I am terribly
grieved for his father's sake.”

“Yes, sir; I have always heard him spoken of as a kind gentleman, and one
who took a lot of trouble whenever anyone was sick. Well, sir, I will be
off in twenty minutes. I will run round at once and send Dr. Hewett up to
the Rectory, and a man shall start on horseback at seven o'clock with the
summons to the other magistrates.”

John Thorndyke rode round to his three fellow magistrates, who, living
nearest to the town, were most regular in their attendance at the
meetings. They all listened in surprise to his narrative, and expressed
great pleasure at hearing that the men who had been such a pest to the
neighborhood, and had caused them all personally a great deal of trouble,
had been captured. All had heard tales, too, to Arthur Bastow's
disadvantage, and expressed great commiseration for his father. They
agreed to meet at the court half an hour before business began, to talk
the matter over together.

“It is out of the question that we can release him on bail,” the gentleman
who was chairman of the bench said. “Quite so,” John Thorndyke agreed. “In
the first place, the matter is too serious; and in the next, he certainly
would not be able to find bail; and lastly, for his father's sake, it is
unadvisable that he should be let out. At the same time, it appears to me
that there is a broad distinction between his case and the others. I fear
that there can be no question that he had prior acquaintance with these
men, and that he was cognizant of the whole business; something I heard
him say, and which, to my regret, I shall have to repeat in court, almost
proves that he was so. Still, let us hope none of the stolen property will
be found upon him; whether they had intended to pass it over to his care
or not is immaterial. If they had not done so, I doubt whether he could be
charged with receiving stolen goods, and we might make the charge simply
one of aiding these two criminals, and of being so far an accessory after
the crime.

“If we could soften it down still further I should, for his father's sake,
be glad; but as far as he himself is concerned, I would do nothing to
lighten his punishment. He is about as bad a specimen of human nature as I
ever came across. His father is in bodily fear of him. I saw the young
fellow yesterday, and urged him to enlist, in order to break himself loose
from the bad companionship he had fallen into. His reply was insolent and
defiant in the highest degree, and it was then that in his father's name I
forbade him the house, and as his father was present he confirmed what I
said, and told him that he would not have anything more to do with him.
This affair may do him good, and save his neck from a noose. A few years
at the hulks or a passage to Botany Bay will do him no harm; and, at any
rate, his father will have rest and peace, which he never would have if he
remained here.”

A somewhat similar conversation took place at each house. John Thorndyke
breakfasted at Sir Charles Harris', the last of the three upon whom he
called, and then mounting rode back to Reigate.

“We have found the plunder on them,” the head constable said, coming out
of the lockup as he drew rein before it, “and, fortunately for young
Bastow, nothing was found upon him.”

“How are the two men?”

“The fellow you hit first is conscious now, sir, but very weak. The doctor
says that if he hadn't had a thick hat on, your blow would have killed him
to a certainty. The other man's arm is set and bandaged, and he is all
right otherwise. We shall be able to have them both in court at twelve
o'clock.”

The Squire rode up to his house. He was met at the door by his son, in a
state of great excitement.

“Is it all true, father? The news has come from the village that you have
killed two men, and that they and Arthur Bastow have all been taken away
in a cart, guarded by constables.”

“As usual, Mark, rumor has exaggerated matters. There are no dead men; one
certainly got a crack on the head that rendered him insensible for some
time, and another's arm is broken.”

“And are they highwaymen, father? They say that two horses were fastened
behind the cart.”

“That is what we are going to try, Mark. Until their guilt is proved, no
one knows whether they are highwaymen or not.”

“And why is Arthur Bastow taken, father?”

“Simply because he was in company with the others. Now, you need not ask
any more questions, but if you like to get your pony saddled and ride down
with me to Reigate at eleven o'clock, I will get you into the courthouse,
and then you will hear all about it.”

At greater length the Squire went into the matter with Mrs. Cunningham,
his lady housekeeper, and his ward's governess.

“It is a bad business, Mr. Thorndyke,” she said, “and must be terrible for
poor Mr. Bastow.”

“Yes, it is a bad business altogether, except that it will rid him of this
young rascal. If I were in his place I should be ready to suffer a good
deal to obtain such a riddance.”

“I suppose that you won't sit upon the bench today?”

“No; at least I shall take no part in the deliberations. I shall, of
course, give evidence. The affair is not likely to last very long; my
story will take the longest to tell. Knapp's will be confirmatory of mine,
and the Reigate constable will depose to finding the watches, rings, and
money upon them; then, of course, the case will be adjourned for the
attendance of the coachman and some of the passengers. I don't suppose
they will be able to swear to their identity, for no doubt they were
masked. But that is immaterial; the discovery of the stolen property upon
them will be sufficient to hang them. No doubt we shall have some Bow
Streets runners down from town tomorrow or next day, and they will most
likely be able to say who the fellows are.”

“Will Mr. Bastow have to give evidence against his son?”

“Not before us, I think; but I imagine he will have to appear at the
trial.”

“It will be terrible for him.”

“Yes, terrible. I sincerely hope that they will not summon him, but I am
afraid that there is very little doubt about it; they are sure to want to
know about his son's general conduct, though possibly the testimony on
that point of the constable at Reigate will be sufficient. My own hope is
that he will get a long sentence; at any rate, one long enough to insure
his not coming back during his father's lifetime. If you had seen his
manner when we were talking to him yesterday, you would believe that he is
capable of anything. I have had a good many bad characters before me
during the year and a half that I have sat upon the bench, but I am bound
to say that I never saw one who was to my eyes so thoroughly evil as this
young fellow. I don't think,” he added with a smile, “that I should feel
quite comfortable myself if he were acquitted; it will be a long time
before I shall forget the expression of his face when he said to me this
morning, 'You will repent this night's work, Thorndyke.'”

“You don't mean that you think he would do you any harm, Mr. Thorndyke?”

“Well, I should not care to meet him in a lonely place if he was armed and
I was not. But you need not be nervous, Mrs. Cunningham, there is not the
smallest chance of his being out for years; and by that time his blood
will have had time to cool down, and he will have learnt, at any rate,
that crimes cannot be committed in this country with impunity.”

“It is all very shocking,” the lady said. “What will poor Mr. Bastow do? I
should think that he would not like to remain as clergyman here, where
everyone knows about it.”

“That must be for him to decide,” the Squire said; “but if he wishes to
resign I certainly shall not press him to continue to hold the living. He
is a very old friend of mine. My father presented the living to him when I
was nine or ten years old, and I may say I saw him daily up to the time
when I went down into Sussex. If he resigns I should urge him to take up
his residence here and to act as Mark's tutor; and he might also relieve
you of some of Millicent's lessons. You have plenty to do in looking after
the management of things in general. However, that is for the future.”

At eleven o'clock the Squire drove down to Reigate, taking Mark with him,
as it would save all trouble about putting up the horse and pony. On
arriving he handed Mark over to the head constable, and asked him to pass
him into a seat in the courthouse, before the public were let in.

Reigate was in a state of unusual excitement. That the coach should have
been stopped and robbed was too common an event to excite much interest,
but that two highwaymen should have been captured, and, as was rumored, a
young gentleman brought in on a charge of being in connection with them,
caused a thrill of excitement. Quite a small crowd was assembled before
the courthouse, and the name of Squire Thorndyke passed from mouth to
mouth.

“There is some talk of his being mixed up with it in some way or other,”
one said. “I saw him myself ride in here, about half past five, and I
wondered he was about so early. Some do say as he caught the two
highwaymen single handed; but that don't stand to reason. Besides, what
could he have been doing out at such an hour as that? He is a good
landlord, and they say that Crowswood has been quite a different place
since he came to be master. He is a tight hand as a magistrate, and
cleared out half the village the first two or three months he was there;
but he spent a mint of money on the place, and the people there say that
they could not have a better master. Ah, here is Squire Chetwynd. He was
sure to be here. There is Sir Charles' gig turning the corner. I expect
most of them will be on the bench; they don't get such a case as this
every day.”

“It may be there will be nothing for us to hear when the court opens,”
another said. “I hear both the fellows have been shot or knocked about so
bad that they cannot be brought up. Of course the court cannot sit if they
aint before it.”

“That is not so, Master Jones. I spoke to one of the constables half an
hour ago—he lives next door to me—and he said that they would
be well enough to appear. Neither of them have been shot, though they have
been hurt pretty bad.”

All this added to the desire of those around to get into the court, and
there was quite a rush when the doors were opened two minutes before
twelve, and it was at once crammed, the constable having some difficulty
in getting the doors shut, and in persuading those who could not get in
that there was not standing room for another person. There was a buzz of
talk in court until the door opened and six magistrates came in. It was
observed that John Thorndyke did not seat himself with the others, but
moved his chair a little apart from them, thus confirming the report that
he was in some way connected with the matter, and did not intend to take
any part in the decision. Then another door opened, and the three
prisoners were brought in. The two first were pale and evidently weak; one
had his head wrapped in bandages, the other had the right sleeve of his
coat cut off, and his arm bandaged and supported by a sling. Both made a
resolute effort to preserve a careless demeanor. The third, who was some
years younger than the others, looked round with a smile on his lips,
bowed to the magistrates with an air of insolent bravado when he was
placed in the dock, and then leaned easily in the corner, as if
indifferent to the whole business. A chair was placed between his comrades
for the use of the man whose head was bandaged. Many among those present
knew Arthur Bastow by sight, and his name passed from mouth to mouth; but
the usher called loudly for silence, and then the magistrates' clerk rose.

“William Smith and John Brown—at least, these are the names given—are
charged with stopping the South Coast coach last night, killing the guard,
and robbing the passengers; and Arthur Bastow is charged with aiding and
abetting the other two prisoners, and with guilty knowledge of their
crime.”

It was noticed by those who could see the prisoners' faces that, in spite
of Bastow's air of indifference, there was an expression of anxiety on his
face as the charge was read, and he undoubtedly felt relief as that
against himself was mentioned. The first witness was John Knapp, and the
constable stepped into the witness box.

“What do you know of this business, Knapp?” the chairman asked. “Just tell
it your own way.”

“I am constable of Crowswood, your honor, and yesterday Squire Thorndyke
said to me—”

“No, you must not tell it like that, Knapp; you must not repeat what
another person said to you. You can say that from information received you
did so and so.”

“Yes, your honor. From information received I went to the Rev. Mr.
Bastow's house, at a quarter to nine last night. At nine o'clock Squire
Thorndyke and the Parson came in together. They sent the servant up to
bed, and then the Squire sent me round to examine the fastenings of the
doors. I found that one back door had been left unfastened, and locked and
bolted it. The Squire told me to lie down until one o'clock, and he would
watch, and Mr. Bastow went up to bed.”

“Do you know of your own knowledge why these precautions were taken?”

“Only from what I was told, your honor. At one o'clock the Squire woke me,
and he lay down in the parlor, telling me to call him if I heard any
movement outside. About two o'clock I heard two horses come into the
Parson's yard. I called Squire Thorndyke, who went upstairs to an open
window; presently someone came and tried the back door. I heard voices
outside, but could not hear what was said. The Squire came down and called
me upstairs. I went up and took my place at one side of the window, and
the Squire took his on the other. I had this cudgel in my hand, and the
Squire his riding whip. A ladder was put up against the window, and then
someone came up, lifted the sash up high and got in. There was light
enough for me to see it was young Mr. Bastow. Then the two other prisoners
came up. When the third had got into the room Mr. Bastow said, 'Follow me,
and then you won't tumble over the furniture.'”

“How was it that they did not see you and Mr. Thorndyke?” the chairman
asked.

“We were standing well back, your honor. The moon was on the other side of
the house. There was light enough for us to see them as they got in at the
window, but where we were standing it was quite dark, especially to chaps
who had just come in from the moonlight. As they moved, the Squire hit the
last of them a clout on the head with his hunting crop, and down he went,
as if shot. The man next to him turned, but I did not see what took place,
for, as the Squire had ordered me, I made a rush at Mr. Bastow and got my
arms round him pretty tight, so as to prevent him using his pistols, if he
had any. He struggled hard, but without saying a word, till I got my heel
behind his and threw him on his back. I came down on the top of him; then
I got the pistols out of his belt and threw them on the bed, slipped the
handcuffs onto one wrist, lifted him up a bit, and then shoved him up
against the bedpost, and got the handcuff onto his other wrist, so that he
could not shift away, having the post in between his arms.

“Then I went to see if the Squire wanted any help, but he didn't. I first
handcuffed the man whose head he had broken, and tied the legs of the
other, and then kept guard over them till morning. When the constables
came up from town we searched the prisoners, and on two of them found the
watches, money, and rings. We found nothing on Mr. Bastow. I went with the
head constable to Mr. Bastow's room and searched it thoroughly, but found
nothing whatever there.”

The evidence created a great sensation in court. John Thorndyke had first
intended to ask Knapp not to make any mention of the fact that Arthur
Bastow was carrying pistols unless the question was directly put to him.
But the more he had thought over the matter, the more convinced was he
that the heavier the sentence the better it would be for the Rector; and
when he had heard from the latter that there was nothing left in his son's
room that could be brought against him, and that he could not be charged
with the capital crime of being a receiver, he thought it best to let
matters take their course.

The head constable was the next witness. He deposed to the finding of the
articles produced upon the two elder prisoners and the unsuccessful search
of the younger prisoner's room.

“You did not search the house further?” the chairman inquired.

“No, sir; I wanted to get the prisoners down here as fast as I could,
seeing that two of them were seriously hurt.”

The chairman nodded.

“You will, of course, make a careful search of the whole house,
constable.”

“Yes, sir; I left one of my men up there with instructions to allow no one
to go upstairs until I returned.”

“Quite right.”

John Thorndyke was the next witness, and his evidence cleared up what had
hitherto been a mystery to the general body of the public, as to how he
and the constable happened to be in the house on watch when the highwaymen
arrived. The most important part of his evidence was the repetition of the
words young Bastow had used as he mounted the ladder, as they showed that
it was arranged between the prisoners that the stolen goods should be
hidden in the house. The Squire was only asked one or two questions.

“I suppose, Mr. Thorndyke, that you had no idea whatever that the younger
prisoner would be accompanied by anyone else when he returned home?”

“Not the slightest,” the Squire replied. “I was there simply to prevent
this unfortunate lad from entering the house, when perhaps he might have
used violence towards his father. My intention was to seize him if he did
so, and to give him the choice of enlisting, as I had urged him to do, or
of being brought before this bench for breaking into his father's house. I
felt that anything was better than his continuing in the evil courses on
which he seemed bent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thorndyke. I must compliment you in the name of my brother
magistrates, and I may say of the public, for the manner in which you, at
considerable risk to yourself, have effected the capture of the two elder
prisoners.”

After consulting with the others the head constable was recalled.

“Do you know anything about the character of the youngest prisoner?”

“Yes, sir. We have had our eye upon him for some time. He was brought
before your honors a week ago charged with being drunk and disorderly in
this town, and was fined 5 pounds. He is constantly drinking with some of
the worst characters in the place, and is strongly suspected of having
been concerned in the fray between the poachers and Sir Charles Harris'
gamekeepers. Two of the latter said that they recognized him amongst the
poachers, but as they both declined to swear to him we did not arrest
him.”

John Knapp was then recalled, and testified to Bastow's drinking habits,
and that the landlord of the alehouse at Crowswood had been ordered by the
Squire not to draw any liquor for him in future on pain of having the
renewal of his license refused.

“Have you any more witnesses to call?” the chairman asked the head
constable.

“Not at present, your honor. We have sent up to town, and on the next
occasion the coachman will be called to testify to the shooting of the
guard, and we hope to have some of the passengers there to identify the
articles stolen from them.”

“It will be necessary that the Rev. Mr. Bastow should be here. He need not
be called to give evidence unless we think it to be of importance, but he
had better be in attendance. The prisoners are remanded until this day
week.”

An hour later the three prisoners, handcuffed, were driven under an escort
of three armed constables to Croydon Jail. When again brought up in court
the passengers on the coach identified the articles taken from them; the
coachman gave evidence of the stopping of the coach, and of the shooting
of the guard. The head constable testified that he had searched the
Rectory from top to bottom, and found nothing whatever of a suspicious
nature. None of the passengers were able to testify to the two elder
prisoners as the men who had robbed them, as these had been masked, but
the height and dress corresponded to those of the prisoners; and the two
Bow Street runners then came forward, and gave evidence that the two elder
prisoners were well known to them. They had long been suspected of being
highwaymen, and had several times been arrested when riding towards London
on occasions when a coach had been stopped the night before, but no stolen
goods had ever been found upon them, and in no case had the passengers
been able to swear to their identity. One was known among his associates
as “Galloping Bill,” the other as the “Downy One.” At the conclusion of
the evidence the three prisoners were formally committed for trial, the
magistrates having retired in consultation for some time upon the question
of whether the charge of receiving stolen goods ought to be made against
Arthur Bastow.

“I think, gentlemen,” the chairman said, after a good deal had been urged
on both sides of the question, “in this case we can afford to take a
merciful view. In the first place, no stolen goods were discovered upon
him or in the house. There is strong presumptive evidence of his
intention, but intention is not a crime, and even were the evidence
stronger than it is, I should be inclined to take a merciful view. There
can be no doubt that the young fellow is thoroughly bad, and the bravado
he has exhibited throughout the hearing is at once unbecoming and
disgraceful; but we must remember that he is not yet eighteen, and that,
in the second place, he is the son of a much respected clergyman, who is
our neighbor. The matter is serious enough for him as it stands, and he is
certain to have a very heavy sentence.

“Mr. Thorndyke, who takes no part in our deliberations, is most anxious
that the prisoner's father should be spared the agony of his son being
placed on trial on a capital charge, though I do not think that there
would be the smallest chance of his being executed, for the judges would
be certain to take his youth into consideration. Had there been prima
facie evidence of concealment, we must have done our duty and sent him to
trial on that charge; but as there is no such evidence, I think that it
will be in all respects better to send him on a charge on which the
evidence is as clear as noonday. Moreover, I think that Mr. Thorndyke's
wishes should have some weight with us, seeing that it is entirely due to
him that the important capture of these highwaymen, who have long been a
scourge to this neighborhood, has been effected.”

Mr. Bastow had not been called as a witness. John Thorndyke had brought
him down to Reigate in a closed carriage, and he had waited in the
justices' room while the examination went on; but the magistrates agreed
that the evidence given was amply sufficient for them to commit upon
without given him the pain of appearing. John Thorndyke had taken him to
another room while the magistrates were consulting together, and when he
heard the result drove him back again.

“I have fully made up my mind to resign my living, Thorndyke. I could not
stand up and preach to the villagers of their duties when I myself have
failed so signally in training my own son; nor visit their houses and
presume to lecture them on their shortcomings when my son is a convicted
criminal.”

“I quite see that, old friend,” the Squire said. “And I had no doubt but
that you would decide on this course. I will try not to persuade you to
change your decision, for I feel that your power of usefulness is at an
end as far as the village is concerned. May I ask what you propose to do?
I can hardly suppose that your savings have been large.”

“Two years ago I had some hundreds laid by, but they have dwindled away to
nothing; you can understand how. For a time it was given freely, then
reluctantly; then I declared I would give no more, but he took it all the
same—he knew well enough that I could never prosecute him for
forgery.”

“As bad as that, eh?” Thorndyke said sternly. “Well, we won't talk further
of him now; what I propose is that you should take up your abode at the
Hall. I am not satisfied with the school where Mark has been for the last
two years, and I have been hesitating whether to get a private tutor for
him or to send him to one of the public schools. I know that that would be
best, but I could not bring myself to do so. I have some troubles of my
own that but two or three people know of, and now, that everything is
going on smoothly on the estate and in the village, I often feel dull, and
the boy's companionship does me much good; and as he knows many lads of
his own age in the neighborhood now, I think that he would do just as well
at home.

“He will be taking to shooting and hunting before long, and if he is to
have a tutor, there is no one I should like to have better than yourself.
You know all the people, and we could talk comfortably together of an
evening when the house is quiet. Altogether, it will be an excellent
arrangement for me. You would have your own room, and if I have company
you need not join us unless you like. The house would not seem like itself
without you, for you have been associated with it as long as I can
remember. As to your going out into the world at the age of sixty, it
would be little short of madness. There—you need not give me an
answer now,” he went on, seeing that the Rector was too broken down to
speak; “but I am sure that when you think it over you will come to the
same conclusion as I do, that it will be the best plan possible for us
both.”

CHAPTER IV.

The trial of the two highwaymen and Arthur Bastow came off in due course.
The evidence given was similar to that offered at Reigate, the only
addition being that Mr. Bastow was himself put into the box. The counsel
for the prosecution said: “I am sorry to have to call you, Mr. Bastow. We
all feel most deeply for you, and I will ask you only two or three
questions. Was your son frequently out at night?”

“He was.”

“Did you often hear him return?”

“Yes; I seldom went to sleep until he came back.”

“Had you any reason to suppose that others returned with him?”

“I never saw any others.”

“But you might have heard them without seeing them. Please tell us if you
ever heard voices.”

“Yes, I have heard men's voices,” the clergyman said reluctantly, in a low
voice.

“One more question, and I have done. Have you on some occasions heard the
sound of horses' hoofs in your yard at about the time that your son came
in?”

Mr. Bastow said in a low voice: “I have.”

“Had you any suspicion whatever of the character of your son's visitors?”

“None whatever. I supposed that those with him were companions with whom
he had been spending the evening.”

Mr. Bastow had to be assisted from the witness box, so overcome was he
with the ordeal. He had not glanced at his son while giving his evidence.
The latter and his two fellow prisoners maintained throughout the trial
their expression of indifference. The two highwaymen nodded to
acquaintances they saw in the body of the court, smiled at various points
in the evidence, and so conducted themselves that there were murmured
exclamations of approval of their gameness on the part of the lower class
of the public. The jury, without a moment's hesitation, found them all
guilty of the offenses with which they were charged. Bastow was first
sentenced.

“Young man,” the judge said, “young as you are, there can be no doubt
whatever in the minds of anyone who has heard the evidence that you have
been an associate with these men who have been found guilty of highway
robbery accompanied by murder. I consider that a merciful view was taken
of your case by the magistrates who committed you for trial, for the
evidence of your heartbroken father, on whose gray hairs your conduct has
brought trouble and disgrace, leaves no doubt that you have for some time
been in league with highwaymen, although not actually participating in
their crime. The words overheard by Mr. Thorndyke show that you were
prepared to hide their booty for them, and it is well for you that you
were captured before this was done, and that no proceeds of other
robberies were found in the house. The evidence of the Bow Street officers
show that it had for some time been suspected that these men had an
accomplice somewhere in the neighborhood of Reigate, for although arrested
several times under circumstances forming a strong assumption of their
guilt, nothing was ever found upon them. There can now be little, doubt
who their accomplice was. Had you been an older man I should have
sentenced you to transportation for life, but in consideration of your
youth, I shall take the milder course of sentencing you to fifteen years'
transportation.”

The capital sentence was then passed in much fewer words upon the two
highwaymen. As they were leaving the dock Bastow turned, and in a clear
voice said to John Thorndyke, who had been accommodated with a seat in the
well of the court:

“I have to thank you, Thorndyke, for this. I will pay off my debt some
day, you make take your oath.”

“A sad case, Mr. Thorndyke—a sad case,” the judge, who had greatly
complimented the Squire on his conduct, said to him as he was disrobing
afterwards. “I don't know that in all my experience I ever saw such a
hardened young villain. With highwaymen it is a point of honor to assume a
gayety of demeanor on such occasions; but to see a boy of eighteen, never
before convicted, exhibiting such coolness and effrontery is quite beyond
my experience. I suppose his record is altogether bad?”

“Altogether,” the Squire said. “His father has, during the last two years,
been quite broken by it; he owned to me that he was in bodily fear of the
lad, who had on several occasions assaulted him, had robbed him of his
savings by means of forgery, and was so hopelessly bad that he himself
thought with me that the only possible hope for him was to get him to
enlist. I myself recommended the East India Company's service, thinking
that he would have less opportunity for crime out there, and that there
would be a strong chance that either fever or a bullet would carry him
off, for I own that I have not the slightest hope of reformation in such a
character.”

“I would have given him transportation for life if I had known all this,”
the judge said. “However, it is not likely that he will ever come back
again—very few of them do; the hulks are not the most healthy places
in the world, and they have a pretty rough way with men who give them
trouble, as this young fellow is likely to do.”

Mr. Bastow, as soon as he had given his evidence, had taken a hackney
coach to the inn where he and the Squire had put up on their arrival in
town the evening before, and here, on his return, John Thorndyke found
him. He was lying on his bed in a state of prostration.

“Cheer up, Bastow,” he said, putting his hand upon the Rector's shoulder.
“The sentence is fifteen years, which was the very amount I hoped that he
would get. The more one sees of him the more hopeless it is to expect that
any change will ever take place in him; and it is infinitely better that
he should be across the sea where his conduct, when his term is over, can
affect no one. The disgrace, such as it is, to his friends, is no greater
in a long term than in a short one. Had he got off with four or five
years' imprisonment, he would have been a perpetual trouble and a source
of uneasiness, not to say alarm; and even had he left you alone we should
always have been in a state of dread as to his next offense. Better that
he should be out in the colonies than be hung at Tyburn.”

“How did he take the sentence?”

“With the same bravado he had shown all through, and as he went out of the
dock addressed a threat to me, that, under the circumstances, I can very
well afford to despise. Now, if you will take my advice, you will drink a
couple of glasses of good port, and then go to bed. I will see to your
being awakened at seven o'clock, which will give us time to breakfast
comfortably, and to make a start at nine.”

“I would rather not have the wine,” the Rector said feebly.

“Yes, but you must take what is good for you. I have ordered up a bottle
of the landlord's best, and must insist upon your drinking a couple of
glasses with me. I want it almost as much as you do, for the atmosphere of
that court was enough to poison a dog. I have got the taste of it in my
mouth still.”

With much reluctance the Rector accompanied him to the private sitting
room that the Squire had engaged. He sat down almost mechanically in an
easy chair. The Squire poured out the wine, and handed him a glass. Mr.
Bastow at first put it to his lips without glancing at it, but he was a
connoisseur in wine, and the bouquet of the port appealing to his latent
senses, he took a sip, and then another, appreciatingly.

“The landlord said it was first rate, and he is not far wrong,” John
Thorndyke remarked, as he set down his own glass.

“Yes, it is a fine vintage, and in perfect condition,” Mr. Bastow agreed.
“I have drunk nothing better for years, though you have some fine bins.”

“I would take a biscuit, if I were you, before I took another glass,” the
Squire said, helping himself from a plate on the table. “You have had
nothing to eat today, and you want something badly. I have a dish of
kidneys coming up in half an hour; they cook them well here.”

The Rector ate a biscuit, mechanically sipped another glass of wine, and
was even able to eat a kidney when they were brought up. Although
September was not yet out, the Squire had a fire lighted in the room, and
after the meal was over, and two steaming tumblers of punch were placed
upon the table, he took a long pipe from the mantel, filled and lighted
it, then filled another, and handed it to the Rector, at the same time
holding out a light to him.

“Life has its consolations,” he said. “You have had a lot of troubles one
way and another, Bastow, but we may hope that they are all over now, and
that life will go more smoothly and easily with you. We had better leave
the past alone for the present. I call this snug: a good fire, a clean
pipe, a comfortable chair, and a steaming bowl at one's elbow.”

The Rector smiled faintly.

“It seems unnatural—” he began.

“Not at all, not at all,” the Squire broke in. “You have had a tremendous
load on your mind, and now it is lifted off; the thundercloud has burst,
and though damage has been done, one is thankful that it is no worse. Now
I can talk to you of a matter that has been on my mind for the last three
weeks. What steps do you think that I ought to take to find a successor
for you? It is most important to have a man who will be a real help in the
parish, as you have been, would pull with one comfortably, and be a
pleasant associate. I don't want too young a fellow, and I don't want too
old a one. I have no more idea how to set about it than a child. Of
course, I could ask the Bishop to appoint, but I don't know that he would
appoint at all the sort of man I want. The living is only worth 200 pounds
a year and the house—no very great catch; but there is many a man
that would be glad to have it.”

“I have been thinking it over, too, Thorndyke, when I could bring my mind
to consider anything but my own affairs. How would Greg do? He has been
taking duty for me since I could not do it myself. I know that he is a
hard working fellow, and he has a wife and a couple of children; his
curacy is only 70 pounds a year, and it would be a perfect godsend, for he
has no interest in the Church, and he might be years without preferment.”

“I should think he would do very well, Bastow. Yes, he reads well, which I
own I care for that a good deal more than for the preaching; not that I
have anything to say against that. He gives sound and practical sermons,
and they have the advantage of being short, which is a great thing. In the
first place, it is good in itself, and in the second, specially important
in a village congregation, where you know very well every woman present is
fidgeting to get home to see that the pot is not boiling over, and the
meat in the oven is not burnt. Yes, I will go down tomorrow afternoon and
ask him if he would like the living. You were talking of selling the
furniture; how much do you suppose it is worth?”

“I don't suppose it will fetch above seventy or eighty pounds; it is solid
and good, but as I have had it in use nearly forty years, it would not go
for much.”

“Well, let us say a hundred pounds,” the Squire said. “I will give you a
check for it. I dare say Greg will find it difficult to furnish, and he
might have to borrow the money, and the debt would be a millstone round
his neck, perhaps, for years, so I will hand it over with the Rectory to
him.”

So they talked for an hour or two on village matters, and the Squire was
well pleased, when his old friend went up to bed, that he had succeeded in
diverting his thoughts for a time from the painful subject that had
engrossed them for weeks.

“You have slept well,” he said, when they met at breakfast, “I can see by
your face.”

“Yes, I have not slept so soundly for months. I went to sleep as soon as
my head touched the pillow, and did not awake until the chambermaid
knocked at the door.”

“That second glass of punch did it, Bastow. It is a fine morning; we shall
have a brisk drive back. I am very glad that I changed my mind and brought
the gig instead of the close carriage.”

In the afternoon the Squire drove into Reigate. He found the curate at
home, and astonished and delighted him by asking him if he would like the
living of Crowswood. It came altogether as a surprise to him, for the
Rector's intentions to resign had not been made public, and it was
supposed in the village that he was only staying at the Squire's until
this sad affair should be over. Greg was a man of seven or eight and
twenty, had graduated with distinction at Cambridge, but, having no
influence, had no prospects of promotion, and the offer almost bewildered
him.

“I should be grateful indeed, Mr. Thorndyke,” he said. “It would be a boon
to us. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

And opening a door, he called for his wife, who was trying to keep the two
children quiet there, having retired with them hastily when Mr. Thorndyke
was announced.

“What do you think, Emma?” her husband said excitedly, as she came into
the room. “Mr. Thorndyke has been good enough to offer me the living of
Crowswood.”

Then he recovered himself. “I beg your pardon, sir, for my unmannerliness
in not first introducing my wife to you.”

“It was natural that you should think of telling her the news first of
all,” the Squire said courteously. “Madam, I am your obedient servant, and
I hope that soon we shall get to know each other well. I consider it of
great importance that the Squire of a parish and the Rector should work
well together, and see a great deal of each other. I don't know whether
you are aware, Mr. Greg, that the living is worth 200 pounds a year,
besides which there is a paddock of about ten acres, which is sufficient
for the keep of a horse and cow. The Rectory is a comfortable one, and I
have arranged with Mr. Bastow that he shall leave his furniture for the
benefit of his successor. It will include linen, so that you will be put
to no expense whatever in moving in. I have known these first expenses to
seriously cripple the usefulness of a clergyman when appointed to a
living.”

“That is good of you indeed, Mr. Thorndyke,” the curate said. “We have
been living in these lodgings since we first came here, and it will indeed
make matters easy to have the question of furniture so kindly settled for
us.”

“Will your Rector be able to release you shortly?”

“I have no doubt that he will do that at once. His son has just left
Oxford and taken deacon's orders; and the Rector told me the other day
that he should be glad if I would look out for another curacy, as he
wanted to have his son here with him. He spoke very kindly, and said that
he should make no change until I could hear of a place to suit me. His son
has been assisting him for the last month, since I took the services at
Crowswood, and I am sure he would release me at once.”

“Then I should be glad if you will move up as soon as possible to the
Rectory. I know nothing about the necessary forms, but I suppose that Mr.
Bastow will send in his resignation to the Bishop, and I shall write and
tell him that I have appointed you, and you can continue to officiate as
you have done lately until you can be formally inducted as the Rector.
Perhaps you would not mind going round to your Rector at once and telling
him of the offer you have had. I have one or two matters to do in the
town, and will call again in three quarters of an hour. I shall be glad to
tell Mr. Bastow that you will come into residence at once.”

On returning at the appointed time he found that the curate had returned.

“Mr. Pilkington was very kind, and evidently very pleased; he
congratulated me most warmly, and I can come up at once. We don't know how
to thank you enough, Mr. Thorndyke.”

“I don't want any thanks, I can assure you, Mr. Greg. Tomorrow I will send
a couple of women in from the village to get the place in order, and no
doubt Mr. Bastow will want to take away a few things. He is going to
remain with me as tutor to my son. I am sure you and I will get on very
well together, and I only hope that your sermons will be no longer when
you are Rector than they have been while you have been assisting us. Long
sermons may do for a town congregation, but in my opinion they are a very
serious mistake in the case of a village one. By the way, I think it would
be as well for you to get a servant here, and that before you go up. Mr.
Bastow's servant was an old woman, and in a case like this I always think
it is better not to take one's predecessor's servant. She generally
resents any change, and is always quoting how her last master had things.
I mention this before you go, because she is sure to ask to stay on, and
it is much easier to say that you are bringing a servant with you than to
have to tell her she is too old or too fat. Don't you think so, Mrs.
Greg?”

“Yes, I think it will be much better, Mr. Thorndyke. Even if I cannot hear
of one likely to suit us permanently, I will take someone as a stop gap.
One can easily change afterwards.”

“The old woman will do very well,” the Squire said. “She has two married
daughters in the village, and with a shilling or two from the parish she
will manage comfortably. At any rate we shall look after her, and I have
no doubt Mr. Bastow will make her an allowance.”

Never were a pair more delighted than Parson Greg and his wife when two
days later they took possession of their new home. Half a dozen women had
been at work the day before, and everything was in perfect order. To Mrs.
Greg's relief she found that the old servant had already gone, the Squire
having himself informed her that Mrs. Greg would bring her own maid with
her. Mr. Bastow said that he would allow her half a crown a week as long
as she lived, and the Squire added as much more, and as the woman had
saved a good deal during her twenty years' service with the Rector, she
was perfectly satisfied.

“It is a good thing that she should be content,” the Squire said to Mr.
Bastow. “She has a lot of connections in the village, and if she had gone
away with a sense of grievance she might have created a good deal of ill
feeling against your successor, and I am very anxious that he should begin
well. I like the young fellow, and I like his wife.”

“We are fortunate, indeed, Ernest,” Mrs. Greg said the following morning,
as with the children, two and three years old, they went out into the
garden; where the trees were laden with apples, pears, and plums. “What a
change from our little rooms in Reigate. I should think that anyone ought
to be happy indeed here.”

“They ought to be, Emma, but you see Mr. Bastow had trouble enough; and it
should be a lesson to us, dear, to look very closely after the boys now
they are young, and see that they don't make bad acquaintances.”

“From what we hear of the village, there is little fear of that; the
mischief must have begun before Mr. Thorndyke came down, when by all
accounts things had altogether gone to the bad here, and of course young
Bastow must have had an exceptionally evil disposition, Ernest.”

“Yes, no doubt; but his father could not have looked after him properly. I
believe, from what I hear, that Bastow was so dispirited at his
powerlessness to put a stop to the state of things here, that, except to
perform service, he seldom left the house, and the boy no doubt grew up
altogether wild. You know that I was in court on the second day of the
examination, and the young fellow's insolence and bearing astonished and
shocked me. Happily, we have the Squire here now to back us up, the
village has been completely cleared of all bad characters, and is by all
accounts quite a model place, and we must do our best to keep it so.”

The news of the change at the Rectory naturally occasioned a great deal of
talk. At first there was a general feeling of regret that Mr. Bastow had
gone, and yet it was felt that he could not have been expected to stay;
the month's experience that they had had of the new parson had cleared the
way for him. He and his wife soon made themselves familiar with the
villagers, and being bright young people, speedily made themselves liked.
The Squire and Mrs. Cunningham called the first afternoon after their
arrival.

“You must always send up if anything is wanted, Mr. Greg; whenever there
is any illness in the village we always keep a stock of soups and jellies,
and Mrs. Cunningham is almoner in general. Is there anything that we can
do for you? If so, let me know without hesitation.”

“Indeed, there is nothing, Mr. Thorndyke. It is marvelous to us coming in
here and finding everything that we can possibly want.”

“You will want a boy for your garden; and you cannot do better than take
young Bill Summers. He was with me for a bit last year, when the boy I
have now was laid up with mumps or something of that sort, and he was very
favorably reported on as being handy in the garden, able to milk a cow,
and so on. By the way, Mrs. Greg, I have taken the liberty of sending down
a cow in milk. I expect she is in your meadow now. I have seven or eight
of them, and if you will send her back when her milk fails I will send
down another.”

“You are too kind altogether, Mr. Thorndyke!” Mrs. Greg exclaimed.

“Not at all. I want to see things comfortable here, and you will find it
difficult to get on without a cow. I keep two or three for the special use
of the village. I make them pay for it, halfpenny a pint; it is better to
do that than to give it. It is invaluable for the children; and I don't
think in all England you see rosier and healthier youngsters than those in
our schools. You will sometimes find milk useful for puddings and that
sort of thing for the sick; and they will appreciate it all the more than
if they had to look solely to us for their supply.”

“How is Mr. Bastow, sir?”

“He is better than could be expected. He himself proposed this morning
that my boy Mark should begin his studies at once; and, indeed, now that
the worst is over and he has got rid of the load of care on his shoulders,
I hope that we shall have him bright and cheerful again before long.”

Such was indeed the case. For some little time Mr. Bastow avoided the
village, but John Thorndyke got him to go down with him to call upon Mr.
Greg, and afterwards to walk through it with him. At first he went timidly
and shrinkingly, but the kindly greetings of the women he met, and the
children stopping to pull a forelock or bob a courtesy as of old,
gradually cheered him up, and he soon got accustomed to the change, and
would of an afternoon go down to the village and chat with the women,
after he had ascertained that his successor had no objection whatever, and
was, indeed, pleased that he still took an interest in his former
parishioners. Mark was at first disappointed at the arrangement, for he
had looked forward to going to a public school. His father, however, had
no great trouble in reconciling him to it.

“Of course, Mark,” he said, “there are advantages in a public school. I
was never at one myself, but I believe that, though the discipline is
pretty strict, there is a great deal of fun and sport, and you may make
desirable acquaintances. Upon the other hand, there are drawbacks. In the
first place, the majority of the boys are sons of richer men than I am. I
don't know that that would matter much, but it would give you expensive
habits, and perhaps make you fonder of London life than I should care
about. In the next place, you see, you would be at school when the
shooting begins, and you are looking forward to carrying a gun next year.
The same with hunting. You know I promised that this year you should go to
the meets on your pony, and see as much of them as you can, and of course
when you were at school you would only be able to indulge in these matters
during your holidays; and if a hard frost set in, as is the case three
times out of four, just as you came home, you would be out of it
altogether.

“I must say I should like you to have a real love of field sports and to
be a good shot and a good rider. A man, however wide his acres may be, is
thought but little of in the country if he is not a good sportsman; and,
moreover, there is nothing better for developing health and muscles than
riding, and tramping over the fields with a gun on your shoulder; and,
lastly, you must not forget, Mark, that one of my objects in making this
arrangement is to keep Mr. Bastow with us. I am sure that unless he
thought that he was making himself useful he would not be content to
remain here; and at his age, you know, it would be hard for him to obtain
clerical employment.”

“All right, father. I see that the present plan is the best, and that I
should have but little sport if I went away to school. Besides, I like Mr.
Bastow very much, and I am quite sure that I shan't get so many whackings
from him as I used to do from old Holbrook.”

“I fancy not, Mark,” his father said with a smile. “I am not against
wholesome discipline, but I think it can be carried too far; at any rate,
I hope you will be just as obedient to Mr. Bastow as if he always had a
cane on the table beside him.”

Mark, therefore, went to work in a cheerful spirit, and soon found that he
made more progress in a week under Mr. Bastow's gentle tuition than he had
done in a month under the vigorous discipline of his former master. Mr.
and Mrs. Greg dined regularly at the Squire's once a week.

“Have you had that Indian servant of yours long, Mr. Thorndyke?” Mrs. Greg
asked one day. “He is a strange looking creature. Of course, in the
daytime, when one sees him about in ordinary clothes, one does not notice
him so much; but of an evening, in that Eastern costume of his, he looks
very strange.”

“He was the servant of the Colonel, my brother,” the Squire replied. “He
brought him over from India with him. The man had been some years in his
service, and was very attached to him, and had saved his life more than
once, he told me. On one occasion he caught a cobra by the neck as it was
about to strike my brother's hand as he sat at table; he carried it out
into the compound, as George called it, but which means, he told me,
garden, and there let it escape. Another time he caught a Thug, which
means a sort of robber who kills his victims by strangling before robbing
them. They are a sort of sect who regard strangling as a religious action,
greatly favored by the bloodthirsty goddess they worship. He was in the
act of fastening the twisted handkerchief, used for the purpose, round my
brother's neck, when Ramoo cut him down. The closest shave, though, was
when George, coming down the country, was pounced upon by a tiger and
carried off. Ramoo seized a couple of muskets from the men, and rushed
into the jungle after him, and coming up with the brute killed him at the
first shot. George escaped with a broken arm and his back laid open by a
scratch of the tiger's claws as it first seized him.

“So at George's death I took Ramoo on, and have found him a most useful
fellow. Of course, I was some little time before I became accustomed to
his noiseless way of going about, and it used to make me jump when I
happened to look round, and saw him standing quietly behind me when I
thought I was quite alone. However, as soon as I became accustomed to him,
I got over all that, and now I would not lose him for anything; he seems
to know instinctively what I want. He is excellent as a waiter and valet;
I should feel almost lost without him now; and the clumping about of an
English man servant would annoy me as much as his noiseless way of going
about did at first. He has come to speak English very fairly. Of course,
my brother always talked to him in his own tongue; still, he had picked up
enough English for me to get on with; now he speaks it quite fluently.
When I have nothing whatever for him to do he devotes himself to my little
ward. She is very fond of him, and it is quite pretty to see them together
in the garden. Altogether, I would not part with him for anything.”

For some years life passed uneventfully at Crowswood. It was seldom indeed
that the Squire's authority was needed to set matters right in the
village. The substitution of good farmers for shiftless ones in some of
the farms, and the better cultivation generally, had given more
employment; and as John Thorndyke preferred keeping two or three cottages
shut up rather than have them occupied by men for whom no work could be
found, it was rare indeed that there were any complaints of scarcity of
work, except, indeed, on the part of the Rector, who declared that, what
with the healthiness of the village and the absence of want, his
occupation, save for the Sunday duty, was a sinecure. Mr. Bastow was more
happy and much brighter than he had been for many years. The occupation of
teaching suited him, and he was able to make the work pleasant to his
pupil as well as to himself; indeed, it occupied but a small portion of
the day, the amount of learning considered necessary at the time not being
extensive. A knowledge of Greek was thought quite superfluous for a
country gentleman. Science was in its infancy, mathematics a subject only
to be taken up by those who wanted to obtain a college fellowship. Latin,
however, was considered an essential, and a knack of apt quotation from
the Latin poets an accomplishment that every man who was a member of
society or aspired to enter Parliament was expected to possess. Thus Mark
Thorndyke's lessons lasted but two or three hours a day, and the school
term was a movable period, according to the season of the year and the
engagements of the Squire and Mark. In winter the evening was the time, so
that the boy shot with his father, or rode to the hounds, or, as he got
older, joined in shooting parties at the houses of neighbors.

In summer the work was done in the morning, but was not unfrequently
broken. Mark went off at a very early hour to drive perhaps some twenty
miles with his great chum, Dick Chetwynd, for a long day's fishing, or to
see a main of cocks fought or a fight between the champions of two
neighboring villages, or perhaps some more important battle.

When Millicent Conyers was ten years old she came regularly into the
study, sitting curled up in a deep chair, getting up her lessons while
Mark did his, and then changing seats with him while he learned his Horace
or Ovid by heart. At this time she looked up greatly to him, and was his
companion whenever he would allow her to be, fetched and carried for him,
and stood almost on a level with his dogs in his estimation. Five years
later, when Mark was eighteen, these relations changed somewhat. He now
liked to have her with him, not only when about the house and garden, but
when he took short rides she cantered along on her pony by his side. She
was a bright faced girl, full of life and fun, and rejoicing in a far
greater amount of freedom than most girls of her age and time.

“It is really time that she should learn to comport herself more staidly,
instead of running about like a wild thing,” Mrs. Cunningham said, one
day, as she and the Squire stood after breakfast looking out of the open
window at Mark and Millicent.

“Time enough, my dear lady, time enough. Let her enjoy life while she can.
I am not in favor of making a young kitten behave like an old tabby; every
creature in nature is joyful and frolicsome while it is young. She is as
tall and as straight as any of her friends of the same age, and looks more
healthy; she will tame down in time, and I dare say walk and look as prim
and demure as they do. I was watching them the other day when there was a
party of them up here, and I thought the difference was all to her
advantage. She looked a natural, healthy girl; they looked like a set of
overdressed dolls, afraid to move or to talk loud, or to stretch their
mouths when they smile; very ladylike and nice, no doubt, but you will see
Millicent will throw them into the shade when she is once past the tomboy
age. Leave her alone, Mrs. Cunningham; a girl is not like a fruit tree,
that wants pruning and training from its first year; it will be quite time
to get her into shape when she has done growing.”

John Thorndyke had occasionally made inquiries of Mr. Bastow as to the
whereabouts of his son. At the time the sentence was passed transportation
to the American colonies was being discontinued, and until other
arrangements could be made hulks were established as places of confinement
and punishment; but a few months later Arthur Bastow was one of the first
batch of convicts sent out to the penal settlement formed on the east
coast of Australia. This was intended to be fixed at Botany Bay, but it
having been found that this bay was open and unsheltered, it was
established at Sydney, although for many years the settlement retained in
England the name of the original site. As the condition of the prisoners
kept in the hulks was deplorable, the Squire had, through the influence of
Sir Charles Harris, obtained the inclusion of Bastow's name among the
first batch of those who were to sail for Australia. Mr. Bastow obtained
permission to see his son before sailing, but returned home much
depressed, for he had been assailed with such revolting and blasphemous
language by him that he had been forced to retire in horror at the end of
a few minutes.

“We have done well in getting him sent off,” the Squire said, when he
heard the result of the interview. “In the first place, the demoralizing
effect of these hulks is quite evident, and it may be hoped that in a new
country, where there can be no occasion for the convicts to be pent up
together, things may be better; for although escapes from the hulks are
not frequent, they occasionally take place, and had he gained his liberty
we should have had an anxious time of it until he was re-arrested, whereas
out there there is nowhere to go to, no possibility of committing a crime.
It is not there as it was in the American colony. Settlements may grow up
in time, but at present there are no white men whatever settled in the
district; and the natives are, they say, hostile, and were a convict to
escape he would almost certainly be killed, and possibly eaten. No doubt
by the time your son has served his sentence colonies will be established
out there, and he may then be disposed to settle there, either on a piece
of land of which he could no doubt take up or in the service of one of the
colonists.”

CHAPTER V.

The scene in the convict yard at Sydney, five years after its foundation
as a penal settlement, was not a pleasant one to the lover of humanity.
Warders armed to the teeth were arranging gangs that were to go out to
labor on the roads. Many of the convicts had leg irons, but so fastened as
to be but slight hindrance to their working powers, but the majority were
unironed. These were the better behaved convicts; not that this would be
judged from their faces, for the brutalizing nature of the system and the
close association of criminals had placed its mark on all, and it would
have been difficult for the most discriminating to have made any choice
between the most hardened criminals and those who had been sent out for
what would now be considered comparatively trivial offenses. The voyage on
board ship had done much to efface distinctions, the convict life had done
more, and the chief difference between the chained and unchained prisoners
was that the latter were men of more timid disposition than many of their
companions, and therefore less disposed to give trouble that would entail
heavy punishment. But it was only the comparatively well conducted men who
were placed upon road work; the rest were retained for work inside the
jail, or were caged in solitary confinement. Each morning a number,
varying from half a dozen to a dozen, were fastened up and flogged, in
some cases with merciless severity, but it was seldom that a cry was
uttered by these, the most brutal ruffians of the convict herd. This
spectacle was just over: it was conducted in public for the edification of
the rest, but, judging from the low laughs and brutal jests, uttered below
the breath, it signally failed in producing the desired impression. Two of
those who had suffered the severest punishment were now putting on their
coarse woolen garments over their bloodstained shoulders; both were
comparatively young men.

“I shall not stand this much longer,” one muttered. “I will brain a
warder, and get hung for it. One can but die once, while one can get
flogged once a week.”

“So would I,” the other said bitterly; “but I have some scores to settle
in England, and I am not going to put my head in a noose until I have
wiped them out. The sooner we make arrangements to get back there the
better.”

“Yes, we have talked of this before,” the other said, “and I quite agreed
with you that if we all had the pluck of men we ought to be able to
overpower the warders, in spite of their firearms. Of course some of us
would get killed, but no one would mind that if there was but the remotest
chance of getting away. The question is what we should do with ourselves
when we were once outside the prison. Of course I know that there are two
or three hundred settlers, but there would not be much to be got out of
them, and life among those black fellows, even if they were civil to us,
which I don't suppose they would be, would not be worth having.”

“We might not have to stay there long; ships with stores or settlers
arrive occasionally, and if a lot of us got away we might seize one by
force, turn pirates for a bit, and when we are tired of that sail to some
South American port, sell our capture, and make our way home to England.
If we were not strong enough to take her, we could hide up on board her;
we should be sure to find some fellow who for a pound or two would be
willing to help us. The thing can be done if we make up our minds to do
it, and I for one have made up my mind to try. I haven't chalked out a
plan yet, but I am convinced that it is to be done.”

“I am with you, whatever it is,” the other said; “and I think there are
twenty or thirty we could rely on. I don't say there are more than that,
because there are a lot of white livered cusses among them who would
inform against us at once, so as to get their own freedom as a reward for
doing so. Well, we will both think it over, mate, and the sooner the
better.”

The two men who were thus talking together were both by birth above the
common herd of convicts, and had gained a considerable ascendency over the
others because of their reckless indifference to punishment and their
defiance of authority. Few of the men knew each other's real names; by the
officials they were simply known by numbers, while among themselves each
had a slang name generally gained on board ship.

Separation there had, of course, been impossible, and when fastened down
below each had told his story with such embellishments as he chose to give
it, and being but little interfered with by their guards, save to insure
the impossibility of a mutiny, there had been fights of a desperate kind.
Four or five dead bodies had been found and thrown overboard, but as none
would testify as to who had been the assailants none were punished for it;
and so the strongest and most desperate had enforced their authority over
the others, as wild beasts might do, and by the time they had reached
their destination all were steeped much deeper in wickedness and brutalism
than when they set sail.

The two men who were speaking together had speedily become chums, and,
though much younger than the majority of the prisoners, had by their
recklessness and ferocity established an ascendency among the others. This
ascendency had been maintained after their arrival by their constant acts
of insubordination, and by their apparent indifference to the punishment
awarded them. At night the convicts were lodged in wooden buildings,
where, so long as they were not riotous, they were allowed to talk and
converse freely, as indeed was the case when their work for the day was
done.

As to any attempt at escape, the authorities had but small anxiety, for
until the arrival of the first settlers, three years after that of the
convicts, there was nowhere a fugitive could go to, no food to be
obtained, no shelter save among the blacks, who were always ready for a
reward of tobacco and spirits to hand them over at once to the
authorities. The case had but slightly changed since the settlement began
to grow. It was true that by stealing sheep or driving off a few head of
cattle a fugitive might maintain himself for a time, but even if not shot
down by the settlers or patrols, he would be sure before long to be
brought in by the blacks.

The experiment had already been tried of farming our better conducted
convicts to the settlers, and indeed it was the prospect of obtaining such
cheap labor that had been the main inducement to many of the colonists to
establish themselves so far from home, instead of going to America. As a
whole the system worked satisfactorily; the men were as much prisoners as
were the inmates of the jail, for they knew well enough that were they to
leave the farmers and take to the bush they would remain free but a short
time, being either killed or handed over by the blacks, and in the latter
case they would be severely punished and set to prison work in irons, with
labor very much more severe than that they were called upon to do on the
farms.

Some little time after the conversation between the two convicts the
prison authorities were congratulating themselves upon the fact that a
distinct change had taken or was taking place in the demeanor of many of
the men who had hitherto been the most troublesome, and they put it down
to the unusually severe floggings that had been inflicted on the two most
refractory prisoners in the establishment. When in the prison yard or at
work they were more silent than before, and did their tasks doggedly and
sullenly; there was no open defiance to the authorities, and, above all, a
marked cessation of drunkenness from the spirits smuggled into the place.

Only the two originators were aware of the extent of the plot; for they
had agreed that only by keeping every man in ignorance as to who had
joined it could they hope to escape treachery. In the first place, they
had taken into their confidence a dozen men on whom they could absolutely
rely. Beyond this they had approached the others singly, beginning by
hinting that there was a plot for escape, and that a good many were
concerned, and telling them that these had bound themselves together by a
solemn oath to kill any traitor, even if hanged for it.

“No one is to know who is in it and who is not,” the leaders said to each
recruit. “Every new man will be closely watched by the rest, and if he has
any communication privately with a warder or any other official he will be
found strangled the next morning; no one will know who did it. Even if he
succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his comrades at the time, it would
soon be known; for if indulgence of any kind was shown towards one man, or
he was relieved from his ordinary work, or even freed altogether and
suddenly, he would be a dead man in twenty-four hours, for we have friends
outside among the ticket of leave men who have bound themselves to kill at
once any man set free.”

To the question, “What do you intend to do when we get off?” the answer
was, “We shall go straight to the bush, so as to avoid a fight with the
soldiers, in the first place; then we shall join that night, and drive off
all the cattle and sheep from the settlements, take possession of every
firearm found in the houses, then move off a couple of hundred miles or so
into the bush, and establish a settlement of our own.

“Of course, we shall take horses and clothes and any spirits and food we
may find. If the soldiers pursue us, we will fight them; but as there are
only three or four companies of them, and we shall be eight hundred
strong, we shall very soon show them that they had better leave us alone.

“Oh, yes, no doubt they will send more soldiers out from England, but it
will be over a year before they can get here; and we propose after we have
done with the fellows here to break up into parties of twenty and thirty,
dividing the sheep and cattle among us, and each party going where it
will. The place is of tremendous size, as big as a dozen Englands, they
say, and each party will fix a place it fancies, where there is good water
and a river with fish and so on, and we may live all our lives
comfortably, with just enough work to raise potatoes and corn, and to
watch our stock increasing. Anyhow, we might calculate on having some
years of peace and freedom, and even if in the end they searched us all
out, which would be very unlikely, they could but bring us back, hang a
few, and set the rest to work again; but we think that they would most
likely leave us alone altogether, quite satisfied with having got rid of
us.”

“Those who liked it could, no doubt, take wives among the blacks. The
convict women who are out on service with the settlers would, you may be
sure, join us at once, and an enterprising chap who preferred a white
woman to a black could always make his way down here and persuade one to
go off with him to his farm. That is the general plan; if many get tired
of the life they have only to come down to Sydney, hide up near the place
on some dark night, and go down to the port, seize a ship, and make off in
her, compelling the officers and sailors to take them and land them at any
port they fancy, either in Chili, Peru, or Mexico, or, if they like, sail
west and make for Rio or Buenos Ayres or one of the West Indian islands.
As to when it is going to be done, or how it is going to be done, no one
will be told till it is ready to be carried out. We have not settled that
ourselves, and thus one who was fool enough to risk certain death could
tell the Governor no more than that there was a plot on hand, and that the
man who had sworn him in was concerned in it.”

So one by one every man in the prison was sworn by a terrible oath to
secrecy, to watch his companions, and to report anything that looked
suspicious. Many joined willingly, the prospect of relief, even should it
only be temporary, being too fascinating to be resisted. Some joined
against their will, fearing that a refusal to do so would be punished by
death; and the fact that two or three men were found strangled in bed had
a very great effect in inducing others to join in the plot.

These deaths caused some uneasiness to the authorities. Their utmost
endeavors failed to discover who were the perpetrators of these murders;
and even when everyone in the same hut was flogged to obtain information,
not one opened his lips.

One night the word was passed round that the time had come. One only in
each hut was familiar with the details, and he gave instructions to each
man individually as to what he was to do. The date had been determined by
the fact that the time which they had been sentenced to wear irons had
terminated the day before, and their unusually subdued and quiet demeanor
having carried them through the interval without, as usual, fresh
punishments being awarded them before the termination of the former one.

In the morning the whole of the convicts were drawn up to witness the
flogging of the inmates of one of the huts, where a man had been found
strangled the morning before. The first prisoner was taken to the
triangle, stripped to the waist, and tied up. There was a dead silence in
the ranks of the convicts, but as the first blow fell upon his shoulders
there was a loud yell, and simultaneously the whole ranks broke up, and a
number of men sprang upon each of the warders, wrested their muskets from
them, and threw them to the ground. Then there was a rush towards the
Governor and officers, who were assembled in front of the stone house that
faced the open end of the square. Firing their pistols, these at once took
refuge in the house, three or four falling under the scattered fire that
was opened as soon as the muskets of the warders fell into the hands of
the convicts.

Directly the doors were closed the officers appeared at the windows, and
opened a rifle fire upon the convicts, as did the guards near the gate. As
comparatively few of the convicts had muskets, they began to waver at
once. But, headed by the two ringleaders, the armed party rushed at the
guard, shot them down, and threw open the gate.

Then an unexpected thing occurred. The soldiers from the barracks happened
to be marching down to do target practice on the shore, and were passing
the convict prison when the firing broke out. They were at once halted,
and ordered to load, and as the convicts, with exultant shouts, poured
through the gate they saw a long line of soldiers, with leveled muskets,
facing them.

“At them!” one of the leaders shouted. “It is too late to draw back now.
We have got to break through them.”

Many of the convicts ran back into the yard; but those armed with muskets,
the more desperate of the party, followed their leaders. A moment later a
heavy volley rang out, and numbers of the convicts fell. Their two
leaders, however, and some twenty of their followers, keeping in a close
body, rushed at the line of soldiers with clubbed muskets, and with the
suddenness and fury of the rush burst their way through the line, and then
scattering, fled across the country, pursued by a dropping fire of
musketry.

The officers in command, seeing that but a fraction had escaped, ordered
one company to pursue, and marched the rest into the prison yard. It was
already deserted; the convicts had scattered to their huts, those who had
arms throwing them away. Dotted here and there over the square were the
bodies of eight or ten convicts and as many warders, whose skulls had been
smashed in by their infuriated assailants as soon as they had obtained
possession of their muskets. Close to the gate lay the six soldiers who
had furnished the guard; these were all dead or mortally wounded.

The Governor and the officials issued from the house as soon as the
soldiers entered the yard. The first step to do was to turn all the
convicts out of the huts and to iron them. No resistance was attempted,
the sight of the soldiers completely cowing the mutineers. When the bodies
of the convicts that had fallen were counted and the roll of the prisoners
called over, it was found that eighteen were missing, and of these six
were during the course of the next hour or two brought in by the soldiers
who had gone in pursuit of them. The rest had escaped.

The convicts were all questioned separately, and the tales they told
agreed so closely that the Governor could not doubt that they were
speaking the truth. All had been sworn in by one of two men, and knew
nothing whatever of what was intended to be done that day, until after
they were locked up on the evening previous. Each of those in the huts had
received his instructions the night before from the one man.

There were eighteen huts, each containing fifteen convicts. Of the men who
had given instructions six had fallen outside the gate, together with
sixteen others; five had been overtaken and brought in; altogether, twelve
were still at large. Among these were the two leaders. The next day six of
the prisoners were tried and executed. The rest were punished only by a
reduction in their rations; sentence of death was at the same time passed
upon the twelve still at large, so as to save the trouble of a succession
of trials as they were caught and brought in.

The two leaders had kept together after they had broken through the line
of soldiers.

“Things have gone off well,” one said as they ran through. “Those soldiers
nearly spoilt it all.”

“Yes, that was unlucky,” the other agreed; “but so far as we are
concerned, which is all we care about, I think things have turned out for
the best.”

Nothing more was said until they had far outstripped their pursuers,
hampered as these were by their uniforms and belts.

“You mean that it is not such a bad thing that they have not all got
away?”

“Yes, that is what I mean. It is all very well to tell them about driving
off the sheep and cattle and horses, and going to start a colony on our
own account, but the soldiers would have been up to us before we had gone
a day's journey. Most of the fellows would have bolted directly they saw
them. As it is, I fancy only about a dozen have got away, perhaps not as
many as that, and they are all men that one can rely upon. One can feed a
dozen without difficulty—a sheep a day would do it—and by
giving a turn to each of the settlers, the animals won't be missed.
Besides, we shall want money if we are ever to get out of this cursed
country. It would not be difficult to get enough for you and me, but when
it comes to a large number the sack of the whole settlement would not go
very far.

“My own idea is that we had best join the others tonight, kill a few
sheep, and go two or three days' march into the bush, until the heat of
the pursuit is over. We are all armed, the blacks would not venture to
attack us, and the soldiers would not be likely to pursue us very far. In
a week or so, when we can assume that matters have cooled down a bit, we
can come down again. We know all the shepherds, and even if they were not
disposed to help us they would not dare to betray us, or report a sheep or
two being missing. Of course, we shall have to be very careful to shift
our quarters frequently. Those black trackers are sure to be sent out
pretty often.”

“As long as we are hanging about the settlements there won't be much fear
of our being bothered by the blacks. Of course, we shall have to decide
later on whether it will be best for us to try and seize a ship, all of us
acting together, or for us to get quietly on board one and keep under
hatches until she is well away. That is the plan I fancy most.”

“So do I. In the first place the chances are that in the next two or three
months at least half the fellows will be picked up. To begin with, several
of them are sure to get hold of liquor and make attacks upon the settlers,
in which case some of them, anyhow, are sure to get killed. In the next
place, most of them were brought up as thieves in the slums of London, and
will have no more idea of roughing it in a country like this than of
behaving themselves if they were transported to a London drawing room.
Therefore, I am pretty sure that at the end of three months we shall not
be able to reckon on half of them. Well, six men are not enough to capture
a ship, or, if they do capture it, to keep the crew under. One must sleep
sometimes, and with only three or four men on deck we could not hope to
keep a whole ship's crew at bay.”

“Then there is another reason. You and I, when we have got a decent rig
out, could pass anywhere without exciting observation; while if we had
half a dozen of the others, whatever their good qualities, they would be
noticed at once by their villainous faces, and if questions were to be
asked we should be likely to find ourselves in limbo again in a very short
time. So I am all for working on our own account, even if the whole of the
others were ready to back us; but, of course, we must keep on good terms
with them all, and breathe no word that we think that each man had better
shift for himself. Some of those fellows, if they thought we had any idea
of leaving them, would go straight into Sydney and denounce us, although
they would know that they themselves would be likely to swing at the same
time.”

As none of the convicts were acquainted with the bush, they had been
obliged to select as their rendezvous a hut two miles out of the town,
where the convict gangs that worked on the road were in the habit of
leaving their tools. On the way there the two men killed a couple of sheep
from a flock whose position they had noticed before it became dark. These
they skinned, cut off the heads, and left them behind, carrying the sheep
on their shoulders to the meeting.

“Is that you, Captain Wild?” a voice said as they approached.

“Yes; Gentleman Dick is with me.”

“That is a good job. We had begun to think that the soldiers had caught
you.”

“They would not have caught us alive, you may take your oath. How many are
there of us here?”

“Ten of us, Captain. I think that that is all there are.”

“That is enough for our purpose. Has anyone got anything to eat?”

There was a deep growl in the negative.

“Well, we have brought a couple of sheep with us, and as we have carried
them something like a mile, you had better handle them by turns. We will
strike off into the bush and put another three or four miles between us
and the jail, and then light a fire and have a meal.”

Two of the men came forward and took the sheep. Then they turned off from
the road, and taking their direction from a star, followed it for an hour.

“I think we have got far enough now,” the man called Captain Wild said.
“You had better cut down the bushes, and we will make a fire.”

“But how are we to light it?” one of them exclaimed in a tone of
consternation. “I don't suppose we have got flint and steel or tinder box
among us.”

“Oh, we can manage that!” the Captain said. “Get a heap of dried leaves
here first, then some wood, and we will soon have a blaze.”

His orders were obeyed. Some of the men had carried off the warders'
swords as well as their muskets, and now used them for chopping wood. As
soon as a small pile of dried leaves was gathered the Captain broke a
cartridge and sprinkled half its contents among them, and then dropped the
remainder into his musket. He flashed this off among the leaves, and a
bright flame at once shot up, and in five minutes a fire was burning.

One of the sheep was soon cut up, the meat hacked in slices from the
bones, a ramrod was thrust through the pieces, and, supported by four
sticks, was laid across the fire. Three other similarly laden spits were
soon placed beside it, and in a short time the meat was ready for eating.
Until a hearty meal had been made there was but little talking.

“That is first rate,” one of the men said, as he wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand. “Now one only wants a pipe and bacca and a glass of
grog, to feel comfortable.”

“Well, Captain, are you satisfied with the day's work?”

“It would have been a grand day had it not been for the soldiers passing
just at the time. As it is, Gentleman Dick and I have been agreeing that
as far as we are all concerned it has not turned out so badly. There would
have been a lot of difficulty in finding food if we had all got away, and
some of those mealy mouthed fellows would have been sure to go back and
peach on us at the first opportunity. A dozen is better than a hundred for
the sort of life we are likely to lead for some time. We are strong enough
to beat off any attack from the black fellows, and also to break into any
of these settlers' houses.

“We can, when we have a mind to, take a stray sheep now and then, or even
a bullock would scarcely be missed, especially if our pals in the
settlement will lend us a helping hand, which you may be sure they will
do; in fact, they would know better than to refuse. Then a large party
could be traced by those black trackers at a run, while a small one would
not; especially if, as we certainly will do, we break up into twos and
threes for a time. First of all, though, we must go well into the bush; at
daybreak tomorrow morning we will drive off twenty sheep, and go right
away a hundred miles, and wait there till matters have settled down. They
will never take the troops out that distance after us. Then we can come
back again, and hang about the settlement and take what we want. The wild
blacks don't come near there, and we shall be safer in pairs than we
should be if we kept together; and of course we could meet once a week or
so to talk over our plans. We must borrow some whisky, flour, tea,
tobacco, and a few other items from the settlers, but we had better do
without them for this trip. I don't want to turn the settlers against us,
for they have all got horses, and might combine with the troops to give
chase, so it would be best to leave them alone, at any rate till we get
back again. Another reason for treating them gently is that even if they
did not join the troops they might get into a funk, and drive their sheep
and horses down into Sydney, and then we should mighty soon get short of
food. It will be quite time enough to draw upon them heavily when we make
up our minds to get hold of a ship and sail away. Money would be of no use
to us here, but we shall want it when we get to a port, wherever that port
may be.”

“That sounds right enough, Captain,” one of the convicts said, “and just
at present nothing would suit me better than to get so far away from this
place that I can lay on my back and take it easy for a spell.”

There was a general chorus of assent, and there being neither tobacco nor
spirits, the party very soon stretched themselves off to sleep round the
fire.

In the morning they were up before daylight, and half an hour later
arrived at one of the farms farthest from Sydney. Here they found a flock
of a hundred sheep. The shepherd came to the door of his hut on hearing a
noise.

“You had best lie down and go to sleep for the next hour,” the leader of
the convicts said sharply. “We don't want to do an old pal any harm, and
when you wake up in the morning and find the flock some twenty short, of
course you won't have any idea what has come of them.”

The man nodded and went back into the hut and shut the door, and the
convicts started for the interior, driving twenty sheep before them.

During the first day's journey they went fast, keeping the sheep at a trot
before them, and continuing their journey through the heat of the day.

“I tell you what, Captain,” one of the men said when they halted at
sunset, “if we don't get to a water hole we shall have to give up this
idea of going and camping in the bush. My mouth has been like an oven all
day, and it is no use getting away from jail to die of thirst out here.”

There had been similar remarks during the day, and the two leaders agreed
together that it would be madness to push further, and that, whatever the
risk, they would have to return to the settlements unless they could
strike water. As they were sitting moodily round the fire they were
startled by a dozen natives coming forward into the circle of light. These
held out their hands to say that their intentions were peaceful.

“Don't touch your muskets!” Captain Wild exclaimed sharply, as some of the
men were on the point of jumping to their feet. “The men are friendly, and
we may be able to get them to guide us to water.”

The natives, as they came up, grinned and rubbed their stomachs, to show
that they were hungry.

“I understand,” the Captain said; “you want a sheep, we want water;” and
he held up his hand to his mouth and lifted his elbow as if in the act of
drinking.

In two or three minutes the natives understood what he wanted, and
beckoned to the men to follow. The tired sheep were got onto their legs
again, and half a mile away the party arrived at a pool in what in wet
weather was the bed of a river. A sheep was at once handed over to the
natives, and when the men had satisfied their thirst another sheep was
killed for their own use.

After a great deal of trouble the natives were made to understand that the
white men wanted one of their party to go with them as a guide, and to
take them always to water holes, and a boy of fifteen was handed over to
them in exchange for two more sheep, and at daybreak the next morning they
started again for the interior, feeling much exhilarated by the piece of
luck that had befallen them. They traveled for four days more, and then,
considering that the soldiers had ceased their pursuit long ago, they
encamped for ten days, enjoying to the utmost their recovered freedom and
their immunity from work of any kind. Then they returned to the
neighborhood of the settlements, and broke up, as their leader proposed,
into pairs.

They had been there but a short time before the depredations committed
roused the settlers to band themselves together. Every horse that could be
spared was lent to the military, who formed a mounted patrol of forty men,
while parties of infantry, guided by native trackers, were constantly on
the scent for the convicts.

“This is just what I expected,” Captain Wild said to his lieutenant. “It
was the choice of two evils, and I am not sure that the plan we chose was
not the worst. We might have been quite sure that these fellows would not
be able, even for a time, to give up their old ways. If they had confined
themselves, as we have done, to taking a sheep when they wanted it, and
behaving civilly when they went to one of the houses and begged for a few
pounds of flour or tea, the settlers would have made no great complaint of
us; they know what a hard time we have had, and you can see that some of
the women were really sorry for us, and gave us more than we actually
asked for. But it has not been so with the others. They had been breaking
into houses, stealing every thing they could lay their hands upon, and in
three or four cases shooting down men on the slightest provocation.

“The money and watches were no good to them, but the brutes could not help
stealing them; so here we are, and the settlement is like a swarm of angry
bees, and this plan of handing over most of their horses to the military
will end in all of us being hunted down if we stay here. Two were shot
yesterday, and in another week we shall all either be killed or caught.
There is nothing for it but to clear out. I am against violence, not on
principle, but because in this case it sets people's backs up; but it
cannot be helped now. We must get a couple of horses to ride, and a spare
one to carry our swag. We must have half a sack of flour and a sheep—it
is no use taking more than one, because the meat won't keep—and a
good stock of tea and sugar. We must get a good supply of powder, if we
can, some bullets and shot. We shall have to get our meat by shooting.

“There is no time to be lost, and tonight we had better go to that
settler's place nearest the town. He has got two of the best horses out
here—at least so Redgrave, that shepherd I was talking to today,
told me—and a well filled store of provisions. If he will let us
have them without rumpus, all well and good; if not, it will be the worse
for him. My idea is that we should ride two or three hundred miles along
the coast until we get to a river, follow it up till we find a tidy place
for a camp, and stop there for three or four months, then come back again
and keep ourselves quiet until we find out that a ship is going to sail;
then we will do a night among the farmhouses, and clean them out of their
watches and money, manage to get on board, and hide till we are well out
to sea. We must get a fresh fit out before we go on board; these clothes
are neither handsome nor becoming. We must put on our best manners, and
tell them that we are men who have served our full time, and want to get
back, and that we were obliged to hide because we had not enough to pay
our full passage money, but that we have enough to pay the cost of our
grub, and are ready to pull at a rope and make ourselves useful in any
way. If we are lucky we ought to get enough before we start to buy horses
and set ourselves up well in business at home.”

“I think that is a very good plan,” the other agreed, “and I am quite sure
the sooner we make ourselves scarce here the better.”

CHAPTER VI.

While arranging for young Bastow being sent out with the first batch of
convicts John Thorndyke had been introduced to several of the officials of
the Department, and called upon them at intervals to obtain news of the
penal colony. Three years after its establishment a Crown colony had been
opened for settlement in its vicinity. As the climate was said to be very
fine and the country fertile, and land could be taken up without payment,
the number who went out was considerable, there being the additional
attraction that convicts of good character would be allotted to settlers
as servants and farm hands.

Six years after Arthur Bastow sailed the Squire learned that there had
been a revolt among the convicts; several had been killed, and the mutiny
suppressed, but about a dozen had succeeded in getting away. These had
committed several robberies and some murders among the settlers, and a
military force and a party of warders from the prison were scouring the
country for them.

“Of course, Mr. Thorndyke,” the official said, “the Governor in his report
does not gives us the names of any of those concerned in the matter; he
simply says that although the mutiny was general, it was wholly the work
of a small number of the worse class of prisoners. By worse class he means
the most troublesome and refractory out there. The prisoners are not
classified according to their original crimes. A poacher who has killed a
game keeper, or a smuggler who has killed a revenue officer, may in other
respects be a quiet and well conducted man, while men sentenced for
comparatively minor offenses may give an immense deal of trouble. I will,
however, get a letter written to the Governor, asking him if Arthur Bastow
was among those who took part in the revolt, and if so what has become of
him.”

It was more than a year before the reply came, and then the Governor
reported that Arthur Bastow, who was believed to have been the leading
spirit of the mutiny, was among those who had escaped, and had not yet
been recaptured. It was generally believed that he had been killed by the
blacks, but of this there was no actual proof.

Mr. Bastow was much disturbed when he heard the news. “Suppose he comes
back here, Mr. Thorndyke.”

“I won't suppose anything of the sort,” the Squire replied. “I don't say
that it would be altogether impossible, because now that vessels go from
time to time to Sydney, he might, of course, be able to hide up in one of
them, and not come on deck until she was well on her way, when, in all
probability, he would be allowed to work his passage, and might be put
ashore without any information being given to the authorities. I have no
doubt that among the sailors there would be a good deal of sympathy felt
for the convicts. No doubt they have a hard time of it, and we know that
the gangs working on the roads are always ironed. Still, this is very
unlikely, and the chances are all in favor of his being in hiding in the
bush.

“The shepherds and other hands on the farms are chiefly convicts, and
would probably give him aid if he required it, and there would be no
difficulty in getting a sheep, now and then, for, as all reports say, one
of the chief troubles out there are the wild dogs, or dingoes, as they are
called; any loss in that way would readily be put down to them. As to
money, he would have no occasion for it; if he wanted it he would get it
by robbing the settlers, he would know that if he came back here he would
run the risk of being seized at once on landing or of being speedily
hunted down as an escaped convict. I don't think that there is the
slightest occasion for us to trouble ourselves about him.”

But though the Squire spoke so confidently, he felt by no means sure that
Arthur Bastow would not turn up again, for his reckless audacity had made
a great impression upon him. The proceeds of the robberies in the colony,
in which he had no doubt played a part, would have furnished him with
money with which he could bribe a sailor to hide him away and, if
necessary, pay his passage money to England, when discovered on board, and
perhaps maintain him when he got home until he could replenish his purse
by some unlawful means. Lastly, the Squire argued that the fellow's
vindictive nature and longing for revenge would act as an incentive to
bring him back to London. He talked the matter over with Mark, who was now
a powerful young fellow of twenty, who, of course, remembered the
incidents attending Bastow's capture and trial.

“I cannot help fancying that the fellow will come back, Mark.”

“Well, if he does, father, we must make it our business to lay him by the
heels again. You managed it last time, and if he should turn up you may be
sure I will help you to do it again.”

“Yes, but we may not hear of his having returned until he strikes a blow.
At any rate, see that your pistols are loaded and close at hand at night.”

“They always are, father. There is no saying when a house like this,
standing alone, and containing a good deal of plate and valuables, may be
broken into.”

“Well, you might as well carry them always when you go out after dark. I
shall speak to Knapp, and request him to let me know if he hears of a
suspicious looking character—any stranger, in fact—being
noticed in or about the village, and I shall have a talk with Simeox, the
head constable at Reigate, and ask him to do the same. He is not the same
man who was head at the time Bastow was up before us, but he was in the
force then, and, as one of the constables who came up to take the
prisoners down to Reigate, he will have all the facts in his mind. He is a
sharp fellow, and though Bastow has no doubt changed a good deal since
then, he would hardly fail to recognize him if his eye fell upon him. Of
course we may be alarming ourselves unnecessarily, but there are several
reasons why I should object strongly to be shot just at the present time.”

“Or at any other time, I should say, father,” the young man said with a
laugh.

“I shall know him, Squire, safe enough,” the head constable replied when
John Thorndyke went down to see him on the following day; “but I should
think that if he does come back to England he will hardly be fool enough
to come down here. He was pretty well known in town before that affair,
and everyone who was in the courthouse would be sure to have his face
strongly impressed upon their minds. You may forget a man you have seen
casually, but you don't forget one you have watched closely when he is in
the dock with two others charged with murder. Five out of my six men were
constables at that time, and would know him again the minute they saw him;
but anyhow, I will tell them to keep a sharp lookout in the tramps'
quarters, and especially over the two or three men still here that Bastow
used to consort with. I should say that Reigate is the last place in the
world where he would show his face.”

“I hope so,” the Squire said. “He has caused trouble enough down here as
it is; his father is getting an old man now, and is by no means strong,
and fresh troubles of that kind would undoubtedly kill him.”

A month later the Reigate coach was stopped when a short distance out of
the town by two highwaymen, and a considerable prize obtained by the
robbers. Soon afterwards came news of private carriages being stopped on
various commons in the South of London, and of several burglaries taking
place among the houses round Clapham, Wandsworth, and Putney. Such events
were by no means uncommon, but following each other in such quick
succession they created a strong feeling of alarm among the inhabitants of
the neighborhood. John Thorndyke, going up to town shortly afterwards,
went to the headquarters of the Bow Street runners, and had a talk with
their chief in reference especially to the stoppage of the Reigate coach.
Mr. Chetwynd had lately died, and John Thorndyke had been unanimously
elected by his fellow magistrates as chairman of the bench.

“No, Mr. Thorndyke, we have no clew whatever. Our men have been keeping
the sharpest watch over the fellows suspected of having a hand in such
matters, but they all seem keeping pretty quiet at present, and none of
them seem to be particularly flush with money. It is the same with these
burglaries in the South of London. We are at our wits' end about them. We
are flooded with letters of complaint from residents; but though the
patrols on the common have been doubled and every effort made, we are as
far off as ever. As far as the burglaries are concerned, we have every
reason to think that they are the work of two or three new hands. The jobs
are not neatly done, and certainly not with tools usually used by
burglars. They seem to rely upon daring rather than skill. Anyhow, we
don't know where to look for them, and are altogether at sea.

“Of course it is as annoying to us as it is to anyone else; more so,
because the Justices of the Peace are sending complaints to the Home
Secretary, and he in turn drops on us and wants to know what we are doing.
I have a sort of fancy myself the fellows who are stopping the coaches are
the same as those concerned in the burglaries. I could not give you my
reasons for saying so, except that on no occasion has a coach been stopped
and a house broken into on the same night. I fancy that at present we
shan't hear much more of them. They have created such alarm that the
coaches carry with them two men armed with blunderbusses, in addition to
the guards, and I should fancy that every householder sleeps with pistols
within reach, and has got arms for his servants. At many of the large
houses I know a watchman has been engaged to sit in the hall all night, to
ring the alarm bell and wake the inmates directly he hears any suspicious
sounds. Perhaps the fellows may be quiet for a time, for they must, during
the last month, have got a wonderful amount of spoil. Maybe they will go
west—the Bath road is always a favorite one with these fellows—maybe
they will work the northern side of the town. I hope we shall lay hands
upon them one day, but so far I may say frankly we have not the slightest
clew.”

“But they must put their horses up somewhere?”

“Yes, but unfortunately there are so many small wayside inns, that it is
next to impossible to trace them. A number of these fellows are in
alliance with the highwaymen. Some of them, too, have small farms in
addition to their public house businesses, and the horses may be snugly
put up there, while we are searching the inn stables in vain. Again, there
are rogues even among the farmers themselves; little men, perhaps, who do
not farm more than thirty or forty acres, either working them themselves,
or by the aid of a hired man who lives perhaps at a village a mile away.
To a man of this kind, the offer of a couple of guineas a week to keep two
horses in an empty cowshed, and to ask no questions, is a heavy
temptation.

“We have got two clever fellows going about the country inquiring at all
the villages whether two mounted men have lately been heard going through
there late at night, or early in the morning, so as to narrow down the
area to be searched, but nothing has come of it, although I am pretty sure
that they must have three or four places they use in various directions.
My men have picked up stories of horsemen being heard occasionally, but
they come from various directions, and nowhere have they been noticed with
any regularity. Besides, there are other knights of the road about, so we
are no nearer than we were on that line of inquiry.”

A month later John Thorndyke had occasion to go up again to town. This
time Mark accompanied him. Both carried pistols, as did the groom, sitting
behind them. The Squire himself was but a poor shot, but Mark had
practiced a great deal.

“'Tis a good thing to be able to shoot straight, Mark,” his father had
said to him three years before. “I abhor dueling, but there is so much of
it at present that any gentlemen might find himself in a position when he
must either go out or submit to be considered a coward. Then, too, the
roads are infested by highwaymen. For that reason alone it would be well
that a man should be able to shoot straight. You should also practice
sometimes at night, setting up some object at a distance so that you can
just make out its outline, and taking a dozen shots at it. I know it is
very difficult when you cannot see your own pistol, but you can soon learn
to trust to your arm to come up to the right height and in the right
direction. Of course you must wait until morning to find out where your
bullet has gone.”

Two days after they had reached town the Squire received a letter from
Mrs. Cunningham.

“DEAR MR. THORNDYKE:

“Knapp has been up this morning to tell me that a stranger dismounted
yesterday at the alehouse, and while his horse was being fed he asked a
few questions. Among others, he wished to be told if you were at home,
saying that he had known you some fifteen years ago, when you lived near
Hastings, and should like to have a talk with you again. In fact, he had
turned off from the main road for the purpose. He seemed disappointed when
he heard that you had gone up to town, and hearing that you might not be
back for three or four days, said he should be coming back through Reigate
in a week or ten days, and he dared say he should be able to find time to
call again. Knapp did not hear about it until this morning; he asked the
landlord about the man, and the landlord said he was about thirty, dark,
and sparely built. He did not notice his horse particularly, seeing that
it was such as a small squire or farmer might ride. He carried a brace of
pistols in his holsters. The landlord was not prepossessed with his
appearance, and it was that that made him speak to Knapp about him. I have
told the men to unfasten the dogs every night, and I have asked Knapp to
send up two trustworthy men to keep watch.”

“It may mean something, and it may not,” the Squire said, as he handed the
letter to Mark. “It is a suspicious looking circumstance; if the fellow
had been honest he would surely have said something about himself. There
is no doubt these housebreakers generally find out what chance there is of
resistance, and, hearing that we were both away, may have decided on
making an attempt. I have pretty well finished our business and ordered
nearly all the provisions that Mrs. Cunningham requires. But I have to
call at my lawyer's, and that is generally a longish business. It is half
past two o'clock now; if we start from here at five we shall be down soon
after eight, which will be quite soon enough. We shall have a couple of
hours' drive in the dark, but that won't matter, we have got the lamps.”

“I am quite ready to start, father. I am engaged to sup with Reginald
Ascot, but I will go over this afternoon and make my excuses.”

At five o'clock they started. “You have got your pistols in order, Mark?”
the Squire asked, as they drove over London Bridge.

“I have them handy, father, one in each pocket.”

“James, are your pistols charged?”

“Yes, sir.”

At six o'clock it was beginning to get dusk, and they stopped while the
groom got down and lit the lamps; then they resumed their journey. They
were within five miles of Reigate when suddenly two horsemen rode out from
a side road with a shout of “Stand and deliver!”

The Squire lashed the horses, and a moment later a pistol was fired, and
the ball went through his hat. By the light of the lamps Mark saw the
other man raise his hand, and, leveling his pistol, fired on the instant;
then, as there was no reply to his shot, he discharged the second barrel
at the first who had fired, and who had at once drawn another pistol. The
two reports rang out almost at the same moment, but Mark's was a little
the first. There was a sharp exclamation of pain from the highwayman, who
wrenched round his horse and galloped down the lane from which he had
issued, the groom sending two bullets after him.

“Where is the other man?” Mark exclaimed, as his father reined in the
horses.

“Somewhere on the ground there, Mark; I saw him fall from his saddle as we
passed him.”

“Is it any use pursuing the other, father? I am pretty sure I hit him.”

“I am quite sure you did, but it is no good our following; the side roads
are so cut up by ruts that we should break a spring before we had gone a
hundred yards. No, we will stop and look at this fellow who is unhorsed,
Mark.”

The groom got down, and, taking one of the carriage lamps, proceeded to a
spot where the highwayman's horse was standing. The man was already dead,
the bullet having hit him a few inches above the heart.

“He is dead, father.”

“I think you had better lift him up on the foot board behind; James can
ride his horse. We will hand the body over to the constable at Reigate. He
may know who he is, or find something upon him that may afford a clew that
will lead to the capture of his companion.”

“No, I don't know him, Squire,” the constable said as they stopped before
his house and told him what had happened. “However, he certainly is dead,
and I will get one of the men to help me carry him into the shed behind
the courthouse. So you say that you think that the other is wounded?”

“I am pretty sure he is. I heard him give an exclamation as my son fired.”

“That is good shooting, Mr. Mark,” the constable said. “If every passenger
could use his arms as you do there would soon be an end to stopping
coaches. I will see what he has got about him, and will come up and let
you know, Squire, the first thing in the morning.”

“I will send Knapp down,” John Thorndyke said, as they drove homewards. “I
am rather curious to know if this fellow is the same Mrs. Cunningham wrote
about. I will tell him to take Peters along with him.”

“I hardly see that there can be any connection between the two. Highwaymen
don't go in for house breaking. I think they consider that to be a lower
branch of the profession.”

“Generally they do, no doubt, Mark; but you know I told you that the chief
at Bow Street said that he had a suspicion that the highway robbers and
the house breakers who have been creating so much alarm are the same men.”

“It is curious that they should have happened to light on us, father, if
they were intending to break into our house.”

John Thorndyke made no reply, and in a few minutes drove up to the house.
Their return, a couple of days before they were expected, caused great
satisfaction to Mrs. Cunningham and Millicent. The former, however, had
wisely kept from the girl the matter on which she had written to the
Squire, and the suspicion she had herself entertained.

“It is very dull without you both,” Millicent said. “I was telling Mrs.
Cunningham that I thought it would be a good thing, when you got back, for
us two to take a run up to town for a week, just to let you see how dull
the place is when two of us are away. You are looking quite serious,
uncle. Is anything the matter?”

“Happily nothing is the matter with us, dear, but we have had an
adventure, and not a very pleasant one.”

“What was it?” the girl asked.

“If you examine my hat closely, Millicent, it will tell you.”

The girl took up the hat from a chair on which he had put it, and brought
it to the light. “There are two holes in it,” she said. “Oh, Guardy, have
you been shot at?”

“It looks like it, dear. Two gentlemen highwaymen—at least, that is
what I believe they call themselves—asked us pressingly to stop, and
as we would not comply with their request, one fired at me, and, as you
see, it was an uncommonly good shot. The other was about to fire when
Mark's pistol put a stop to him, and his second barrel stopped the fellow
who had fired first; he was hit, for we heard him give an exclamation of
pain, but before any more shooting could be done he turned and rode off
down a narrow lane where we could not follow.”

“And what became of the first?” Millicent asked with open eyes.

“He was dead before we could get down to examine him; he will not disturb
the King's peace again. It happened about four miles from home, so we
brought him in and gave him and his horse into the charge of the constable
at Reigate.”

“And you have really killed a man?” Millicent said, looking up with an
awestruck expression to Mark.

“Well, as the man would have killed us if I hadn't, I cannot say,
Millicent, that his death weighs in any way heavily on my mind. If he were
as good a shot as the other, my father's life would not have been worth
much, for as we were driving fast, he was not above half as far away as
the other had been when he fired. Just the same, I suppose, as it would be
in a battle; a man is going to shoot you, and you shoot him first, and I
don't suppose it ever troubles you afterwards.”

“Of course I don't mean that I blame you, Mark; but it does seem
shocking.”

“I don't suppose you would think that, Millicent, if a burglar, who had
taken one shot at you and was about to finish you with another, was cut
short in the operation by a shot from my pistol. I believe that your
relief and thankfulness would be so great that the idea that it was a
shocking thing for me to do would not as much as enter your head.”

“I wish you had shot the other man as well as the one you did, Mark,” the
Squire said, as he walked with his son down to Reigate to attend the
inquest the next morning on the man he had brought in. Mark looked at his
father in surprise.

“There is no doubt I hit him, father,” he said; “but I should not think
that he will be likely to trouble us again.”

“I wish I felt quite sure of that. Do you know that I have a strong
suspicion that it was Arthur Bastow?”

Mark had, of course, heard of Bastow's escape, but had attached no great
importance to it. The crime had taken place nearly eight years before, and
although greatly impressed at the time by the ill doings of the man, the
idea that he would ever return and endeavor to avenge himself on his
father for the part he had taken had not occurred to him. Beyond
mentioning his escape, the Squire had never talked to him on the subject.

“It was he who bade us stand and deliver, and the moment he spoke the
voice seemed familiar to me, and, thinking it over, I have an impression
that it was his. I may be mistaken, for I have had him in my mind ever
since I heard that he had escaped, and may therefore have connected the
voice with him erroneously, and yet I cannot but think that I was right.
You see, there are two or three suspicious circumstances. In the first
place, there was this man down here making inquiries. Knapp went down
early this morning with the innkeeper, and told me before breakfast that
Peters at once recognized the fellow you shot as the man who had made the
inquiries. Now, the natural result of making inquiries would have been
that the two men would the next evening have broken into the house,
thinking that during our absence they would meet with no resistance.
Instead of doing this they waylaid us on the road, which looks as if it
was me they intended to attack, and not the house.”

“But how could they have known that it was us, father? It is certainly
singular that one of the two men should have been the fellow who was up at
the inn, but it may be only a matter of coincidence.”

“I don't know, Mark; I don't say that singular coincidences don't occur,
but I have not much faith in them. Still, if they were journeying down to
attack the house last night they would hardly have stopped travelers by
the way when there was a rich booty awaiting them, as they evidently
believed there was, or that man would not have come down specially to make
inquiries. My own impression is that when they heard that we should return
in two or three days one of them watched us in London, and as soon as they
learned that we were to start for home at five o'clock they came down here
to stop us. They would hardly have done that merely to get our watches and
what money we had in our pockets.”

“No, I should think not, father; but they might be friends of men who have
got into trouble at Reigate, and, as you are chairman of the bench, may
have had a special grudge against you for their conviction.”

“That is, of course, possible, and I hope that it is so.”

“But even if Arthur Bastow had escaped, father, why should he come back to
England, where he would know that he might be arrested again, instead of
staying quietly out in Australia?”

“There are two reasons. In the first place the life out there would not be
a quiet one; there would be nothing for him but to attack and rob the
settlers, and this, as they are sure to be armed, is a pretty dangerous
business. Then there are perils from the blacks, and lastly, such a life
would be absolutely devoid of comfort, and be that of a hunted dog; living
always in the bush, scarcely venturing to sleep lest he should be pounced
upon either by the armed constables of the colony or by the blacks. It is
not as if the country were extensively populated; there are not a very
large number of settlers there yet, and therefore very small scope for
robbers. These people would keep very little money with them, and the
amount of plunder to be got would be small indeed. Therefore, I take it
that the main object of any escaped convict would be to get away from the
place.

“That is one of the reasons why the fellow might come back to England in
spite of the risks. The other is that I believe him to be so diabolically
vindictive that he would run almost any peril in order to obtain revenge
upon me or his father. Twice he has threatened me, the first time when we
captured him, the second time as he left the court after he had received
his sentence. I am not a coward, so far as I know, Mark, but I am as
certain as I stand here that he meant what he said, and that, during these
years of imprisonment and toil out there, he has been cherishing the
thought of coming home some day and getting even with me. You see, he is
said to have been the leader of this convict revolt. There is no doubting
his daring, and to my mind the attack upon us last night, when they knew
that they could have managed a successful robbery here, points to the fact
that it was the result of personal animosity, and strengthens my belief
that it was Arthur Bastow who called upon us to stand and deliver.”

“It is a very unpleasant idea, father.”

“Very unpleasant, and it seems to me that we should at any rate spare no
pains in hunting the man you wounded down.”

“I will undertake that if you like. I have nothing particular to do, and
it would be an excitement. You have a lot to keep you here.”

“I don't fancy that you will find it an excitement, Mark, for of course
the detectives will do the hunting, but I should certainly be glad if you
would take a letter for me to the head of the Detective Department, and
tell him what I think, and my reasons for thinking so, and say that I
offer a reward of a hundred pounds for the capture of the man who tried to
stop us, and who was, we are certain, wounded by you. Unless he has some
marvelously out of the way hiding place, it ought not to be difficult. A
wounded man could scarcely lie hidden in the slums of London without it
being known to a good many people, to some of whom a reward of the sum of
a hundred pounds would be an irresistible temptation.”

By this time they had reached Reigate. The inquest did not last many
minutes, and the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of justifiable
homicide.

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning Mark went up to London.

“Of course, Mr. Thorndyke,” the chief at Bow Street said, “your father's
suspicions as to the man's identity may or may not be justified; that,
however, makes no difference to us. Here is a highwayman who has been
wounded, and would certainly be a valuable capture: I will set my men to
work at once; if he is in London they will get news of him before many
days. My men in any case would do their duty, but your father's offer will
certainly stimulate their energy. Where are you stopping?”

“At the Bull, in Holborn.”

“Very well; I will be sure to let you know as soon as we get any clew to
the man's identity.”

Mark remained in London a week, and at the end of that time he received a
note from Bow Street saying that the superintendent wished to see him.

“I am sorry that I have no news for you, Mr. Thorndyke,” the officer said,
when he called upon him. “Every place where such a man would be likely to
be in hiding has been searched, and no clew whatever has been obtained. We
shall now circulate notices of the reward throughout the country. If the
man was at all severely hit, we may assume that he must be somewhere in
the neighborhood of London, whereas, if the wound was a slight one, he
might be able to go a long distance, and may be now in York, for aught we
know. However, now that the search in London has terminated, I can really
see no use in your staying here any longer; we will let you know directly
we have any news.”

Three months later John Thorndyke received a letter from the Detective
Office asking him to call the next time he came up to town, as although no
news had been obtained that would lead to the man's immediate arrest, news
had at any rate been obtained showing that he was alive. It happened that
Mark was intending to go up on the following day, and his father asked him
to call for him at Bow Street.

“Well, Mr. Thorndyke, we have heard about your man, and that after we had
quite abandoned the search. I had come to the conclusion that the wound
you gave him had been a fatal one, and that he had been quietly buried by
some of the people with whom he was connected. The discovery was, as half
these discoveries generally are, the result of accident. Last week a
gentleman entered the Bank and asked for change in gold for a fifty pound
note. The cashier, looking at the number, found that it was one of those
that had been stolen from a passenger by one of the south coaches several
months ago. The gentleman was at once taken into a private office, and
questioned as to how he had obtained the note. The account that he gave
was that he was a surgeon in practice at Southampton. A gentleman had
arrived there on a date which we found to be the day after that on which
you were stopped; he was well dressed, and had the air of a gentleman; he
had come down by coach, and was evidently very ill. He told the surgeon
that he had been engaged in a duel, that the pistols had been discharged
simultaneously, and that he had killed his man, but had himself been
severely wounded. He said that the person whom he had killed had
influential connections, and that it would be necessary for him to remain
in seclusion for a time, and he asked him to take charge of his case, as
he had ample means of paying him handsomely. The surgeon examined the
wound, and found it to be indeed a serious one, and, as he thought,
probably fatal. However, having no doubt as to the truth of the story, he
had taken the gentleman in, and he remained under his charge until a week
before he came up to town.

“For the first month he had been dangerously ill, but he completely
recovered. The surgeon had no reason whatever for doubting his patient
being a gentleman; he was fashionably dressed, and had evidently changed
his clothes after the duel, as there were no bloodstains upon them. He
was, however, glad when he left, as his conversation did not please him
from its cynical tone. The Bank sent to us directly the man presented the
note, which he stated had been given to him in part payment for his
medical services and the board and lodging of the patient; the total
amount had been 75 pounds, and the balance was paid in gold. As he was
able to give several good references, and was identified by three
gentlemen, he was, of course, released. I have no doubt whatever that the
fellow he attended was your man. The surgeon said, whoever he was, he must
have been a man of iron resolution to have made such a journey in the
state he was.

“No doubt he must have ridden straight to the place he used as his
headquarters, where he had his wound roughly bandaged, changed his
clothes, and had ridden in the morning to some point that the coach passed
on its way to Southampton. Of course we obtained a minute description from
the surgeon of the man's appearance. We found that the people at the coach
office had no remembrance of there being anyone answering to that
description among the persons who traveled by the coach, but of course
that would not go for much, for over three months have elapsed.

“When the coachman who had driven the down coach that day came up to town,
we saw him, and he remembered perfectly that on or about that day he had
picked up a passenger at Kingston—a gentleman who was in very weak
health. There were only three inside passengers besides himself, and he
had to be assisted into the coach. The way bill, on being turned up,
showed that an inside passenger had been taken up at Kingston. I have
already sent down men to make inquiries at every village in the district
between Reigate and Kingston, and I trust that we shall lay hands on him,
especially now we have got an accurate description of him, while before we
were working in the dark in that respect.”

“What is the description, sir? My father is much interested on that point,
for, as I believe I told you, he has a strong suspicion that the fellow is
the man who was transported more than eight years ago to Australia, and
who made his escape from the prison there.”

“Yes, I know. At first it appeared to me very improbable, but I am bound
to say the description tallies very closely with that given of him. The
surgeon took him to be nearly thirty; but after what he has gone through
he may well look three or four years older than he is. He had light hair,
rather small gray eyes, and a face that would have been good looking had
it not been for its supercilious and sneering expression.”

“I can remember him,” Mark said; “and that answers very closely to him. I
should say that it is certainly Bastow, and my father made no mistake when
he asserted that he recognized his voice.”

The officer added a note to the description in his register: “Strongly
suspected of being Arthur Bastow, transported for connivance with
highwaymen; was leader of a mutiny in convict jail of Sydney two years and
a half ago. Made his escape.”

“There is no doubt,” he went on, “that he is a desperate character. No
doubt he is the man who has been concerned in most of these robberies in
the southern suburbs. We must get hold of him if we can, and once we do so
there will be an end of his travels, for the mutiny in prison and escape
is a hanging business, putting aside the affairs since he got back. Well,
sir, I hope he will give you and your father no more trouble.”

“I am sure I hope so,” Mark said. “I suppose that the fellow who was shot
was one of the men who escaped with him from the convict prison.”

“That is likely enough. Two would get home as easily as one, and the fact
that they were both strangers here would account for the difficulty our
men have had in their search for him. You see, we have had nothing
whatever to go on. You must not be too sanguine about our catching the man
in a short time: he is evidently a clever fellow, and I think it likely
that once he got back he lost no time in getting away from this part of
the country, and we are more likely to find him in the west or north than
we are of laying hands on him here. We will send descriptions all over the
country, and as soon as I hear of a series of crimes anywhere, I will send
off two of my best men to help the local constables.”

On his return home Mark told his father what he had done.

“I thought that I could not have been mistaken, Mark; we have got that
rascal on our hands again. I hope now that they have got a description of
him to go by, they will not be long before they catch him; but the way he
escaped after being badly wounded shows that he is full of resources, and
he may give them some trouble yet, if I am not mistaken. At any rate, I
will have a talk with the Reigate constable, and tell him that there is
very little doubt that the man who attacked us was Arthur Bastow, who has,
as we have heard, escaped from Botany Bay, and that he had best tell his
men to keep a sharp lookout for him, for that, owing to his animosity
against us for his former capture and conviction, it is likely enough that
sooner or later he will be in this neighborhood again. After his
determined attempt at my life when pretending to rob us, I shall certainly
not feel comfortable until I know that he is under lock and key.”

“I wish, Guardy, you would give up this magistrate's business,” Millicent
said at dinner. “I am sure that it is worrying you, and I can't see why
you should go on with it.”

“It does not worry me, as a rule, Millicent; indeed, I like the duty.
Besides, every landowner of standing ought to take his share in public
work. There are only two of the magistrates younger than I am, and
whatever you may think of me, I feel myself capable of doing what work
there is to do. When Mark gets a few years older I shall resign, and let
him take my place on the bench. I own, though, that I should be glad if
these highway robberies could be suppressed. Poaching and the ordinary
offenses of drunkenness and assaults are disposed of without any trouble;
but this stopping of the coaches, accompanied occasionally by the shooting
of the coachman or guard, gives a great deal of trouble, and the worst of
it is that we are practically powerless to put such crimes down. Nothing
short of patrolling the roads in parties of three or four between sunset
and sunrise would put a stop to them, and the funds at our disposal would
not support such an expenditure.”

“It is a pity that you cannot get up a corps like the yeomanry, and call
it the Mounted Constabulary,” said Mark. “There are at least a dozen
fellows I know who would, like myself, be glad to join it, and I dare say
we could get a score of young farmers or farmers' sons.”

“It is not a bad idea, Mark, and I dare say that for a time the duty would
be zealously performed, but before very long you would tire of it. A few
wet nights or winter's cold, and you would cease to see the fun of it,
especially as you may be sure that the news that the roads are well
patrolled would soon come to the ears of these scoundrels, and they would
cease to work in the district.”

“Perhaps you are right, sir; but I think that a few of us would stick to
it.”

“Perhaps so, Mark, but I should be sorry to wager that the work would be
thoroughly done. The first county or hunt ball, or even dinner party, more
than half of them would be away. I don't say that you personally might not
for some considerable time persist in patrolling the roads, for you have a
sort of personal interest in the matter; but I would wager that before two
months have passed you would find you were the only one who attended at
the rendezvous regularly.”

A fortnight later the party were seated round the fire in the dusk. Mr.
Bastow was sitting next to the Squire, and was in unusually good spirits.
He had heard no word of what the Squire had discovered, nor dreamed that
his son was again in England, still less that he was suspected of being
one of the men who had endeavored to stop the Squire and his son on their
drive from London. Suddenly there was the crack of a pistol outside, and a
ball passed between him and the Squire. Without a word, Mark Thorndyke
rushed to the door, seized a pistol from his riding coat, and, snatching
up a heavy whip, dashed out into the garden.

He was just in time to see a figure running at full speed, and he set off
in pursuit. Good runner as he was, he gained but slightly at first, but
after a time he drew nearer to the fugitive. The latter was but some sixty
yards away when he leaped a hedge into a narrow lane. Mark followed
without hesitation, but as he leaped into the road he heard a jeering
laugh and the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs, and knew that the man he was
pursuing had gained his horse and made off. Disgusted at his failure, he
went slowly back to the house. The shutters had been put up.

“I have lost him, father. He ran well to begin with, but I was gaining
fast on him when he leaped into a narrow lane where he had left his horse,
and rode off before I could get up to him. I need hardly say that there
was no use attempting to follow on foot. He missed you all, did he not?”

“Yes, Mark. It is not so easy to take an accurate aim when it is nearly
dark. The bullet passed between myself and Mr. Bastow, and has buried
itself in the mantelpiece.”

“Something ought to be done, Guardy,” Millicent Conyers said indignantly.
“It is shameful that people cannot sit in their own room without the risk
of being shot at. What can it mean? Surely no one can have any enmity
against you.”

“I hope not, my dear,” John Thorndyke said lightly. “Some of the fellows
we have sentenced may think that we were rather hard on them, but I do not
think that any of them would feel it sufficiently to attempt to murder
one; besides, Mark says that the fellow had a horse waiting for him, and
none of our poachers would be likely to be the owner of a horse. It may be
that the highwayman Mark shot at and wounded has come down to give us a
fright. It is no use worrying about it now; in future we will have the
shutters closed at sunset. It is hardly likely that the thing will be
attempted again, and Mark's chase must have shown the fellow that the game
is hardly worth the risk.”

“He might have shot you, Mark; you had no right to risk your life in that
sort of way,” the girl said to him, later, as they were seated together in
front of the fire, while the Squire was reading the Gazette at the table,
Mrs. Cunningham was working, and Mr. Bastow, who had been greatly shaken
by the event, had retired to bed.

“Do you think that he really meant to kill your father?”

“I should imagine he did; a man would hardly run the risk of being hung
merely for the pleasure of shooting. I would give a good deal if I had
caught him, or better still, if I had shot him,” said Mark. “However, I
will make it my business to hunt the fellow down. After this evening's
affair, we shall never feel comfortable until he is caught. I have no
doubt that he is the fellow we have been hunting for the last four months.
The people at Bow Street seem no good whatever; I will try if I cannot
succeed better.”

“Don't do anything rash, Mark,” said Millicent, in a low voice; “you have
no right to put yourself in danger.”

“But our lives are in danger now, Millicent—in much greater danger
than mine would be when looking out for him. But there seems no guarding
against attacks like this; I mean to hunt him down, if it takes me a year.
I have nothing special to do, and cannot employ my time more usefully.”

When the ladies went up to bed the Squire said:

“Come into the library, Mark, and we will smoke a pipe, and have a talk
over this business.” He touched the bell. “Have you got a good fire in the
library, Ramoo?”

“Yes, sahib, very good.”

“Then take a bottle of number one bin of port there—and a couple of
glasses.”

When they were quietly seated, glasses filled, and the long pipes alight,
the Squire said: “I want to have a serious talk with you, Mark. What I am
going to say will surprise you a good deal. I had not intended to tell you
for another four years—that is to say, not until Millicent came of
age—but after that affair tonight, I feel that my life is so
uncertain that I ought not to delay letting you know the truth. I suppose
you agree with me that it was Bastow who shot at me this evening?”

“I have not the least doubt about that, father.”

“I will not say that he shot at me,” the Squire said, “for he may have
shot at his father; the villain is quite capable of that. It was his
father who brought me upon him, and though I effected his capture eight
years ago I don't suppose he cares which of us he killed. However, the
point is not what he aimed at, but whether it was he, and that I take
there is no doubt about. He missed me this time, but his next shot may be
more successful, At any rate, I think that it is high time that I told you
the story.”

And, beginning with the arrival of Colonel Thorndyke at his place, he
repeated the conversation that he had had with him. Several times in the
early portion of his narrative he was interrupted by exclamations of
surprise from his son.

“Then Millicent is really my uncle's heiress!” exclaimed Mark, when he
heard the request the Colonel had made of the Squire.

“That is so, Mark. She does not know it herself, and it was my brother's
urgent wish that she should not know it until she came of age or until she
married. I fought against it to the utmost, but it was his dying prayer,
and I could not refuse it. My solicitor knows the facts of the matter, and
so does Mrs. Cunningham, who brought Millicent over from India when she
was only about a year old. I may say that I especially urged that it would
not be fair to you to be brought up to consider yourself to be heir to the
property, but he said:

“'Putting aside the estate, I have a considerable fortune. In the first
place, there are the accumulations of rent from the Reigate place. I have
never touched them, and they have been going on for twelve years. In. the
next place, the shaking of the pagoda tree has gone on merrily, and we all
made a comfortable pile. Then I always made a point of carrying about with
me two or three hundred pounds, and after the sacking of some of the
palaces I could pick up jewels and things from the troops for a trifle,
being able to pay money down. Even without the rents here, I have some
50,000 pounds in money. I should think the jewels would be worth at least
as much more, irrespective of a diamond bracelet which is, I fancy, worth
more than the rest put together. It was stolen from the arm of some idol.'
He then explained how he got it, and the manner in which he had placed it
and the rest of his wealth in a secure position.

“'Things stolen from a god are frightfully dangerous,' he said, 'for the
Brahmins or priests connected with the temples have been known to follow
them up for years, and in nine cases out of ten they get possession of
them again. Murder in such a case is meritorious, and I would not have
them in the house here, were they ten times the value they are. I know
that my clothes, my drawers, and everything belonging to me have been gone
through at night a score of times. Nothing has been stolen, but, being a
methodical man, I could generally see some displacement in the things that
told me they had been disturbed. They gave it up for a time, but I haven't
a shadow of a doubt that they have been watching me ever since, and they
may be watching me now, for anything I know. Now, half of that fortune I
have left by my will to your son; half to the girl. I will tell you where
the things are the last thing before I die.

“'Now, mind, you must be careful when you get them. When I am dead you are
almost certain to be watched. You don't know what these fellows are. The
things must remain where they are until your boy comes of age. Don't let
him keep those diamonds an hour in his possession; let him pass them away
privately to some man in whom he has implicit confidence, for him to take
them to a jeweler's; let him double and turn and disguise himself so as to
throw everyone that may be spying on him off his track. If you can manage
it, the best way would be to carry them over to Amsterdam, and sell them
there.'

“I confess it seemed absurd, but it is a matter about which he would know
a great deal more than I do, and he was convinced that not only was he
watched, but that he owed his life simply to the fact that the fellows did
not know where the diamonds were hidden, and that by killing him they
would have lost every chance of regaining them.

“So convinced was he of all this, that he would not tell me where he had
stowed them away; he seemed to think that the very walls would hear us,
and that these fellows might be hidden under the sofa, in a cupboard, or
up the chimney, for aught I know. He told me that he would tell me the
secret before he died; but death came so suddenly that he never had an
opportunity of doing so. He made a tremendous effort in his last moment,
but failed, and I shall never forget the anguish his face expressed when
he found himself powerless to speak; however, he pressed his snuffbox into
my hand with such a significant look that, being certain it contained some
clew to the mystery, and being unable to find a hidden spring or a
receptacle, I broke it open that night.

“It contained a false bottom, and here are what I found in it. I stowed
them away in a secret drawer in that old cabinet that stands by my
bedside. It is in the bottom pigeonhole on the right hand side. I bought
the cabinet at a sale, and found the spring of the secret drawer quite
accidentally. I shall put the things back tonight, and you will know where
to look for them. You press against the bottom and up against the top
simultaneously, and the back then falls forward. The opening behind is
very shallow, and will hold but two or three letters. But, however, it
sufficed for this;” and he handed Mark the coin and slip of paper.

“But what are these, father?”

“These are the clews by which we are to obtain the treasure.”

As Mark examined them carefully the Squire stood up with his back to the
fire, and looking round walked to the door and said: “I thought there was
a draught somewhere; either Ramoo did not shut the door when he went out
or it has come open again. It has done that once or twice before. When I
go into town tomorrow I will tell Tucker to send a man up to take the lock
off. Well, what do you make out of that?”

“I can make out nothing,” Mark replied. “No doubt the coin is something to
be given to whoever is in charge of the treasure, and Masulipatam may be
the place where it is hidden.”

“Yes, or it may be a password. It reminds one of the forty thieves
business. You go and knock at the door of a cave, a figure armed to the
teeth presents itself, you whisper in his ear 'Masulipatam,' he replies
'Madras,' or 'Calcutta,' or something of that sort, you take out the coin
and show it to him, he takes out from some hidden repository a similar
one, compares the two, and then leads you to an inner cave piled up with
jewels.”

Mark laughed.

“Well, it is no laughing matter, Mark,” the Squire went on seriously. “The
little comedy may not be played just as I have sketched it, but I expect
that it is something of the kind. That coin has to be shown, and the word
'Masulipatam' spoken to the guardian, whoever he may be, of your uncle's
treasure. But who that guardian may be or how he is to be found is a
mystery. I myself have never tried to solve it. There was nothing whatever
to go upon. The things may be in England or, it may be, anywhere in India.
To me it looked an absolutely hopeless business to set about. I did not
see how even a first step was to be taken, and as I had this estate and
you and Millicent to look after, and was no longer a young man, I put the
matter aside altogether. You are young, you have plenty of energy, and you
have your life before you, and it is a matter of the greatest interest to
you.

“Possibly—very improbably, mind, still possibly—when Millicent
comes of age and learns who she is, Mrs. Cunningham may be able to help
you. I have no idea whether it is so. I have never spoken to her about
this treasure of George's, but it is just possible that while he was in
town before he came down to me he may have given her some instructions
concerning it. Of course he intended to give me full particulars, but he
could hardly have avoided seeing that, in the event of my death, perhaps
suddenly before the time came for seeking the treasure, the secret would
be lost altogether. Whether he has told her or his lawyer or not I cannot
say, but I have all along clung to the hope that he took some such natural
precaution. Unless that treasure is discovered, the only thing that will
come to you is the half of the accumulated rents of this estate during the
ten years between my father's death and George's; these rents were paid to
our solicitors, and by them invested.

“The rentals amount to about 2500 pounds a year, and of course there is
interest to be added, so that I suppose there is now some 25,000 pounds,
for I had out 2000 pounds when I came here, to set matters straight. I had
a great fight with the lawyers over it, but as I pointed out they had
failed altogether to see that the agent did his duty, and that at least a
couple of hundred a year ought to be expended in necessary repairs, I had
a right to at least that sum to carry out the work that ought to be done
from year to year. In addition to that sum I laid out about 1000 pounds a
year for the first three years I was here; so that practically 5000 pounds
was expended in rebuilding the village and doing repairs on the
homesteads; that, however, is not the point now. Altogether, then, there
is some 25,000 pounds to be divided between you and Millicent when she
becomes mistress of this property.

“According to the terms of my brother's will, I am still to remain here
until she marries; when she does so I shall, of course, go back to my own
little place; the income of that has been accumulating while I have been
here, my only expenses having been for clothes. I have taken nothing out
of this estate since I came here, and each year have paid to the
solicitors all balances remaining after discharging the household
expenses, these balances averaging 700 or 800 pounds a year. Of course the
income was absolutely left to me during the time I remained ostensible
owner, but I had no wish to make money out of a trust that I assumed
greatly against my will. That money is Millicent's; of course the house
had to be kept up in proper style whether I were here or not. Had she at
once come into possession, there must have been horses, and carriages, and
so on. I don't say that I have not had all the expenses of our living
saved; that I had no objection to; but I was determined at least not to
take a penny put of the estate beyond those expenses. You see, Mark, you
will have your 12,500 pounds anyhow, as soon as Millicent comes of age—not
a bad little sum—so that even if you never hear anything more of
this mysterious treasure you will not be penniless, or in anyway dependent
upon me. At my death, of course, you will come into the Sussex place, with
what savings there may be.”

“I am sure I have no reason to grumble, father,” Mark said heartily. “Of
course it came upon me at first as a surprise that Millicent was the
heiress here, and it flashed through my mind for the moment that the best
thing would be to take a commission in the army, or to follow my uncle's
example, and get a cadetship in the Company's service. I have no doubt
that I should have enjoyed life either way quite as much or possibly more
than if I had gone on a good many years as heir to these estates, and
afterwards as Squire. Of course, now I shall make it my business to see if
it is possible to obtain some sort of clew to this treasure, and then
follow it up; but the first thing to which I shall give my mind will be to
hunt down Bastow. We shall never feel safe here as long as that fellow is
alive, and that will be the first thing I shall devote myself to. After
that I shall see about the treasure.”

“As to that, Mark, I cannot impress upon you too strongly what your uncle
said. It may, of course, be a pure delusion on his part; but if he is
right, and some of these Hindoo fellows are still on the watch to obtain
that bracelet, you must use extraordinary precautions when you get it into
your hands; he advised me to take it across to Amsterdam, and either get
the stones recut or to sell them separately to different diamond merchants
there. He said that my life would not be worth an hour's purchase as long
as the stones were in my hands.”

“That rather looks, father, as if the things were somewhere in England;
had they been in India, you would have had them some months in your hands
before you could get them to Amsterdam.”

“I did not think of that before, Mark, and it is possible that you are
right; but I don't know; he might have thought that it would be impossible
for me to dispose of them at Madras or Calcutta, and may have assumed that
I should at once deposit them in a bank to be forwarded with other
treasure to England, or that I should get them packed away in the treasure
safe in the ship I came back by, and that I should not really have them on
my person till I landed in England, or until I took them from the Bank.
Still, I see that your supposition is the most likely, and that they may
all this time have been lying somewhere in London until I should present
myself with a gold coin and the word 'Masulipatam.'”

Suddenly Mark sprang to his feet, and pulled back the curtains across a
window, threw it up, and leaped into the garden, and there stood listening
for two or three minutes, with his pistol cocked in his hand. He stepped
for a moment into the room again.

“You had better put that light out, father or we may have another shot.”

“Did you hear anything, Mark?”

“I thought I did, father. I may have been mistaken, but I certainly
thought I heard a noise, and when I pulled the curtains aside the window
was not shut by three or four inches. I will have a look through the
shrubbery. That fellow may have come back again. Pull the curtains to
after me.”

“I will go with you, Mark.”

“I would rather you didn't, father; it would only make me nervous. I
shan't go into the shrubbery and give them a chance of getting first shot.
I shall hide up somewhere and listen. It is a still night, and if there is
anyone moving I am pretty sure to hear him.”

The Squire turned down the lamp, drew the curtains, and seated himself by
the fire. It was three quarters of an hour before Mark returned. He shut
the window, and fastened it carefully.

“I fancy you must have been mistaken, Mark.”

“I suppose that shot through the window has made me nervous. I certainly
did fancy I heard a noise there; it may have been a dead bough snapping,
or something of that sort; and of course, the window being partly open,
even though only three or four inches, any little noise would come in more
plainly than it otherwise would do. However, everything has been perfectly
quiet since I went out, and it is hardly likely indeed that the fellow
would have returned so soon after the hot chase I gave him.”

“It is very stupid—the window being left open,” the Squire said. “I
shall question Martha about it in the morning; it was her duty to see that
it was shut and fastened before drawing the curtains. Just at present one
can scarcely be too careful. I don't mean to deny that whether there was a
window open or not a burglar who wanted to get into the house could do so,
still there is no use in making their work more easy for them. I know, as
a rule, we are careless about such things; there has not been a burglary
in this part for years, and until lately the front door has never been
locked at night, and anyone could have walked in who wanted to. Of course
the servants don't know that there is any reason for being more careful at
present than usual.

“I was thinking the other day of having shutters put to all these
downstair rooms. Some of them have got them, and some have not; still,
even with shutters, burglars can always get in if they want to do so. They
have only to cut round the lock of a door or to make a hole in a panel to
give them room to put an arm through and draw back a bolt, and the thing
is done. I know that all the silver is locked up every night in the safe,
for Ramoo sees to that, and I have never known him neglect anything under
his charge. Well, Mark, I don't know that it is any use sitting up longer,
we have plenty of time to talk the matter over; it is four years yet
before Millicent comes of age, though, of course, there is nothing to
prevent your setting out in quest of the treasure as soon as you like.
Still, there is no hurry about it.”

“None whatever, father; but I don't mean to lose a day before I try to get
on the track of that villain Bastow.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Mark was some hours before he went to sleep. The news that he had heard
that evening was strange and startling. Full of health and strength, the
fact that he was not, as he had always supposed, the heir to the estate
troubled him not at all. The fact that in four years he would come in for
some twelve thousand pounds was sufficient to prevent his feeling any
uneasiness as to his future; and indeed in some respects it was not an
unpleasant idea that, instead of being tied down to the estate, he should
be able to wander at will, visit foreign countries, and make his own life.

In one respect he was sorry. His father had in the last year hinted more
than once that it would be a very nice arrangement if he were to make up a
match with his ward; he had laughed, and said that there would be plenty
of time for that yet. But the idea had been an agreeable one. He was very
fond of Millicent—fond, perhaps; in a cousinly way at present; but
at any rate he liked her far better than any of the sisters of his
friends. Of course she was only seventeen yet, and there was plenty of
time to think of marriage in another three years. Still, the thought
occurred to him several times that she was budding out into a young woman,
and every month added to her attractions. It was but the day before he had
said to himself that there was no reason to wait as long as three years,
especially as his father seemed anxious, and would evidently be glad were
the match to take place. Now, of course, he said to himself, that was at
an end. He had never given her any reason to suppose that he cared for
her, and now that she was the heiress and he comparatively poor, she would
naturally think that it was for the estate, and not for herself, that she
was wooed. Then there was the question of this curiously lost treasure,
with the mysterious clew that led to nothing. How on earth was he to set
about the quest? He puzzled for a long time over this, till at last he
fell asleep. He was roused by Ramoo entering the room.

“What is it, Ramoo?”

“Me not know, sahib. Massa Thorndyke's door shut. Me no able to make him
hear.”

“That is curious, Ramoo,” Mark said, jumping hastily out of bed. “I will
be with you in a minute.”

He slipped on his trousers, coat, and slippers, and then accompanied Ramoo
to his father's door. He knocked again and again, and each time more
loudly, his face growing paler as he did so. Then he threw himself against
the door, but it was solid and heavy.

“Fetch me an ax, Ramoo,” he said. “There is something wrong here.”

Ramoo returned in a short time with two men servants and with the ax in
his hands. Mark took it, and with a few mighty blows split the woodwork,
and then hurling himself against the door, it yielded. As he entered the
room a cry broke from his lips. Within a pace or two of the bed the Squire
lay on the ground, on his face, and a deep stain on the carpet at once
showed that his death had been a violent one. Mark knelt by his side now,
and touched him. The body was stiff and cold. The Squire must have been
dead for some hours.

“Murdered!” he said in a low voice; “my father has been murdered.”

He remained in horror struck silence for a minute or two; then he slowly
rose to his feet.

“Let us lay him on the bed,” he said, and with the assistance of the three
men he lifted and laid him there.

“He has been stabbed,” he murmured, pointing to a small cut in the middle
of the deep stain, just over the heart.

Ramoo, after helping to lift the Squire onto the bed, had slid down to the
floor, and crouched there, sobbing convulsively. The two servants stood
helpless and aghast. Mark looked round the room: the window was open. He
walked to it. A garden ladder stood outside, showing how the assassin had
obtained entrance. Mark stood rigid and silent, his hands tightly
clenched, his breath coming slowly and heavily. At last he roused himself.

“Leave things just as they are,” he said to the men in a tone of unnatural
calmness, “and fasten the door up again, and turn a table or something of
that sort against it on the outside so that no one can come in. John, do
you tell one of the grooms to saddle a horse and ride down into the town.
Let him tell the head constable to come up at once, and also Dr. Holloway.
Then he is to go on to Sir Charles Harris, tell him what has happened, and
beg him to ride over at once.

“Come, Ramoo,” he said in a softer voice, “you can do no good here, poor
fellow, and the room must be closed. It is a heavy loss to you too.”

The Hindoo rose slowly, the tears streaming down his face.

“He was a good master,” he said, “and I loved him just as I loved the
Colonel, sahib. Ramoo would have given his life for him.”

With his hand upon Ramoo's shoulder, Mark left the room; he passed a group
of women huddled together with blanched faces, at a short distance down
the passage, the news that the Squire's door could not be opened and the
sounds made by its being broken in having called them together. Mark could
not speak. He silently shook his head and passed on. As he reached his
room he heard shrieks and cries behind him, as the men informed them of
what had taken place. On reaching his door, the one opposite opened, and
Mrs. Cunningham in a dressing gown came out.

“What is the matter, Mark, and what are these cries about?”

“A dreadful thing has happened, Mrs. Cunningham; my father has been
murdered in the night. Please tell Millicent.”

Then he closed the door behind him, threw himself on his bed, and burst
into a passion of tears. The Squire had been a good father to him, and had
made him his friend and companion—a treatment rare indeed at a time
when few sons would think of sitting down in their father's presence until
told to do so. Since he had left school, eight years before, they had been
very much together. For the last two or three years Mark had been a good
deal out, but in this his father had encouraged him.

“I like to see you make your own friends, Mark, and go your own way,” he
used to say; “it is as bad for a lad to be tied to his father's coattail
as at his mother's apron string. Get fresh ideas and form your own
opinions. It will do for you what a public school would have done; make
you self reliant, and independent.”

Still, of course, a great portion of his time had been with his father,
and they often would ride round the estate together and talk to the
tenants, or walk in the gardens and forcing houses. Generally Mark would
be driven by his father to the meet if it took place within reasonable
distance, his horse being sent on beforehand by a groom, while of an
evening they would sit in the library, smoke their long pipes, and talk
over politics or the American and French wars.

All this was over. There was but one thing now that he could do for his
father, and that was to revenge his death, and at the thought he rose from
his bed impatiently and paced up and down the room. He must wait for a
week, wait till the funeral was over, and then he would be on Bastow's
track. If all other plans failed he would spend his time in coaches until
at last the villain should try to stop one; but there must be other ways.
Could he find no other he would apply for employment as a Bow Street
runner, serve for a year to find out their methods, and acquaint himself
with the places where criminals were harbored. It would be the one object
of his life, until he succeeded in laying his hand on Bastow's shoulder.
He would not shoot him if he could help it. He should prefer to see him in
the dock, to hear the sentence passed on him, and to see it carried out.
As to the treasure, it was not worth a thought till his first duty was
discharged.

Presently a servant brought him a cup of tea. He drank it mechanically,
and then proceeded to dress himself. Sir Charles Harris would be here soon
and the others; indeed, he had scarcely finished when he was told that the
doctor from Reigate had just arrived, and that the constable had come up
half an hour before. He at once went down to the library, into which the
doctor had been shown.

“You have heard what has happened,” he said, as he shook hands silently.
“I expect Sir Charles Harris here in half an hour. I suppose you will not
go up till then?”

“No, I think it will be best that no one should go in until he comes. I
have been speaking to Simeox; he was going in, but I told him I thought it
was better to wait. I may as well take the opportunity of going upstairs
to see Mr. Bastow. I hear that he fainted when he heard the news, and that
he is completely prostrate.”

“Two such shocks might well prove fatal to him,” Mark said; “he has been
weak and ailing for some time.”

“Two shocks?” the doctor repeated interrogatively.

“Ah, I forgot you had not heard about the affair yesterday evening: a man
fired at us through the window when we were sitting round the fire, before
the candles were lit. The ball passed between my father's head and Mr.
Bastow's; both had a narrow escape; the bullet is imbedded in the
mantelpiece. I will have it cut out; it may be a useful item of evidence
some day.”

“But what could have been the man's motive? Your father was universally
popular.”

“Except with ill doers,” Mark said. “I ran out and chased the fellow for
half a mile, and should have caught him if he had not had a horse waiting
for him in a lane, and he got off by the skin of his teeth. I hope that
next time I meet him he will not be so lucky. Mr. Bastow was very much
shaken, and went to bed soon afterwards. I am not surprised that this
second shock should be too much for him. Will you go up and see him? I
will speak to Simeox.”

The constable was out in the garden.

“This is a terrible business, Mr. Thorndyke. I suppose, after what you
told me, you have your suspicions?”

“They are not suspicions at all—they are certainties. Did you hear
that he tried to shoot my father yesterday evening?”

“No, sir, I have heard nothing about it.”

Mark repeated the story of the attempt and pursuit.

“Could you swear to him,' Mr. Thorndyke?”

“No, there was not much light left; besides, as I have not seen him for
the last eight years, I should certainly not be able to recognize him
unless I had time to have a good look at him. Had it only been last
night's affair it might have been anyone; but the shooting through the
window was not the act of a thief, but of an assassin, who could only have
been influenced by private enmity. I quite see that at present I have no
legal evidence against Bastow; I am not even in a position to prove that
he is in the country, for it cannot be said that my father's belief that
he recognized the voice of the man who said 'Stand and deliver!' is proof.
I doubt if anyone could swear that, when he only heard three words, he was
absolutely sure that it was the voice of a man he had not seen for some
years. However, fortunately, that will make no difference; the man is, as
I told you, wanted for his heading the mutiny in the convict prison at
Sydney, which will be quite sufficient to hang him without this business.
But I own that I should prefer that he were hung for my father's murder if
we could secure sufficient evidence. Moreover, there is the attack upon us
three or four months ago, and with the evidence of the surgeon who
attended him as to his wound, that would be enough to hang him. But we
have first got to catch him, and that I mean to make my business, however
long the search may take me.”

“Was anything taken last night, sir?”

“I don't know; I did not look. We shall see to that when we go upstairs.
We may as well go indoors now; Sir Charles may be here in a few minutes,
and I want to hear Dr. Holloway's report as to Mr. Bastow.”

“He does not suspect, I hope, sir?”

“No, thank God; my father never mentioned to him anything he heard about
his son, or his suspicions, therefore he has no reason to believe that the
fellow is not still in the convict prison at Sydney. We shall keep it from
him now, whatever happens; but it would, for his sake, be best that this
shock should prove too much for him. He has had a very hard time of it
altogether.”

“He is terribly prostrate,” the doctor reported when Mark joined him. “I
don't think that he will get over it. He is scarcely conscious now. You
see, he is an old man, and has no reserve of strength to fall back upon.
Your father has been such a good friend to him that it is not surprising
the news should have been too much for him. I examined him at the Squire's
request some months ago as to his heart's action, which was so weak that I
told the Squire then that he might go off at any time, and I rather wonder
that he recovered even temporarily from the shock.”

In a few minutes Sir Charles Harris drove up.

“This is terrible news, my dear Mark,” he said, as he leaped from his gig
and wrung Mark's hand—“terrible. I don't know when I have had such a
shock; he was a noble fellow in all respects, a warm friend, an excellent
magistrate, a kind landlord, good all round. I can scarcely believe it
yet. A burglar, of course. I suppose he entered the house for the purpose
of robbery, when your father awoke and jumped out of bed, there was a
tussle, and the scoundrel killed him; at least, that is what I gather from
the story that the groom told me.”

“That is near it, Sir Charles, but I firmly believe that robbery was not
the object, but murder; for murder was attempted yesterday evening,” and
he informed the magistrate of the shot fired through the window.

“Bless me, you don't say so!” the magistrate exclaimed. “That alters the
case altogether, and certainly would seem to make the act one of
premeditated murder; and yet, surely, the Squire could not have had an
enemy. Some of the men whom we have sentenced may have felt a grudge
against him, but surely not sufficient to lead them to a crime like this.”

“I will talk of it with you afterwards, Sir Charles. I have the very
strongest suspicions, although no absolute proofs. Now, will you first
come upstairs? Doctor Holloway is here and Simeox, but no one has entered
the room since I left it; I thought it better that it should be left
undisturbed until you came.”

“Quite so; we will go up at once.”

An examination of the room showed nothing whatever that would afford the
slightest clew. The Squire's watch was still in the watch pocket at the
head of the bed, his purse was on a small table beside him; apparently
nothing had been touched in the room.

“If robbery was the object,” Sir Charles said gravely, “it has evidently
not been carried out, and it is probable that Mr. Thorndyke was partly
woke by the opening of the window, and that he was not thoroughly aroused
until the man was close to his bed; then he leapt out and seized him.
Probably the stab was, as Dr. Holloway assures us, instantly fatal, and he
may have fallen so heavily that the man, fearing that the house would be
alarmed at the sound, at once fled, without even waiting to snatch up the
purse. The whole thing is so clear that it is scarcely necessary to ask
any further questions. Of course, there must be an inquest tomorrow. I
should like when I go down to ask the gardener where he left the ladder
yesterday. Have you examined the ground for footmarks?”

“Yes, Sir Charles, but you see it was a pretty hard frost last night, and
I cannot find any marks at all. The ground must have been like iron about
the time when the ladder was placed there.”

The gardener, on being called in, said that the ladder was always hung up
outside the shed at the back of the house; there was a chain round it, and
he had found that morning that one of the links had been filed through.

“The Squire was most particular about its being locked, as Mr. Mark knows,
so that it could not be used by any ill disposed chaps who might come
along at night. The key of the padlock was always hung on a nail round the
other side of the shed. The Squire knew of it, and so did Mr. Mark and me;
so that while it was out of the way of the eyes of a thief, any of us
could run and get it and undo the padlock in a minute in case of fire or
anything of that sort. I have not used the ladder, maybe, for a fortnight,
but I know that it was hanging in its place yesterday afternoon.”

“I expect the fellow was prowling about here for some time,” Mark said. “I
was chatting with my father in the library when I thought I heard a noise,
and I threw open the window, which had by some carelessness been left a
little open, and went out, and listened for nearly an hour, but I could
hear nothing, and put it down to the fact that I was nervous owing to what
had happened early in the evening, and that the noise was simply fancy, or
that the frost had caused a dry branch of one of the shrubs to crack.”

“How was it you did not notice the window was open as you went in?”

“The curtains were drawn, sir. I glanced at that when I went into the room
with my father. After being shot at once from outside, it was possible
that we might be again; though I own that I did not for a moment think
that the fellow would return after the hot chase that I gave him. I
suppose after I went in he looked about and found the ladder; it is likely
enough that he would have had a file with him in case he had any bars to
cut through to get into the house, but to my mind it is more likely that
he knew where to find the ladder without any looking for it; it has hung
there as long as I can remember.”

“Yes, sir,” the gardener said, “I have worked for the Squire ever since he
came here, and the ladder was bought a week or two after he took me on,
and the Squire settled where it should be hung, so that it might be handy
either in case of fire or if wanted for a painting job. This aint the
first ladder; we got a new one four years ago.”

“It is singular that the man should have known which was the window of
your father's room.”

“Very singular,” Mark said.

Shortly after the doctor left, and Mark had a long talk with the
magistrate in the library, and told him his reasons for suspecting that
the murderer was Arthur Bastow.

“It certainly looks like it,” the magistrate said thoughtfully, after he
had heard Mark's story, “though of course it is only a case of strong
suspicion, and not of legal proof. Your father's recognition of the voice
could have scarcely been accepted as final when he heard but three words,
still the whole thing hangs together. The fellow was, I should say,
capable of anything. I don't know that I ever had a prisoner before me
whose demeanor was so offensive and insolent, and if it can be proved that
Bastow is in England I should certainly accept your view of the case. He
would probably have known both where the ladder was to be found and which
was the window of your father's bedroom.”

“I should certainly think that he would know it, sir. The bedroom was the
same that my grandfather used to sleep in, and probably during the years
before we came here young Bastow would have often been over the house. The
first year or two after we came he was often up here with his father, but
I know that my father took such an objection to him, his manner and
language were so offensive, that he would not have me, boy as I was—I
was only about eleven when he came here—associate with him in the
smallest degree. But during those two years he may very well have noticed
where the ladder was.”

“Do you intend to say anything about all this tomorrow at the inquest,
Mark?”

“I don't think I shall do so,” Mark said moodily. “I am certain of it
myself, but I don't think any man would convict him without stronger
evidence than I could give. However, that business in Australia will be
sufficient to hang him.”

“I think you are right, Mark. Of course, if you do light upon any
evidence, we can bring this matter up in another court; if not, there will
be no occasion for you to appear in it at all, but leave it altogether for
the authorities to prove the Sydney case against him; it will only be
necessary for the constables who got up the other case against him to
prove his sentence, and for the reports of the Governor of the jail to be
read. There will be no getting over that, and he will be hung as a matter
of course. It will be a terrible thing for his unhappy father.”

“I do not think that he is likely to come to know it, sir; the shock of
the affair yesterday and that of this morning have completely prostrated
him, and Dr. Holloway, who was up with him before you arrived, thinks that
there is very little chance of his recovery.”

When the magistrate had left, Mark sent a request to Mrs. Cunningham that
she would come down for a few minutes. She joined him in the drawing room.

“Thank you for coming down,” he said quietly. “I wanted to ask how you
were, and how Millicent is.”

“She is terribly upset. You see, the Squire was the only father she had
ever known; and had he been really so he could not have been kinder. It is
a grievous loss to me also, after ten years of happiness here; but I have
had but little time to think of my own loss yet, I have been too occupied
in soothing the poor girl. How are you feeling yourself, Mark?”

“I don't understand myself,” he said. “I don't think that anyone could
have loved his father better than I have done; but since I broke down when
I first went to my room I seem to have no inclination to give way to
sorrow. I feel frozen up; my voice does not sound to me as if it were my
own; I am able to discuss matters as calmly as if I were speaking of a
stranger. The one thing that I feel passionately anxious about is to set
out on the track of the assassin.”

“There is nothing unusual in your state of feeling, Mark. Such a thing as
this is like a wound in battle; the shock is so great that for a time it
numbs all pain. I have heard my husband say that a soldier who has had his
arm carried off by a cannon ball will fall from the shock, and when he
recovers consciousness will be ignorant where he has been hit. It is so
with you; probably the sense of pain and loss will increase every day as
you take it in more and more. As for what you say about the murderer, it
will undoubtedly be a good thing for you to have something to employ your
thoughts and engage all your faculties as soon as this is all over. Is
there anything that I can do?”

“No, thank you; the inquest will be held tomorrow. I have sent down to
Chatterton to come up this afternoon to make the necessary preparations
for the funeral. Let me see, today is Wednesday, is it not? I seem to have
lost all account of the time.”

“Yes, Wednesday.”

“Then I suppose the funeral will be on Monday or Tuesday. If there is any
message that you want sent down to the town, one of the grooms will carry
it whenever you wish.”

“Thank you; 'tis not worth sending particularly, any time will do, but I
shall want to send a note to Mrs. Wilson presently, asking her to come up
the first thing tomorrow morning.”

“He can take it whenever, you like, Mrs. Cunningham. I have nothing to
send down for, as far as I know. I suppose you have heard that the doctor
thinks very badly of Mr. Bastow?”

“Yes. Ramoo is sitting with him now.”

“Then I think, if you will write your note at once, Mrs. Cunningham, I
will send one down to Dr. Holloway, asking him to send an experienced
nurse. He said he should call again this afternoon, but the sooner a nurse
comes the better.”

That afternoon Mark wrote a letter to the family solicitors, telling them
of what had taken place, and stating that the funeral would be on the
following Tuesday, and asking them to send down a clerk with his father's
will, or if one of the partners could manage to come down, he should
greatly prefer it, in view of the explanations that would be necessary. He
had already sent off a letter to the head of the Detective Department,
asking him to send down one of his best men as soon as possible. Then he
went out into the garden, and walked backwards and forwards for about two
hours, and then returned to what he thought would be a solitary meal. Mrs.
Cunningham, however, came down. She had thoughtfully had the large dining
table pushed on one side, and a small one placed near the fire.

“I thought it would be more comfortable,” she said, “as there are only our
two selves, just to sit here.”

He thanked her with a look. It was a nice little dinner, and Mark, to his
surprise, ate it with an appetite. Except the cup of tea that he had taken
in the morning, and a glass of wine at midday, he had touched nothing.
Mrs. Cunningham was a woman of great tact, and by making him talk of the
steps that he intended to take to hunt down the assassin, kept him from
thinking.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Cunningham,” he said, when the dinner was over.
“I feel very much better.”

“I have brought down my work,” she said, “and will sit here while you
drink your wine and smoke a pipe. Millicent has gone to bed, completely
worn out, and it will be pleasanter for us both to sit here than to be
alone.”

Mark gladly agreed to the proposal. She turned the conversation now to
India, and talked of her life there.

“I was not out there very long,” she said. “I was engaged to my husband
when he first went out, and six years afterwards joined him there, and we
were married. Your uncle, who was a major of his regiment, gave me away.
My husband got his company six months afterwards, and was killed three
years later. My pension as his widow was not a large one, and when your
uncle offered me the charge of his daughter I was very glad to accept it.
He gave some idea of his plans for her. I thought they were very foolish,
but when I saw that his mind was thoroughly made up I did not attempt to
dissuade him. He said that when he came home to England (and he had no
idea when that would be) he should have me here, as head of his
establishment, and it would be given out that the child was his ward. I
hoped that he would alter his mind later on, but, as you know, he never
did.”

“Well, of course, she will have to be told now,” Mark said.

“Do you think so? It seems to me that it were better that she would go as
she is, at any rate, until she is twenty-one.”

“That would be quite impossible,” Mark said decidedly. “How could I assume
the position of master here? And even if I could, it would be a strange
thing indeed for me to be here with a girl the age of my cousin, even with
you as chaperon. You must see yourself that it would be quite impossible.”

“But how could she live here by herself?”

“I don't think she could live here by herself,” Mark said, “especially
after what has happened. Of course, it has all got to be talked over, but
my idea is that the place had better be shut up, and that you should take,
in your own name, a house in London. I suppose she will want masters for
the harp, and so on. For a time, at any rate, that would be the best plan,
unless you would prefer some other place to London. We have done our best
to carry out my uncle's wishes, but circumstances have been too strong for
us, and it cannot be kept up any longer; but there is no reason, if you
and she prefer it, why she should not be known, until you return here, by
her present name. Of course the affair will create a great deal of talk
down here, but in London no one will know that Millicent is an heiress,
though it is hardly likely that you will make many acquaintances for a
time.”

“Have you known it long, Mark? I thought that you were kept in ignorance
of it.”

“I only heard it yesterday evening, Mrs. Cunningham; after that shot
through the window my father thought I ought to know all about it, for the
attempt might be repeated more successfully. He told me all about her, and
about the treasure.”

“What treasure?” Mrs. Cunningham said. “I don't know what you mean.”

He then told her of the story his uncle had related, and how he had been
prevented from giving full instructions for its discovery, the only clew
being a gold coin and the word Masulipatam, and that this treasure had
been left equally divided between him and Millicent by his will.

“He told me that he should provide for you,” Mrs. Cunningham remarked,
“when I said that it would be unfair that you should be brought up
believing yourself the heir. I never heard any more about it, but I am
glad that it is so.”

“I fancy the chance of its coming to either of us is very small,” Mark
said; “a coin and a word are not much to go upon. I have not the most
remote idea what they mean, and whether the treasure is in England or in
India, Heaven only knows.”

“Possibly, when he made the will, he may have told the solicitors where it
was, and instructed them to keep it secret until the time that Millicent
came into possession of the estate.”

“It is just possible he did so, Mrs. Cunningham, but the efforts he made
to speak at the last moment would almost seem to show that he had not told
them, for, if he had, the matter would have been of no vital importance
one way or the other. Will Millicent be well enough to come down in the
morning?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so, too; but, at any rate, keep her up in her room till the
afternoon. The inquest will be at eleven o'clock, and it is better that
she should not come down until everyone has gone away.”

CHAPTER IX.

Directly after breakfast was over the next morning the Rector came in.

“I would not come in yesterday, Mark,” he said. “I knew that you would be
best alone; and, indeed, I was myself so terribly upset by the news that I
did not feel equal to it. I need not say how deeply I and my wife
sympathize with you. Never did a kinder heart beat than your father's;
never have I seen people so universally grieved as they are in the
village. I doubt whether a man went to work yesterday, and as for the
women, had it been a father they had lost they could not be more
affected.”

“Yes, he will be greatly missed,” Mark said unsteadily; “and, between
ourselves—but this must go no further—I have a suspicion,
amounting almost to a certainty, that the hand that dealt this blow is the
same that caused the vacancy that brought you here.”

“Do you mean Arthur Bastow?” Mr. Greg said in amazement. “Why, I thought
that he was transported for fifteen years.”

Then Mark told the Rector the inner history of the past six months, and of
the report they had had from the officer at Bow Street of the personal
appearance of the wounded man.

“Other things are in favor of it,” he went on. “My father's watch and
purse were untouched, and a stranger on a dark night would be hardly
likely to have discovered the ladder, or to have had a file in his pocket
with which to cut through a link, though this might have been part of the
apparatus of any burglar. Then, again, an ordinary man would hardly have
known which was my father's bedroom, except, indeed, that he saw the light
there after those in the ladies' rooms were extinguished; but, at any
rate, he could not have told which was my father's and which was mine. But
all this is, as I said, Mr. Greg, quite between ourselves. I had a long
talk yesterday with Sir Charles Harris, and, as he said, there is no legal
proof whatever, strong as the suspicion is; so I am going to say nothing
on the subject at the inquest. The scoundrel's poor father is dying,
happily in ignorance of all this. Dr. Holloway was up with him all night,
and told me this morning before he drove off that it is very unlikely that
he will get through the day.”

“It is all very terrible, Mark; but I cannot deny that everything points
to the man. Surely no one else could have cut short so useful a life, for
certainly no ordinary degree of hatred would drive a man, however brutal
his nature, to commit such a crime, and to run the risk of hanging for it.
Let us take a brisk walk in the garden for an hour—that will be the
best thing for you. I will stop with you until the inquest is over, and
then you had better come over and have lunch with us.”

“Thank you; I cannot do so,” Mark said, “though I should like to. In the
first place, Millicent will come downstairs this afternoon, and I should
like to be in to meet her. Had it not been for that I might have come, as
I can walk across the fields to the Rectory without passing through the
village. There is another reason. I sent up yesterday by the coach a
letter to be delivered at once by hand, and I expect a detective down here
by one o'clock. I don't know that he will do any good; but at the same
time it will give me something to do, and at present there is nothing I
dread so much as sitting alone. Fortunately, yesterday evening Millicent
went to bed at five o'clock, and Mrs. Cunningham sat with me all the
evening, and her talk did me a great deal of good.”

The inquest occupied a very short time, the only point on which many
questions were asked being as to the firing through the window. Mark
stated that it was already so dark that although he was within fifty yards
of the man when he mounted and rode off, he could not give any very
distinct description of his figure. It struck him as being that of a man
of medium height.

“You have made out that the bullet was intended for your father?”

“I cannot say that, sir, it went between his head and that of Mr. Bastow,
but it might have been meant for either.”

“Was your father impressed with the idea that it was an attempt to murder
him?”

“He naturally thought so. Mr. Bastow can assuredly have no enemies, while
my father, as a magistrate, may have made some. He certainly thought it
was an attempt to murder him, and was so impressed by the fact that when
we went to the library later on he went into certain family matters with
me that he had never communicated before, and which, had it not been for
this, he would not have entered into for some years to come.”

“He had his opinion, then, as to who was his assailant?”

“He had, sir, but as it was but an opinion, although there were several
facts that seemed to justify the conviction, there was no proof whatever,
and therefore I do not think myself justified in saying what that opinion
was.”

“Do you entertain the same opinion yourself?”

“I do,” Mark said emphatically; “but until I can obtain some evidence in
support of what is really but a matter of opinion, and because, were I to
give the name, it would lessen my chance of obtaining such evidence, I
decline to mention the name.”

“You have no doubt that the author of the second attempt is the same as
that of the first?”

“Personally, I have no doubt whatever; it stands to reason that it is
barely possible that two men could have, unknown to each other, made up
their minds to murder my father on the same evening.”

The constable's evidence added nothing to that given by Mark. He had been
down to the lane where the man pursued had mounted. The reins of the horse
had apparently been thrown over a gatepost, and he thought it had been
standing there for some little time, for there were marks where it had
scraped the ground repeatedly. He had followed the marks of its hoofs for
some distance; it had gone at a gallop for about half a mile, and then the
pace had slackened into a trot. It continued until the lane fell into the
main road, but beyond this he had been unable to distinguish it from the
marks of the traffic in general.

“You found no footprints whatever near the foot of the ladder, or anywhere
else round the house?”

“None whatever, sir.”

“There were no signs of any other window or door save that of Mr.
Thorndyke's room being attempted?”

“None at all, sir.”

There was but a short consultation between the jurors, who at once
returned a verdict of “Willful murder by some person or persons unknown.”

Dr. Holloway had, after giving evidence, returned at once to Mr. Bastow's
room. The only point of importance in his evidence was the statement that
the wound must have been fatal at once, the heart itself having been
penetrated. It had been inflicted by a dagger or a narrow bladed knife.

“Do you mean that it was an unusually small dagger, Dr. Holloway?”

“I should say it was a very fine dagger; not the sort of weapon that you
would expect to find a highwayman carry, if he carried one at all, but
rather a weapon of Spanish or Italian manufacture.”

“Not the sort of wound that a rapier would make?”

“Yes, the wound itself might have been very well made by a light rapier,
but there was a slight bruise on the flesh on each side of the wound, such
a mark as might be made by the handle or guard of a dagger, and
sufficiently plain to leave no doubt in my mind that it was so made.”

“Had the wound a downward course, or was it a straight thrust?”

“A straight thrust,” the doctor replied. “My idea is that the two men were
grappling together, and that as Mr. Thorndyke was a very powerful man, his
assailant, who probably was approaching the bed with the dagger in his
hand, plunged it into him; had he struck at him I should certainly have
expected the course of the wound to be downward, as I fancy a man very
seldom thrusts straight with a dagger, as he would do with a rapier.”

When the inquest was over, Mark, going out into the hall, found the doctor
waiting there for him.

“Mr. Bastow breathed his last some ten minutes ago. I saw when I went up
to him just before I gave my evidence that it was likely that he would die
before I returned to the room.”

“I am very sorry,” Mark said, “although I expected nothing else from what
you told me: He was a very kind hearted man; no one could have had a
kinder or more patient tutor than he was to me, while my father regarded
him as a very dear and valued friend. I am expecting the undertaker here
in a few minutes, and they can both be buried at the same time.”

It was late in the afternoon before Millicent came down with Mrs.
Cunningham. The news of Mr. Bastow's death had set her tears flowing
afresh; she had been very fond of him, and that he and the Squire should
have been taken at once seemed almost beyond belief. She had, however,
nerved herself to some degree of composure before she went down to meet
Mark; but although she returned the pressure of his hand, she was unable
for some time to speak. Mrs. Cunningham thought it best to speak first on
the minor grief.

“So Mr. Bastow has gone, Mark?”

“Yes, Dr. Holloway thought very badly of him yesterday, and said that he
had but very faint hope of his rallying. I cannot help thinking that it
was best so. Of course, he was not a very old man, but he has for some
years been a very feeble one, and now that Millicent and I have both given
up our studies with him, I think that he would have felt that his work was
done, and would have gone downhill very fast.”

“I think so, too,” Mrs. Cunningham agreed. “I am sure that even had the
Squire's death come quietly, in the course of nature, it would have been a
terrible blow to him. He was fond of you and Millicent, but his affection
for your father was a passion; his face always lit up when he spoke to
him. I used to think sometimes that it was like an old dog with his
master. It was quite touching to see them together. I think, Mark, with
you, that it is best that it should be as it is.”

Gradually the conversation turned to other matters. Millicent was,
however, unable to take any part in it, and half an hour later she held
out her hand silently to Mark and left the room hurriedly. The next day
she was better, and was able to walk for a time with Mark in the garden
and talk more calmly about their mutual loss, for to her, no less than to
Mark, the Squire had been a father.

“'Tis strange to think that you are the Squire now, Mark,” she said as
they sat together in the dining room on the evening before the funeral.

“You will think it stranger still, Millicent,” he said, “when I tell you
that I am not the Squire, and never shall be.”

She looked up in his face with wonder.

“What do you mean, Mark?”

“Well, dear, you will know tomorrow, as Mr. Prendergast, one of the family
solicitors, is coming down; but I think it is as well to tell you
beforehand. It has been a curious position all along. I never knew it
myself till my father told me when we went into the library after the shot
was fired. The news did not affect me one way or the other, although it
surprised me a great deal. Like yourself, I have always supposed that you
were my father's ward, the daughter of an old comrade of his brother's.
Well, it is a curious story, Millicent. But there is no occasion for you
to look frightened. The fact is you are my uncle's daughter and my
cousin.”

“Oh, that is not very dreadful!” she exclaimed in a tone of relief.

“Not dreadful at all,” Mark said. “But you see it involves the fact that
you are mistress of this estate, and not I.”

Millicent stood up suddenly with a little cry. “No, no, Mark, it cannot
be! It would be dreadful, and I won't have it. Nothing could make me have
it. What, to take the estate away from you when you have all along
supposed it to be yours! How could I?”

“But you see it never has been mine, my dear. Father might have lived
another five-and-twenty years, and God knows I have never looked forward
to succeeding him. Sit down and let me tell you the story. It was not my
father's fault that he reigned here so long as master, it was the result
of a whim of your father's. And although my father fought against it, he
could not resist the dying prayer of my uncle.”

He then related the whole circumstances under which the girl had been
brought up as Millicent Conyers, instead of Millicent Conyers Thorndyke,
and how the estate had been left by Colonel Thorndyke's will to his
brother until such time as Millicent should come of age, or marry, and how
he had ordered that when that event took place the rest of his property in
money and jewels was to be divided equally between Mark and herself.

“It must not be, Mark,” she said firmly. “You must take the estate, and we
can divide the rest between us. What is the rest?”

“To begin with,” Mark said cheerfully, “there are 25,000 pounds, the
accumulations of the rents of the estate after the death of my grandfather
up to the time when the Colonel returned from India; and there are,
besides, a few thousands, though I don't exactly know how many, that my
father paid over to the solicitors as the surplus of the rents of the
estates after paying all expenses of keeping up this house. He very
properly considered that although he had accepted the situation at your
father's earnest wish, he ought not to make money by doing so. If we put
it down at 30,000 pounds altogether, you see there is 15,000 pounds for
each of us. A very nice sum for a young man to start life with, especially
as I shall have my father's estate near Hastings, which brings in 500
pounds a year; and as the rents of this have been accumulating for the
last ten years, my share will be raised from 15,000 pounds to 20,000
pounds. Besides this, there is the main bulk of the Colonel's fortune made
in India. That seems to be worth about 100,000 pounds but I must own that
the chance of getting it seems very small.”

“How is that, Mark?”

Mark told her the whole story.

“I mean to make it my business to follow the matter up,” he said. “I think
that the chance of ever finding it is very small. Still, it will give me
an object to begin life with.”

“Oh, I hope that you will never find it!” she exclaimed. “From what you
say it will be a terrible danger if you do get it.”

Mark smiled.

“I hardly think so, Millicent. I cannot believe that people would be
following up this thing for over fifteen years, for it was many years
before the Colonel came home that he got possession of these diamonds.
Even Hindoos would, I think, have got sick of such a hopeless affair long
before this; but as they may ever since your father's death have been
watching us, although it hardly seems possible, I shall follow out the
Colonel's instructions, and get rid of those particular diamonds at once.
I shall only keep them about me long enough to take them to Amsterdam and
sell them there. The Colonel said they were the finest diamonds that he
ever saw, and that he really had no idea of what they were worth. However,
that is for the future.”

“Mrs. Cunningham has known this all along, Mark?”

“Not about the money affairs, but of course she knew that you were my
cousin. She brought you from India, you see, and has known all along that
the Colonel was your father. She knows it, and the family solicitors know
it, but I believe no one else, except, perhaps, Ramoo. I am not sure
whether he was in uncle's service when you were sent over in Mrs.
Cunningham's charge. He may know it or he may not, but certainly no one
else does, except, as I say, the solicitors and myself. Possibly some
other of the Colonel's old comrades knew that there was a child born; but
if they were in England and happened to hear that my father had succeeded
to the estate, they would, of course, suppose that the child had died.”

“Then,” Millicent said, in a tone of relief, “there can be no reason why
anyone else should know anything about it. I will see Mr. Prendergast when
he comes down tomorrow, and beg him to say nothing about it; 15,000 pounds
is quite enough for any girl; and besides, you say that my father's
greatest wish was that I was not to be married for money, and after all
the pains that have been taken, his wish will not be carried out if I am
to be made owner of the estate.”

“You won't be able to persuade Mr. Prendergast to do that,” Mark said,
smiling. “It is his duty simply to carry out the provisions of your
father's will, and to place you in possession of the estate; and if he
would keep silence, which he certainly won't, you don't suppose that I
would.”

“Then I shall hate you, Mark.”

“I don't think you will, Millicent, and I would rather that you did that
than that you should despise me. At the present moment you may think that
this estate would be only a burden to you, but some day when you marry you
might see the matter in a different light.”

The girl looked at him reproachfully.

“I should never think so!” she burst out. “What would you have me do? Live
here in this great house, with only Mrs. Cunningham, while you are going
about the world seeking for this treasure? Never!”

“No, I don't think that it would be nice for you to do that, Millicent,”
Mark said. “Mrs. Cunningham and I have been talking it over. We thought
that the best plan would be for her to take a house in London, and go
there with you; you would have the advantages of good masters.

“Then you were saying only a short time since that you would like to learn
the harp and take lessons in painting. There would be time enough to think
about what you would do with respect to this house afterward.”

“It is all horrible,” Millicent said, bursting into tears, “and I shall
always feel that I have robbed you.”

“But I don't feel so in the least,” Mark urged. “I was not in the smallest
degree put out when my father told me about it. I have always had a fancy
for wandering about the world, as my uncle did, and doing something to
distinguish myself, instead of settling down for life to be a country
magistrate and a squire. Of course it came as a surprise, but I can assure
you that it was not an altogether unpleasant one. What can a man want more
than a nice little estate of 500 pounds a year and 20,000 pounds in
money?”

“It is all very well to say that, but as you said to me just now, you may
see it in a different light some day.”

Then she sat thinking for some time. “At any rate,” she went on at last,
“I don't see why anyone should know about it now. If the house is to be
shut up and you are going away, why need anyone know anything about it? My
father's wish was that I should not have people making love to me just
because I was an heiress; after all that has been done, it would be wicked
to go against his wishes. I suppose the interest of this 15,000 pounds
would be enough for Mrs. Cunningham and I to live comfortably on in
London?”

“Yes,” Mark said; “it will, at 5 per cent, bring in 750 pounds a year.”

“Then I shall remain Millicent Conyers to the world. There is nothing to
prevent that, is there?” she said almost defiantly.

“No,” he replied thoughtfully. “The rents of this estate might accumulate.
I suppose the solicitors would see after that; and as I shall be away it
will, of course, make no difference to me. Were I to stay in the
neighborhood I could not consent to live as my father did, in a false
position; but even then I might give out that the property had only been
left to my father during his lifetime, and that it had now gone elsewhere,
without saying whom it had gone to. However, as I shall be away there will
be no occasion even for that. When the will is read there will be no one
present but ourselves, and I don't see why its contents should not be kept
a secret for a time; at any rate, we can ask Mr. Prendergast's opinion
upon that subject.”

At this moment, Mrs. Cunningham coming into the room, Millicent ran to her
and threw her arms round her neck.

“He has made me most miserable,” she said. “I thought I could not have
been more miserable than I was before he told me all about it.”

“I knew that he was going to do so, and I was quite sure that you would
not be pleased at the news. I have all along thought that it was a mistake
on the part of your father; but as it was his decision, and not mine, I
only had to carry out his wishes.”

“It is cruel,” Millicent sobbed. “I don't mean it is cruel of my father;
of course he could not have known, and he thought he was doing the best
thing for my happiness, but it has all turned out wrong.”

“For the present you may think so, dear; but you must remember that up to
the present time it has turned out well. I know that your uncle did not
like it at first, but I think that he passed ten happy years here. It gave
him a great power for doing good, and he worthily availed himself of it.
We have all spent a happy time; he was universally liked and respected. I
think all of us have benefited by it. It would not have been half as
pleasant if it had been known that you, my child, were the real owner of
the estate, and he was acting merely as your guardian. Let us hope that
everything will turn out as well in future. Colonel Thorndyke told me that
he had left a considerable sum in addition to the estates, and that this
was to be divided between you and Mark; so you see your cousin will not go
out into the world a beggar.”

“It is most of it lost,” Millicent said with an hysterical laugh. “It is
all hidden away, and no one can find it; everything has gone wrong
together.”

“Well, I think, dear, that you had better go up to bed. I will go with
you. At the present time this, of course, has come upon you as an
additional shock. I would gladly have shielded you from it for a time if I
could have done so, but you must have learned it tomorrow, and I quite
agree with Mark that is was better that he should tell you this evening. I
sent down to the town today to the doctor's and asked him to send me up a
soothing draught, thinking that you might be upset by the news. I hope by
the morning you will be able to look at matters more calmly.”

Some time later Mrs. Cunningham came down again.

“She has cried herself to sleep,” she said. “She is much grieved about
this money being lost.”

“It is annoying; still I cannot help thinking that the Colonel must have
taken some such precaution to prevent the treasure from being lost.”

“One would certainly think so,” Mrs. Cunningham agreed; “the Colonel
seemed to me a methodical man. I know that he had the reputation of being
one of the most particular men in the service as to all petty details. His
instructions to me before I left him were all very minute, and he gave me
a sealed packet which he told me contained instructions and a copy of the
register of his marriage and of Millicent's birth, and he said that in
case of his death I was to take it to your father. He said that there was
a letter inclosed in it to him, and also a copy of his will. The letter
was directed to your father, and not to me. I handed it over to him when
he asked me to come here. He told me afterwards that the letter contained
the request that his brother lived to make personally to him—that
the child should be brought up as his ward; and that he had handed the
certificates to a lawyer, who had, however, received copies of them from
the Colonel himself before he went down to see your father. So, as he took
these precautions to insure his wishes being carried out in the event of
his sudden death, I should think that he must have done something of the
sort with regard to this treasure.”

“I should think that extremely likely, Mrs. Cunningham. I certainly had
not thought of that before, and I hope that for Millicent's sake and my
own it may turn out to be so. I can get on extremely well without it, but
at the same time I don't pretend that 50,000 pounds are to be despised.”

The next morning Mr. Prendergast, who had arrived at Reigate late the
evening before, and had put up at an inn, came up to the house an hour
before the time named for the funeral. He learned from Mark that he had
already acquainted Millicent with her change of circumstances. A few
minutes after he arrived, a servant told him that Miss Conyers would be
glad if he would see her alone for a few minutes in the drawing room. Mark
had already prepared him for her request.

“Mark has told you that he told me about this hateful thing last night, I
suppose, Mr. Prendergast?”

“He has,” the old lawyer said kindly; “and he tells me also that you are
not at all pleased at the news.”

“Pleased! I should think not, Mr. Prendergast,” she said indignantly. “I
am not going to rob my cousin of what he has always been taught to think
as his inheritance. It is abominable, I call it, and most unnatural.”

“But, my dear young lady, it is yours, and not his. I do not wish to
discuss whether the arrangement was altogether a wise one, but I think
that so far it has turned out well for all parties. Your estate has
profited greatly by the management of your uncle, the tenants and all
connected with it have benefited greatly, he himself has had active
employment afforded him, of which he was fond. Your cousin has, I believe,
enjoyed the advantages of the position, and has become acquainted with the
best people in this part of the country, and will now obtain the benefit
of something like 15,000 pounds—a comfortable little sum, especially
as he inherits, I believe, his father's property in Sussex. You yourself
will have obtained what I cannot but consider the advantage of having been
brought up without knowing that you were an heiress, and therefore without
being spoiled, which is, in my opinion, the case with many young ladies in
such a condition; therefore I cannot but think that, if unwise in its
conception, the matter has so far worked out well. I am bound to say that
Mr. Mark Thorndyke has been speaking to me very handsomely on the subject,
and that he appears in no way disappointed at finding that you are the
heiress of the estate, and is really concerned only at your unwillingness
to accept the situation.”

“I wanted to know, Mr. Prendergast,” she said, but in a tone that showed
she was convinced by his manner that her request would be refused, “if you
could arrange so that things would not be disturbed, and he should come
into possession as his father's heir in the natural way.”

“But you see he is not his father's heir, Miss Thorndyke. His father only
had the use, as we call it, of the property until you came of age, or
marriage; it was not necessary for it to come to you on your coming of
age, but only, as your father explained to me, in the event of your
marriage; that is to say, it was not to become public that you were
entitled to the estate until your marriage. If you married before you were
twenty-one the property was then to come to you. If you did not you were
to be informed of the circumstances or not, as Mr. Thorndyke might decide
was best, but you were not to come into the property until you married.
Your cousin was also to be informed when you came to the age of
twenty-one, and as at that time he was to take his half share of the
remainder of the property, he would then be able to arrange his life as he
liked. If your uncle died, as unfortunately he has done, before you
reached the age of twenty-one, you would then be placed in your proper
position; but your father desired us to say to you that it was his wish,
that if it could be arranged, your having succeeded to the ownership
should not be publicly known until you divulged it to your husband after
marriage. The other portions of the will must be carried out. This being
only a request, you are at liberty to follow it or not as you may choose.”

“Certainly I should choose,” the girl said. “After all this trouble to
prevent my being run after as an heiress, it would be wicked to upset it
all and to fly in the face of his wishes by setting up as mistress of this
estate. Still you understand, Mr. Prendergast, that I don't mean to take
it.”

The lawyer smiled indulgently. “There is one way in which it might be
managed,” he said. “Perhaps you can guess what it is?”

A flush of color rose over the girl's face. “Don't say it, I beg of you,
Mr. Prendergast. Mrs. Cunningham hinted at it this morning, and I told her
that my own wish entirely agreed with that of my father, and that I was
determined not to be married for money; and I am quite sure that Mark
would be as unwilling as I am that the estate should change hands in that
way. No, Mr. Prendergast, you must find some other way of doing it than
that. Surely an estate cannot be forced upon anyone who is determined not
to take it.”

“Well, we must think it over,” Mr. Prendergast said quietly. “And now I
think that it is time for me to join the others.”

CHAPTER X.

The funeral of Squire Thorndyke and Mr. Bastow was over, and all agreed
they had never seen a more affecting spectacle than that at the churchyard
when the two coffins were brought in. The distance was short, and the
tenants had requested leave to carry the Squire's bier, while that of Mr.
Bastow was borne by the villagers who had known and loved him. Behind
followed all the magistrates and a great number of the gentry for miles
round; the churchyard was crowded by every man, woman, and child in the
village, and the women, as well as many of the men, wept unrestrainedly as
the coffins passed by. Besides these, a large number of people from
Reigate and the surrounding villages were present, attracted rather by the
crime that had caused the death than by the loss of the Squire himself.
The church was crowded, and it was with difficulty that Mr. Greg read the
service. The Squire was laid by the side of his father, Mr. Bastow in the
spot where many of his predecessors had slept before him.

Mark had been greatly affected, not only by his own loss, but by the sight
of the general grief among those for whom the Squire had done so much.
Even Mr. Prendergast, who had taken part in many such functions over
departed clients, was much moved by the scene.

“I have been at many funerals,” he said to Mark as they walked back to the
Hall, “but I never have been at one that so affected me. No monument ever
raised, sir, did such credit to him who was laid beneath it as the tears
of those simple villagers.”

Mark did not reply; his heart was altogether too full to speak. As they
entered the house he said, “The ladies will have their lunch upstairs, Mr.
Prendergast; we may as well have ours at once, and then you can call them
down if there is any business to be done.”

“That will not take long,” the lawyer said. “I have brought down the wills
of both your uncle the Colonel, and your father, and I think that it would
be as well for me to read them both. That of your father is a very short
and simple document, extending, indeed, only over a few lines. Your
uncle's is longer and more complicated, but as you are well aware of the
gist of it, it will take us but a short time to get through it.”

Mark took his meal in a perfunctory manner. For himself he would have
eaten nothing, but he made an effort to do so in order to keep his guest
company. When it was over he said:

“We may as well go into the library at once, and I will send up for the
ladies. It is as well to lose no time, for I know that you want to catch
the afternoon coach up to town.”

Mrs. Cunningham and Millicent joined them in a minute or two, the girl
looking very pale in her deep mourning.

“I am about,” Mr. Prendergast said quietly, “to read the wills of Colonel
Thorndyke and Mr. John Thorndyke, and I will ask you, if there is any
phrase that you do not understand, to stop me, and I will explain to you
its purport.”

The three persons present were acquainted with the main provisions of the
Colonel's will. It began by stating that, being determined that his
daughter, Millicent Conyers Thorndyke, should not be married for her
money, he hereby bequeathed to his brother, John Thorndyke, his estate in
the parish of Crowswood, to be held by him until his daughter Millicent
came to the age of twenty-one, or was married; if that marriage did not
take place until she was over the age of twenty-one, so long was it to
continue in John Thorndyke's possession, save and except that she was, on
attaining the age of twenty-one, to receive from it an income of 250
pounds a year for her private use and disposal.

“To Jane Cunningham, the widow of the late Captain Charles Cunningham, of
the 10th Madras Native Infantry, should she remain with my daughter until
the marriage of the latter, I bequeath an annuity of 150 pounds per annum,
chargeable on the estate, and to commence at my daughter's marriage. All
my other property in moneys, investments, jewels, and chattels of all
sorts, is to be divided in equal portions between my daughter, Millicent
Conyers Thorndyke, and my nephew, Mark Thorndyke. Should, however, my
daughter die before marriage, I bequeath the said estate in the parish of
Crowswood to my brother, John Thorndyke, for his life, and after him to
his son Mark, and to the latter the whole of my other property of all
kinds, this to take effect on the death of my daughter. Should my brother
predecease the marriage or coming of age of my daughter, she is at once to
come into possession of the said estate of Crowswood. In which case my
nephew Mark and Mr. James Prendergast, of the firm of Hopwood &
Prendergast, my solicitors, are to act as her trustees, and Mrs. Jane
Cunningham and the said James Prendergast as her guardians.”

All this was, of course, expressed in the usual legal language, but the
purport was clear to those previously acquainted with its bearing, the
only item that was new to them being the legacy to Mrs. Cunningham. John
Thorndyke's testament was a short one. He left all his property to his son
Mark, with the exception of a hundred pounds to his niece to buy a
mourning ring or brooch or other ornament in memory of him, and fifty
pounds to Mrs. Cunningham for a similar purpose, as a token of his great
esteem for her character, and 200 pounds to Ramoo for his faithful
services to his brother and himself. When the lawyer had folded up the
wills Millicent said:

“On my part, I have to say that I absolutely renounce the legacy of the
estate in favor of my cousin Mark, who has always believed that it would
be his.”

“And I as absolutely refuse to accept the sacrifice,” Mark said.

“My dear young lady,” Mr. Prendergast said quietly, “at present, at any
rate, you have no power whatever to take any action in the matter; you
are, in the eye of the law, an infant, and until you come of age you have
no power to execute any legal document whatever. Therefore you must
perforce remain mistress of the estate until you attain the age of
twenty-one. Many things may happen before that time; for example, you
might marry, and in that case your husband would have a voice in the
matter; you might die, in which case Mr. Mark Thorndyke would, without any
effort on your part, come into possession of the estate. But, at any rate,
until you reach the age of twenty-one your trustees will collect the rents
of the estate on your behalf, and will hold the monies in trust for you,
making, of course, such payments for your support and maintenance as are
fit and proper for your condition.”

The tears came into Millicent's eyes as she resumed the seat from which
she had risen, and she did not utter another word until Mr. Prendergast
rose to leave.

“I shall doubtless learn your wishes as to the future, Miss Thorndyke,
from your cousin,” he said. “I hope that you will not cherish any malice
against me, and that when you think it over you will come to the
conclusion that second thoughts are sometimes the wisest, and also that
you should have some consideration for your father's wishes in a matter of
this kind. He worked hard and risked his life to build up the fortune that
he has left. He evidently thought greatly of your welfare, and was, above
all things, anxious to insure your happiness. I am sure that on thinking
it over you will see that you should not thwart his wishes.”

“My dear boy,” he said to Mark, as they stood on the doorstep waiting for
the carriage to come round, “the best plan by far in this business would
be for the interests of your cousin and yourself to be identical. She is a
very charming young lady, a little headstrong in this matter, perhaps, but
I do not think that that is altogether unnatural.”

“That might have come about if it had not been for the property, Mr.
Prendergast,” Mark said, “but it cannot be now. If she and I had been
engaged before all this happened the case would have been different; but
you see yourself that now my lips are sealed, for it would seem as if I
had not cared for her until she turned out to be an heiress.”

“You are a silly young couple,” the lawyer said. “I can only hope that as
you grow older you will grow wiser. Well, you had better come up and have
a talk with me about the assets your uncle mentions in his will.”

“Then you don't know anything about them, sir?”

“Nothing at all, except as to the accumulations in his absence. He
mentioned vaguely that he was a wealthy man. I thought that, as a matter
of course, he had told his brother all about it.”

“It is a curious business, sir, and I doubt if there will ever be anything
besides the accumulations you speak of.”

“Bless me, you don't say so! Well, well, I always thought that it was the
most foolish business that I ever heard of. However, you shall tell me all
about it when you come up. I shall miss my coach unless I start.”

So saying, he shook Mark's hand, took his place in the gig, and was driven
away. Millicent did not come downstairs again that day.

“She is thoroughly upset,” Mrs. Cunningham said, “and it would be best to
let her have her own way for a time. I think the sooner I can get her away
from here the better. The house is full of sad memories, and I myself feel
shaken and in need of a change.”

“I can quite understand her feeling and yours, Mrs. Cunningham. I do hope
you will be able to disabuse her mind of the idea that I have any shadow
of feeling of regret that she instead of I has the estate, and please try
to work upon her on the ground of her father's wishes. I could see that
her face changed when Mr. Prendergast put the matter in that light, which
I do not think had occurred to her before. I am thinking of going up to
town in a couple of days; I was thinking of doing so tomorrow, but a day
or so will make no difference. I propose that you both go with me, and
that I then help you look for a house. Even if you don't get one at once,
a week in London will be a change, and you can then, if you like, go
somewhere for a time. Of course Bath would be too gay at present; but you
might go to Tunbridge Wells, or, if she would like a seaside place, as she
has never been near the sea since she was a baby, that would be the
greatest change for her. You might go down for a month or two to Dover or
Hastings. There is no occasion for you to settle down in London for a
time. There is Weymouth, too, if you would like it better. I believe that
that is a cheerful place without being too fashionable.”

“I think that will be an excellent plan,” Mrs. Cunningham said.

“If you like I will drive you up to town, and the luggage can go by the
carrier; it is more pleasant than being shut up in a coach.”

“Much more cheerful, of course.”

“You will, of course, leave many of your things here, and the packing them
up will give her something to do, and prevent her from brooding.”

“I think that is an excellent idea, Mark.”

Late in the afternoon Ramoo came in in his usual silent manner. The man
had said but little during the past few days, but it was evident that he
was grieving deeply, and he looked years older than he had done before
that fatal night.

“Of course, Ramoo, you will stay with me for the present. I hardly know
what I shall be doing for a time, but I am sure that until I settle down,
Miss Conyers will be very glad to have you with her.”

“No, sahib, Ramoo will return home to India. Ramoo is getting old; he was
thirty when he entered the service of the Colonel, sahib; he is fifty now;
he will go home to end his days; he has saved enough to live in comfort,
and with what the lawyer sahib told him your father has left him he will
be a rich man among his own people.”

“But you will find things changed, Ramoo, since you left; while here, you
know, we all regard you as a friend rather than as a servant.”

“You are all very kind and good, sahib. Ramoo knows that he will meet no
friends like those he has here, but he longs for the bright sun and blue
sky of India, and though it will well nigh break his heart to leave the
young missie and you, he feels that he must go.”

“All right, Ramoo. We shall all be very sorry to lose you, but I
understand your longing to go home, and I know that you always feel our
cold winters very trying; therefore I will not oppose your wishes. I shall
be going up to town in two or three days, and will arrange to pay your
legacy at once, and will inquire what vessels are sailing.”

Millicent was unfeignedly sorry when she heard of Ramoo's determination;
she was very fond of him, for when as a child she first arrived at
Crowswood he had been her companion whenever the Squire did not require
his services, and would accompany her about the garden and grounds,
listening to her prattle, carrying her on his shoulder, and obeying her
behests. No doubt he knew that she was the daughter of his former master,
and had to a certain extent transferred his allegiance from the sahib,
whose life he had several times saved, to his little daughter. Still, she
agreed with Mark that it was perhaps best that he should go. She and Mrs.
Cunningham would find but little occasion for his services when
established in London, and his swarthy complexion and semi-Eastern costume
would attract attention, and perhaps trouble, when he went abroad—the
population being less accustomed to Orientals then than at present—but
still less would they know what to do with him were they for a time to
wander about. Mark said at once that so long as he himself was engaged in
the task that he had set himself, he could not take Ramoo with him, and as
for his staying alone in the house when it was only in charge of a
caretaker, it was not to be thought of.

Although not inclined at the present time to agree with Mark in anything,
Millicent could not but acknowledge that it were best that Ramoo should
not be urged further to reconsider his determination, and she also fell in
with his proposal that they should go up to London for a week, and then go
down to Weymouth for a time, after which they would be guided by
circumstances. Accordingly, two days later, Mark drove Millicent and Mrs.
Cunningham up to London. A groom accompanied them on Mark's favorite
horse. This was to be left in town for his use, and the groom was to drive
the carriage back again. Comfortable rooms were obtained in a quiet inn
for the ladies, while Mark put up at the Bull, saying that he would come
every day to take them out.

“Why did not Mark stay here, Mrs. Cunningham?” Millicent asked pettishly.

“I suppose he thought it better that he should not do so; and I own that I
think he was right.”

“When we were, as we supposed, no relation to each other,” Millicent said,
“we could be like brother and sister. Now that we find that we are cousins
we are going to be stiff and ceremonious.”

“Not necessarily because you are cousins, Millicent. Before, you were his
father's ward, and under his father's care; now you are a young lady on
your own account. You must see that the position is changed greatly, and
that what was quite right and proper before would not be at all right and
proper now.”

Millicent shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, if Mark wishes to be distant and stiff he can certainly do so if he
likes it. It makes no matter to me.”

“That is not at all fair, Millicent, and very unlike yourself. Had not
Mark suggested his going to another inn, I should have suggested it
myself.”

“Oh, yes; no doubt it is better,” Millicent said carelessly. “He has
several friends in town, and of course we cannot expect him to be devoting
himself to us.”

Mrs. Cunningham raised her eyebrows slightly, but made no answer.
Millicent was seldom wayward, but at present things had gone very hardly
with her, and her friend felt that it would be better to leave her
entirely to herself until her humor changed. In the morning, when Mark
came round, Millicent announced that she felt tired with the drive of the
previous day, and would prefer staying indoors. Mark looked a little
surprised, more at the tone than at the substance of the words, for the
manner in which she spoke showed that the excuse she had given was not her
only reason for not going out.

“Of course, I shall stay at home too,” Mrs. Cunningham said quietly, as he
glanced toward her inquiringly. “Millicent is unnerved and shaken, and
perhaps it is just as well for her to have a day's complete rest.”

“Very well, Mrs. Cunningham; then I will, as I cannot be of any use to
you, set about my own business for the day. I have already been round to
the lawyer's, and have got a check for Ramoo's legacy. He will be up this
afternoon, and I will go round to Leadenhall Street and find out what
ships are sailing and when they start. I will come in this evening for a
chat.”

Millicent sat without speaking for some minutes after he had left the
room. Mrs. Cunningham, whose hands were always busy, took some work out of
a bag and set to work at it industriously. Presently the girl said:

“What business is this that Mark is going to occupy himself in?”

“I do not know much about it,” she replied. “But from a few words which he
let drop I believe that he intends to devote himself to discovering and
hunting down your uncle's murderer.”

The listless expression faded out at once of Millicent's face.

“But surely, Mrs. Cunningham, that will be very dangerous work.”

“No doubt it will be dangerous work, but I don't think that that is likely
to hinder Mark. The man, whoever he may be, is of course a desperate
character, and not likely to be captured without making a fierce struggle
for it.”

“Then he ought to put the matter in the hands of the proper authorities,”
Millicent said decidedly. “Of course such men are dangerous. Very likely,
this man may have accomplices, and it is not against one only that Mark
will have to fight. He has no right to risk his life in so desperate an
adventure.”

Mrs. Cunningham smiled quietly over her work. The Squire had often
confided to her how glad he would be if these two should some day come
together. In that case the disclosure after marriage of the real facts of
the case would cause no disturbance or difficulty. The estate would be
theirs, and it would not matter which had brought it into the partnership;
she had thoroughly agreed with him, but so far nothing had occurred to
give any ground for the belief that their hopes would be fulfilled.

Till within the last year Millicent had been little more than a child; she
had looked up to Mark as she might have done to a big brother, as
something most admirable, as one whose dictum was law. During the last
year there had been some slight change, but more, perhaps, on Mark's part
than on hers. He had consulted her wishes more, had asked instead of
ordered, and had begun to treat her as if conscious that she was fast
growing up into womanhood.

Millicent herself scarcely seemed to have noticed this change. She was
little more inclined to assert herself than before, but was ready to
accompany him whenever he wished her to do so, or to see him go away
without complaint, when it so pleased him; but the last week had made a
rapid change in their position. Millicent had sprung almost at a bound
into a young woman. She had come to think and resolve for herself; she was
becoming wayward and fanciful; she no longer deferred to Mark's opinion,
but held her own, and was capable of being vexed at his decisions. At any
rate, her relations with Mark had changed rapidly, and Mrs. Cunningham
considered this little outburst of pettishness to be a good omen for her
hopes, and very much better than if they had continued on their old
footing of affectionate cousins.

Mark went back again to the lawyer's, and had a long talk with Mr.
Prendergast over the lost treasure. The old lawyer scoffed at the idea
that there could be any danger associated with the bracelet.

“Men in India, I suppose, get fanciful,” he said, “and imbibe some of the
native superstitions. The soldier who got them from the man who stole them
was stabbed. He might have been stabbed for a thousand reasons, but he had
the bracelet on his mind. He was forever hiding it and digging it up, and
fancying that someone was on his track, and he put down the attack as
being made by someone connected with it. His manner impressed your uncle.
He concealed the diamonds or sent them off somewhere, instantly. He never
had any further trouble about them, but like many men who have a craze,
fancied that he was being perpetually watched and followed. The
unfortunate result of all this is that these jewels and the money that he
accumulated during his service in India seem to be lost. A more stupid
affair I never heard of.

“Now, as to the clew, any reasonable man would have given full
instructions as to how the treasure was to be found; or if he did not do
that, would, at least, instead of carrying about an absurd coin and a
scrap of paper with a name upon it, have written his instructions and put
them in that ridiculous hiding place, or, more wisely still, would have
instructed his solicitor fully on the subject. The amount of trouble given
by men, otherwise perfectly sane, by cranks and fancies is astonishing.
Here is something like 100,000 pounds lost owing to a superstitious whim.
As to your chance of finding the treasure, I regard it as small indeed.
The things are hidden in India, in some old tomb, or other rubbishing
place. Your uncle may have committed them to the charge of a native; he
may have sent them to a banker at one of the great towns; he may have
shipped them to England. He may have sent them to the North Pole for
anything I know. How can one begin to search the universe?”

“I thought, sir, that perhaps he might have sent them to some London Bank
or agent, with instructions to hold them until claimed by him, and that
perhaps an inquiry among such houses would lead to the discovery that they
hold certain property forwarded by him.”

“Well; there is some sense in that suggestion,” Prendergast grumbled, “and
I suppose the first thing to be done will be to carry that out. If you
wish, we will do it for you. They would be more likely to give the
information, if they possess it, to a well known firm of solicitors like
ourselves than to any private individual. Besides, if you were to go
yourself, they would in each case want you to be identified before they
would answer any question, whereas I should write a note to them in the
firm's name, with our compliments, saying that we should be glad to know
if the late Colonel Thorndyke, of whose will we are the executors, had any
account at their firm or has deposited any property in their hands. There
are not above five or six banks doing business with India, and as many
agents in a large way of business; and if he did such a foolish thing, he
would be certain to do it with some houses of good standing—if,
indeed, anything can be taken as certain in the case of a gentleman with
such extraordinary fancies and plans as his.”

“Thank you, Mr. Prendergast,” Mark said, with a slight smile at the
lawyer's irritability; “that will be clearing the ground to a certain
extent. If that does not succeed, I think I shall go to India myself, and
shall there make similar inquiries at all the principal establishments at
Calcutta and Madras. Should I fail there, it seems to me that the only
remaining plan will be to find out from the military authorities the place
where my uncle's regiment was encamped on the day—we have the date
on which the jewels were given to him—and to institute a minute
search of all the old ruins within such a distance as he might have
reached within a day's ride.”

“But you have no certainty that it was a ruin. He might have dug a hole
under his tent and have buried the things there; he might have taken a
shovel and buried them in a clump of bushes a quarter of a mile away. The
thing is more and more ridiculous the more you look at it.”

“I see it is very difficult, sir, but one might narrow it down somewhat if
one discovered the spot. Probably there are still native officers in the
regiment who were there at the time. If so, they might possibly know who
was my uncle's servant at the time. The man may be a pensioner, and in
that case I might discover his address through the military authorities,
and I could find out from him whether my uncle often rode out at night,
what were his habits, and possibly where the tent stood, and so on.”

“Well,” Mr. Prendergast said, “if you like to undertake a wild goose chase
of this sort it is your business, and not mine; but I consider the idea is
the most Utopian that I ever heard of. As to where the tent stood, is it
likely that a man would remember to within a hundred yards where a tent
stood fourteen years ago? Why, you might dig up acres and acres of ground
and not be sure then that you had hit upon the right place.”

“There is one other circumstance, Mr. Prendergast,” Mark said quietly,
“that has to be taken into consideration, and which renders it improbable
that these diamonds were hidden anywhere by my uncle himself at that time.
He certainly spoke of the whole of this treasure collectively. It is
morally certain that he would not carry all these jewels that he had been
collecting about with him, and certainly not his treasure in money. He
must, therefore, have sent these diamonds to the person, whoever he may
be, who had the keeping of his other jewels and of his money. This
certainly points to a bank.”

“There is a sensible conjecture. Yes, there is something in that. He
certainly could not have carried about him 50,000 pounds in gold and as
much in jewelry; it would have been the act of a madman, and Colonel
Thorndyke, although eccentric and cranky, was not mad. But, on the other
hand, he may have carried about a banker's passbook, or what is equivalent
to it, for the amount that had been deposited with a native banker or
agent, together with a receipt for the box containing the jewels, and this
he might have hidden with the diamonds.”

“I don't think that he would have done that; there could have been no
object for his putting the power of demanding his money and valuables out
of his possession.”

“Well, well,” the lawyer said testily, “it is of no use arguing now what
he might or might not have done. A man who would have taken the trouble
that he did to prevent his daughter knowing that she was an heiress, and
fancied that he was followed about by black fellows, might do anything,
reasonable or unreasonable, under the sun. At any rate, Mr. Thorndyke, I
will carry out your instructions as to inquiries in London, and will duly
inform you of the result; beyond that I must really decline to give any
advice or opinion upon the matter, which is altogether beyond me.”

On leaving the lawyer's, Mark went to Bow Street, and related to the chief
the circumstances attending his father's murder.

“I have heard them from the man I sent down at your request, Mr.
Thorndyke, and taking the attempt early in the evening and the subsequent
murder, there can be no doubt that the affair was one of revenge, and not
of robbery. Had the second attempt stood alone, robbery might have been
the object; the mere fact that nothing was stolen in no way alters the
case. Men are often seized with a certain panic after committing a murder,
and fly at once without attempting to carry out their original purpose.
Your father, no doubt, fell heavily, and the man might well have feared
that the fall would be heard; but the previous attempt precludes the
supposition that robbery was at the bottom of it. It points to a case of
revenge, and certainly goes a very long way to support the theory that we
talked over when I last saw you, that the highwayman who endeavored to
stop you on the road, whom you wounded, and who afterwards went down to
Southampton, was the escaped convict, Bastow. Since that time I have had a
man making inquiries along the roads between Reigate and Kingston, but
altogether without success. I should be glad to follow up any other line
that you might suggest, and that might offer any reasonable possibility of
success, but I must own that at present we are entirely off the scent.”

“I am thinking of devoting myself entirely to the quest. I have no
occupation at present. I have an income amply sufficient for my wants, and
for all expenses that I may incur, and I intend to devote, if necessary,
some years of my life to hunting this man down. As your men have searched
without success in the country, I think for the present my best plan will
be to devote myself to learning something of the ways and haunts of the
criminal classes of London, and it is with that object that I have come to
you now. I should like, for some time, at any rate, to enter the detective
force as an enrolled member. I should, of course, require no pay, but
should be prepared to obey all orders and to do any work required, as any
other member of the corps would do. I am strong, active, and have, I hope,
a fair share of intelligence. I should not mind risking my life in
carrying out any duty that you might assign to me. I presume that I need
not always be on duty, and could, when not required, employ my time as I
liked, and keep up my acquaintances in town. Should it be otherwise,
however, I am perfectly ready to submit myself in all respects to your
rule. I have a first rate horse and should be available for country duty,
wherever you might think fit to send me. I should not desire any
distinction to be made between me and the paid officers.”

“Your proposal is an altogether novel one, Mr. Thorndyke, but it is worthy
of consideration. I have no doubt that you would make a very useful
officer; the work is certainly interesting, though not without serious
hazards. However, I will think the matter over, and if you will call in
tomorrow you shall have my answer. We are always glad to have a new hand
in the force, for the faces of our men are so well known among the
criminal class that they are liable to be detected even under the
cleverest disguises. There is work, too, upon which it is absolutely
necessary that a gentleman should be employed, and in the event of your
joining us, I should wish you to keep the matter strictly from all your
acquaintances; and it would certainly be advantageous that you should,
when disengaged, continue to mix with your friends and to mingle in
society of all kinds as freely as possible. There is crime among the upper
classes as well as among the lower, though of a different type; and as Mr.
Thorndyke of Crowswood you would have far better opportunities of
investigating some of these cases than any of my men would have. You would
not object to take up such cases?”

“Not at all, sir; that is, if it could be arranged that I should not do
the actual work of making an arrest, or have to appear in court as a
witness.”

“That could be managed,” the chief said “When you have got to a certain
point the matter of the final arrest could always be handed over to
someone else, but as a rule we keep our officers in the background as much
as possible, because at every trial the court is half full of men of the
criminal class, and the faces of our men would soon be known to every one
of them. Well, if you will call about ten o'clock tomorrow you shall have
my answer; but I should advise you to think the matter well over before
you see me again. The responsibilities as well as the dangers are great,
and indeed in some of the work you would literally have to carry your life
in your hand; and I can assure you that the task you would undertake is by
no means a light one.”

CHAPTER XI.

Mark called that evening, as he had promised, upon Mrs. Cunningham.

“I hope that you feel all the better for your day's rest, Millicent,” he
said.

The girl looked quickly at him to see if there was any sarcasm in the
question, but it was evident that the inquiry was made in earnest.

“Yes, I feel better now,” she said. “I have dozed a good deal today. I did
not feel up to anything. Mrs. Cunningham's work has progressed
wonderfully. I should say that she has done more today than she ordinarily
finds time to do in a week. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I have been having a long talk with Mr. Prendergast about the lost
treasure.”

“And of course he said that you would never find it, Mark?”

“Well, yes, he distinctly expressed that opinion.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards I went to Bow Street and had a long talk also with the chief
officer there.”

“I don't like the idea of your searching for this man, Mark. In the first
place, I don't see why you should hope to succeed when the men whose
business it is to do such work have failed. In the next place, I think
that you may get into serious danger.”

“That I must risk, Millicent. I have already proved a better shot than he
is, and I am quite ready to take my chance if I can but come upon him;
that is the difficult part of the matter. I know that I shall need
patience, but I have plenty of time before me, and have great hopes that I
shall run him to earth at last.”

“But you would not know him if you saw him?”

“I think I should,” Mark said quietly; “at least, if he is the man that I
suspect.”

“Then you do suspect someone?” Mrs. Cunningham said, laying down her work.

“Yes, I know of no reason why you should not know it now. I suspect—indeed,
I feel morally certain—that the man who murdered my father was
Arthur Bastow.”

An exclamation of surprise broke from both his hearers, and they listened
with horror while he detailed the various grounds that he had for his
suspicions. They were silent for some time after he had brought his
narrative to a conclusion, then Mrs. Cunningham said:

“What a merciful release for Mr. Bastow that he should have died before
this terrible thing came out! For after what you have told us I can hardly
doubt that you are right, and that it is this wicked man who is guilty.”

“Yes, it was indeed providential,” Mark said, “though I think that, feeble
as he has been for some months, it might have been kept from him. Still, a
word from a chance visitor, who did not associate Bastow the murderer with
our dear old friend, might have enlightened him, and the blow would have
been a terrible one indeed. It is true that, as it was, he died from the
shock, but he did not know the hand that struck the blow.”

“Now that you have told me this,” Millicent said, “I cannot blame you,
Mark, for determining to hunt the man down. It seems even worse than it
did before; it is awful to think that anyone could cherish revenge like
that. Now tell me how you are going to set about it.”

“I have promised the chief officer that I will tell absolutely no one,” he
said. “I have a plan, and I believe that in time it must be successful. I
know well enough that I could tell you both of it without any fear of its
going further, but he asked me to promise, and I did so without
reservation; moreover, I think that for some reasons it is as well that
even you should not know it. As it is, you are aware that I am going to
try, and that is all. If I were to tell you how, you might be picturing
all sorts of imaginary dangers and worrying yourself over it, so I think
that it will be much the best that you should remain in ignorance, at any
rate for a time. I can say this, that I shall for the present remain
principally in London, and I think that I am more likely to come upon a
clew here than elsewhere.”

Millicent pouted, but Mrs. Cunningham said: “I think, perhaps, that you
are right, Mark, and it is better that we should know nothing about it; we
shall know that you are looking for a clew, but of course no danger can
arise until you obtain it and attempt to arrest him. I feel sure that you
will do nothing rash, especially as if any harm befell you he might escape
unpunished, and therefore that when the time comes to seize him you will
obtain such help as may be necessary, and will, if possible, arrest him at
a moment when resistance is impossible.”