The

House of Strange Secrets

A DETECTIVE STORY

BY

A. Eric Bayly

NEW YORK

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

31 West Twenty-third Street

1899

Copyright, 1899

BY

E. P. DUTTON & CO.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE STRANGE AFFAIR ON THE LONELY MOOR

"Squire Carrington's carriage, this way, please," proclaimed this magnificent powdered footman wearing the Marquis of Moorland's livery. His stentorian tones echoing from the porch, over which were suspended the nobleman's arms, interrupted an edifying conversation between Squire Carrington's coachman and the individual who presided over another local dignitary's stables, both of whom, with their carriages, had taken refuge from the inclement weather beneath the stately ash trees which were the pride of their noble owner and his gardener (by the way, a far more important personage).

"Well, good e'ning to yer, Mr. Wilkes," remarked the Carrington coachman, flicking up his horses; "I'll tell yer some more about the ole man and 'is hexentricities next time I 'ave the pleasure of renooing our acquaintance." And wrapping his topcoat round him, so as to shield his valuable carcase from the drizzling rain, the venerable retainer in charge of Mr. Harold Carrington's spirited greys turned his horses' heads and drew up the carriage—a coach of out-of-date pattern—at the front door, which had been held open for two gentlemen in evening dress who were effecting an early departure from the annual ball given by the Marquis to all the neighbouring gentry.

The elder of the two was an extremely tall, cadaverous, and grizzled man of perhaps sixty years of age. This was Squire Carrington himself, the owner of the manse, situate in the neighbouring village of Northden; while his companion was his only son, Laurence, a handsome young fellow of two-and-twenty, quite as tall as his father, but, unlike Mr. Carrington, senior, well built and of athletic appearance.

The elder man paused for a moment in the porch.

To the casual observer he would have appeared to be buttoning his glove, but to the keen eye of Laurence it seemed that the cause of the older gentleman's sudden stop was to give himself an opportunity of peering nervously into the night before taking the few steps necessary to reach the carriage waiting outside. This scrutiny being evidently satisfactory, Mr. Carrington hurried forward, entered the vehicle, and ensconced himself in the far corner. Laurence followed, after taking a glance back at the capacious hall, brilliantly lighted with fairy lamps and thronged with vivacious ladies and laughing men on their way to or from the supper rooms.

The front door closed, shutting out the gay scene from the young man's gaze. The coachman whipped up his horses, and in a moment the carriage was bowling down the dark avenue, presently emerging into the rain and the high road beyond.

"Shame to leave so awfully early," muttered Laurence, leaning back on the comfortable cushions and lighting a cigarette.

"You know my reasons," answered Mr. Carrington. "I—well, I don't like to have the carriage out too late, and, besides, it's twelve o'clock already."

"Twelve o'clock, yes; just the best time, dad, you know it is! And why couldn't I have walked home or got a lift in the Everards' waggonette, as I suggested? Another of these absurd fears of yours, I suppose. My dear dad, what on earth would the people say if they learned that you, a J.P., magistrate, and all the rest of it, were actually frightened out of your life of burglars?"

"Laurence, you must not speak like that, nor take advantage of my little—er—weakness." And the old gentleman relapsed into a silence broken only by the patter of the rain on the carriage windows and the clatter of the horses' hoofs on the macadam road.

"Nice girl, that Miss Scott!" Laurence remarked, after a long pause; "not extraordinary pretty, but there's something awfully taking about her. Did you see her hair? Of course you didn't. But it was something worth seeing—a mass of golden tresses. I never saw anything like it. And her smile! I danced five times with her—all waltzes; but I suppose that was not wrong, eh? She's clever, and no mistake, for a girl her age. I don't suppose she's more than nineteen."

"Born in 1867, that is twenty-five years old now," mumbled Mr. Carrington half aloud.

"Twenty-five, Dad! How on earth do you know her age?" exclaimed the young man in tones of surprise.

"What—what? Did I speak? Oh, nothing. I was just then rather deep in my thoughts."

"'Pon my word," said Laurence, "I believe you're getting into your second dotage, Daddy."

The old gentleman did not reply. He seemed too occupied with his own meditations to take any notice of his son's further remarks either upon the festivities at the Marquis's house or the young lady who had attracted him to no small degree, and whose praises he continued to sing throughout the first part of the eight miles' drive to Northden.

Those who are acquainted with that part of the North Riding of Yorkshire in which the village mentioned lies will recollect that the road between Northden and the Marquis of Moorland's seat runs for some little distance along the east edge of the extensive moor, from which, at a prehistoric period, some ancestor of the august owner of the neighbouring country took his title. The Carrington carriage was halfway across this stretch of heath—the most deserted part of the route—when the coachman suddenly became aware of the fact that some other vehicle or person was closely following in his rear. Turning round in his seat, he glared into the darkness behind, and fancied that he discerned the figure of a man on horseback riding immediately behind the carriage.

He thought nothing of this, deciding that the fellow-traveller was either a mounted postman riding home, or some country doctor who had been called out at a late hour to visit a patient in some distant part of his large district of practice.

For some reason or other, however, the coachman happened to glance back again a minute or two later, when he was astounded beyond measure to see that the supposed man on horseback was a cyclist, and that, with what the coachman set down as "confounded impidence," he was riding alongside the coach, and cautiously peering in through the steam-coated window at the occupants of the carriage!

Now, James Moggin was a servant who had no little respect for the person of his lord and master (though he did occasionally allude to him in conversing with particularly intimate acquaintances as the "ole man"), and this cyclist's action he considered a dastardly outrage upon the privacy of Mr. Carrington and his son. He therefore drew up suddenly, and seizing his whip, intended, in his own words, to give the misdemeanant "a 'elp on 'is way." But though he did not know it, by so doing he gave the inquisitive cyclist the opportunity he needed.

The dark figure on the machine, pedalling suddenly forward, made his way in front of the carriage, dismounted lightly, and threw down the cycle upon the ground in such a way that the horses could not proceed without stepping upon it. Moggin, perforce, drew up hurriedly, and bent forward in an endeavour to scrutinise the features of the strange bicyclist. In the darkness he was unable to perceive more than the mere outline of his form, but even that was sufficient to cause his feelings of surprise to give way to a sensation of horror. There was something strange, what he did not know, about the man who had so suddenly and silently compelled him to draw up in the dreariest part of the great bare moor. He shuddered, and noticed that the horses were both trembling.

Meanwhile let us return to the inmates of the carriage.

Laurence had vainly endeavoured to draw his father into conversation, but the old man seemed so engrossed in his meditations that his son eventually ceased from lamenting Mr. Carrington's peculiar behaviour, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of his cigarette and pleasant thoughts, in which the central figure was none other than Miss Selene Scott, his newly made acquaintance.

Of a sudden the old man sprang up in his seat, and clutched wildly at Laurence's arm.

"Good heavens!" he cried in accents demonstrative of mortal dread, "did you see that face at the window?"

"Don't be absurd, Dad," exclaimed Laurence somewhat angrily, "if you scream like that, old Moggin will be getting down to see if I'm murdering you. Gracious me," he added after a pause, "what's the fellow stopping for?"

The young man did not have to wait long for an answer to his last question. With startling suddenness the right-hand window of the vehicle was struck by something outside that could not be seen owing to the steam. A loud clatter of falling glass ensued, and for a moment a large jagged hole in the pane yawned at them. Then in this space there appeared first a hideous-looking dark face, and then, when that portion of the intruder's anatomy was withdrawn, a long, bony hand gripping a cocked revolver which was directed precisely at Squire Carrington's head.

The report of a shot rang out, and almost simultaneously the opposite window glass smashed amid a terrific din. Through the smoke that filled the carriage Laurence turned and looked at his father. With a low moan, the Squire had flung up his hands and fallen forward senseless upon the floor!

CHAPTER II

THE MAN THAT DISAPPEARED

Now, whatever his enemies (if he has any) may say against James Moggin, no one can deny the fact that, for a man of his age, his behaviour on the night when his carriage was "held up" on the North Moor was meritorious. On discovering that the "impident rascal" had deliberately broken one of the coach windows with the butt of a pistol, the worthy coachman's rage knew no bounds. Leaving his well trained but trembling horses, and still clasping the whip in his hand, he scrambled down from the box and fell upon the cyclist in the rear.

To speak more accurately, the latter individual fell back into his arms, an action on his part caused by Mr. Laurence having risen in the carriage and aimed a powerful blow with his fist at the face that had a second time appeared at the cracked window.

Moggin, had he flung down his whip, might easily have held the assailant until the arrival of Laurence, who was fumbling with the catch that fastened the carriage door, and which had been in some way jammed by a piece of broken window glass. As it was, the audacious cyclist managed in the dark to wriggle himself out of the coachman's clutches and reach the spot where his bicycle lay.

Laurence alighted from the carriage with unbecoming haste, only in time to see the dusky figure of the highwayman throw his leg lightly over the saddle of his machine, and bound forward past the vehicle again with the dexterity of an accomplished rider. He noticed that his garments fluttered out behind him in a peculiar manner.

In his evening clothes and thin dancing "pumps," with the roads an inch thick in mud and puddles, young Carrington knew that pursuit was useless. Even if he requisitioned one of the terrified horses, he realised that the man would have disappeared from sight before the operation of unharnessing could be accomplished. One thing he did—that was to seize the whip from Moggin's hand, and, taking a couple of steps forward, cut sharply at the retreating form with the long lash. The blow went home, for the fellow gave utterance to a hoarse cry of pain. Even in that exclamation, both Carrington and the coachman were conscious of something unnatural and horrible.

And thus it was that the mysterious creature on the bicycle disappeared into the blackness of the night.

Laurence waited until he had the dissatisfaction of witnessing the hasty departure of the unwelcome visitor; then he turned to the open-mouthed and shivering Moggin.

"Let us now see what has happened to your master," he said abruptly.

The two men hurried back to the carriage and carefully stepped inside.

Mr. Carrington was lying in precisely the same position as when Laurence had left him.

"Mercy, mercy," moaned the coachman, "surely he isn't dead?"

"No," responded young Carrington, "he is not shot, for look at the far window. It was smashed by the bullet."

"The hexplosion might have done that, sir," old Moggin suggested, as he assisted Laurence to place the motionless body of Mr. Carrington upon the seat of the carriage.

"Good gracious me, I never thought of that. Then the poor dad may be killed—murdered. Oh, why didn't I heed his suspicions?"

He bent down to peer into the old gentleman's face, and as he did so something caught his eye. He almost yelled aloud with joy. For there, through the top of Mr. Carrington's hat, was a circular hole. The same hole was to be found on the other side, showing that the bullet from the assassin's weapon had penetrated through the hat without harming the unconscious man's head. (The bullet itself was afterwards found imbedded in a panel of the coach.)

No; Mr. Carrington had been unharmed by the attempt on his life, but the shock of seeing the repulsive face at the window had thrown him into a dead faint, from which he was released after many minutes, thanks to the chafings and attention of his son.

When he first opened his eyes Laurence was horrified at the change in his father's appearance. The terrified look on his face was indescribable. He moaned faintly, as though in pain, and clutched nervously at the strong arm of his son, who knelt at his side on the floor of the carriage.

"Come, Daddy," Laurence said encouragingly; "you're better now, and the rascal is miles away. Sit up and let us hurry on home. The horses are almost perished with cold."

His son's cheery voice seemed to convince Mr. Carrington that he was safe, for he sat up and allowed himself to be carefully laid back into his favourite corner of the large carriage. Laurence gave orders to Moggin to proceed at once homeward as fast as he could, and so well did the coachman carry out his instructions, and so ready were the horses to proceed to their stables, that Mr. Carrington found himself within his own grounds before twenty minutes had passed.

With Laurence's assistance he alighted and entered the Manse, where the aged butler, Kingsford, was dozing in the hall. He was then conducted to his chamber, and there helped into bed and dosed with a strong brandy-and-soda specially mixed for him by his son.

By this time it was nearly half-past one in the morning, and Laurence Carrington would have been quite justified in retiring to bed. Nevertheless, after leaving his father's bedroom he crept downstairs, much to the butler's astonishment, and, donning an overcoat and a strong pair of boots, made his way out of the house.

The rain had now stopped—a fact that seemed to please him much; not because he would have minded a four-mile trudge in the pouring wet, but because he would now be more likely to discover traces of the mysterious cyclist's tyre-marks in the muddy road that skirts the North Moor. For the rain, had it continued in a downpour similar to that at the time of the strange affair of an hour before, would undoubtedly have blotted out any tracks that the highwayman must have made in effecting his hasty departure.

Whistling to keep up his spirits as he went, Laurence strode on at a quick pace towards the scene of the attack. The wind was howling across the heath and the unearthly noises that accompany any storm were such as might well have unnerved a less determined man than Carrington, particularly after the weird adventures he had gone through.

By the light of the moon, which was now shining brightly, he had no difficulty in discovering the exact spot at which the carriage had stopped, while his own footprints and those of the coachman, as well as the hoof-marks of the restive horses, were distinctly visible. With ease, too, he lighted on the thin track made by the stranger's bicycle wheel, but at first was much puzzled at finding that this trail lay on both sides of the road. Then he recollected that the rider must have left these distinct traces behind him both when on his way to the place where he had "held up" the coach and when hastening away on being repulsed by Moggin and himself. Therefore he concluded that, by following the double tracks, one on either side of the lonely road, he would not only discover whence the unknown man had come, but also whither he had disappeared. For a good mile he trudged on, never taking his eyes off the pattern impressed on the surface of the road. He had now reached a village, the only one lying between the house at which the ball had been and that where he lived, and from which he had just come.

Half-way along the main street running through this village a branch road starts off to the left. To his delight, Laurence was able to trace the cycle tracks round the corner of and into this branch road, and once again did he start on, strong on the scent of his father's attempted murderer (for the idea that the cycling highwayman had fired at him never entered his head).

On and on did Laurence walk, the mud and water squelching under his feet, until the road again broke off into two lanes.

"Hallo!" he cried half aloud, "the stranger must be something of a neighbour to us," for the tracks in the mud betrayed to him the fact that his quarry had taken the lane which is one and a long way round to the Manse and the village of Northden, in which it stands. As he drew nearer and nearer to his home Laurence's amazement and excitement (if such a term may be used under the circumstances) increased correspondingly. Would the midnight stranger prove to be one of his father's own simple villagers? he asked himself. He had not even caught a glimpse of the stranger's face, so could not answer.

He was now actually in the village of Northden, yet the marks, both coming and going, remained. Was he mistaken in any way? he wondered, but the idea of such a possibility had barely been dismissed from his mind as absurd when he suddenly stopped short. And why?

Because, without the slightest swerve or mark in the slush, both tracks stopped abruptly, and, however vigilantly he searched, he could not discover any further sign or clue to the manner of the disappearance of the mysterious bicyclist.

CHAPTER III

THE MYSTERY OF THE PADDED FOOTPRINTS

Now, Laurence knew quite well that no cyclist could dismount from his machine without alighting with all his weight upon the ground. Why, then, was there no print of the stranger's foot at the spot where the cycle marks stopped? The moon shone out so brightly now that he knew he must detect such an impression in the muddy surface of the road were one there.

But there was none. Stay! What was the meaning of that oblong but rounded patch of ground being drier than the remainder of the road? Laurence realised that here was another important discovery, for there could be little doubt that the moisture on the foot-shaped patch had been sucked by some spongy mass pressed heavily upon it. What more natural than that the evil-doer, in order to conceal his tracks, should travel with thick socks or several pairs of stockings in place of shoes, which, though of the lightest description, would leave a distinct print behind them?

Further search led to the discovery of two more of these dry (or more or less dry) patches in such a position that the young amateur detective perceived his man had, presumably carrying the bicycle, stepped across to the strip of common grass that skirted one side of the roadway. Once on this grass all traces of the mysterious cyclist vanished, and Laurence knew that, for the moment at any rate, he was baffled. The would-be assassin, whoever he was, must be a sharp man, Carrington decided. Had the rain continued, or the pursuit not been taken up until the following day, when the rising wind would have done its work, the dry patches in the mud would not have been found, and the man on the bicycle might well have taken to himself wings and flown, so suddenly and unaccountably did the tyre-marks break off. As it was, young Carrington knew that the stranger (if such he really was) had walked along on the grass. Therefore, he conjectured he might yet find further clues as to his hiding-place or destination in parts of the common-land where the grass was short or rubbed away.

He therefore continued his search, and had his efforts rewarded by the discovery of more dry patches, and, in places where the ground had been shadowed by trees, blurred, indistinct marks shaped like a man's foot; and, still on the track, he was surprised to find himself in close proximity to the two largest—in fact, the only two gentlemen's residences in the now sleeping village. The plot of roadside grass ran along outside the grounds of both of these—the Manse, and another and older mansion, Durley Dene; but, before reaching either of these properties, he completely lost sight of the padded footmarks on the ground, and, strive as he might, failed to make any more discoveries that night.

The rain had commenced to fall again, and he made up his mind to return home. As he sauntered along he pondered over the strange case that he had, of his own free will, begun to investigate. Had the cyclist whose identity he was so anxious to discover disappeared into the grounds of either of the two adjoining mansions?

A sinister idea occurred to him. Was it possible that the man who had made so determined an attempt to murder old Mr. Carrington in cold blood could be one of his father's own retainers? If so, how did he know that the would-be assassin was not even now carrying out his horrible plan? The idea was truly a terrible one, but was quickly abandoned as impossible when Laurence remembered that neither Kingsford nor Head, the gardener, could ride a cycle, that Moggin was out of the question, and that the remaining men-servants, Nathaniel (the footman) and Tom (the stable hand), were as incapable of the audacity and cunning displayed by the cyclist as the other servants, though their age and affection for their master were above suspicion. Therefore, if the unknown man had, by chance or otherwise, taken refuge in the Manse grounds, he must only have done so for temporary concealment, or have used these grounds as a short cut to his real lair.

But then, of course, it was equally possible that the strange highwayman hailed from the estate adjoining the Manse. And, like a flash of lightning, Laurence remembered the story he had heard of a retiring neighbour who lived at the Dene, and on whom not a single person in the village had yet cast eyes—the supposed invalid gentleman surrounding whose personality there was such a halo of mystery.

Was his father's determined and bloodthirsty enemy lurking in this adjoining house, whence he might steal out to repeat the attack on the old man at any moment?

The thought was, indeed, a horrible one.

In spite of the rain, something impelled the young man, when he reached the broken-down gate of Durley Dene, to pause for a moment in the shadow of the trees, and meditate upon the strange business that had brought him out of doors on so wild a night. He lighted his pipe, drew his coat tighter around him, and leaned back against the massive fence.

The first question that he failed to answer satisfactorily was this—how was it that the Squire had made an enemy?—for he could not doubt but that the highwayman had some grudge against the old gentleman since he had so deliberately fired at Mr. Carrington. Had he been a maniac—the idea that he was possibly such occurred to Laurence—he would have shot blindly into the carriage, and not taken careful aim, as he had.

To be sure, the Squire was a magistrate, and as such had frequently been the means of sending rascals of all kinds to gaol. But Carrington's name was famous in the county for his light sentences, his remarkable leniency, his kindness, and his charity. A poacher, indeed, had once threatened to have his revenge on the Squire, who had been compelled to inflict a fairly severe punishment upon him, but what judge or magistrate has not been thus threatened? And, besides, there was a certain undisguised skill and cunning demonstrated in the behaviour of the stranger on the moor that marked him as being something more than a common criminal. His idea of "holding up" the carriage while on a cycle, his ingenuity in concealing his tracks in the manner already recorded, and the mystery of his eventual disappearance—all these proved him to be possessed of fertile brains that one could hardly expect to find in a poacher; while, as a matter of fact, if Laurence recollected right, the man who had uttered the threat against Mr. Carrington was still working out his "time" in prison.

Another peculiar feature of the case was the behaviour of the Squire himself. Laurence remembered how, during the last few months, his father's manner had changed. He had always been a particularly silent, thoughtful, and retiring man, but of late he had become childish in his conduct. He had purchased, as his son had accidentally discovered, a vest, fronted with chain armour, strong, but of such a kind that no one could know, when its owner wore it, that it was of so remarkable a nature. He had even gone so far as to have new bolts and catches fixed to the doors and windows of his house, while he had taken to putting a revolver in his breast coat pocket before setting out for a walk or drive. Whenever he left the house it was only in the company of his son or escorted by a servant, and he had instructed that no one, except those with whom he was personally acquainted, should be admitted to the house.

He had given, in explanation of these extraordinary precautions, the information that he was nervous of attacks by burglars, and for some weeks past the young man had wondered whether his father's mind had not become deranged. Now, it naturally occurred to Laurence that the Squire must have been expecting this attempt on his life, and the idea much alarmed him.

If this were so, he argued, Mr. Carrington must have some secret which he would not even disclose to his own son. That secret, too, suppose the suspicion had any foundation, must be one which the Squire was most anxious to guard, for he had gone out of his way to remark upon the fear of burglary which had caused the numerous precautions he had adopted; and Laurence noted, too, that, in at least one way, his father's explanation was doubtful and apparently untrue. For instance, the chance of a burglar attempting the old gentleman's life was a very remote one. The conviction that the Squire really had some secret, and had been expecting and fearing some such outrage as that on the North Moor, seemed only too well grounded.

And then Laurence arrived at the question—Whence had the mysterious cyclist come, and how was it that he had disappeared into the grounds of Durley Dene?

Laurence's suspicions on recollecting all he had heard of the occupant of the old house were at once directed against its owner. But was the repulsive face at the carriage window that of their unknown neighbour?

Here, again, was some mystery. And Laurence recalled all he knew about the neighbouring house since his father had settled down at Northden. Its original owners were the descendants of the blue-blooded Elizabethan dignitary who had built it. Owing to financial embarrassments the house was sold, and fell into the hands of a crusty, miserly old scoundrel of the name of Northcott, who had died shortly after.

After Northcott's decease the Dene was again put up for auction, but without being knocked down for the sum asked by the late owner's nephew, who had claimed the property. For years it had stood empty—to some extent a ruin—but within the last few months intelligence had reached the villagers that the Dene had been purchased by an invalid army man—one Major Jones-Farnell—who, in due course of time, arrived late one night, accompanied, it was reported, by his secretary. To the surprise and disgust of the neighbourhood, it became apparent that the owner of Durley Dene would employ no local servants, a man and his wife (so it was said) doing the outdoor work and cooking respectively.

Now Laurence could not help wondering, was there not something peculiarly suspicious about the inhabitants of the residence adjoining his father's house? Was it possible that the advent of this Major Jones-Farnell had caused Mr. Carrington to take the remarkable precautions that he had? Undoubtedly his "fear of burglars" dated from about the time of the supposed invalid's arrival in Northden. Was it possible that——?

But suddenly the brown study into which Laurence had fallen was interrupted by the faint sound of someone moving among the trees that formed an avenue leading to the old house outside which he was standing. The disturbing noise was a faint one,—merely that of the snapping of a twig,—but it was sufficient to cause the young man to turn and peep over the fence in the direction whence the sound came.

For a long time he peered into the shadows without detecting any sign of a living creature; then he caught sight, all of a moment, of a dark figure moving swiftly and silently between the trees nearest the apparently uninhabited house. Laurence strove to shout and inquire what the person was doing at such an hour; yet, for some reason, he seemed unable to cry out or move.

He stood there, his heart beating so loud that it seemed to outdin the patter of the rain upon the leaves, until the mysterious figure disappeared from view. So stealthily did it glide away that more than once Laurence rubbed his eyes, doubting whether he had really seen anything or only imagined that he had not been alone in the darkness of the night.

When the unknown figure was gone he regained his voice, and in loud tones cried out, "Who is there?" But no reply came save the echoing repetition of his own words, which died away gently in the swaying tree-tops.

He waited, glaring at the darkness. Then by chance his eye lighted upon one of the windows of the desolate Dene. It was a bow window, thickly curtained and draped with black. But what the midnight watcher saw—what filled him with a sudden coldness and an incomprehensible sense of horror—was that at one corner the curtain had been carefully drawn aside, and that a face with the nose pressed white against the pane was framed in the window and lighted by the moon's pale rays—a face as brutal and awe-inspiring as it was sinister and uncanny. Only for one moment did it remain before being withdrawn as suddenly as it had come.

With his nerves disturbed by the events of the night, Laurence vainly endeavoured to persuade himself that all he had seen had merely figured in his imagination. But the memory of the silent being among the trees and the strange face at the window was not to be effaced. And, still pondering on these irregular nocturnal events, the young man turned on his heel, and, reaching the Manse, was glad to place the stout oak door of his home between himself and the weird noises and shadows of the outside world.

CHAPTER IV

GOOD NEWS AND BAD

The Squire, with his marked punctuality, was down in the dining-room when Laurence appeared next morning. He was pale and moody, carefully avoiding any allusion to the event of the previous night. His son could not help noticing the bulge in his coat, that betrayed the hiding-place of Mr. Carrington's revolver. He was inclined to smile at the idea of the old gentleman attempting to defend himself, for he had made no effort to do so the night before.

After breakfast, Laurence made his way into the garden for a smoke. The day had brightened up, and the sun had made a welcome appearance in the heavens.

The Manse gardener was working outside one of the greenhouses, and respectfully saluted young Carrington as he strolled up to him.

"Well, Head," Laurence remarked, "seen anything of our mysterious neighbours?"

He had been careful to impress upon Kingsford and Moggin the necessity of keeping silent about the attempt on the Squire's life, and merely asked the question because it was one which interested him and the gardener also.

"Yes, sir," responded Head promptly, "we're beginning to learn something about them. Either Major Jones, or his seckitary, or the hodd man rides a bicycle."

Laurence could not help staring at this intelligence. The gardener, however, did not notice his young master's movement, and proceeded.

"Well, you see, sir, it was this way. My little girl, she tumbled into the nettles late last evening, and, lor! wasn't there a shindy! The wife doctored the stings as best she could, and put the youngster to bed, she and I following soon after. Well, about half-past ten the poor child, not being able to sleep because of the blisters caused by the nettles, my wife said to me, 'Head,' she says, 'just you run out and gather some dock weed to lay on the blisters.' Up I got to do as she asked me, and went out. You know my house, sir? Well, I was going along the hedge at the bottom of the garden, just by the road, when I spied a cluster of docks at the corner by the fence that cuts our garden off from the Dene. As I was gathering some large leaves, what should I happen to do but look over the wall and see a queer man creeping along on the other side leading a bicycle. He jumps through a gap in the hedge, bicycle and all, and rides off down the road. Of course in the dark I couldn't hascertain what his features were like, sir."

"Indeed," broke in Laurence, in a tone which was meant to signify that the incident did not interest him so much as it really did, "and this bicyclist of yours, from which direction did he come?"

"I suppose he came from the house, sir; where else? Though it did strike me as funny that he should go out of his way as he did, for he started off in the direction of the East Cave and the Markiss's."

"And you saw no more of him?"

"No, sir."

Laurence moved away in the direction of the house, whence simultaneously there emerged old Mr. Carrington and his watch-dog, Kingsford.

"My dear Laurence," said the former, in evident consternation, "read this. The Marquis has just sent it over by special messenger." He handed his son a pencil-scrawled note as he spoke. This Laurence took, and found that it read as follows:

"Dear Carrington,—

"A terrible event occurred at my place last night. Shortly after you left an alarm of 'Fire' was raised. You can imagine the scene of disorder that resulted! I managed to get everyone out of the way, when we found that the house was blazing in half a dozen places. How it caught fire I cannot even dream, but I know that, were it not for the fact that I am well insured, I should be the most miserable creature on earth! Nothing but blackened ruins is left of the scene of yesterday's festivities! I am asking you to put up Mrs. Knox and her niece, Miss Scott, since I am unable to accommodate them. They were to be my guests for a fortnight, and cannot return home, as their own house is in the hands of the painter. Would you be so kind as to endeavour to manage at least a shake-down for the two ladies for a few days, as I do not wish to make them incur the inevitable annoyance and expense of an hotel existence? I am staying, and intend to do so, with Crooker, my agent, and have sent the wife to Southsea to stay with her sister. Let me know if you can oblige me. I believe you have met Mrs. Knox several times at my house.—Yours,

"Moorland."

Laurence perused the letter with a faint smile on his handsome face.

"Of course you will put them up?" he asked his father.

"Of course!" responded the Squire; "but what do you think of the fire? Isn't it terrible?"

"Terrible? How so? Fires must occur sometimes!"

"Of course, but this is the work of an incendiary!"

"Yes, Dad, it certainly looks like it; but why should you be so alarmed about it? The Marquis is well insured, and, if you are as frightened of fire as you are of burglars, why, it's hardly likely that two blazes should occur in the same district within, well, a dozen years."

Laurence said this to pacify his father, who was almost trembling, with either fear or horror. But he little expected the Squire's response—

"I was thinking how narrowly we escaped, and," the old man muttered, half aloud, as he moved away, "how desperately this wretch is sealing my doom!"

CHAPTER V

SELENE'S STORY

Laurence was an expert gardener, and, after despatching a reply to the Marquis's letter, he had, though deep in thought, settled down to assist Head in the greenhouses.

"We've got a thief in this establishment," the gardener remarked, after a lengthy pause in the conversation.

"Oh, indeed," replied Laurence absently. He was at the moment revelling in the prospect of Miss Selene Scott's company that afternoon, and did not find Head's conversation remarkably entertaining.

"Yes; my old coat has gone out of the barn since last evening—my old coat what the missus won't let me wear except I'm haymaking. Strictly, 'tween you and me, sir, I suspects the hodd man next door!"

Laurence was all attention at once. Anything concerning the unknown inhabitants of the Dene was of interest to him, and he begged for further details of the "robbery"(!)

But Head was ready for his dinner, he said, and promptly moved off towards the barn, to which his meal was usually brought by one of his numerous olive-branches. Laurence followed, at the gardener's suggestion, to be shown whence the coat had disappeared in the night!

On the threshold of the barn a small boy was playing marbles alone. He rose and touched his cap on catching sight of young Carrington; then, addressing his father, informed him that "mother made you a shepherd's pie, what you likes."

Head walked into the barn to fetch this delicacy, but emerged a moment later.

"Where've you been, Tommy?" he asked.

"Tommy" disappeared into the great building, but he also returned a minute after with a blank look on his face.

"I put it in there a moment ago, Daddy, and now it's gone," was his lamentation.

"There now, sir," said Head to Laurence, "what did I tell you about a thief? He's stolen my dinner!"

Laurence, feeling almost inclined to laugh, in his turn accompanied the gardener into the barn. As he did so, he fancied he detected a rustling in the mountains of fresh-smelling hay that rose all around. Head had evidently heard the sound also, for he seized a pitchfork and commenced stabbing it into the portion which appeared to be that whence the rustling came, but with no result.

As he poked about in the hay, the man stopped suddenly.

"What's this?" he said, picking up something upon which his fork had chanced. He held up to view a small revolver.

Could it be, Laurence wondered at the sight of it, the weapon with which the unknown stranger had attempted the life of Squire Carrington? Disguising his pleasure at the sight of what might possibly be a clue to the hiding-place of the Squire's would-be murderer, Laurence pocketed the small weapon, and moved away, leaving Head to grumble over his loss. But a subsequent scrutiny of the pistol was cut short by the arrival of Kingsford, who announced luncheon. Almost simultaneously a carriage bearing the Marquis of Moorland's coat of arms drove up the avenue, and deposited two ladies and a couple of small portmanteaux on the doorstep. The butler proceeded to open the door, and, perceiving that the visitors were Miss Scott and her aunt, ushered them into the drawing-room, where Laurence quickly joined them. As the young man entered the room he heard his father's voice call over the banisters to the butler:

"Don't let any one in; pray don't; bar the door. Say that I have got a pistol ready. What? Mrs. Knox and Miss Scott? Oh, that's all right. I thought it was a—a burglar!"

A sigh of relief followed, and, after a moment or two, the Squire, looking paler and more miserable than ever, arrived in the drawing-room.

All through lunch he remained silent except when spoken to, while Laurence was being charmed by Miss Scott's graphic description of the fire, and Mrs. Knox paid undivided attention to the sumptuous repast laid out on the table.

"But the funniest thing of all, Mr. Carrington," said the young lady to Laurence during the course of the conversation, "was that when I was going down to supper, I happened to look out into the garden from a landing window, when what should I see but a figure creeping along the side of the house. Well, as auntie will tell you, if there's anything I'm frightened of it's a tramp. This looked like either a burglar or a tramp, but I knew that he daren't break in with all the servants and guests about, so I didn't mention the fact to anyone. To me it looks as if the person I saw had something to do with the dreadful fire, but why he should want to murder us all I should very much like to know. Well, but that isn't all. Soon after you'd gone—you went so awfully early, you know—I happened to go out on to the covered-in verandah for a breath of fresh air, and was talking very privately to Maggie Haroldsworth. I had just mentioned to her that you had gone" (Miss Scott blushed as she noticed the colour rise to Laurence's cheeks at the mention of his name in the "very private" conversation) "mentioned that you and the Squire had gone, when suddenly the same figure I had seen before sprang up from some bushes, almost underneath where we stood, and dashed off into the shrubbery. The lawn was quite dark, so that I could not see very well what the person was like, but Maggie insisted that it was a woman with coloured skirts, though I doubt if it really was, for no woman I ever saw ran like that figure did."

At this point Squire Carrington roused himself from the state of lethargy into which he had fallen, and looked up, paying some attention to vivacious Miss Scott's story.

"Another thing Maggie insisted on, was that she distinctly saw the mysterious creature's features. She told me all about it afterwards, when we were bundling out of the house, for the alarm was raised before we had stopped talking about the woman—if it really was one. Well, she says that the light from one of the basement rooms fell on this creature's face as it dashed out of the bushes, and that she could take her dying oath it was a black woman! Why, Mr. Carrington, what's the matter? Mr. Laurence, Auntie, the Squire has fainted!"

For the second time within twenty-four hours Squire Carrington had fallen forward in a dead faint!

CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

Only for a few minutes did the Squire remain unconscious. Before his son had time to lift him, with the butler's aid, upon a convenient sofa, he had opened his eyes in a nervous fashion, and asked where he was. It was with mingled feelings of pity and contempt that Laurence told him he was safe at home. The old gentleman's extraordinary behaviour displeased his son, who regretted that such an incident had occurred in the presence of the ladies (though in his thoughts Mrs. Knox had but a small place), and was especially annoyed, because it seemed to him that his father's sudden embarrassment was the result of some remark of Miss Scott's, though exactly what remark it was that had caused an elderly man, and a magistrate to boot, to faint like a servant girl or a delicate child was as much a mystery to him as the events of the previous night, and the Squire's extraordinary precautions during the last few months.

No sooner had Mr. Carrington recovered, then, than, at his son's suggestion, he retired to his own room, expressing a hope that he would renew his acquaintance with the ladies at dinner.

Mrs. Knox belonged to the noble army of "after-lunch nappers," and she, too, presently disappeared at the conclusion of the meal, leaving Laurence inwardly congratulating himself on the good fortune that removed the worthy old lady to her bedroom, permitting him to do the honours of the house to her niece alone.

At the girl's suggestion, a visit to the conservatories and flower gardens was the first event of the afternoon. But the day was warm, and two easy-chairs placed temptingly on the lawn proved a greater attraction than the walk which had been proposed by good Mrs. Knox.

"Well, and what is your opinion about this fire, Mr. Carrington?" asked Selene Scott, after a pause in the conversation.

"In my opinion it seems very much like a case of incendiarism," replied Laurence.

"So I imagine, and—why do you think your father was so upset when I mentioned the person I saw in the Marquis's garden last night?"

Laurence did not reply for a moment. He was deliberating with himself as to whether he should confide in his fair companion all he knew about the old gentleman's fears, the affair on the moor, and the mysterious inmates of Durley Dene. It was more than possible that a sharp, intelligent girl, like Miss Scott seemed to be, might prove of considerable assistance to him in his efforts to account for the Squire's precautions and the uncanny attempts on his life.

On the other hand, he knew women to be credited with the bump of loquacity, and it was far from his intentions that his father should get to know of the efforts he was making to unravel the mystery surrounding old Mr. Carrington's terrible dread. In a conversation he had had that morning with the Squire, on being pressed by Laurence to confess that his fear was of something more than burglars, Mr. Carrington had begged his son not to allude to the subject at all. He could not, he said, and he would not, explain what the secret of his life was. "Even had I a secret, it were better," he had proceeded to say, "for your own sake, Laurence, that you did not know that secret, and it is useless for you to try and extract an explanation from me of my proceedings. And," he had added, as though fearing he had said too much, "you are wrong in imagining that my fear of burglars is a cloak for something else. I am, indeed, in mortal fear of—a—housebreaker!"

Consequently Laurence knew that it was useless to obtain a solution of the puzzle from his father, and, to the best of his knowledge, no one could supply that solution but—possibly the mysterious bicyclist, and the equally mysterious Major Jones-Farnell, who, Laurence was convinced, were one and the same.

Therefore, it would certainly be easier, he argued, were he to work hand in hand with another person who might be likely to help him in his detective efforts. And the collaboration was likely to be more particularly pleasant when it was with such a companion as the young girl at his side!

Thus it came about that, after a promise of the strictest secrecy, Selene was given a concise "précis" of all the incidents that Laurence deemed to be in any way connected with Squire Carrington's secret and the mystery of Durley Dene.

The girl followed the narrative with the deepest interest.

"Thank you so much for confiding in me," she said at the conclusion. "I hope you will never have cause to regret unbosoming yourself. There is one thing," she went on, "that, it is quite plain, must be done."

"And that is to beard the lion in his den?" suggested Laurence.

"Exactly. We must pay an informal call upon Major Jones-Farnell, and hear what he has to say for himself."

"That is easier said than done, I am afraid, Miss Scott," said Laurence, shaking his head; "he's a mysterious person in every respect. Why, there are four people living in the house, or supposed to be four, and yet but one of these (an old woman, who won't open her mouth, except to hurl imprecations at the village children when they cry after her) has ever been seen abroad in daytime. Then you must include in your list the creature I saw at the window, and the unknown bicyclist who doesn't wear boots, or, if he does, wears them under his socks, who, presumably, was also the person I saw in the garden; and that's all you know about Durley Dene. I believe the 'hodd man,' as our gardener calls one of the four residents, has been seen at night-time strolling about the grounds and smoking, but no one seems to have caught a glimpse of his face."

"Then," broke in the girl, "how does anybody know that there are four people at all?"

"That's smart of you, Miss Scott," replied Carrington, "but the house-agent's confidential clerk evidently considered it part of his duties to betray the confidence placed in him by passing the news on to a friend. That friend told his friend, and now everyone is aware of the fact."

"Ah! But, on consideration, don't you think there is one course open to us which is better, and perhaps safer, than 'bearding' the Major in his weird den?"

"No, I can't say that I do."

"There now, I'm a better detective than you! Why, we'll get the sour old lady who indulges in profanity to solve the mystery for us."

"But how? She's as silent as the grave!"

"Yes; and so probably will the Major be, but surely you have heard that if a detective knows he has to obtain certain information either from a man or a woman, he first goes for the woman? You know the saying, 'Woman is weak'? Well, perhaps this crusty old lady is no exception to the rule. She may be assailable by bribes, or possibly by threats; but, in any case, it will be easier to attack her, metaphorically speaking, than the men in their own castle, to which it would probably be impossible for us to gain access."

Laurence agreed. The idea, hardly practicable as it seemed to be, was at any rate better than his own of going straight to the seat of the mystery and showing his hand in an interview, which he might or might not be allowed, with Major Jones-Farnell.

Further conversation between the young people decided them that no better means of attempting the solution was possible.

The first question to be decided was where the "tackling," as Laurence called it, of the old woman should take place, how the scheme should be worked, and when it was possible for a start to be made.

For many reasons, the pair argued, it would be as well to set to work as soon as possible, since the first attempt on the Squire's life might at any moment be followed up by a second, and perhaps even more desperate effort.

There could be little doubt but that the position of anyone who attempted to frustrate the hidden enemy's murderous attempts was one of danger, and for this reason Laurence regretted, when too late, that Miss Scott should have elected to share that risk with him. In vain did he suggest that she should not endanger herself in any way, but remain behind the scenes, pulling the strings of the manœuvre by means of her suggestions and ready advice. She would have none of it. She was equally interested in the case as was her companion, and as to any question of endangering her life, she said that she had no fears on that account, since the mere encounter with a harmless old woman was hardly likely to prove a hazardous adventure.

At this stage of the important discussion afternoon tea and Mrs. Knox appeared on the scene, so, for the moment, further conversation on any but ordinary subjects was impossible.

After tea, however, the elder lady, explaining that she had letters to write, again begged to be excused from accompanying the young people. So once more were they at liberty to resume their conversation.

Laurence, in the meantime, had been able, by a judiciously worded question, to learn from the butler that the mysterious woman from the Dene was in the habit of doing her marketing on Tuesday evenings. Since this was a Tuesday, an opportunity would probably arrive very shortly for the proposed encounter with that lady. It was therefore necessary that they should decide their plan of action without delay. And this they proceeded to do, while taking a walk round the orchards, that stretched for half a mile downwards behind the house.

By the time they returned to the Manse it was within an hour of dinner-time, so each hurried away to dress for a long and formal meal, that proved to be somewhat tedious to the young people, very agreeable, owing to its sumptuousness, to good Mrs. Knox, and evidently a mere matter of form to the Squire, who sat motionless in his chair almost from the beginning to the end of dinner, hardly addressing a single word to his guests, or partaking of so much as a taste of the numerous delicacies placed, one after another, before him. It will have already been noticed that Mrs. Knox was not an exemplary chaperon, or perhaps she considered that Selene, or Lena, as the old lady called her, was sufficiently sensible to be able to take care of herself; or it is even possible that she was an expert match-maker. At any rate, she either did not notice, or did not mind, when, at the conclusion of the stately repast, and on the departure of the Squire to his own room, her charge, hurriedly donning a hat and cloak, left the house with Laurence Carrington. Had she known the intentions of the pair, she might have raised some objections, though anything that did not conduce to peace and quiet was hardly to Matilda Knox's liking!

On leaving the grounds of the Manse, taking as they did so a casual glance at the tumble-down, ivy-coated walls of the dingy neighbouring house, the two excited young people turned off towards the lower part of the village, where the few shops that the place boasted were to be found.

It was after nine o'clock, and beginning to grow dark. On the village green one or two stalls, surmounted by glaring "flames," were to be seen.

Country women in picturesque costumes, and accompanied by a varied number of small children, roamed about the street, gossiping loudly and unceasingly, and laughing heartily, when, in their opinion, occasion required.

Laurence and his interested companion quickly intermingled with this motley throng, eagerly on the alert, the one to catch a glimpse of the woman whom he had already seen on such occasions as this, the other depending upon her keen intuition to pick out from the rest of the crowd the person of whom they were in search.

For some time they sought in vain, and Laurence was beginning to fear that the woman had already returned to the Dene with her purchases of frugal provisions, when a harsh voice at his elbow caused him to turn sharply, and confront none other than the cloaked and closely hooded servant from the mysterious house.

"Keep close to her," he whispered to Selene. "We must follow her about, so that she doesn't give us the slip, but it will be impossible to speak to her until we get out of this crowd and into the quiet road."

They had not long to wait. After making a few purchases at the grocer's and butcher's shops (in both of which she was received with rude stares and uncomplimentary remarks, made aside), she entered the saddler's, emerging a moment later with a stout dog-whip.

What was the meaning of this last purchase? Laurence wondered. To the best of his knowledge they kept no animals about the Dene, certainly no dogs, which would surely have made their presence known very quickly by howls, or wanderings into the adjoining estate. Here there seemed to be yet another mystery.

The woman had evidently finished her shopping for the day. She turned and hurried off in the direction of her destination, closely followed by Laurence and Lena. Already they had left the shops behind them, and reached a quiet turn of the road, almost within sight of the Manse, when the woman, who was stout and tall, and carried a market-basket, deliberately turned round and faced them.

"What do you want with me?" she asked, in a hoarse voice.

Her sudden action caused Laurence to forget the carefully worded denunciation he had decided upon. For a moment the young man could not reply.

"When the children come a-following of me I box their ears for them," the woman went on in a loud, sneering tone; "take care I don't do the same to you!"

Her sarcastic words enraged young Carrington beyond measure. He took one step towards the scowling creature.

"Be careful," he said, suggestively raising a warning finger, "or I'll put the police on your track. There's something underhand going on at Durley Dene, and, if you don't tell me what it is, I will obtain a search-warrant, and then we will see who is going to be punished."

The woman started at his opening words, but as he went on, heedlessly confessing in his anger his ignorance of what actually was the secret of the Dene, she recovered herself, and sprang forward suddenly at the young man.

"Take that for your impertinence," she hissed, striking him a savage blow on the chest with the clenched fist of her left hand. Then, turning sharply round, she clutched at her print skirts, and fled precipitately down the road, disappearing in quick time into the grounds of Durley Dene. But in her activity, and when she had made the sudden attack upon him, Laurence noticed that the dark hood which had covered her head and effectually shrouded her face had been thrust aside. He almost gasped with astonishment when he perceived that the villainous countenance he was now at liberty to scrutinise was that which he had seen on the previous night pressed against one of the windows of the Dene.

He had hardly recovered from his surprise when Lena, after satisfying herself that he was in no way hurt, turned to him.

"Mr. Carrington," she said, "the mystery deepens. It was a man in disguise, and no woman, that struck you so determined a blow."

CHAPTER VII

THE HAUNTED BARN AND ITS STRANGE INHABITANT

With the discovery that the servant from the Dene was without doubt a man in disguise, the mystery surrounding the house adjoining the Squire's residence was considerably deepened instead of being in any way solved.

Laurence Carrington, as, smarting under the burly housewife's blow, he conducted his companion back to the Manse, hardly fulfilled his duties as host in silently meditating as to his next step. Suddenly he recollected himself.

"Excuse me, Miss Scott," he said apologetically. "This discovery has rather alarmed me, and for the moment I almost forgot that I was not alone. Come, it is getting late, and your aunt will be worrying about you. You must try and forget all about this skeleton in father's cupboard. It will be giving you bad dreams, and that would never do."

But if the young man charged Selene to think no more, for the present, about the uncanny state of affairs, he was unable, or did not intend, to allow this first reverse to put an end to his attempts at the solution of the mystery. Having wished Miss Scott and her aunt "good-night" on their departure to bed, he lighted his pipe and stepped out through the French windows of the dining-room on to the lawn. Fumbling unconsciously in one of the pockets of his shooting-jacket, which he had worn during the day and donned after dinner before starting off for the village, his hand came in contact with the small pistol which Head, the gardener, had found amongst the hay in the barn.

So many and varied had the events of the day been that he had almost forgotten the incidents of the stolen dinner and the rustling in the hay. Now it appeared to him that here was the most important clue he had as to the identity of the attempted murderer of the Squire. It seemed to him extremely possible that this was the weapon used by the unknown cyclist, for whose else could it possibly be, when no one in any way connected with the Manse carried firearms, except the Squire, whose blunderbus was certainly not to be mistaken for this? Careful examination of the pistol failed, however, to reveal any sign of the maker's name, and the hope which had risen in Laurence's breast gave way to a feeling of disappointment.

But a question of deepest importance that suggested itself to the amateur investigator was how it was that, if the strange cyclist came from the adjoining house, he had ventured into the barn which stood well within the Manse grounds. Had he been some chance enemy—the poacher, for instance, whom Laurence had already set down as a possible suspect—there was nothing more probable than that he should have taken refuge in the barn, but in the other case it was hardly likely.

One thing was undeniable, he had been there. Whoever the mysterious person was, he had stolen the gardener's plate of dinner and likewise his old coat. It certainly seemed improbable that Major Jones-Farnell, would-be murderer or no, should stoop to the robbery of old clothes and food. The poacher idea rose in the young man's mind, but was at once dismissed as out of the question. The Squire's secret had to do with something or somebody more mysterious by far than a mere poacher.

If the intruder had been in the barn at lunch-time, it was possible that he might be there still, though he had certainly disappeared completely before the gardener's manœuvres with the pitchfork.

At any rate, Laurence decided to have a look round before going to bed, and consequently strolled down to the barn and crept noiselessly inside. The moonshine peeped in from a roof window, lighting up the whole of one side of the fine old rambling building as though it were broad daylight. Puffing silently at his pipe, Laurence glanced round, peering up into the rafters, down on the floor, and into the loosely piled hay that surrounded him.

Suddenly, by that strange instinctive intuition that comes at times to us all, he became aware and convinced of the fact that he was not alone—that some one was looking at him!

Strive as he might to dispel the eerie idea from him he was unable to do so.

Under such circumstances, and bearing in mind the incidents of the last two days, any ordinary person might have turned tail and fled. But Laurence was no ordinary person, and he was as keen on the scent of his father's enemy as the traditional bloodhound. Thus it was that, instead of taking to flight from what was only an imaginary fear, he struck a match and held it above his head, gazing round him again for any trace of the person who he instinctively felt was watching him.

A second and a third match revealed nothing; but by the light of the fourth he scanned what was perhaps the darkest and remotest corner of the Cromwellian building. As he did so he fancied he saw something move on a ledge on which a roof support was fixed. In order to test his suspicions, he picked up a "stone," used for sharpening scythes, which happened to be on the ground in front of him, and flung it with all his athletic force and precision of aim at the indistinct mass which he believed to have moved a moment before.

A sudden shrill scream, about which there was something that (to use a well-worn phrase) froze the young fellow's blood with horror, broke upon the stillness of the great building, a scream which Laurence at once recognised as being exactly similar to that which the unknown cyclist had uttered when the lash of the carriage whip had caught him as he had fled away into the darkness.

And as that weird sound rent the air, the man who had caused it saw indistinctly in the gloom (for his last match had burnt itself out) a figure leap from the dark corner, and, with ape-like agility and speed, clamber up the rafters until it almost hung from the roof. Then, seizing some loose hay that had lodged in a cranny in the beams, it flung it down on the upturned face of the astonished spectator of this feat.

When Laurence had brushed away the hay from his eyes, the figure had disappeared, and, incredible though it may seem, no trace of it remained but the memory of that echoing, inarticulate shriek to prove that the apparition was not a mere phantom of the imagination.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SILENT HOUSE AND THE FOLKS THAT DWELT THERE

A sleepless night was Laurence's portion when, tired out, he flung himself upon his bed.

The mystery was deepening in an alarming fashion, and its intricacies were such as did not conduce to quiet sleep. That he had at last actually encountered his father's enemy he was quite convinced, but he was no nearer being able to account for the strange creature's enmity or even to recognise its identity than before he had met with this last adventure.

A few facts about the unknown creature were very apparent. Firstly, it was strangely agile and cunning; secondly, its voice was as remarkable as its agility, which was hardly human; thirdly, it was in possession of a bicycle, and yet was unable to obtain food and clothing without having recourse to theft; fourthly, it was of peculiarly small stature for a man; and lastly, it was able to use firearms, but with the loss of the pistol it had probably been deprived of its only offensive weapon, since it had not ventured to attack its assailant in the barn.

Laurence used the word "it" because he was in no way decided in his own mind as to whether the thing was a man, a woman, or, the idea occurred to him, neither of these two. Not that he believed it to be something that was not human, but because the marvellous manner in which it had scaled the barn walls was so suggestive of the monkey race. The idea that the creature in the barn was a species of monkey he at once decided, of course, to be absurd. A monkey might have stolen the missing coat and dinner, have thrown the hay down in order to cover its retreat, and have uttered that piercing shriek on being hurt, but it was hardly likely to be able either to ride a bicycle or use a pistol.

That it was a woman was more possible, and the young investigator's foundation for the idea was the remark of Miss Scott that her friend had declared the person lurking in the Marquis's garden to be a black woman "with coloured skirts." This remark, it will be remembered, was very probably the cause of the Squire's sudden illness at luncheon, shortly after the arrival of Mrs. Knox and her niece.

A woman might have performed all the feats that the unknown person had. She might have set light to the Marquis's house, believing the Squire to be yet in the building; she might have followed the carriage on a bicycle on discovering that the man she was dogging had left (though how she came to have a bicycle was a mystery in itself); she might have "held up" the carriage and attempted to murder the old gentleman; and it was just as possible (or impossible) for her to clamber up the barn wall as for a man to do so. To be sure, she must be a very remarkable woman. Since she was "black," she might be a negress or certainly some foreigner. Uncivilised and fierce she certainly was. But how came it that a negress (if such were the case) had so bitter an enmity against the harmless old Squire that it was the cause of all Mr. Carrington's careful precautions, and of the spirited attack on the high road? The mystery seemed hopelessly incapable of solution.

Morning came at last, and found Laurence no further advanced with his investigations. At one time he had decided to summon a detective, but recollecting how the Squire would take such an intrusion he considered it advisable to work alone.

What the relations of the woman (suppose it to be a woman) in the barn and the disguised man who had purchased the dog whip were, he had not yet ventured to guess, but one thing was quite plain: they were in some way connected.

A fruitless effort had been made to attempt the solution of the problem through the "woman" servant in the Dene. Equally impossible would it be to obtain any information from the Squire. The idea of conversing in any way with the woman (?) in the barn (even if she were yet hiding there) was more than ridiculous. Consequently, the original scheme was the only one left which seemed in any way possible.

Laurence felt that the sole remaining course open to him was to interview "Major Jones-Farnell"!

During breakfast (at which meal the Squire did not appear) he cast all meditation and worry aside for the time being, and set himself to the task of entertaining the two ladies. Mrs. Knox, however, wanted little entertainment. A good breakfast was quite sufficient for her!

With Lena it was different. Two of her greatest charms were her vivacity and the brilliancy of her conversation, and both these characteristics were brought into play during the breakfast-table talk that ensued—talk that naturally enough, in Mrs. Knox's presence, contained no allusion to the subject uppermost in Laurence's mind, if not in that of both. Consequently, the morning meal was prolonged to a somewhat unusual length. The young man could not help thinking that (in his own words) but for the mystery which he had set himself to solve, he would be "making a fool of himself and falling in love."

He was certainly given plenty of opportunities to do so, for Mrs. Knox made a point of retiring, as was her custom, at the conclusion of breakfast, after charging Lena to write a line to the Marchioness of Moorlands asking if she could be of any assistance to that lady or her husband in their present uncomfortable position.

"I'll get the letter written first of all," said Miss Scott to Laurence, after her aunt's departure, "and then you must show me some more of your lovely country. As a letter takes me about three-quarters of an hour to compose, I should recommend you to devote that short period of recreation to having a quiet smoke by yourself! Then, after your play, you can prepare yourself for some good hard work, for I want to be shown the woods, the church, and everything else there is worth seeing in the neighbourhood." And with a smile she bustled away upstairs.

Here was Laurence's opportunity. If he waited until Lena's return she would probably insist upon accompanying him on his visit to Durley Dene. This he did not mean to allow. If, as he deemed very possible, the visit might not be without a dangerous element, Miss Scott must certainly not share that danger. So, without any hesitation, Carrington took his cap, and, leaving the house, made his way by a short cut to the entrance of the Dene. The gate was not locked, so he passed through, walked with a bold step up the dark avenue of swaying firs, and, entering the ruined old porch, pulled the rusty handle of the bell with energy.

A distant clang disturbed the weird silence of the seemingly deserted mansion, but the bell was not answered, though Laurence waited for many minutes, deliberating in his mind the course of action he should take when admitted.

Once again he gripped the bell-pull, and dragged it out of its socket as far as it would go. Once again, too, did the harsh sound re-echo from within. This time the clang had hardly died away before a noise of shuffling footsteps was distinctly audible to Laurence's alert ear. The footsteps approached, the sound betraying the fact that the stone floor of the lobby was uncarpeted. Then there followed the metallic click of a bolt being drawn back, and the door swung open until slightly ajar. Laurence saw that the porter, whoever he was, had carefully fastened it with a chain that allowed an aperture of a few feet only. Simultaneously he saw part of a face that was glaring out at him. Though the interior of the house seemed uncommonly dark, he was able to recognise the features of the person in the doorway as those of the disguised man whom he had encountered on the highroad the previous night!

"Well, what do you want?" was the gruff greeting that proceeded from within.

"I wish to see Major Jones-Farnell," replied Laurence coldly.

"Oh, then he can't see you," came the reply, and the door was about to close again.

"Wait," cried Carrington, placing his foot against it; "I'm your neighbour, the Squire's son, and I am desirous of making the Major's acquaintance."

"I tell you, you can't see him. He's engaged. Take your foot away."

"All in good time, my friend. Do I understand that you refuse to take my message to Major Jones-Farnell?"

"That's about it. And, d'yer hear, take your foot out of the doorway, or I'll put it out for you."

"Be very careful, my good man," exclaimed Laurence. "I know who you are. You're the man who struck me last night when disguised as a woman. I know you. There's something mysterious going on in this house, and I shall not stop until I've solved it. Admit me at once to your master, or whoever the owner of this house is, or I go at once to the police and obtain an order to search the place on suspicion. My father is a magistrate——"

"So you think there's a mystery about this house, do you? Well, you're finely mistaken this time, my beauty. Even if there was a mystery it would take more than the likes of you to get to the bottom of it."

So saying, by sheer force the man thrust Laurence's foot back, banged the door, and shut down the bolt, leaving young Carrington in the same atmosphere of mystery as before.

And after the shuffling footsteps had died away down the corridor, unbroken silence once more fell upon Durley Dene.

CHAPTER IX

THE MAJOR'S MESSAGE AND HOW IT WAS DELIVERED

Selene Scott had finished her correspondence when Laurence reappeared on the lawn of the Manse, and was waiting, ready dressed, to go for the promised walk.

"Where have you been?" she asked, evidently guessing from Laurence's face that something unusual had happened. "Tell me, you surely have not visited your neighbours without me? You promised, didn't you, that you would take me to see this mysterious Major of yours?"

There was only one thing to do, Laurence decided, and that was to confess that he had taken another step in his investigations. Miss Scott was much interested in his experience, slight though it was. She plainly showed her displeasure though, because she had not herself been permitted to have a share in the adventure. "The old fossil of a porter might have acted quite differently when a real live lady was standing on the doorstep," she said, with a smile. "Promise me, now," she added, "that if you go again you will let me accompany you. I am just as interested as you are, and quite as good a detective."

But Laurence politely refused to give the required promise. He foretold experiences far less pleasant than those that had already passed, before he would be able to say that he held the key to the mystery of his father's strange dread. When he recollected that Lena was a guest, and that her connection with the extraordinary state of affairs was unknown to her aunt and guardian, Mrs. Knox, he felt that he would be doing wrong to make a promise such as the girl asked.

However, as he had already confided in her the history of the whole series of events that had happened during the last few days (and he regretted that he had done so when it was too late) there was no harm in relating the story of his adventure in the barn on the previous night. But Lena was no more able to account for the queer creature's antics than he had been, though she agreed that there was a possibility of that creature and the woman in coloured skirts (the mere mention of whom had caused the Squire to faint) being one and the same.

The engrossing subject of what both rightly called "the" mystery filled their minds, and throughout the long ramble in the Northden Woods that occupied the best part of the morning, no other topic of conversation was so much as touched upon. Yet in spite of this fact, Laurence felt that Lena was becoming more to him than a mere guest—a companion amateur detective!

A few minutes yet remained before luncheon, when the two found themselves back in the Manse grounds again, so Laurence fetched a couple of basket chairs on to the lawn, which was a small one, lying at the back of the house, and they sat down in the shadow of a monster holly bush, that was one of the most striking features of the place. From this spot they could obtain a mere glimpse of the tiled roof of Durley Dene, through a break in the line of bushes that, with a palisade of stout iron stakes, separated the grounds of the neighbouring houses. The holly bush must have stood at least sixty or eighty yards from the boundary line.

The young people had hardly ensconced themselves beneath the welcome shadow of the tree (for in height and size it was more like a tree than a bush) when suddenly something fell with a hard "plomp" on the soft turf, and rolled almost to their feet.

Laurence started up with an exclamation of surprise, and Lena also rose to her feet.

"What is it?" she asked, and her companion hastily picked up the round white ball that had caused her remark.

Whence it had come was a mystery. No one was near. Judging from the direction in which it had rolled on reaching the ground, it must have been despatched, either from the barn or the laurel bushes that bounded the grounds.

It was heavy for its size, and Laurence, on examination, found it to be something wrapped in a piece of white paper, which was tightly fastened round it. Lena leaned over him, curious and excited, as he proceeded to peel off the paper. When he did so, out dropped an ordinary round pebble.

"There, it's only a hoax!" cried Lena, looking quite disappointed.

"No, no," answered Laurence: "there's something on the inside of the paper." He smoothed the white sheet out on his knee, and then read aloud what was marked upon it in a small, shaky handwriting.

"Before calling in the police please pay me another visit, when I will see you, provided you come alone, and after dark.—J. F."

"Jones-Farnell," exclaimed Lena, and for a moment or two neither of them spoke.

"Of course you won't go," said the girl, after the brief pause.

"Of course I will, Miss Scott," replied Laurence promptly.

"But—oh, won't it be too risky for you to go—alone?"

"I hope I shall be able to take care of myself, Miss Scott."

"Yes, but——"

"But?"

"Suppose it's some trap to—murder you," whispered Lena. "Look at that letter. It is sent in a most mysterious fashion by a man you've never seen. It tells you to come alone and after dark. Doesn't that look frightfully suspicious? Don't you see that if they have got some secret, or are carrying on, as I shrewdly guess, some illegal occupation, what, Heaven only knows, don't you see, if this is so, and they know that you suspect them and are making investigations, that it will be greatly to their advantage to have you out of the way? You know what I mean."

"Yes, I understand your argument, and appreciate your good sense, but I'm sorry that I cannot take your advice. The matter, I feel confident, is one of life and death to my poor father. Is it not only natural that I should risk my own life for his, particularly when I am a strong man and he old and getting infirm? Besides, there may be no risk after all. We may be mistaken, though I can't see how. At any rate, it is my duty to go to-night——"

"To-night! Oh, not so soon, surely——"

"Procrastination, you know, Miss Scott, is the thief of time. To-morrow may be too late. Hourly, almost, I am dreading a second attempt on the poor old Squire's life, and if I keep my appointment to-night I may yet be in time to save him."

"But let me go with you. Do, please!" Lena cried, pleadingly.

"No, no, you must not endanger yourself. What would Mrs. Knox say?"

"I don't care what auntie says in the least, and——" she stopped short.

"Tell me," Laurence cried, as he turned to his young companion and, looking into her clear blue eyes, where he fancied he saw a glistening tear, forgot everything, his father, himself, and the mystery that was deepening around them, "tell me, why do you say this, why do you mind my going? What can it matter to you? Is it, tell me I am right, that you are urged by the same feelings that I am when I refuse to take you with me? Say 'yes,' and you will make me the happiest being on this earth, for the reason why I will not allow you to endanger your dear life is because I love you."