"By all that's wonderful," cried Laurence to Lena after the solemn mid-day meal was at an end, "if I haven't forgotten about the clue Mr. Oliver Potter so generously gave me! Let me think—he said if I went to the cupboard in the Squire's bedroom I should find a cardboard box containing something which would prove of use in our investigation. If you will wait here for half a minute (I know you will excuse me) I will fetch the box, and we will pry into its mysterious contents."
He left the dining-room, returning, however, a few moments later with a yellow collar-box. From this he permitted Lena to remove the lid. The girl gave a cry of dismay when she caught sight of the unpleasant contents of the box. The odour that arose from the carcase of the bat which the detective had so carefully preserved was none too pleasant, while to a woman the sight of anything so closely resembling a mouse as does a bat is usually enough to cause an exclamation of horror.
Laurence was much annoyed when he perceived the clue which Potter had left behind him.
"It's his pretty revenge for his dismissal," he said. "An extremely poor practical joke, which I am surprised that a man of Potter's age should descend to. Here, let me throw it away."
And he suited the action to the word by flinging the little carcase out of the open window and into the middle of a cluster of bushes.
"Now for the barn," Laurence proceeded. "Shall we make our examination of it at once, as Meadows suggested?"
"I am quite ready, if you are," replied Lena.
"Then let us go at once, before something else arises to cause us to forget what we were about to do, as something has done so many times before during this investigation."
A few minutes later they were both in the barn, tapping the panels of the wall and the floor and searching among the hay for some sign of the secret hiding-place, in which, according to Doctor Meadows' reasoning, the Squire's enemy was lurking.
Search as they might, though, no success rewarded their praiseworthy efforts. An hour passed, yet they still persevered, though Lena was hot and tired with stooping. Laurence had made the most minute examination of the roof, yet he had to confess himself beaten.
"I cannot understand it," he said. "It didn't take me half a minute, or anything like so long, to knock the hay which the rascal threw at me out of my eyes, yet in that short space of time our man managed, aided by the darkness, of course, to effect his escape. The question is, how?"
"Come, we mustn't be beaten. The secret trap-door, or whatever it is, must be somewhere in the roof. Try again, and instead of only tapping the wood, press it hard occasionally."
Laurence did as he was told. He reached the cross-beam on which the creature with the shrill voice had been discovered, and from there, by means of the ladder, reached the beam at the top of the building (which formed, with the point made by the meeting of the ascending sides of the thatched roof, a large letter A).
Here, as will be easily understood, the young man had to sit (on the cross-bar of the A) with head bent down owing to the proximity of the actual roof.
Once, however, while talking to Lena, who was standing immediately below him, he raised his head, forgetting that he was unable to do so without striking it against the top. Then a strange thing happened.
The force of his pressure on the side of the roof caused it to roll back suddenly like a trap-door. It fell back, until a roomy space was revealed immediately above Laurence's head. And yet, looking through, young Carrington was astounded beyond measure to find that he couldn't (as might have been expected) gaze straight up at the blue sky, but what he saw several feet above him was a second thatched roof shaped exactly like that under which he had been sitting!
Then, in an instant, he knew the secret of the Manse barn. The roof was a double one, its mechanism being exactly similar to that of the double-bottomed boxes that for so long were the means of cheating our Custom-House officials of the duties payable upon articles which were by this means smuggled into the country free of tax.
Laurence informed Lena in low tones of his discovery, and, promising to return in a minute or two, raised himself by his arms to a ledge which presented itself immediately above him. No sooner had he done so than the sham roof closed down noiselessly, and young Carrington found himself in a long, low room or attic, unfurnished, and with apparently the dust of ages upon its panelled walls, its thatched roof (the real roof of the barn), and its uneven flooring.
In the excitement of the moment Laurence paid no attention to the closing of the trap-door.
Thanks to a ray of light that stole through a rent in the straw thatch, he was able to look around him.
The room he was in was the exact size of the barn itself, only, owing to the low ceiling, its size seemed greater than it actually was.
Taking his match-box from his pocket, the young man struck a light, held it above his head, being careful not to ignite the dry straw of the roof, and gazed around.
He was able to assure himself that no one was hiding in the attic—in fact, there was no room for anything larger than a rat to hide. This, at any rate, was satisfactory. The feeble light also satisfied the investigator on another point.
Though the mysterious creature whom he had encountered by night below where he now stood was not at that moment concealed in this carefully hidden lair, there were unmistakable signs of him in a number of foot-shaped patches in the dust accumulated on the floor. Laurence noted with a feeling of delight that these patches were, in size and shape, identical with those he had discovered to be the footprints of the "cyclist highwayman."
Very quickly, after he had extinguished the match, did Laurence's eyes become accustomed to the semi-darkness, and he was able to prosecute his search without the assistance of any light.
Another startling discovery was in wait for him. In a far corner of the attic there was a trap-door in the floor, in the manufacture of which no attempt had been made to conceal it from view, as in the case of the false roof. An iron ring was conveniently placed at one side of this, and, in a state of excited expectancy, Laurence without difficulty raised the trap-door, which revealed (as does the inevitable trap-door in children's fairy tales) a narrow staircase, dark and dismal.
Without hesitation, and carefully groping his way, he started down the staircase, which was so narrow and small that in places he was compelled to move down sideways and stooping almost double. In such a place, he thought to himself, height is a distinct disadvantage; yet, in spite of all, and though he considered it extremely possible that he might at any moment run against his father's lurking enemy, he pushed on downstairs until the bottom was reached.
He dared not strike a match, for fear that, if anyone was hiding near, he might lie in wait for the new-comer, and, knowing the place better than Laurence, overcome him without difficulty.
Where was he, and what did all these secret places mean? Only one solution was possible. The barn, in addition to having a false roof, had also a sham side to it, and there was sufficient space between the outer side and the panelled inner one for the staircase down which he had come, and which led to—where?
Once on level ground—which, he was surprised to find, was paved with stone—Laurence was able once again to stand upright and stretch out his hands, without touching anything in the pitch darkness.
He found the wall at length, and moved along it. Presently it came to an end, but, like the corner of a room, met another wall running at right angles to it. Some distance farther there was a break in the cold surface of the wall. Laurence concluded that it was the mouth of a passage leading off somewhere. He did not turn down this, though, but groped on until he reached another angle in the wall that seemed like a second corner of a room. A third time he made a similar discovery; then he came upon another passage, unbarred, leading away he knew not where. At last he found himself once again at the foot of the staircase down which he had come.
Plainly this pointed to the natural conclusion that he was in a large square room, in which there was apparently no living creature except himself, but out of which led two passages, in addition to the staircase that descended from the secret attic.
As Laurence stood consulting as to what he should do next, he became aware of a muffled sound coming from above his head. The ceiling of the place in which he stood was high. He could not reach it without standing on tiptoe, when he found it to be of wood.
The sound he heard was a regular tap-tap, as though someone was moving about in a room directly above that in which he stood. What did it mean? Why, Laurence decided without hesitation, the sounds of footsteps were those made by Lena as she strolled about in the barn. The room in which he found himself must accordingly be exactly under the barn itself. And yet, throughout the years he and his father had spent at the Manse, not a suspicion had entered the head of either that the old barn—dating back, it was said, to the time of Cromwell—was the centre of a labyrinth of secret passages and chambers such as it now seemed to be.
There were two courses open to him, Laurence thought to himself—to return by the narrow staircase, find his way out into the light of day, and return later with a lantern and some weapon of defence; or to take one of the two passages which he had found, and discover whither it led.
Wisdom and common sense urged the former course; daring and, perhaps, foolhardiness clamoured for the adventure that might be the result of further exploring. And, as might have, perhaps, been expected, the verdict of common sense was dismissed, the girl waiting upstairs forgotten, and Laurence, finding one of the dark passages close at hand, plunged into it, and, feeling his way with a hand on either wall, quickly left the square room under the barn behind him.
The passage seemed of interminable length, nor was there any break in the wall on either side. Not a ray of light pierced the grim darkness. Not a sound was audible save that of his own footsteps. The air was heavy with an odour of decay. Altogether the experience was one which an ordinary person would not relish. But then, as has been said, Laurence was no ordinary person. He hardly knew what fear was; the only time he had been really unnerved being after his experiences in tracking the cyclist on the moor. Every moment he considered it possible that he might encounter the man he believed to be lurking in the many possible hiding-places that there seemed to be. Yet he did not hesitate for one instant, though unarmed with so much as a walking-cane.
'Tis a long lane that has no turning, and at length the prowler in the dark was brought to a sudden standstill by his outstretched hand coming in contact with something—either a wall or a door—that completely barred his way.
Laurence fumbled about, in the hope of finding some catch or handle which would assure him that he had reached a door. He naturally presumed that it would be a door, for otherwise what would be the meaning of the long passage were it to lead nowhere? For some little time he searched in vain, then, deciding that there was no fear of the creature into whose haunts he had penetrated being in his immediate neighbourhood, the young man struck a match and held it high above his head.
The sight that met his gaze when the light of the vesta flared up and then burned quickly before going out was a strange one, yet he was prepared for what he saw. The passage down which he had come closely resembled a railway subway, such as that at King's Cross Station, London. Though on the whole fairly straight, it swerved once or twice in such a way that he was unable, when looking back, to see for any distance the path by which he had reached the oak door before which he was standing.
He was able to make a cursory examination of this door while the light lasted. It looked very old, and the damp stood upon it like beads of perspiration. It was heavily studded with iron knobs, and there was a massive-looking lock at the foot of it, and another near the top. Undoubtedly the man who had built the passage and this door had taken good care to have the best work put into them. What was the builder's scheme—the cause of all the secrecy? Nothing more likely than that it was an illegal one.
But Laurence's meditations on this subject were cut short by a sound that fell upon his ear.
Someone was talking—someone on the other side of the oak door.
The sounds became louder. Two persons were speaking, one in loud and rough tones. They were approaching the door behind which he stood.
As they drew nearer Laurence became aware of a gleam of light that shot through the keyhole of the lock at the top of the door. In an instant he was standing on the bottom lock, clinging by his hands to the iron knobs. With his eye to the keyhole he was able to see through into what looked like a spacious lobby or hall. The figures of two men were standing facing one another half a dozen yards away, their faces lit up by the yellow glare from a candle that the shorter one of them was carrying. But for this artificial light the hall would have been as dark as the passage in which Laurence stood. As it was, the watcher was enabled to get a good view of the men's features. To his amazement he discovered that the speakers were none other than Doctor Meadows and his convict servant Horncastle.
The discovery so startled young Carrington that in his astonishment he slipped from the protruding ledge on which he was standing and dropped with a clatter upon the stone pavement.
Both men turned suddenly and glanced in the direction whence the sound appeared to come.
As quietly as possible Laurence clambered up again and peered through, to find the two faces staring straight at him. How was it that they did not guess there was someone behind the door? They certainly did not, for Horncastle exclaimed—
"Drat them rats! The place is haunted by 'em."
"Are you sure that was a rat?" asked Meadows. "The noise was much greater than any I ever heard a rat make. There must be a colony of them—or is it possible that there is something else behind the panels of that wall? The house agent mentioned to me a secret room." He lowered his voice. Laurence did not catch what his words were. Then he went on—
"If that were the case there might be someone—someone suspicious; you know what I mean—overlooking us. Of course, the idea is absurdly improbable. Suppose we look behind that oak panelling, though? We can put it all back; we will, at any rate, drive the rats away."
"Well, you're a queer one, you are. Suspicious as I don't know what. I'm game, then, only I 'aves my pint o' gin afterwards, or else—or else I'll blab to that messing Carrington chap about——"
And to the eavesdropper's extreme annoyance, Horncastle broke off short when Laurence was thinking himself to be on the verge of a discovery acquired—though, in his excitement, he forgot all that—by means that could hardly be considered of exemplary fairness.
As the two men moved towards where he stood, Laurence's interest gave way to dismay. What might not these unscrupulous folks do when they discovered eavesdropping a man who had betrayed grave suspicions of the nature of their "secret"? At any rate, Laurence realised that he had a good start, and, as Doctor Meadows, throwing down a dog-whip which he had held in his hand, moved towards the panelling and ordered his convict servant to fetch the necessary tools, Carrington moved noiselessly down from his perch. He was about to turn back and effect his escape, when something—something like the lash of a whip—brushed past his face and suddenly caught his neck. At the same time two hands from out of the darkness behind seemed to strike against the sides of his head, a knee was planted in the small of his back, a leg seemed to entwine itself round his, and, like a flash of lightning, his senses left him, as Laurence Carrington fell like a dead man upon the stone pavement of the secret passage.
It seemed to him like an age, but was really only a few minutes, before Laurence Carrington recovered consciousness. When he did so it was with a violent pain in his head and neck.
Old "Doctor Meadows" was bending over him as he lay on a bench in the hall at which he had peeped through the keyhole of the great oak door. The servant, Horncastle, was not to be seen.
Laurence struggled to rise, but the burning pain in his neck, and a feeling of dizziness and extreme weakness, prevented him. The "doctor" motioned to him to keep still.
"You will be better soon," he said encouragingly; "thank Heaven we were in time, or the brute would have done for you. Strange, stranger than strange," he went on, half aloud, "that we should have returned from the distant East, have allowed a couple of dozen years to pass without being so much as aware whether each other still lived, and that—that we should come together like this."
Laurence saw that he was thinking aloud. He waited silently to hear what the old gentleman would say further. But though the young man could see his companion's lips moving, he was disappointed, in that the "doctor" concluded his thoughts on the subject beneath his breath.
"What happened?" Laurence asked at length. "It was 'it' that attacked me, was it not?"
"Yes, 'it,'" replied the "doctor," with a shake of his head. "I trust," he went on, "that Horncastle will catch him."
"I should think," replied Laurence, "that the terrible enemy of my father and your convict servant would make a good match."
The old man leaped back as though shot.
"You know that?" he cried, evidently referring to Carrington's allusion to Horncastle—"you know that? What else do you know?"
Laurence shook his head.
"Not very much," he answered with a smile, as he raised himself to a sitting posture. "And you?"
"Me! Well, I know everything."
"What!" the young man shouted, "you know who my father's enemy is?"
"I do."
"And you know my father. What else do YOU know?"
"I know," responded Meadows slowly, "that the 'long arm of coincidence' is, well, longer than the 'long arm of the law.'"
"What do you mean?"
"I have already told you. I mean that I, the suspected, spied-upon man of mystery (that's so, is it not?), I am the man who alone can throw light upon—can, moreover, effectually solve—the secrets of your father, Major Carrington's life."
"Then he is 'the' Major Carrington, of Madras?"
"He is."
"But," muttered Laurence, half aloud, "he told me that only one man (besides his enemy) ever learned his strange, inviolate secret."
"And I am that one man," responded the "doctor."
"Now," exclaimed Laurence angrily, "now I know you are lying. The man who held the Squire's secret died years ago."
"And," was the "doctor's" quiet reply, "so did I!"
And, before Laurence could find words to express his feelings at such a mad, mysterious remark, there came the sound of flying feet thundering along the stone passage and drawing towards the door, through which he had himself been dragged after the attack in the dark.
The oak door now stood open. From within no one would have believed it to be a door, the oak panelling of the walls being so skilfully imitated on it.
Through it, like a madman, rushed the convict servant, Horncastle. His face was white as a sheet, his breath came in jerks. Terror was manifest on his repulsive features.
"Thank God, I'm free from it," he almost shrieked, as he rushed up to the other two men.
Lighted only by a single tallow candle, the scene was a strange one—one that an artist would have given much to have an opportunity of picturing. The shadows on the men's faces, the cunningly wrought panelling of the great lonesome hall, the air of mystery that seemed to hang about the place—all these made the picture one that Laurence never forgot.
"Well," asked Meadows, "why have you not caught him?"
"The darkness," explained the convict servant, "the darkness, the awful darkness! I'd stand up to any man in the kingdoms, but that cursed silence and gloom and its 'orrors are a bit too much. And that creature, 'arf man, 'arf beast, seemed like the 'old man' 'isself, the way he slipped out of my grasp, which ain't a light one, as this 'ere gent knows." And the fellow had the audacity to pat Laurence on the shoulder. He was no longer the terrified creature of a moment before, when in the company of two of his fellow-creatures.
Meadows looked at him with ill-disguised expressions of disgust. But he did not speak. Instead, he motioned to the servant to depart.
By this time Laurence was able to rise and move about without being overcome by the pains in his neck and head. He turned to Meadows, who had astounded him a moment before by his casual remark that he was a man who had been dead many years.
"Please explain the strange observation you made when Mr.—er—Horncastle interrupted us by his return." The convict scowled, and looked daggers at Meadows, who, however, did not notice, for he was deep in thought.
"Mr. Carrington," he said at length, "I can tell you a little now, but not all. First tell me in what way you think you were attacked."
"I cannot. I only know that I felt as though someone was cutting my throat."
"Someone," replied "Doctor Meadows," "was doing more. He was trying to break your neck."
"Ah!" Laurence exclaimed, "like he did my poor father's. And how did he do it? It was all so quickly, so cleverly done."
"It was done by a man who has made a careful study of murder."
"Good gracious, for what purpose?"
"For the purpose of murdering your father!"
"No, no, it cannot be!" exclaimed Laurence. "Why this enmity? What has the Squire done?"
"Nothing," responded Meadows; "and can't you see, now, who and what the creature is that is hiding in yonder darkness?"
"No. Who? What?"
"Don't you know what harmless weapon it is that when skilfully wielded deals death more cruelly than knife or gun? Why, a cord, a piece of silk cord!"
"Then," Laurence shouted, for the words shed light upon the dark subject that he had tried so hard to penetrate—"then the man is a—a——"
"No, I can tell you nothing further," said "Doctor Orlando Meadows," in reply to Laurence's eager requests for information; "but even what little I have told you throws light upon much that was formerly dark to you. For instance, now you know the solution of the mystery of the padded footprints. The Thug, like many native Indians of his class—a low one—swathes his feet in strips of linen stuff. So you see he did not have to perform the distinctly difficult operation of removing his boots while on the machine!
"Next, you can now understand the meaning of the marvellous agility of the creature. I wonder you did not put two and two together before and guess that the wonderfully athletic foe who almost broke your father's neck in some mysterious manner was—a Thug. Those fanatics are the finest gymnasts in the world, besides being the most bloodthirsty creatures under heaven.
"One thing I cannot understand is why so desperate a scoundrel should pause in the middle of his deadly work, and leave your poor father living, though unconscious. It is deemed the greatest possible disgrace for a Thug to attack his victim with the 'noose' and fail to kill him. Of course, as a rule, the Stranglers—as they are called—work together, but against one old man a single Thug should be able to carry out his grim work thoroughly. I speak as one who knows something about India. You are convinced that nothing unusual was found in the room in which your father was attacked?"
"Nothing, as far as I am aware," replied Laurence. "Of course, I left the detective to look for any clue in the bedroom, but whether he found anything I do not know. Had he done so I think on his departure he would have handed it over to me."
"And he didn't?"
"No—that is, he merely played a practical joke on me by leaving a cardboard box in a cupboard in which he said I should find a clue. On opening it I was disgusted to find nothing but a dead bat——"
"A dead bat!" shrieked "Doctor Meadows"; "had he found it in the Squire's bedroom?"
"As to that I cannot tell you. But why?"
"Because," replied the old gentleman, "if he did I know why the assassin did not murder your father outright!"
"Good gracious, what has that got to do with it?"
"Everything. The Thugs are the most superstitious people on earth. When they believe their patron goddess Kalee does not approve of their sacrifice—they call all murders sacrifices to her—they stop short in their deadly operations. In India if they are carrying out one of their gruesome murders, and a girl with a pitcher happens to pass near, they stop instantly. It is a sign that the goddess is displeased with their selection of a victim. That was why I asked you if it was possible that a housemaid with a pail passed the half-open bedroom door when the attack was made. Again, should a murdering Thug see his victim's face reflected in water or a mirror, he will, for the same reason, stop in the very middle of his work. But one of the worst omens—a sign that Kalee is greatly displeased—is the passing of a small chattering bird, or a bat, while the murder is being carried out. The bat which by chance had got into your father's room must have fluttered about when the assassin was carrying out his foul deed. That bat saved your father's life!"
"But how did the Thug get into the room, and how did he escape?"
"That question, I think, you have yourself solved. I do not know how you came to reach that door"—pointing in the direction of the stone passage—"but presumably you came from your own house. I told you I believed there must be some secret hiding-place. Well, if you came through this passage, I suppose the Thug could do likewise. Only instead of coming in this direction he went in the other, and got into your house the same way you have got into this. The passage, I have heard, was built in the troublous time of the Civil War, when Charles I. and Oliver Cromwell struggled for the mastery. No doubt it was arranged for the inhabitants of one house to escape into the other when besieged or attacked."
"But," said Laurence, "I entered that secret passage from the barn. If the Thug got out that way—he has evidently been hiding in the secret loft over the barn—how did he get into the Manse when he tried to murder my father?"
"I do not know; but do you mean to tell me that the passage leads only to the barn? I cannot believe it."
"Then don't, but—stay! There was another passage leading from a room under the barn which as yet I have not explored. In this the Thug was probably hiding when I passed the entrance, and, attracted by the light I struck, followed and sprang upon me from behind. That passage may, for all I know, end in the Manse itself."
"Rest assured that such is the case," replied Meadows; and he added, "I should not be surprised if you were to find that that other passage led into the Squire's bedroom!"
Laurence gasped. If so, the affair was well-nigh solved. The thought of the mystery reminded the young man that here he was conversing amicably with the "doctor" in the very basement which he believed to contain the old gentleman's secret.
"Now," said Laurence, laying his hand on Meadows' arm, "tell me your secret and there will no longer be any mystery."
"No, no," cried the old man; "go away. You take advantage of my kindness. I have cleared up the mystery of your father's enemy as far as I am permitted to do so, and you treat me so. But," he said slowly, "in a day or two I may be able to tell you all. Then I will renew my acquaintance with your father, Major Harold Lester Carrington, late of Madras. Until then I can do nothing."
So saying, and in spite of his protests, Laurence was conducted by the "doctor" to the front door of the old house. As the door closed upon him, after he had bidden Meadows a more or less cordial farewell, he fancied he heard another cry from the lower part of the house of strange secrets. This time he thought the weird sound seemed less awe-inspiring, more pathetic, than before. And it was so low that the listener could not be sure whether his imagination had played a trick upon him, or if what he fancied he had heard was reality.
With his head throbbing with the sickly pains caused by his injury, he turned and hurried away to the Manse.
Lena met him in the hall. She was deadly pale. At the sight of her lover she sprang forward, and, unconscious of the fact that Mrs. Knox was peering inquisitively over the banisters, flung her arms round his neck.
"Oh, thank God," she cried almost hysterically, "that you are safe! I thought you were killed. I had a presentiment that 'it' had attacked and murdered you in the dark loft. Where have you been; why were you away so long?"
And then, suddenly realising how forward she had been, she darted back as quickly as she had come. It was not because her aunt made her presence known by clearing her throat with unnecessary vehemence, but because she remembered that she had not yet confessed her love for Laurence, and because it seemed to her that her anxiety for his safety had triumphed over her natural modesty.
Then, without another word, without waiting to hear what Laurence had to tell her, she hastened away to her own room, and, locking the door, flung herself upon her bed, where she calmed herself in the orthodox feminine manner—she had a good cry, but the tears were tears of joy!
She already knew that he loved her—now he knew that she loved him. And he was safe!
Meanwhile Laurence, wondering at Lena's—to him—strange behaviour, proceeded to his father's bedroom, where he dismissed the housekeeper and sat down by the Squire's bedside.
"Father," he said, after he had inquired how the sick man felt, "I have learned all."
Mr. Carrington lay motionless. He could not reply. The announcement had overcome him. His face grew very pale.
"What do you mean?" he muttered, raising himself, at length, upon his elbow, and peering into his son's face.
"I mean that I know who and WHAT your enemy is—your enemy who is trying to avenge that which happened over twenty years ago!"
"Who has told you?" asked the Squire excitedly—"not—not 'it'?"
"No, someone who says he died years ago!"
"I hardly know myself. Next door—I mean at the Dene—lives an old man who says he knew you more than twenty years ago."
"Don't believe it, Laurence. But-t-t how does he know my secret? You are sure that he—he is not the—the——"
"No, he is not the Thug."
At the mention of the last word the Squire fell back upon his pillows with a shudder.
"And you've not caught him?"
"No, but I know where he is hiding, and," he added, "if you won't tell me what I don't know, he will!"
"I cannot tell you. Yet, if I don't he will. Here, go to the desk in my sanctum, press the knob of the dummy drawer on the right-hand side, and bring me down the book that will fall out of the slit underneath."
With rising hopes the young man did as he was told. He returned to the sick-room shortly after, carrying a small red pocket-book, fastened with a piece of parchment sealed on the back and front of the Volume.
"Take it," said the Squire, "and read it, only not here. I cannot bear to think of it all. Go, now; you mean well, my boy, but you don't know the pain it causes me to hear you speak of my secret. When you know all you will see that your poor old dad is not such a sinner as you think he is." And the Squire lay back on the pillows again, and closed his eyes, and, making a suitable reply, Laurence left the room.
He met a very shamefaced Lena in the drawing-room, and told her of all his afternoon adventures, not forgetting to offer a very sincere apology for leaving her in the barn. Then he produced from his pocket the little red note-book and pointed to the notice endorsed on it: "For my son, Laurence. Not to be opened until after my death." Then, assuring her that he had permission to read it, he broke the seals and opened the book, which was full of thin, straggling writing.
"Shall I read it aloud?" asked Laurence temptingly.
"Oh, please do."
"Sure you wouldn't like to read it aloud yourself?"
"Oh, no. I'm a terribly bad reader."
"Well, so am I."
"I'm sure you're better than I am," responded Lena.
"I'll tell you how we can settle it."
"How?"
"By each reading it separately."
"But I want to hear the story now. And don't you, too?"
"Yes, we both can. That is—if you don't mind sitting on this sofa and looking over at the same time?"
Lena rose with a blush on her cheeks, that, in Laurence's opinion, made her look prettier than ever.
Then she settled herself by his side. He turned to the front page, and satisfied himself that his companion could see the writing and read it, then they commenced the perusal of the contents of the little red note-book.
"To commence at the very beginning, my dear boy, and in orthodox fashion, I will state that my name is that by which you have always known me—Harold Lester Carrington, only son of a worthy naval officer and his wife, who was a younger daughter of the late Sir John Collyer. I was born nine-and-fifty years ago at Manchester, received but a moderate education, and entered the army at an early age.
"I was unfortunate enough to lose both my parents while I was quite a child, and, getting into bad company, led what my few relatives—they are all dead now—considered a wild life. I can safely say, though, that I never forgot I was the son of gentlefolk, for to both my parents I had been greatly attached.
"I must have been either twenty-one or twenty-two years of age when I first met Edith Rawson, the charming daughter of my old Colonel. It was at a garden party, and was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Of course it was foolish in the extreme for me, a penniless lieutenant, to aspire to the hand of wealthy Colonel Rawson's eldest daughter, but the folly was inevitable. Miss Rawson was the most lovely girl I ever cast eyes upon. Mutual love in such cases as ours is hard to conceal—particularly from a woman—and Mrs. Rawson quickly perceived things after I had visited the house a few times. She communicated her suspicions to her husband, and a tremendous row was the result—the upshot of which was that I changed my regiment for one embarking for India, bade my loved one a pitiful farewell, re-echoed my vows of constancy, promising to return when, judging by Rawson's standard, I was in a position to claim Edith as my bride, and left England for the great Eastern Empire.
"I had been forbidden to write, even once a year, to my loved one, and it was with a faint heart that I started life again in Madras. But I knew that if I wished to succeed I must throw all my energy into the work, and strive my hardest to render myself fit to become Edith's husband in what seemed a very distant future.
"Years rolled by, and by degrees, thanks to sundry small skirmishes with discontented tribes, I gained the promotion which meant so much. But it was a sad time for me. Folks may say that 'out of sight' is equivalent to 'out of mind,' but I speak truly when I say that never for a single day did anyone—any woman—figure in my thoughts except the loved one in the far-off old country.
"Periodically I got hold of old society newspapers, sent to us from London, and in these I occasionally came across the name of Colonel Rawson's fair daughter. Each time I was thrilled with pleasure to find that her maiden name still remained to her. Was she true to the devoted young officer in India? Of course she was!
"I was Major Carrington by this time, and young for that, still I knew a beautiful girl like Edith would never want for offers of marriage. Three or four years had passed since I had discovered the dear name in print. Two or three were likely to drag before there was any chance of my further promotion, after which Colonel Rawson had given me permission to return home, and, if the mutual affection still existed, marry his daughter.
"Then one day a copy of the Times chanced to reach me, and I casually commenced reading by a perusal of the births, marriages, and deaths column in that paper. Suddenly I caught sight of an announcement that caused me to cry aloud with dismay, with horror, with disappointment. It was painfully brief, but, oh! so plain.