CHAPTER 30 Mr. Lindsay reflected a moment after getting that precise answer. And he glanced at me, as if trying to recollect something. "'That would be the very morning, after the affair of the yacht?' he asked of me. But before I could speak, Mr. Paley took the words out of my mouth. "'Quite's right,' he said. I knew nothing of it at the time, of course, but I have read a good deal in the newspaper since. It was the morning after Sir Gilbert left Berwick in his yacht. "'Did he mention anything about the yacht to you?' inquired Mr. Lindsay. Not a word. I took it that he had come in to see me in the ordinary way,' replied the stockbroker. He was in tear ten minutes. I had no idea, whatever, that anything had happened. "'Before we go any further,' said Mr. Lindsay, may I ask you to tell us what he came for? You know that Mr. Portalthorp is his solicitor. I am asking the question on his behalf, as well as my own.' "'I don't know why I shouldn't tell you,' answered Mr. Paley. He came on perfectly legitimate business. It was to call for some script, which I held, script of his own, of course.' Which he took away with him, suggested Mr. Lindsay. "'Now, truly,' replied the stockbroker, that was what he came for. "'Did he give you any hint as to where he was going?' asked Mr. Lindsay. "'Did he, for instance, happen to mention that he was leaving home for a time?' "'Not at all,' answered Paley. He spoke of nothing but the business that had brought him, and I said just now he wasn't here ten minutes.' It was evident to me that Mr. Lindsay was still more taken aback. What we had learned during the last half hour seemed to surprise him, and Mr. Portalthorp, who was sharp enough of observation, saw this, and made haste to step into the arena. "'Mr. Lindsay,' he said, has been much upset by the apparently extraordinary circumstances of Sir Gilbert Carster's disappearance, and so I may say, has Sir Gilbert's sister Mrs. Ralston. I have pointed out that Sir Gilbert himself may have, probably has, a quite proper explanation of his movements. "'Wait a minute, Lindsay,' he went on, as Mr. Lindsay showed signs of restiveness. "'It's my turn, I think.' He looked at Mr. Paley again. Your transactions with Sir Gilbert have been quite in order, all through, I suppose, and quite ordinary?' "'Quite in order, and quite ordinary,' answered the stockbroker readily. He was sent to me by the manager of the Scottish American Bank, who knows that I do considerable business in first class, American securities, and investments. Sir Gilbert told me that he was disposing of a great deal of his property in England, and wished to reinvest the proceeds in American stock. He gave me to understand that he wished to spend most of his time over there in the future. As neither he nor his wife cared about Heatherclouffe, though they meant to keep it up as part of the family estate and headquarters. He placed considerable sums of money in my hands from time to time, and I invested them in accordance with his instructions, handing him the securities, as each transaction was concluded. And that's really all I know.' Mr. Lindsay got in his word before Mr. Portalthorpe could speak again. There are just two questions I should like to ask. To which nobody can take exception, I think.' He said, "'One is. I gather that you've invested all the money which Sir Gilbert placed in your hands.' "'Yes, about all,' replied Mr. Paley. "'I have a balance, a small balance.' "'And the other is this,' continued Mr. Lindsay. I suppose all these American securities, which he now has, are of such a nature that they could be turned into cash at any time, on any market.' "'That is so, certainly,' assented Mr. Paley. "'Yes, certainly so.' "'Then that's enough for me,' exclaimed Mr. Lindsay, rising and beckoning me to follow. "'Much obliged to you, sir.' "'Without further ceremony he stumped out into the street, with me at his heels, to be followed a few minutes later by Mr. Portalthorpe. And thereupon began a warm altercation between them, which continued until all three of us were stowed away in a quiet corner of the smoking-room, at a hotel at which it had been arranged Mr. Gavin Smeaton was to seek us on his arrival. And there it was renewed with equal vigor—at least, with equal vigor on Mr. Lindsay's part. As for me, I sat before the two disputants, my hands and my pockets, listening, as if I were judge and jury all in one. To what each had to argue. They were, of course, at absolutely opposite poles of thought. One man was approaching the matter, from one standpoint, the other from one diametrically opposed to it. Mr. Portalthorpe was all for minimizing things, Mr. Lindsay, all for taking the maximum attitude. Mr. Portalthorpe said that even if we had not come to Edinburgh on a fool's errand, which appeared to be his secret and private notion, we had at any rate got the information which Mr. Lindsay wanted, and had far better go home now and attend to our proper business, which he added was not to pry and peep into other folk's affairs. He was convinced that Sir Gilbert Kersters was Sir Gilbert Kersters, and that Mrs. Ralston's and Mr. Lindsay's suspicions were all wrong. He failed to see any connection between Sir Gilbert and the Barrick Mysteries and Murders. It was ridiculous to suppose it. As for the odd incident, he admitted it looked at least strange. But he added, with a half apologetic glance at me, he would like to hear Sir Gilbert's version of that affair before he himself made up his mind about it. If we can lay hands on him, you'll be hearing his version from the dock. Retorted Mr. Lindsay, your natural love of letting things go smoothly Portalthorpe is leading you into strange courses. Man alive, take a look at the whole thing from a dispassionate attitude. Since the fellow got hold of the heather-cloop property, he sold everything, practically, but heather-cloop itself. He's lost no time in converting the proceeds, a couple of hundred thousand pounds, into foreign securities, which, says young man Paley, are convertible into cash at any moment in any market. Something occurs, we don't know what yet, to make him insecure in his position. But doubt it's mixed up with Philips and Giverthwaite, and no doubt afterwards with Crone. This lad here accidentally knows something which might be fatal. Carster tries, having as I believe, murdered Crone, to drown money-laws. And then what? It's every evident that, after leaving money-laws, he ran his yacht in somewhere on the Scottish coast, and turned to a drift, or which is more likely, fell in with that Fisher-fellow Robertson at Largo, and bribed him to tell a cock-and-bull tale about the whole thing, made his way to Edinburgh the next morning, and possessed himself of the rest of his securities, after which he clears out to be joined somewhere by his wife, who, if what Holland's told us last night is true and it no doubt is, carried certain valuables off with her. What does it look like but that he's an impostor, who just made all he can out of the property while he'd had the chance, and is now a way to enjoy his ill-gotten gains? That's what I'm saying, Portal Thorpe, and I insist on my common-sense view of it. And I say, it's just as common sense to insist, as I do, that it's all capable of proper and reasonable explanation, retorted, Mr. Portal Thorpe.  You start off by asking me to take something for granted, and I'm not fond of mental gymnastics, if you'd be strictly logical. They went on, arguing like that, one against the other for a good hour, and it seemed to me that the talk they were having would have gone on for ever, indefinitely, if, on the stroke of noon, Mr. Gavin Smeaton had not walked in on us. At sight of him they stopped, and presently they were deep in the matter of the similarity of the hand-writings. Mr. Lindsay, having brought the letter and the will with him, deep at any rate Mr. Lindsay and Mr. Portal Thorpe were, as for Mr. Gavin Smeaton, he appeared to be utterly amazed at the suggestion which Mr. Lindsay threw out to him, that the father of whom he knew so little was, in reality, Michael Kersters.  You've got the idea into your head now, that this young man's father, whom he's always heard of as one merchant Smeaton, was in strict truth the late Michael Kersters, elder son of the late Sir Alexander, in fact, being the willful and headstrong man that you are, you're already positive of it. I am so, declared Mr. Lindsay, that's a fact, Portal Thorpe. Then what follows, asked Mr. Portal Thorpe, if Mr. Smeaton there is the true and lawful son of the late Michael Kersters, his name is not Smeaton at all but Kersters, and he's the true holder of the baronetcy, and, as his grandfather died in testate, the legal owner of the property. Do you follow that? I should be a fool if I didn't, retorted Mr. Lindsay, I've been thinking of it for thirty-six hours. Well, it'll have to be proved, muttered Mr. Portal Thorpe. He had been staring hard at Mr. Gavin Smeaton ever since he came in, and suddenly he let out a frank exclamation. There's no denying you've a strong Kersters look on you," said he. Bless and save me, this is the strangest affair. Smeaton put his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little package which he began to unwrap. I wonder if this has anything to do with it, he said. I remembered thinking things over last night, that I had something which, so the Wadsons used to tell me, was round my neck, when I first came to them. It's a bit of gold ornament with a motto on it. I've had it carefully locked away, for many a long year. He took out of his package a heart-shaped pendant with a much worn gold chain attached to it, and turned it over to show an engraved inscription on the reverse side. There's the motto, he said, you see. Who will, shall. Whose is it? God bless us, exclaimed Mr. Portal Thorpe. The Kersters motto, aye, their motto for many a hundred years. Lindsay, this is an extraordinary thing. I'm inclined to think you may have some right in your notions. We must—but before Mr. Portal Thorpe could say what they must do. There was a diversion in our proceedings which took all interest in them, clean away from me, and made me forget whatever mystery there was about Kersters, Smeaton, or anybody else. A page-lad came along with a telegram in his hand, asking was there any gentleman there, of the name of Money-Laws. I took the envelope from him in a whirl of wonder, and tore it open, feeling an uncomfortable sense of coming trouble. And in another minute the room was spinning round to me, but the wording of the telegram was clear enough. Come home, first train, Maisie Dunlop been unaccountably missing, since last evening, and no trace of her, Murray. I flung the bit of paper on the table before the other three, and feeling like my head was on fire was out of the room in the hotel, and in the street and racing into the station before one of them could find a word to put on his tongue. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of Dead Men's Money This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alan Chant. Dead Men's Money by J. S. Fletcher. Chapter 31 Video Trace That telegram had swept all the doings of the morning clear away from me. Little I cared about the castare's affairs, and all the mystery that was wrapping round them in comparison with the news which Murray had sent along in that peculiarly distressing fashion. I would cheerfully have given all I ever hoped to be worth if he had only added more news. But he had just said enough to make me feel as if I should go mad unless I could get home there and then. I had not seen Maisie since she and my mother had left Mr. Lindsay and me at Dundee. I had been so fully engaged since then, what with the police and Mrs. Ralston, and Mr. Portal Thorpe, and the hurried journeys first to Newcastle, and then to Edinburgh, that I had never had a minute to run down and see how things were going on. What, of course, drove me into an agony of apprehension was Murray's use of that one word, unaccountably. Why should Maisie be unaccountably missing? What had happened to take her out of her father's house? Where had she gone that no trace of her could be got? What had led to this utterly startling development? What? But it was no use speculating on these things. The need was for action, and I had seized on the first porter I met, and was asking him for the next train to Berwick, when Mr. Gavin Smeaton gripped my arm. There's a train in ten minutes, money-laws, he said quietly. Come away to it. I'll go with you. We're all going. Mr. Lindsay thinks we'll do as much there as here now. Moving round, I saw the two solicitors hurrying in our direction. Mr. Lindsay carrying Murray's telegram in his hand. He pulled me aside as we all walked towards the train. What do you make of this hue, he asked? Can you account for any reason why the girl should be missing? I haven't an idea, said I, but if it's anything to do with all the rest of this business, Mr. Lindsay, let somebody look out. I'll have no mercy on any body that's interfered with her, and what else can it be? I wish I'd never left the town. I, well, will soon be back in it, he said consolingly, and we'll hope to find better news. I wish Murray had said more. It's a mistake to frighten folk in that way. He's said just too much and just too little. It was a fast express that we caught for Berwick, and we were not long in covering the distance. But it seemed like ages to me, and the rest of them failed to get a word out of my lips during the whole time. And my heart was in my mouth when, as we ran into Berwick's station, I saw Chisholm and Andrew Dunlop on the platform waiting us. Folk that have had bad news are always in a state of fearing to receive worse, and I dreaded what they might have come to the station to tell us. And Mr. Lindsay saw how I was feeling, and he was on the two of them with an instant question. Do you know any more about the girl, and was in Murray's wire, he demanded? If so, what? The lad hears mad for news. Chisholm shook his head. And Andrew Dunlop looked searchingly at me. We know nothing more, he answered. You don't know anything yourself, my lad. He went on staring at me still harder. Hi, Mr. Dunlop! I exclaimed, What do you think now asking me a question like Yon? What should I know? How should I know that? said he. You dragged your mother and my lass all the way to Dundee, for nothing so far as I could learn, and he, good reason, interrupted Mr. Lindsay. He did quite right. Now what is this about your daughter, Mr. Dunlop? Let's just have the plain tale of it, and then we'll know where we are. I had already seen that Andrew Dunlop was not over well pleased with me, and now I saw why. He had a terrible hand at economy, saving every penny he would lay hands on, and as nothing particular seemed to have come of it, and so far as he could see, there had been no great reason for it. He was sore at my sending for his daughter to Dundee, and all the sorrow because, though I of course was utterly innocent of it, Maisie had gone off on that journey without as much as a buy-your-leave to him, and he was not over-ready or over-civil to Mr. Lindsay. I well, said he, their strange doings afoot, and it's not my will that my lass should be at all mixed up in them, Mr. Lindsay, all this running up and down hither and thither on business that doesn't concern. Mr. Lindsay had the shortest of tempers on occasions, and I saw that he was already impatient. He suddenly turned away with a growl and collared chism.  It's your tongue that wants to go running. Now then, Sergeant, what is all this about Miss Dunlop? Come on. My future father-in-law drew off in high displeasure. But chism hurriedly explained matters. He's in a huffy state, Mr. Lindsay, he said, nodding at Andrew's retiring figure. Until you came in he was under the firm belief that you and Mr. Hugh had got the young lady away again on some of this mystery business. He wouldn't have it any other way. But truth to tell, I was wondering if you had myself. But since you haven't, it's here. And I hope nothing's befallen the poor young thing, for—for God's sake, man, get it out, said I. We've had preface enough. Come to your tale." "'I'm only explaining to you, Mr. Hugh,' he answered calmly. And I understand your impatience. It's like this, you see. Andrew Dunlop Yonder has a sister that's married to a man, a sheep farmer, whose place is near Coldsmith Hill, between Mindrum and Kirk Yetham.' "'I—I know,' I said. "'You mean Mrs. Heselton?' "'Well, man?' "'Mrs. Heselton, of course,' said he. "'You're right there.' And last night, about seven or so in the evening, a telegram came to the Dunlop, saying Mrs. Heselton was taken very ill, and would Miss Dunlop go over? And away she went there and then, on her bicycle, and alone, and she never reached the place. "'How do you know that?' demanded Mr. Lindsay. "'Because,' answered Chisholm, "'about nine o'clock this morning in comes one of the Heselton lads to Dunlop, to tell him his mother had died during the night, and then, of course, they asked did Miss Dunlop get there in time? And the lad said they'd never set eyes on her. And that's all there is to tell, Mr. Lindsay. I was for starting off with, I think, the idea of instantly mounting my bicycle and setting off for Heselton's farm, when Mr. Lindsay seized my elbow. "'Take your time, lad,' said he. "'Let's think what we're doing. Now then, how far is it to this place where the girl was going?' "'Seventeen miles,' said I promptly. "'You know it,' he asked. And the road?' "'I've been there with her many a time, Mr. Lindsay,' I answered. "'I know every inch of the road.' "'Now then,' he said, "'get the best motor-car there is in the town, and be off. Make inquiries all the way along.  It would be broad daylight all the time she'd be on her journey. Make a thorough search and full inquiry. She must have been seen.' He turned to Mr. Smeaton, who had stood near listening. "'Go with him,' he said. "'It'll be a good turn to do him. He wants company.' "'Mr. Smeaton and I hurried outside the station. A car or two stood in the yard, and we picked out the best. As we got in, Chisholm came up to us. "'You'd better have a word or two with our men along the road, Mr. Hugh,' said he. "'There's not many between here and the part you're going to, but you do no harm to give them an idea of what it is you're after, and tell them to keep their eyes open. And their ears, for that matter.' "'I will do that, Chisholm,' I answered. "'And do you keep eyes and ears open here in Berwick? I'll give ten pounds and cash in his hand to the first man that gives me news. And you can let that be known as much as you like, and at once, whether Andrew Dunlop thinks it's throwing money away or not.'  And maybe that he might draw me away from over much apprehension. Mr. Smeaton began to ask me about the road which Maisie would take to get to the Hesseltons Farm—the road which we, of course, were taking ourselves. And I explained to him that it was just the ordinary high-road that ran between Berwick and Kelso that Maisie would follow, till she came to Corn Hill, where she would turn south by way of Mindrum Mill, where, if that fact had anything to do with her disappearance, she would come into a wildish stretch of country, at the north edge of the Cheviots. "'There'll be places, villages and the like, all along, I expect,' he asked. "'It's a lonely road, Mr. Smeaton,' I answered. "'I know it well. What places there are are more off than on it. But there's no stretch of it that's out of what you might term human reach, and how anybody could happen ought along it of a summer's evening, is beyond me—unless, indeed, we're going back to the old kidnapping times. And if you knew Maisie Dunlop, you'd know that she's the sort that would put up a fight if she were interfered with. I'm wondering if this has ought to do with all young casteers' affair. There's been such blackness about that, and such villainy, that I wish I'd never heard the name.' "'I,' he answered, I understand you, but it's coming to an end, and in queer ways, queer ways, indeed.' I made no reply to him, and I was sick of the casteers' matters. It seemed to me I had been eating, and drinking, and living, and sleeping, with murder and fraud, till I was choked with the thought of them. Let me only find Maisie,' said I to myself, and I would wash my hands of any further to do with the whole vile business. But we were not to find Maisie during the long hours of that weary afternoon, and the evening that followed it. Mr. Lindsay had bade me keep the car, and spare no expense, and we journeyed hither and thither all round the district, seeking news, and getting none. She had been seen, just once, at East Ord, just outside Berwick, by a man that was working in his cottage-garden by the roadside. No other tidings could we get. We searched all along the road that runs by the side of Beaumont Water, between Mindrum and the Yetthoms, devoting ourselves particularly to that stretch as being the loneliest, and without result. And as the twilight came on, and both of us were dead weary, we turned homeward, myself feeling much more desperate than ever I did when I was swimming for my very life in the North Sea. And I'm pretty well sure of what it is now, Mr. Smeaton, I exclaimed as we gave up the search for that time. There's been foul play. And I'll have all the police in Northumberland on this business, or, I, he said, it's a police matter without doubt-money laws. We'd best get back to Berwick, and insist on Murray setting his men thoroughly to work. We went first to Mr. Lins's when we got back, his house being on our way, and at sight of us he hurried out and had us in his study. There was a gentleman with him there, Mr. Ridley, the clergyman who had given evidence about Gilverthwaite at the opening of the inquest on Philips. CHAPTER 32 THE LINK I knew by one glance at Mr. Lins's face that he had news for us. But there was only one sort of news I was wanting at that moment, and I was just as quick to see that, whatever news he had, it was not for me. And as soon as I heard him say that nothing had been heard of Maisie Dunlop during our absence, I was forgoing away, meaning to start inquiries of my own in the town, there and then, dead beat though I was. But before I could reach the door he had a hand on me. You'll just come in, my lad, and sit you down to a hot supper that's waiting you and Mr. Smeaton there. He said in that masterful way he had which took no denial from anybody. You can do no more good just now. I've made every arrangement possible with the police, and they're scouring the countryside.  You'll be all the better for it." Mr. Smeaton, he went on, as he had us both to the supper-table and began to help us to food. Here's news for you, for such news as it is, affects you, I'm thinking, more than any man that it has to do with. Mr. Ridley here has found out something relating to Michael Carstairs that'll change the whole course of events, especially if we prove, as I've no doubt we shall, that Michael Carstairs was no other than your father, whom you knew as Martin Smeaton. Smeaton turned in his chair and looked at Mr. Ridley, who, he and Mr. Lindsay having taken their supper before we got in, were sitting in a corner by the fire, eyeing the stranger from Dundee with evident and curious interest. I've heard of you, sir," said he. You gave some evidence at the inquest on Phillips about Gilverthwaite's searching of your registers, I think. Ah! And it's a fortunate thing, and shows how one thing leads to another, that Gilverthwaite did go to Mr. Ridley, explained Mr. Lindsay. It set Mr. Ridley on a track, and he's been following it up, and, to cut matter short, he's found particulars of the marriage of Michael Carstairs, who was said to have died unmarried. And I wish Portofop hadn't gone home to Newcastle before Mr. Ridley came to me with the news. Tired as I was, and utterly heart-sick about Maisie, I pricked up my ears at that. For at intervals Mr. Lindsay and I had discussed the probabilities of this affair, and I knew that there was a strong likelihood of its being found out that the mysterious Martin Smeaton was no other than Michael Carstairs, who had left Hatherclough for good as a young man. And if it were established that he was married, and that Gavin Smeaton was his lawful son, why then—but Mr. Ridley was speaking, and I broke off my speculations to listen to him. You've scarcely got me to thank for this, Mr. Smeaton," he said. There was naturally a good deal of talk in the neighborhood after that inquest on Phillips. People began wondering what that man, Gilverthwaite, wanted to find in the parish registers, of which, I now know, he examined a good many on both sides of the tweed. And in the ordinary course of things, and if someone had made a definite search with a definite object, what has been found now could have been found at once. But I'll tell you how it was. Up to some thirty years ago there was an old parish church away in the loneliest part of the Cheviots, which had served a village that gradually went out of existence, though it still got a name—Wallom. There's but a house or two in it now. And as there was next to no congregation, and the church itself was becoming ruinous, the old parish was abolished, and merged in the neighbouring parish of Felside, whose Rector, my friend Mr. Longfield, has the old Wallom registers in his possession. When he read of the Phillips inquest, and what I'd said then, he thought of those registers, and turned them up, out of a chest where they'd lend for thirty years, anyway, and he at once found the entry of the marriage of one Michael Carstairs with a Mary Smeaton, which was by license and performed by the last vicar of Wallom. It was, as a matter of fact, the very last marriage which ever took place in the old church. And I should say, concluded Mr. Ridley, that it was what one would call a secret wedding—secret at any rate, insofar as this. As it was by license, and as the old church was a most lonely and isolated place, far away from anywhere even then, there'd be no one to know of it beyond the officiating clergyman and the witnesses, who could, of course, be asked to hold their tongues about the matter, as they probably were. But there's the copy of the entry in the old register. Smeaton and I looked eagerly over the slip of paper which Mr. Ridley handed across, and he, to whom it meant such a vast deal, asked but one question, I wonder if I can find out anything about Mary Smeaton. Mr. Longfield has already made some quiet inquiries amongst two or three old people of the neighborhood on that point, remarked Mr. Ridley, the two witnesses to the marriage are both dead, years ago. But there are folk living in the neighborhood who remember Mary Smeaton. The facts are these. She was a very handsome young woman, not a native of the district, who came in service to one of the farms on the Cheviots, and who, by a comparison of dates, left her place somewhat suddenly very soon after that marriage. Smeaton turned to Mr. Lindsey in the same quiet fashion. What do you make of all this? he asked. Plain as a pike-stuff, answered Mr. Lindsey in his most confident manner. Michael Castor's fell in love with this girl and married her quietly, as Mr. Ridley says. Seeing that the marriage was by license it's probable, nay certain, that nobody but the parson and the witnesses ever knew anything about it. I take it that immediately after the marriage Michael Castor's and his wife went off to America, and that he, for reasons of his own, dropped his own proper patronymic and adopted hers.  We shall see," said Smeaton quietly as ever. But there's a good deal to do before we get to that, Mr. Lindsey. The present holder, or claimant, for example—what of him? I've insisted on the police setting every bit of available machinery to work in an effort to lay hands on him," replied Mr. Lindsey. Murray not only communicated all that Hollins told us last night to the Glasgow police this morning, first thing, but he sent a man over there with the fullest news. He's wired the London authorities, and he's asked for special detective help. He's got a couple of detectives from Newcastle, all those being done that can be done. And for you too, Hugh, my lad," he added, turning suddenly to me, whatever the police are doing in the other direction, they're doing in yours. For, ugly as it may sound and seem, there's nothing like facing facts. And I'm afraid—I'm very much afraid—that this disappearance of Maisie Dunlop is all of a piece with the rest of the villainy that's been going on. I am indeed. I pushed my plate away at that, and got on my feet. I had been dreading as much myself all day, but I had never dared put it into words. You mean, Mr. Lindsey, that she somehow got into the hands of—what? Who? I asked him. Something and somebody that's at the bottom of all this, he answered, shaking his head. I'm afraid, lad. I'm afraid. I went away from all of them then, and nobody made any attempt to stop me that time. Maybe they saw in my face that it was useless. I left the house, and went unconsciously, I think, away through the town to my mother's, driving my nails into the palms of my hands and cursing Sir Gilbert Carstairs, if that was the devil's name, between my teeth. And from cursing him, I felt a cursing myself, that I hadn't told at once of my seeing him at those crossroads on the night I went the errand for Gilbert Wade. It had been late when Smeaton and I had got to Mr. Lindsey's, and the night was now fallen on the town—a black sultry night, with great clouds overhead that threatened a thunderstorm. Our house was in a badly lighted part of the street, and it was gloomy enough about it as I drew near, debating in myself what further I could do. Sleep by knew I should not, until I heard news of Maisie. And in the middle of my speculations a man came out of the corner of a narrow lane that ran from the angle of our house, and touched me on the elbow. There was a shaft of light just there from the neighbor's window. In it I recognized the man as a fellow named Scott, that did odd gardening-jobs here and there in the neighborhood. "'Wished, Mr. Hugh,' said he, drawing me into the shadows of the lane. "'I've been waiting your coming. There's a word I have for you between ourselves.' "'Well,' said I, "'I hear your promise in ten pounds—cash on the spot to the man that can give you some news of your young lady,' he went on eagerly. "'Is it right now?' "'Can you?' I asked. "'For if you can, you'll soon see that it's right.' "'You'd be reasonable about it,' he urged, again taking the liberty to grip my arm. "'If I couldn't just exactly give what you'd call exact, indefinite news, you'd consider it the same thing if I made a suggestion, wouldn't you now, Mr. Hugh, a suggestion that would lead to something?' "'Aye, would I,' I exclaimed. "'And if you've got any suggestions, Scott, out with them, and don't beat about, tell me anything that'll lead to discovery, and you'll see your ten pound quickly.' "'Well,' he answered, "'I have to be certain, from a poor man, as you know, of the young family, and it would be a poor thing for me to hint at all that would take the bread out of their mouths, and my own. And I have the chance of a fine, regular job now at Hathaklou Yonder, and I wouldn't like to be put in an imperil. "'It's Hathaklou you're talking of, then?' I asked him eagerly. "'For God's sake, man, out with it! What is it you can tell me?' "'Not a word to a soul of what I say, then, at any time, present or future, Mr. Hugh,' he urged. "'Oh, man, not a word,' I cried impatiently. "'I'll never let on that I had speech of you in the matter.' "'Well, then,' he whispered, getting himself still closer.  It's only a hint I'm giving you. But if I were in your shoes, I'd take a quiet look round your old part of Hathaklou house, I would, so. It's never used, as you'll know. Nobody ever goes near it. But, Mr. Hugh, whoever, and however it is, there's somebody in it now.' "'The old part,' I exclaimed. "'The tower part?' "'I surely,' he answered. "'If you could get quietly to it.' I gave his arm a grip that might have told him volumes. "'I'll see you privately to-morrow, Scott,' I said, and if your news is any good, man, there'll be your ten pound in your hand as soon as I set eyes on you. And therewith I darted away from him and headlong into our house doorway.' CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE OLD TOWER My mother was at her knitting, in her easy chair, in her own particular corner of the living-room when I rushed in. And though she started at the side of me, she went on knitting as methodically as if all the world was regular as her own stitches. "'So you've come to your own roof at last, my man,' she said, with a touch of the sharpness that she could put into her tongue on occasion. There's them, would say, you'd forgotten the way to it, judging by experience. Why did you not let me know you were not coming home last night and you in the town, as I hear from other folks?' "'Oh, mother,' I exclaimed, "'how can you ask such questions when you know how things are? It was midnight when Mr. Lindsay and I got in from New Castle. And he would make me stop with him.  "'But I'll be thankful when you settle down to peaceful ways again.' "'Where are you going now?' she demanded. "'There's a warm supper for you in the oven.' "'I've had my supper at Mr. Lindsay's mother,' I said, as I dragged my bicycle out of the back place. "'I've just got to go out, whether I will or no. And I don't know when I'll be in, either. Do you think I can sleep in my bed when I don't know where Maisie is?' "'You'll not do much good, Hugh,' where the police have failed,' she answered. "'There's young man Chisholm, been here during the evening. And he tells me they haven't come across a trace of her so far.' "'Chisholm's been here, then,' I exclaimed. "'For no more than that.' "'I, for no more than that,' she replied. And then this very noon there was that Irish woman that kept house for Crone, asking at the door for you. "'What?' "'Nance McQuire?' I said. "'What did she want?' "'You,' retorted my mother. "'Nice sort of people we have coming to our door in these times. Police and murderers and Irish. Did she say why she wanted me?' I interrupted her. "'I gave her no chance,' said my mother. "'What do you think? I was going to hold talk with a creature like that at my steps. I'd hold talk with the devil himself, mother, if I could get some news of Maisie I flung back at her as I made off. You're as bad as Andrew Dunlop.' There was the house door between her and me before she could reply to that. And the next instant I had my bicycle on the road and my leg over the saddle. I was hesitating before I put my foot to the pedal. What did Nance McQuire want of me? Had she any news of Maisie? It was odd that she should come down. Had I better not ride up to the town and see her? But I reflected that if she had any news which was highly improbable she would give it to the police. And so anxious was I to test what Scott had hinted at that I swung on to my machine without further delay or reflection and went off towards Hathaklu. And as I crossed the old bridge in the opening murmur of a coming storm, I had an illumination which came as suddenly as the first flash of lightning that followed just afterwards. It had been a matter of astonishment to me all day long that nobody with the exception of the one man at East Ord had noticed Maisie as she went along the road between Berwick and Mindrum on the previous evening. Now I remembered, blaming myself for not having remembered it before, that there was a shortcut over a certain right of way through the grounds of Hathaklu House which would save her a good three miles in her journey. She would naturally be anxious to get to her aunt as quickly as possible. She would think of the nearest way, she would take it. And now I began to understand the whole thing. Maisie had gone into the grounds of Hathaklu and she had never left them. The realization made me sick with fear. The idea of my girl being trapped by such a villain as I firmly believe the man whom we knew as Sir Gilbert Carr Stairs to be was enough to shake every nerve in my body, but to think that she had been in his power for twenty-four hours alone, defenseless, brought on me a faintness that was almost beyond sustaining. I felt physically and mentally ill, weak, and yet God knows there never was so much as a thought of defeat in me. What I felt was that I must get there and make some effort that would bring the suspense to an end for the both of us. I was beginning to see how things might be. Passing through those grounds she might have chanced on something or somebody, or Sir Gilbert himself, who naturally would not let anybody escape him that could tell anything of his whereabouts. But if he was at Hathaklu, what of the tale which Hollands had told us the night before? Nay, that very morning, for it was after midnight when he sat there in Mr. Lindsay's parlour, and suddenly another idea flashed across me. Was that tale true?  Since that last notion there was, of course, the torn scrap of letter to be set, but supposing that was all part of a plot meant to deceive us, while these villains, taking Hollands to be in at the other man's game, got clear away in some totally different direction. If it was, then it had been successful, for we had taken the bait. And all attention was being directed on Glasgow, and none elsewhere, and, as far as I knew, certainly none at Hathaklu itself, whether nobody expected Sir Gilbert to come back. But these were all speculations. The main thing was to get to Hathaklu, acting on the hint I had just got from Scott, and to take a look round the old part of the big house as far as I could. There was no difficulty about getting there, although I had small acquaintance with the house and grounds, never having been in them until the night of my visit to Sir Gilbert Car Stairs. I knew the surroundings well enough to know how to get in amongst the shrubberies and coppices. I could have got in there unobserved in the daytime, and it was black night. I had taken care to extinguish my lamp as soon as I got clear of the border bridge, and now riding along in the darkness. I was secure from the observation of any possible enemy, and before I got to the actual boundaries of Hathaklu, I was off the bicycle, and had hidden it in the undergrowth at the roadside, and instead of going into the grounds by the right-of-way which I was convinced mazy must have taken, I climbed to fence and went forward through a spinny of young pine in the direction of the house. Presently, I had a fine bit of chance guidance to it, as I parted the last of the feathery branches through which I quietly made my way, and came out on the edge of the open park. A vivid flash of lightning showed me the great building standing on its plateau right before me, a quarter of a mile off, its turrets and gables vividly illuminated in the glare, and when that glare passed as quickly as it had come, the heavy blackness fell again, there was a gleam of light coming from some window or other, and I made for that, going swiftly and silently over the intervening space, not without a fear that if anybody should chance to be on the watch, another lightning flash might reveal my advancing figure. But there had been no more lightning by the time I reached the plateau on which Hathaklu was built. Then, however, came a flash that was more blinding than the last, followed by an immediate crash of thunder right overhead. In that flash I saw that I was now close to the exact spot I wanted, the ancient part of the house. I saw, too, that between where I stood and the actual walls there was no cover of shrubbery or coppice or spinning. There was nothing but a closely cropped lawn to cross, and in the darkness I crossed it there and then, hastening forward with outstretched hands which presently came against the masonry. In the same moment came the rain and torrents. In the same moment, too, came something else that damped my spirits more than any rains, however fierce and heavy could damp my skin, this sense of my own utter helplessness. There I was, having acted on impulse, at the foot of a massive gravestone which had once been impregnable, and was still formidable. I neither knew how to get in nor how to look in, if that had been possible, and I now saw that in coming at all I ought to have come accompanied by a squad of police with authority to search the whole place from end to end and top to bottom, and I reflected with a grim sense of the irony in it, that to do that would have been a fine long job for a dozen men. What then was it that I had undertaken single-handed? It was at this moment as I clung against the wall, sheltering myself as well as I could from the pouring rain, that I heard through its steady beating and equally steady throb of some sort of machine. It was a very subdued, scarcely apparent sound, but it was there, it was unmistakable, and suddenly, though in those days we were only just becoming familiar with them, I knew what it was, the engine of some sort of automobile, but not in action. The sound came from the boilers or condensers, or whatever the things were called, which they had used in the steam-driven cars, and it was nearby, near at my right hand, farther along the line of wall beneath which I was cowering. There was something to set all my curiosity aflame. What should an automobile be doing there? At that hour, for it was near well onto midnight, and in such close proximity to a half-ruinous place like that, and now, carrying no more for the rain than if it had been a spring-tide shower, I slowly began to creep along the wall in the direction of the sound. And here you will understand the situation of things better if I say that the habitable part of Hathaklou was a long way from the old part to which I had come. The entire massive building, old and new, was a vast extent, and the old was separated from the new by a broken and utterly ruinous wing, long since covered over with ivy. As for the old itself, there was a great square tower at one corner of it, with walls extending from its two angles. It was along one of these walls that I was now creeping. And presently, the sound of the gentle throbbing growing slightly louder as I made my way along, I came to the tower and to the deep-set gateway in it, and I knew at once that in that gateway there was an automobile drawn up, already for being driven out and away. Feeling quietly for the corner of the gateway, I looked round, cautiously lest a headlight on the car should betray my presence. But there was no headlight, and there was no sound beyond the steady throb of the steam and the ceaseless pouring of rain behind me. And then, as I looked, came a third flash of lightning, and the entire scene was lighted up for me. The deep-set gateway with its groin and arched roof, the grim walls at each side, the dark mass of masonry beyond it, and there within the shelter a small, brand-new car, evidently a fine and powerful make, which even my inexperienced eyes knew to be ready for departure from that place at any moment. And I saw something more during that flash, a half-open door in the wall to the left of the car, and the first steps of a winding stair. As the darkness fell again, blacker than ever, and the thunder crashed out above the old tower, I stole along the wall to that door, intending to listen if ought were starting within, or on the stairs, or in the rooms above. And I had just got my fingers on the rounded pillar of the doorway, and the thunder was just dying to a grumble when a hand seized the back of my neck as an advice and something hard and round and cold pressed itself insistently into my right temple. It was all done in the half of a second, but I knew, just as clearly as if I could see it, that a man of no ordinary strength had gripped me by the neck with one hand, and was holding a revolver to my head with the other. End of Chapter 33. Chapter 34 The Barkin. It may be that when one is placed in such a predicament is that in which I then found myself, one's wits are suddenly sharpened, and a new sense is given to one. Whether that is so or not, I was as certain as if I actually saw him that my assailant was the butler Hollins, and I should have been infinitely surprised if any other voice than his had spoken, as he did speak, when the last grumble of the thunder died out in a sulky, reluctant murmur. In at that door, and straight up the stairs many laws, he commanded, and quick, if you don't want your brain scattering, lively now. He trailed the muzzle of the revolver round from my temple to the back of my head as he spoke, pressing it into my hair and its course in a fashion that was anything but reassuring. I have often thought since of how I expect the thing to go off at any second, and how I was, or its fact, more curious than frightened about it. But the sense of self-preservation was on me, self-assertive enough, and I obliged him, stumbling in at the door, under the pressure of his strong arm, and of the revolver. And beginning to boggle at the first steps, old and much worn ones, which were deeply hollowed in the middle. He shoved me forward.  He kept one hand on the scruff of my neck, too tightly for comfort, and with the other pressed the revolver into the cavity just above it. And in this fashion we went up. And even in that predicament, I must have had my wits about me, for I counted two and twenty steps. Then came the door, a heavy iron-studded piece of strong oak, and it was slightly open, and as I pushed it wider in the darkness, a musty, close smell came from whatever was within. No steps, he said, straight on. Now then, halt, and keep halting, if you move one finger-money laws out by your brains. No great loss to the community, my lad, but I have some use for them yet. He took his hand away from my neck, but the revolver was still pressed into my hair, and the pressure never relaxed. Then suddenly I heard a snap behind me, and the place in which we stood was lighted up, feebly, but enough to show me a cell-like sort of room, stone-walled, of course, and destitute of everything in the furnishing way, but a bit of cranky old table, and a couple of three-legged stools on either side of it. With the released hand he had snapped the catch of an electric pocket-lamp, and in its blue glare he drew the revolver away from my head, and stepping aside, but always covering me with his weapon, motioned me to the further stool. I obeyed him mechanically, and he pulled the table a little towards him, sat down on the other stool, and, resting his elbow on the table-edge, poked the revolver within a few inches of my nose. Now, we'll talk for a few minutes, money laws, he said quietly. Storm or no storm, I'm bound to be away on my business, and I'd have been off now if it hadn't been for your cursed peeping and prying. But I don't want to kill you, unless I'm obliged to, so you'll just serve your own interests best if you'll answer a question or two and tell no lies. Are there more of you outside or about? Not to my knowledge, said I. You came alone, he asked. Absolutely alone, I replied. And why, he demanded. To see if I could get any news of Miss Dunlop, I answered. Why should you think to find Miss Dunlop here? And this'll ruin, he argued. And I could see he was genuinely curious. Come now, straight-talk money laws, and it'll be all the better for you. She's missing since last night, I replied. It came to me that she likely took a shortcut across these grounds, and that in doing so she fell in with Sir Gilbert, or with you, and was kept lest she should let out what she'd seen. That's the plain truth, Mr. Hollins. He was keeping his eyes on me just as steadily as he kept the revolver, and I saw from the look in them that he believed me. I, he said, I can see you can draw conclusions if it comes to it. But did you keep that idea of yours strictly to yourself now? Absolutely, I repeated. You didn't mention it to a soul? He asked, searchingly. Not to a soul, said I. There isn't a man, woman, or child knows I'm here. I thought he might have dropped the muzzle of the revolver at that, but he still kept it in a line with my nose, and made no sign of relaxing his vigilance. But, as he was silent for the moment, I let out a question at him. It'll do you no harm to tell me the truth, Mr. Hollins, I said. Do you know anything about Miss Dunlop? Is she safe? You've maybe had a young way to yourself one time or another. He'll understand what I'm feeling about it. He nodded solemnly at that, and in quite a friendly way. I, he answered, I understand your feelings well enough, money-laws. And I'm a man of sentiment, so I'll tell you at once that the last is safe enough. And there's not as much harm come to her as you could put on a six-pence. So there. But I'm not sure yet that you're safe yourself, went on. Still I, at least, consideringly. I'm a soft-hearted man, money-laws. Or else you wouldn't have your brains in their place at this present minute. There's a mighty lot of chance of my harming you, anyway, said I, with a laugh that surprised myself. Not so much as a bend-knife on me, and you with that thing at my head. I, but you've got a tongue in that head, he said, and you might be using it. But come now, I'm loath to harm you, and you'd best tell me a bit more. What's the police doing? What police do you mean? I inquired. Here, there, everywhere, anywhere, he exclaimed. No quibbles now. You'll have had plenty of information. They're acting on yours, I retorted. Searching about Glasgow for Sir Gilbert and Lady Carstairs. You put us on to that, Mr. Hollins. I had to, he answered. I put Lindsay on to it, to be sure. And he took it all in, like it was gospel. And so did all of you. It gained time, do you see, money-laws? It had to be done. Then they aren't in Glasgow. I asked. He shook his big head suddenly at that, and something like a smile came about the corners of his lips. They're not in Glasgow, nor near it, he answered readily. But where are all the police in England, and in Scotland, too, for that matter? I'll find it hard to get speech with them. Out of hand, money-laws, out of hand, do you see, for the police? He gave a sort of chuckle when he said this, and it emboldened me to come to grips with him, as far as words went. Then what harm can I do you, Mr. Hollins? I said, you're not in any danger that I know of. He looked at me as if wondering whether I wasn't trying a joke on him, and after staring a while, he shook his head. I'm leaving this part, finally, he answered. That's Sir Gilbert's brand new car that's already for me down the stairs, and as I say, whether it's storm or no storm, I must be away. And there's just two things I can do, money-laws. I can lay you out on the floor here with your brains running over your face, or I can trust to your honour. We looked at each other for a full minute in silence, our eyes meeting in the queer bluish light of the electric pocket lamp, which he had set on the table before us. Between us, too, was that revolver, always pointing at me out of its one black eye. If it's all the same to you, Mr. Hollins, I said at length, I'd prefer you to trust to my honour. Whatever quality my brains may have, I'd rather they were used than misused in the way you're suggesting, if it's just this that you want me to hold my tongue. I'll make a bargain with you, he broke in on me. You'd be fine and glad to see your sweetheart, money-laws, and assure yourself she's come to no harm and is safe and well. I, I would that, I exclaimed. Give me the chance, Mr. Hollins. Then give me your word that whatever happens, whatever comes, you'll not mention to the police that you've seen me tonight, and that whenever you're questioned, you'll know nothing about me, he said eagerly. Twelve hours start, I, six, in safety to me, money-laws, will you keep silence? Where's Miss Dunlop, asked I. You can be with her in three minutes, he answered.  Will you do that? She's close by, I demanded. Over our heads, he said calmly. And you've only to say the word. It's said, Mr. Hollins, I exclaimed. Go your ways, I'll never breathe a syllable of it to a soul, neither in six nor twelve nor a thousand hours. Your secret's safe enough with me, so long as you keep your word about her, and just now. He drew his free hand off the table, still watching me, and still keeping up the revolver, and from a drawer in the table, between us, pulled out a key, and pushed it over. There's a door behind you in yon corner, he said, and you'll find a lantern at its foot. You've matches on you, no doubt. And beyond the door there's another stair that leads up to the turret, and you'll find her there, and safe, and so go your ways now, moneyloss, and I'll go mine. He dropped the revolver into a side pocket of his waterproof coat, as he spoke, and pointing me to the door in the corner, turned to that by which he had entered. And as he turned he snapped off the light of his electric lamp, while I myself, having fumbled for a box of matches, struck one, and looked around me for this lantern he had mentioned. In its sputtering light I saw his big figure round the corner. Then, just as I made for the lantern, the match went out, and all was darkness again. As I felt for another match I heard him pounding the stairs, and suddenly there was a sort of scuffle, and he cried out loudly once. And there was a sound of a fall, and then of lighter steps hurrying away, and then a heavy, rattling groan. And with my heart in my mouth and fingers trembling so that I could scarcely hold the match, I made shift to light the candle in the lantern, and went fiercely after him. There, in an angle of the stairway, he was lying, with the blood running in dark streams from a gap in his throat, while his hands, which he had instinctively put up to it, were feebly dropping away, and relaxing on his broad chest. And as I put the lantern closer to him, he looked up at me in a queer, puzzled fashion, and died for my very eyes. End of Chapter 34 of Dead Men's Money Chapter 35 of Dead Men's Money This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Alok Karulkar, India Dead Men's Money by J. S. Fletcher Chapter 35 The Swag I shrank back against the multi-wall of that old stairway, shivering as if I had been suddenly stricken with the age of it. I had trembled in every limb before ever I heard the sound of the sudden scuffle, and from a variety of reasons, the relief of having hollowness devolver withdrawn from my nose, the knowledge that Macy was close by, the gradual wearing down of my nerves during a whole day of hard sickening suspense, but now the trembling had deepened into utter shaking. I heard my own teeth chattering and my heart going like a pump, as I stood there, staring at the man's face over which a gray pallor was quickly spreading itself, and though I knew that he was as dead as ever a man can be, I called to him, and the sound of my own voice frightened me. Mr. Hollins, I cried, Mr. Hollins! And then I was frightened still more, for as if in answer to my summons, but of course because of some muscular contraction following on death, the dead lips slightly parted, and they looked as if they were grinning at me. At that I lost what nerve I had left and let out a cry, and turned to run back into the room where we had talked. But as I turned, there were sounds at the foot of the stair and a flash of a bullseye lamp, and I heard Chisholm's voice down in the gateway below. Hello up there, he was demanding. Is there anybody above? It seemed as if I was bursting my chest when I got an answer out to him.  I heard him exclaim in a dismayed and surprised fashion, and muttered some words to somebody that was evidently with him, and then there was heavy tramping below, and presently Chisholm's face appeared around the corner, and as he held his bullseye before him, its light fell full on Hollins, and he jumped back a step or two. Mercy on us, Hillertown. What's all this? The man's lying dead. Dead enough, Chisholm, said I, gradually getting the better of my fright, and murdered too. But who murdered him? God knows. I don't. He trapped me in here not ten minutes ago, and had me at the end of a revolver, and we came to terms. And he left me, and he was no sooner down the stairs here than I heard a bit of a scuffle, and him fall and groan, and I ran out to find that. And somebody was off and away. Have you seen nobody outside there? You can't see an inch before your eyes. The night's that black, he answered, bending over the dead man. We've only just come round from the house. But whatever were you doing here yourself? I came to see if I could find any trace of Miss Dunlop in this old part, I answered. And he told me, just before this happened, she's in the tower above and safe. And I'll go up there now, Chisholm, for if she heard out of all this, there was another policeman with him. And they stepped past the body and followed me into the little room and looked around curiously. I left them whispering and opened the door that Holland said pointed out. There was a stair there, as he had said, set deep in the thick wall, and I went a long way up it before I came to another door, in which there was a key set in the lock. And in a moment I had it turned and there was Macy, and I had her in my arms and was flooding her with questions and holding the light to her face to see if she was safe all at once. You've come to know harm. You're all right. You've not been frightened out of your senses. How did it all come about? I wrapped out at her. Oh, Macy, I have been seeking for you all day long, and then, being utterly overwrought, I was giving out. And suddenly felt a strange queer goodness coming over me. And if it had not been for her, I should have fallen and maybe fainted. And she saw it and got me to a couch from which she had started when I turned the key and was holding a glass of water to my lips that she snatched up from a table and encouraging me, who should have been consoling her all within the minute of my sitting eyes of her and me so weak as it seemed that I could only cling on to her hand, making sure that I had her. There, there, it's all right to you, she murmured, patting my harm, as if I had been some child that had started awake from a bad dream. There's no harm come to me at all, barring the heavy, very weighting in this black hole of a place. I've had food and drink and light, as you see. They promised me I should have no harm when they locked me in. But oh, it seemed like it was ages since then. They? Who? I demanded. Who locked you in? Sir Gilbert and that butler of his, Holland's, she answered. I took the shortcut through the grounds here last night and I ran upon the two of them at the corner of the ruins and they stopped me and wouldn't let me go and locked me up here, promising I'd be let out later on. Sir Gilbert, I exclaimed. Are you sure it was Sir Gilbert? Of course I am sure, she replied. Who else? And I made out. They were afraid of my letting out that I'd seen them. It was Sir Gilbert himself said they could run no risks. You've seen him since, I asked. He's been here? No, not since last night. She answered, and Holland's not since this morning when he brought me some food. I have not wanted for that. She went on with a laugh pointing to things that had been said on the table. And he said, then, that about midnight tonight, I'd hear the key turn, and after that I was free to go. But I'd have to make my way home on foot, for he wasn't wanting me in barrack again too soon. I, I said, shaking my head, I'm beginning to see through some of it. But Macy, you will be a good girl, and just do what I tell you. And that's to stay where you are until I fit you down. For there is more dreadfulness below, where Sir Gilbert may be heaven knows, but Holland's is lying murdered on the stair, and if I didn't see him murdered, I saw him take his last breath. She too shook a bit at that, and she gripped me tighter. You're not by yourself, you, she asked anxiously.  But just then, Chisholm called up the stair of the turret, asking, was Mr. Anlup safe, and I bade Macy to speak to him. That's good news, said he. But will you tell Mr. Hugh to come down to us, and you'd best stop where you are yourself, Mr. Anlup? There is no very pleasant sight down this way. Have you no idea at all who did this? He asked as I went down to him. You were with him. Man alive, I have no more idea than you have, I exclaimed. He was making of somewhere in Yonkar that's below. He threatened me with the loss of my life if I didn't agree to let him get away in peace, and he was going down the stairs to the car when it happened. But I'll tell you this, Ms. Anlup says Sir Gilbert was here last night, and it was he and Holland's imprisoned her above here there. Frightened, she'd let out on them if she caught away. Then the Glasgow tale was all lies, he exclaimed. It came from this man too, that's lying dead. It's been a put up thing. Do you think Mr. Hugh? It's all part of a put up thing Chisholm, said I. Hadn't we better get the man in here and see what's on him, and what made you come here yourselves? And aren't there any more of you about? We came asking for information at the house, he answered. And we were passing around here under the wall, on our way to the road, when we heard that car throbbing, and then saw your bit of a light. And that's a good idea of yours, and we'll bring him into this place and see if there's ought to give us a clue. Slip down, he went on, turning to the other man, and bring the headlights off the car, so that we can see what we're doing. Do you think this is some of Sir Gilbert's work, Mr. Hugh? He whispered when we were alone. If he was about here, and this hollers in some sort of a secret, oh don't ask me, I exclaimed. It seems like there was nothing but murder on every ant of us. And whoever did this can't be far away, only the night's that black, and there's so many holes and corners hereabouts that it would be like searching a rabbit warrant. You'll have to get help from the town. I, to be sure, agreed. But we'll take a view of things ourselves first. There may be effects on him that'll suggest something. We carried the body into the room, when the policeman came up with the lamps from the car, and stretched it out on the table, at which Hollens and I had not been so long before, though at that time indeed now seem to belong to some other life. And Chisholm made a hasty examination of what was there in the man's pocket, and there was little that had any significance, except that in a purse which he carried in an inner pocket of his waistcoat, there was a considerable sum of money in notes and gold. The other policeman, who held one of the lamps over the table, while Chisholm was making his search, waited silently until it was over, and then he nodded his head at the stair. There's some boxes or cases down in your car, he remarked, all fastened up and labelled. It might be worthwhile to take a look into them, Sergeant. What's more, there's tools lying in the car that looks like they had been used to fasten them up. We'll have them up here then, said Chisholm. Stop you here, Mr. Hugh, while we fetch them, and don't let your young lady come down, while that's lying there. You might cover him up, but I'll tell you what, covering him up, he went on with a significant nod. It's an ill sight for even a man's eyes that. There were some old mothet and hangings about the wall here and there, and I took one down and laid it over Holland's, wondering, while I did this office for him, what secret it was that he had carried away into death, and why that queer and puzzled expression had crossed his face in death's very moment. And that done, I ran up to Macy again, bidding her to be patient a while, and we talked quietly a bit, until Chisholm called me down to look at the boxes. There were four of them, stout, new-made wooden cases, clamped with iron at the corners, and securely screwed down, and when the policeman invited me to feel the weight, I was put in mind, in a lesser degree, of Gilbert Waite's oak chest. What do you think, like to be in there now, Mr. Hugh? Ask Chisholm. Do you know what I think? There's various metals in the world. Aye, and isn't gold one of the heaviest? It'll not be lead, that's in here, and look you at that. He pointed to some neatly-addressed labels, tacked strongly to each lid, the writing done in firm, bold print-like characters. John Harrison, passenger, by SS AeroLite, Newcastle, to Hamburg. I was looking from one label to the other, and finding them all alike, when we heard voices at the foot of the stair, and from out of them came Superintendent Murray's demanding loudly who was above. Chapter 36 of Dead Men's Money This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dead Men's Money by J. S. Fletcher Chapter 36 Gold There was quite a company of men came up the stair with Murray, crowding all of them into the room, with eyes full of astonishment at what they saw. Mr. Lindsay, and Mr. Gavin Smeaton, and a policeman or two, and what was of more interest to me, a couple of strangers, but looking at these more closely, I saw that I had seen, one of them before, an elderly man whom I recognized as having been present in court when Carter was brought up before the magistrates, a quiet, noticing sort of man whom I remembered as appearing to take great and intelligent interest in the proceedings. And he and the other man, now with him, seemed to take just as keen an interest in what Chisholm and I had to tell. But while Murray was full of questions to both of us, they asked none. Only, during that questioning, the man whom I had never seen before, quietly lifted the hanging, which I spread over Holland's dead body, and took a searching look at his face. Mr. Lindsay drew me aside and pointed at the elderly man whom I remembered seeing in the police court. You see that, gentlemen, he whispered, that's a Mr. Elphinstone that was formerly steward to old Sir Alexander Carstairs. He's retired a good many years now, and lives on the other side of Alnwick, in a place of his own. But this affair's fetched him into the light again, to some purpose. I saw him in the court when Carter was brought before the bench, Mr. Lindsay. I remarked, I, and I wish he told me that day what he could have told. Explained Mr. Lindsay under his breath, but he's a cautious, a very cautious man, and he preferred to work quietly, and it wasn't until very late to-night that he came to Murray, and sent for me, an hour it was, after you'd gone home. The other man with him is a London detective. Man, there's nice revelations come out, and pretty much on the lines I was suspecting. We'd have been up here an hour ago, if it hadn't been for Jan Storm. And—but now that the storm's over, Hugh, we must get Maisie Dunlop out of this, come up now, and show me where she is, and the rest after. We left the others, still grouped around the dead man, and the boxes which had been brought up from the car, and I took Mr. Lindsay up the stairs to the room in the turret, which had served Maisie for a prison, all that weary time. And after a word or two with her about her sore adventures, Mr. Lindsay, told her she must be away, and he would get Murray to send one of the policemen with her, to see her safe home. I myself, being still wanted, down below. But at that Maisie began to show signs of distinct dislike and disapproval. I will not go a yard, Mr. Lindsay, she declared, unless you'll give me your word that you'll not let Hugh out of your sight again till all this is settled and done with. Twice within the last few days the lad's been within an inch of his life, and they say the third time pays for all. And how do I know there mightn't be a third time in his case, and I'd rather stay by him, and we'll take our chances together. Now, now, broke in Mr. Lindsay, patting her arm, there's a good half-dozen of us with him now, and we'll take good care, no harm comes to him or any of us. So be a good lass, and get you home to Andrew, and tell him all about it, for the worthy man's gotta be in his bonnet, that we've been in some way responsible for your absence, my girl. You're sure you never set eyes on Sir Gilbert again, after he and Holland stopped you? He asked suddenly, as he went down the stair. Nor heard his voice down here or anywhere. I never saw him again, nor heard him, answered Maisie, until Hugh came just now. I'd never seen Holland's himself, since this morning, and—oh! She had caught sight of the still figure, stretched out in the lower room, and she shrank to me as we hurried her past it, and down to the gateway below. Thither Murray followed us, and after a bit more questioning he put her in a car in which he and some of the others had come up, and sent one of his men off with her. But before this, Maisie pulled me away into the darkness, and gripped me tight by the arm. You'll promise me, Hugh, before I ever go, that you'll not run yourself into any more dangers, she asked earnestly. We've just been through enough of that, and I'm just more satisfied with it, and it's like as if there was something lurking about. She began to shiver as she looked into the black night about us, and it was indeed, although in summer time, as black a night as ever I saw, and her hand got a tighter grip on mine. How do you know, young bad man, isn't still about? She whispered.  He'll want again. It's a small chance you'll get then now, I said. There's no fear of that, Maisie, amongst all young lot of men above.  It's my opinion that this is at an end. Not while young man's alive, she answered, and I'd a far rather stayed with you, till its daylight anyway. However, she let me put her into the car, and when I had charged the policeman who went with her not to take his eyes off her, until she was safe in Andrew Dunlop's house, they went off, and Mr. Lindsay and I turned up the stair again. Murray had preceded us, and under his superintendence Chisholm was beginning to open the screwed up boxes. The rest of us stood round, while this job was going on, waiting in silence. It was no easier quick job, for the screws had been fastened in, after a thoroughly workman-like fashion. And when he got the first lid off we saw that the boxes themselves had been evidently specially made for this purpose. They were of some very strong, well-seasoned wood, and they were lined, first with zinc, and then with thick felt. And as we were soon aware, they were filled to the brim with gold. There it lay, roll upon roll, all carefully packed, gold. It shone red and fiery in the light of our lamps, and it seemed to me that in every gleam of it I saw, devil's eyes, full of malice and mockery and merger. But there was one box, lighter than the rest, in which, instead of gold, we found the valuable things of which Hollins had told Mr. Lindsay and Mr. Portal Thorpe and myself, when he came to us on his lying mission, only the previous night. There they were, the presents that had been given to various of the car-sters, baronettes by royal donors, carefully packed and bestowed. And at the sight of them Mr. Lindsay looked significantly at me, and then at Murray. He was a wily and clever man this fellow that's lying behind us. He muttered. He pulled our hair over our eyes, to some purpose with his tail of lady car-sters and her bicycle. But I'm forgetting, he broke off, and drew me aside. There's another thing come out, since you left me and meetin' to-night," he whispered. The police have found out something for themselves. I'll give them that credit.  All done to throw us off the scent. You remember the tail of the registered letter from Edinburgh? The police found out last evening from the post-folks that there never was any registered letter.  The police have found out she never went off on any bicycle. She wasn't there to go off. She was away early that morning. She took a train south from Beale Station before breakfast, at least a veiled woman answering her description did. And she's safe hidden in London or elsewhere by now, my lad. But him, the man, Sir Gilbert, or whoever he is, I whispered, what of him, Mr. Lindsay? I just so, he said, I'm gradually piecing it together as we go on. It would seem to me that he had made his way to Edinburgh after getting rid of you, as he thought and hoped, probably got there the very next morning, through the help of young Fisherman at Largo, Robertson, who of course told us and the police a pack of lies. And when he'd got the last of these securities from Paley, he worked back here secretly and with the help of Hollins, and has no doubt kept quiet in this old tower until they could get away with that gold. Of course, Hollins has been in at all this, but now who's killed Hollins, and where's the chief party, the other man? What? I exclaimed. You don't think he killed Hollins, then? I should be a fool if I did, my lad, he answered. Be-think yourself.  No. I can see their plan. And it was a good one. Hollins would have run those cases down to Newcastle in a couple of hours. There, he'd have no suspicion about them, and no questions, which he couldn't answer. He'd have gone across to Hamburg with them himself. As for the man we know, as Sir Gilbert, you'll be hearing something presently from Mr. Elphinstone Yonder. But my impression is, as Maisie never saw or heard of him during the night and day, that he's got away after his wife last night, and with those securities on him. Then who killed Hollins? I said, in sheer amazement. Are there others in all this? You may well ask that, lad. He responded, shaking his head. Indeed, though, we're nearing it. I think we're not quite at the end of the lane. And there'll be a queer turning or two in it yet, before we get out. But here's Murray come to an end of the present business. Murray had finished his inspection of the cases, and was helping Chisholm to replace the lids. He, Chisholm, and the detective were exchanging whispered remarks over this job. Mr. Elphinstone and Mr. Gath and Smeaton were talking together in low voices near the door. Presently Murray turned to us. We can do no more here now, Mr. Lindsay, he said, and I'm going to lock this place up until daylight, and leave a man in the gateway below on guard. But as to the next step, you haven't the least idea in your head, money-laws. About Hollins assailant? He went on, turning to me. You heard and saw nothing? I've told you what I've heard, Mr. Murray, I answered. As to seeing anything, how could I? The thing happened on the stair there, and I was in this corner, unlocking the inner door. It's just as big a mystery as all the rest of it, he muttered, and it's just convincing me there's more behind all this than we think for. And one thing's certain, we can't search these grounds, heard the neighborhood, until the light comes. But we can go round to the house. He marched us all out after that, and himself locked up the room, leaving the dead man with the chests of gold, and having stationed a constable in the gateway of the old tower, he led us off in a body to the inhabited part of the house. There were lights there, in plenty, and a couple of policemen at the door, and behind them a whole troop of servants in the hall, half-dressed and open-mouthed with fright and curiosity. CHAPTER 37 The Dark Pool As I went into that house with the rest of them I had two sudden impressions. One was that here at my side in the person of Mr. Gavin Smeaton was, in all probability, its real owner, the real holder of the ancient title, who was coming to his lawful rights in this strange fashion. The other was of the contrast between my own coming at that moment and the visit which I had paid there only a few evenings previously, when Hollins had regarded me with some disfavor and the usurper had been so friendly. Now Hollins was lying dead in the old ruin, and the other man was a fugitive. And where was he? Murray had brought us there to do something towards settling that point, and he began his work at once by assembling every jack and drill in the house, and with the help of the London detective, subjecting them to a searching examination as to the recent doings of their master and mistress in the butler. But Mr. Lindsay motioned Mr. Elphinstone and Mr. Gavin Smeaton in myself into a side room, and shut the door on us. We can leave the police to do their own work, he remarked, motioning us to be seated at a convenient table. My impression is that they'll find little out from the servants. And while that's afoot, I'd like to have that promised story of yours, Mr. Elphinstone. I only got an idea of it, you know, when you and Murray came to my house. And these two would like to hear it. One of them at any rate is more interested in this affair than you'd think, or than he knew of himself until recently. Now that we were in a properly lighted room, I took a more careful look at the former steward of Havoclou. He was a well-preserved, true-looking man of between sixty and seventy, quiet and observant, the sort of man that you could see would think a lot without saying much. He smiled a little as he put his hands together on the table, and glanced at our expectant faces. It was just the smile of a man who knows what he is talking about. "'Hi, well, Mr. Lindsay,' he responded, "'maybe there's not so much mystery in this affair as there seems to be once you've got an idea. I'll tell you how I got it mine and what's come of it. Of course, you'll not know, for I think you didn't come to Berwick yourself until after I'd left the neighbourhood, but I was connected with the Havoclou's state from the time I was a lad until fifteen years ago, when I gave up the steward's job and went to live on a bit of property of my own, near Alnwick. Of course, I knew the two sons, Michael and Gilbert, and I remember well enough when, owing to perpetual quarrelling with their father, he gave them both a good lot of money, and they went there several ways. And after that neither ever came back that I heard of, nor did I ever come across either except on one occasion, to which I'll refer in due course. "'In time,' as I've just said, I retired. "'In time, too,' Sir Alexander died, and I heard that Mr. Michael being dead in the West Indies, Sir Gilbert had come into the title in the States. I did think, once or twice, of coming over to see him, but the older a man gets, the fonder he is of his own fireside, and I didn't come here, nor did I ever hear much of him. He certainly made no attempt to see me. And so we come to the beginning of what we'll call the present crisis. That beginning came with the man who turned up in Berwick this spring. "'You mean Gilverthwaite?' asked Mr. Lindsay. "'Aye, but I didn't know him by that name,' assented Mr. Elphinstone with a sly smile. I didn't know him by any name. What I know is this. It must have been about a week, certainly not more, before Gilverthwaite's death, that he, I'm sure of his identity because of his description, called on me at my house, and with a good deal of hinting and such like, told me that he was a private inquiry agent, and could I tell him something about the late Michael Carstairs, and that it turned out was. Did I know if Michael was married before he left England, and if so where, and to whom? Of course I knew nothing about it, and as the man wouldn't give me the least information, I packed him off pretty sharply. And the next thing I heard was of the murderer of John Phillips. I didn't connect that with the visit of the mysterious man at first, but of course I read the account of the inquest in Mr. Ridley's evidence, and then I began to see there was some strange business going on, though I couldn't even guess at what it could be. And I did nothing, and said nothing. There seemed nothing then that I could do or say, though I meant to come forward later, until I saw the affair of Crone in the newspapers, and I knew then that there was more in the matter than was on the surface. So when I learned that a man named Carter had been arrested on the charge of murdering Crone, I came to Berwick and went to the court to hear what was said when Carter was put before the magistrates. I got a quiet seat in the court, and maybe you didn't see me. I did, I exclaimed. I remember you perfectly, Mr. Elphinstone. I, he said, with an amused smile. You're the lad that's had his finger in the pie pretty deep. You're well out of it, my man. Well, there I was, and a man sitting by me that knew everybody, and before ever the case was called, this man pointed out Sir Gilbert Carstairs coming in, and being given a seat on the bench. And I knew that there was a fine to do, and perhaps nobody but myself knowing of it, for the man pointed out to me was no Sir Gilbert Carstairs, nor any Carstairs at all, not he. But I knew him. You knew him? exclaimed Mr. Lindsay. Man, that's the first direct bit of real illumination we've had. And who is he, then, Mr. Elphinstone? Take your time, answered Mr. Elphinstone. We'll have to go back a bit. You'll put the police court out of your mind a while. It's about—I forget rightly how long since—but it was just after I gave up the stewardship that I had occasion to go up to London on business of my own. And there, one morning, as I was sauntering down the lower end of Regent Street, I met Gilbert Carstairs, whom I'd never seen since he left home. He'd his arm in mine in a minute, and he would have me go with him to his rooms in German Street, close by. There was no denying him. I went and found his rooms full of trunks and cases and the like. He and a friend of his, he said, were just off on a sort of hunting-exploration trip to some part of Central America.  And he was telling me all about it in his eager, excitable way, when the other man came in and I was introduced to him. And, gentlemen, that's the man I saw, under the name of Sir Gilbert Carstairs, on the bench at Berwick, only the other day. He's changed, of course, more than I should have thought he would have done in fifteen years, for that's about the time I saw him and Gilbert together there in German Street. But I knew him as soon as I clapped eyes on him, and whatever doubt I had, went as soon as I saw him lift his right hand to his mustache, for there are two fingers missing on that hand, the middle ones, and I remembered that fact about the man Gilbert Carstairs had introduced to me. I knew, I tell you, as I sat in that court, that the fellow there on the bench, listening, was an imposter. We were all bending forward across the table, listening eagerly, and there was a question in all our thoughts, which Mr. Lindsay put into words. The man's name? It was given to me in German Street that morning, as Meekin, Dr. Meekin, answered Mr. Elphinstone. Gilbert Carstairs, as you're aware, was a medical man himself—he'd qualified anyway—and this was a friend of his. But that was all I gathered, then. They were both up to the eyes in their preparations, for they were off for Southampton that night, and I left them to it, and of course never heard of them again. But now to come back to the police court the other day. I tell you I was, purposely, in a quiet corner, and there I kept till the case was over. But just when everybody was getting away, the man on the bench caught sight of me. Ah! exclaimed Mr. Lindsay, looking across at me. Ha! That's another reason. That supplements the Isaac's one. Ah! He caught sight of you, Mr. Elphinstone. And, continued Mr. Elphinstone, I saw a queer, puzzled look come into his face. He looked again, looked hard. I took no notice of his look, though I continued to watch him, and presently he turned away and went out. But I knew he had recognized me as a man he had seen somewhere. Now, remember, when Gilbert Carstairs introduced me to this man, Gilbert did not mention any connection of mine with Havoclue. He merely spoke of me as an old friend, so Meakin, when he came into these parts, would have no idea of finding me here. But I saw he was afraid, badly afraid, because of his recognition and doubt about me. And the next question was, what was I to do? I'm not the man to do things in haste, and I could see those was a black, deep business, with maybe two murders in it. I went off and got my lunch and thought. At the end of it, rather than go to the police, I went to your office, Mr. Lindsay, and your office was locked up, and you were all away for the day. And then an idea struck me. I have a relative, the man outside with Murray, who's a high-placed officer in the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard. I would go to him. So, I went straight off to London by the very next South Express. Why? To see if he could trace anything about this Meakin. I nodded Mr. Lindsay admiringly. You were in the right of it there. That was a good notion. And you did? Not since the German Street affair, answered Mr. Elphinstone. We traced him in the medical register all right up to that point. His name is Francis Meakin. He's various medical letters to it. He was in one of the London hospitals with Gilbert Castors. He shared those rooms in German Street with Gilbert Castors. We found, easily, a man who'd been their valet, and who remembered their setting off from the hunting expedition. They never came back, to German Street, anyway. Nothing was ever heard or seen of them in their old haunts about that quarter from that time. And when we'd found all that out, we came straight down last evening to the police. And that's all, Mr. Lindsay. And, of course, the thing is plain to me. Gilbert probably died while in this man's company. This man possessed himself of his letters and papers and so on, and in time, hearing how things were, and when the chance came, he presented himself to the family solicitors as Gilbert Castors. Could anything be plainer? Nothing, exclaimed Mr. Lindsay. It's a sure case, and simple when you see it in the light of your knowledge, a case of common personation. But I'm wondering what the connection between the Gilverthwaite and Philip's affair, and this Meakin has been, if we could get at it. Shall I give you my theory? suggested Mr. Elphinstone. Of course, I've read all there's been in the newspapers, and Murray told me a lot last night before we came to you, and you mentioned Mr. Ridley's discovery. Well, then, I've no doubt whatever that this young gentleman is Michael Castors' son, and therefore the real owner of the title and estates. And I'll tell you how I explain the whole thing. Michael Castors, as I remember him, and I saw plenty of him as a lad and a young man, was what you'd call violently radical in his ideas. He was a queer eccentric doer chap in some ways, kindly enough in others. He'd a most extraordinary objection to titles, for one thing. Another, he thought that given a chance every man ought to make himself. Now my opinion is that when he secretly married a girl who was much below him in station, he went off to America, intending to put his principles in practice. He evidently wanted his son to own nothing to his birth, and though he certainly made ample and generous provision for him, and gave him a fine start, he wanted him to make his own life and fortune. That accounts for Mr. Gavin's meetings bringing up. But now as regards the secret.  Gilverthwaite was one, Phillips, whoever he may have been another. It's very evident, from what I have heard from you, that the three men were associates at one time. And it may be—it's probably the case—that in some moment of confidence Michael led out his secret to these two, and that when he was dead they decided to make more inquiries into it, possibly to blackmail the man who had stepped in, and whom they most likely believed to be the genuine Sir Gilbert Castors. Put it this way. Once they'd found the documentary evidence they wanted, the particulars of Michael's marriage, and so on, what had they to do, but go to Sir Gilbert, as they thought him to be, and put it to him that if he didn't square them to keep silence, they'd reveal the truth to his nephew, whom it's evident, they'd already got to know of as Mr. Gavin's meeting. But as regards the actual murder of Phillips—ah, that's a mystery that in my opinion is not like to be solved. The probability is that a meeting had been arranged with Sir Gilbert, which means of course Meakin, that night, and that Phillips was killed by him. As to Crone, it's my opinion that Crone's murder came out of Crone's own greed and foolishness. He probably caught Meakin unawares, told what he knew, and paid the penalty. There's another possible theory about the Phillips murder, remarked Mr. Gavin's Meakin. According to what you know, Mr. Elphinstone, this Meakin is a man who has travelled much abroad, so it Phillips. How do we know that when Meakin and Phillips met that night, Meakin wasn't recognized by Phillips as Meakin, and that Meakin, accordingly, had a double incentive to kill him? Good! exclaimed Mr. Lindsay, capital theory, and probably the right one. But he continued, rising and making for the door. All the theories in the world won't help us to lay hands on Meakin, and I'm going to see if Murray has made out anything from his search and his questioning. Murray had made out nothing. There was nothing whatever in the private rooms of the supposed Sir Gilbert Carstairs and his wife to suggest any clue to their whereabouts. The servants could tell nothing of their movements beyond what the police already knew. Sir Gilbert had never been seen by any of them since the morning on which he went into Berwick to hear the case against Carter. Lady Carstairs had not been seen since the departure from the house secretly two mornings later. Not one of all the many servants, men or women, could tell anything of their master or mistress, nor of any suspicious doings on the part of Hollins during the past two days, except that he had been away from the house a good deal. Whatever share the butler had taken in these recent events, he had played his part skillfully. So, as it seemed, there was nothing for it but to look further away, the impression of the police being that Meakin had escaped in one direction and his wife in another, and that it had been their plan that Hollins should fall gather with them somewhere on the Continent. And presently we all left Havoclue House to go back to Berwick. As we crossed the threshold, Mr. Lindsay turned to Mr. Gavin Smeaton with a shrewd smile. The next time you step across here, sir, it'll be as sir Gavin Carstairs, he said, and we'll hope that it'll not long be delayed. I'm afraid there's a good deal to do before you'll be seeing that, Mr. Lindsay, answered the prospective owner. We're not out of the wood yet, you know. We certainly were not out of the wood. So far as I was concerned, those last words might have been prophetic, as a little later, I was inclined to think Maisie had been before she went off in the car. The rest of them, Mr. Lindsay and his group, Murray and his, had driven up from Berwick in the first conveyances they could get at that time of night, and they now went off to where they had been waiting in a neighbouring shed. They wanted me to go with them, but I was anxious about my bicycle, a nearly new machine. I had stowed it away as securely as I could under some thick undergrowth in the edge of the woods, but the downpour of rain had been so heavy that I knew it must have soaked through the foliage, and that I should have a nice lot of rust to face at a loner-saturated saddle. So I went away across the park to where I had left it, and the others drove off to Berwick, and so both Mr. Lindsay and myself broke our solemn words to Maisie. For now I was alone, and I certainly did not anticipate more danger. But not only danger, but the very threatening of death was on me as I went my way. We had stayed some time and have a clue house, and the dawn had broken before we left. The morning came clear and bright after the storm, and the newly risen sun—it was just four o'clock and he was nicely above the horizon—was transforming the clustering raindrops on the furs and pines into glistening diamonds as I plunged into the thick of the woods. I had no other thought at that moment but of getting home and changing my clothes before going to Andrew Dunlop's to tell the news. When, as I crossed a narrow cut in the undergrowth, I saw, some distance away, a man's head slowly look out from the trees. I drew back on that instant, watching. Fortunately—or unfortunately—he was not looking in my direction and did not catch even a momentary glance of me, and when he twisted his neck in my direction, I saw that he was the man we had been talking of, and whom I now knew to be Dr. Meakin, and it flashed on me at once that he was hanging about for Hollins, all unconscious that Hollins was lying dead there in the old tower. So it was not he who had driven that murderous knife into Hollins's throat. I watched him, myself securely hidden. He came out of his shelter, crossed the cut, went through the belt of wood which I had just passed, and looked out across the park to the house. All this I saw by cautiously edging through the trees and bushes behind me. He was a good forty yards away from me at that time, but I could see the strained, anxious expression on his face. Things had gone wrong. Hollins and the car had not met him where he had expected them, and he was trying to find out what had happened. And once he made a movement as if he would skirt the coppices and make for the tower, which lay right opposite, but with an open space between it and us. And then he has suddenly drew back, and began to go away among the trees. I followed him cautiously. I had always been a bit proud of what I called my woodcraft, having played much at Red Indians as a youngster, and I took care to walk lightly as I stalked him from one break to another. He went on and on, a long way, right away from Haverclu, and in the direction of where Till meets Tweed. And at last he was out of the Haverclu grounds and close to the twill, and in the end he took to a thin belt of trees that ran down the side of the till, close by the place where Crone's body had been found, and almost opposite the very spot on the other bank, where I had come across Philip's lying dead. And suddenly I saw what he was after. There, right ahead, was an old boat, tied up to the bank. He was making for it, intending doubtless to put himself across the two rivers, to get the north bank of the Tweed, and so to make for safety in other quarters. It was there that things went wrong. I was following cautiously from tree to tree, close to the river bank, when my foot caught in a trail of ground bramble, and I went headlong into the brushwood.  And when he saw who it was, he had the revolver at the full length of his arm covering me. "'Go back,' he said, stopping and steadying himself. "'No,' said I.  "'I mean it. Go back.' "'I'm not coming a foot nearer,' I retorted, keeping where I was. "'But I'm not going back, and whenever you move forward I'm following. I'm not losing sight of you again, Mr. Meakin.' He fairly started at that, and then he began looking on all sides of me as if to find out if I was accompanied, and all of a sudden he plumped me with a question. "'Where as Hollins?' he asked. "'I'll be bound, you know.' "'Dead,' I answered him. "'Dead, Mr. Meakin, as dead as Phillips or as Abel Crone, and the police are after you, all round. And you'd better fling that thing into the till there and come with me. You'll not get away from me as easily now as you did on time in your yacht.' It was then that he fired at me, from some twelve or fifteen yards distance. And whether he meant to kill me or only to cripple me, I don't know. But the bullet went through my left knee at the lower edge of the knee-cap, and the next thing I knew I was sprawling on all fours on the earth, and the next, and it was in the succeeding second before even I felt as smart, I was staring up from that position to see the vengeance that fell on my would-be murderer in the very instant of his attempt on me. For as he fired and I fell, a woman sprang out of the bushes at his side, and a knife flashed, and then he too fell with the cry that was something between a groan and a scream, and I saw that his assailant was the Irish woman, Nance Maguire, and I knew at once who it was that had killed Hollins. But she had not killed Meakin.  But that was nothing to the horror to come. When I looked again he was still writhing and crying and fighting blindly for his life, and I cried out on her to leave him alone, for I saw that in a few minutes he would be dead. I even made an effort to crawl to them, that I might drag her away from him, but my knee gave at the moment, and I fell back half fainting, and taking no more notice of me than if I had been one of the stocks and stones close by, she suddenly gripped him, writhing as he was, by the throat, and drawing him over the bank as easily as if he had been a child in her grasp, she plunged knee-deep into the till, and held him down under the water until he was drowned. There was a most extraordinary horror came over me as I lay there, powerless to move, propped up on my elbow, watching. The purposeful deliberation with which the woman finished her work, the dead silence about us, broken only by an occasional faint lapping of the river against its bank, the knowledge that this was a deed of revenge, all these things produced a mental state in me which was as near to the awful as ever I approached it. I could only lie and watch, fascinated. But it was over at last, and she let the body go, and stood watching for a moment as it floated into a dark pool beneath the orders, and then, shaking herself like a dog, she came up the bank and looked at me in silence. That was, in revenge for Crone, I managed to get out. It was them killed Crone. She answered in a queer, dry voice. Let the police find this one where they found Crone. You're not greatly hurt yourself, and there's somebody at hand. Then she suddenly turned and vanished amongst the trees, and twisting myself round in the direction to which she had pointed, I saw a game-keeper coming along, his gun was thrown carelessly in the crook of his arm, and he was whistling, gaily and unconcernedly. I have a perpetual memento of that morning in my somewhat crippled knee, and once, two years ago, when I was on business in a certain English town, and in a quarter of it, into which few but its own denizens penetrate, I met for one moment at a slum-corner, a great, raw-boned Irish woman who noticed my bit of a limp, and turned her eyes for an instant to give me a sharp look that won us sharp an answer. And there may have been mutual understanding and sympathy in the glance we thus exchanged. Certainly, when it had passed between us, we continued on our separate ways. Silent.