The Lavenham Treasure
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: From the serial in the "Evening News", Sydney NSW, 1936 Spanish John and his band of roughnecks have established themselves in a pub on Dartmoor, and it seems they are in search of the legendary Lavenham Treasure, concelaed somewhere on the moor by the long-dead privateer Henry Lavenham. The clue to the location is said to be in the current Lavenham family's house, and the hunt is on. Fairly short, and possibly condensed a little for serialisation, as was often the case. 55.000 words. I could find no cover, so I made one up using part of an old postcard photo of a Tor on Dartmoor.

THE

LAVENHAM TREASURE

(The Lavenham Mystery)

Ottwell Binns

1932

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13

__________________

From the serial in "The Evening News", NSW, 1936

Chapter 1

THE day was clouded, cold, with a sounding wind from the north which nipped the bones, whilst the by-road winding like a river through the recesses of the great moor was a very Via Dolorosa, full of loose stones, with perilous ruts and pools of water from melted snow. As he trudged the uneven way, burdened with a folding easel and a flat case that served for portfolio and paint box in one, Charles Lavenham softly cursed both the track and the wind, and miscalled himself for a fool for having been tempted to leave the main road.

Once he paused and looked back on the way that he had come. Far off, under the shadow of a tor that was still capped with snow, he saw a solitary house that marked the junction with the road he had left.

'Three miles,' he murmured, 'in obedience to a mere whim. Here's the hint of softening in the cerebellum.'

He laughed and then eyed with disfavour the desolation about him. Apart from the house on which he had looked back, a solitary farm in a fold of the moor, appearing utterly bleak and forlorn, was the only visible habitation. A few miserable ponies huddled together in the shelter of a wall were the only living things that redeemed the waste from deadness. Then he glanced down on the broken track where the fresh impress of motor tyres was visible in the mud.

'But the road leads somewhere. It leads―' He dug a hand into the pocket or his battered trench coat, and produced a letter, which he considered thoughtfully for a moment.

Then he laughed and completed the words. 'It leads to Charles Lavenham at the sign of The Three Feathers; and him I seek till I find.'

He looked at the letter again. It had been opened, and it bore his name; but he did not read it. As he considered it, the temptation to learn its contents came to him as it had done when, having seen it blown from the car, the tracks of which were at his feet, he had picked it up and found his own name inscribed outside.

'Why not?' he argued with himself a little.  'The name is mine. There may be another who shares it, but the letter―'

He laughed and put the temptation from him. 'No. All may be lost save honour. I will be poor, but virtuous still. But my name-twin I will find, to,;! I v.ill certainly do that.' He resumed his way, climbing an incline of the road which hid the forward view until he was at the very crest. Then he looked downward considering the prospect, and became aware of a solitary house, where a  'man was backing a brown touring car through a gateway.

'Eureka!' he cried, and hurried forward.

The car disappeared from view; but a minute or two later a man emerged from the gateway and entered the house by the front door.

'My twin,' he laughed; then looking round the wide monochrome of the moor added, 'A lover of solitude, apparently.'

The solitude, however, was not so profound as it appeared, for as he descended the hill he became aware of another man, half crouching behind a stone wall, a little way from the inn. A casual observer might have thought. the man was sheltering from the blistering wind; but two things which Lavenham instantly noted convinced him that such was not the case. The man was on the wrong side of the wall, and he was holding a field glass to his eyes. The glass intrigued Lavenham. For what could the fellow be looking for in the howling desolation! And why should he huddle there in the teeth of the freezing wind?

As he walked, he watched the man carefully. The wall, he noticed, whilst no shelter from the wind, was a screen against observation from the inn, which he quickly decided the man was watching. But why should anyone have a desolate moorland inn under such close observation as the field-glass implied? Was he interested in Charles Lavenham? He chuckled at the thought, and murmured aloud: 'With two Richards in the field the fellow will have his hands full.' The man with the field-glass, apparently becoming aware of his approach, ducked suddenly, and, crouching low, began to move away. Charles Lavenham, watching, laughed softly, for from the higher ground the crouching man was plainly visible to him.

'A very ostrich!' he chuckled to himself. 'The fellow thinks that if he cannot see the world, the world is blind to him.'

But why! why! why!

The riddle was insoluble, and, when presently the furtive man disappeared round an angle of the wall, Lavenham transferred his attention to the inn. It was a poor enough place, small and mean, tarred on two sides of it and on the roof as a protection against the harsh moorland weather. A stone porch sheltered the door, and on the lintel was a much-weathered signboard which proclaimed the name of the house and that of the proprietor.

As he approached the porch he stopped, ostensibly to read the sign; in reality to make a survey of the house. His halt, however, was a very brief one. Scarcely had he come to a stand-still, when through the nearest window, standing well bask in the room, he saw a youngish man observing him keenly. He affected not to have seen the man, and promptly moving towards the porch pushed the door open and entered the inn. Two doors, right and left, offered themselves, and he turned to the left, that being the door of the room through the window of which he had seen the watching man.

What he saw as he entered, intrigued him considerably. There was present only the individual whom he had glimpsed from outside, and if Lavenham read the signs aright he was a very uneasy man. The look on his sallow face proclaimed that, whilst the restless eyes gleamed with apprehension. He was standing by the fire, alertly, almost challenging!', and whilst one hand was in his coat pocket, where it made a considerable bulge, as if grasping something. Lavenham, a devotee of lively modern fiction, promptly suspected a pistol, and as promptly derided the absurd idea, then with a laugh gave the man greeting.

'Good afternoon, Mr. Lavenham.'

'The devil!' The man cried sharply, and jumped back a peg, whilst at the same moment the hand came from his pocket holding the pistol which the other had suspected and had mocked at as the creation of a fervid imagination. Charles Lavenham regarded the pistol with interest. Here was a situation common enough in his favourite fiction, but altogether new in his experience; but the implied threat of the pistol left him unperturbed.

'Well,' he commented, smilingly. 'Well! Here's a fine welcome for the postman!'

'Postman!' the man ejaculated. 'You!'

Lavenham, very much aware of the suspicion in the other's eyes as they considered his clothes, the easel, and the tin portfolio slung over his shoulder, laughed easily.

'For the moment, yes! This, for a guess, is yours.'

He produced the letter he had picked up as he spoke, and considered the address. 'Mr Charles Lavenham,' he cried, 'at the Three Feathers?'

'Where did you get that?' cried the other sharply, apprehension in his eyes, a shaking hand outstretched for the letter.

'It blew from your car up the road, three or four miles back. I retrieved it, and called after you, but you were too far on your way to hear me.'

He handed the letter over, and glancing at the pistol, laughed whimsically.

'You might put away that lethal thing, and call for a pint of bitter. It is out of hours, but if, as I guess, you are resident in the house that difficulty vanishes if you do the ordering. Having trudged four miles or thereabouts to restore your letter, I deserve a drink―'

The man looked at the letter and then at Lavenham. The suspicion still gleamed in his eyes. 'You have read it?' he began.

'Damnation!' broke in Lavenham, heatedly. 'I am no Paul Pry.'

'But you have come all this way to deliver a stranger's lost letter! You ask me to believe that!'

'You can believe or disbelieve! Are you going to call for the beer?'

'But why?' inquired the other, ignoring the question. 'Four miles in this freezing wind and across this heath! Why?'

Lavenham shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh! I had a curiosity to make your acquaintance, which, believe me, I now deeply regret.'

'But— Oh! blazes, man, who are you?'

Lavenham, knowing the surprise he was about to spring upon the fellow, chuckled to himself, and prepared himself for the incredulity which the other must exhibit.

'Charles Lavenham,' he answered lightly. 'Itinerant portrait painter, and candidate for Academical honoured―'

He broke into a very cascade of laughter as he caught the look on the man's face. 'You do not believe,' he cried, 'but I will do you a life-like portrait for a guinea and—'

'Charles Lavenham―' broke in the other. 'Curse it, man, you're trying to guy me! You read the name on this letter, and now you have the effrontery to claim—' The man broke off and backed a pace, lifting the pistol a little as he did so. 'You can't come that game over me. I'm too fly for that. You're one of—'

He interrupted himself as if he had found himself upon the brink of an indiscretion, and whilst he marked the fact, Charles Lavenham did not press him to continue.

'I will show you,' he said. 'A man does not traipse the country with his birth-certificate in his button-hole, but I have that here which will serve as well.'

As he spoken he slung the strap that carried the easel and tin portfolio from his shoulder, and opening the case, pointed to his name, done in white lettering on the japanned tin. It was smeared with paint of various hues, but still quite legible; and as the other stared at it, his surprise gave place to relief and astonishment.

'May I be shot! .... You really are Charles Lavenham '

'For the last 20 odd years I have been that!'

The man glanced at his pistol, laughed noisily, and cried:— 'It was the coincidence of the name that brought you along with this letter. Well—' he laughed again, and thrust the pistol back in his pocket. 'You mentioned beer—'

'I did! And I should like to drink it.'

The fellow laughed, picked up the poker and rapped loudly on the nearest panelling. The rat-a-tat brought a stolid faced girl to the door of the room, and the man having given his order, they waited without speaking until she returned with two mugs of beer.

'Your good health, Charles Lavenham!' said the man, as he took up the tankard.

'Your very good health, my twin,' answered the artist, adding with a laugh, 'and an easier conscience.'

'Now, what in thunder do you mean by that, man?' asked the other sharply.

Lavenham shrugged his shoulders.

'That pistol— it proclaimed apprehension, and apprehension is the sign of secret disquiet. 'Conscience,' as the great William says, 'doth make cowards of—'

'Oh, rot!' laughed the other noisily, and lifted the mug to drink. 'So! Then in the matter of your apprehension, it is, perhaps the man outside with the field-glass who deputises for conscience. '

The result of the artist's words was astonishing to him. The man dropped the lifted mug so that it smashed with a great noise on the stone floor, and into his eyes leaped a light of stark terror. With one hand clawing at his throat, his face all working, he stood there trying to speak, whilst his quivering lips refused their office. He achieved first a kind of stricken whimper, like a complaining whelp, then this became a gibbering, a strange inarticulate sound, such as Lavenham had heard once before in his life from the mouth of a man, who had stood in the dock and watched the judge who was to sentence him to death assume the black cap. So extreme was the man's fear that the artist feared he would have a fit; and with a thought of helping the man to get back his self-control he thrust his mug of beer forward.

'A drink perhaps—' The man shook as with a convulsion and stretching out his neck croaked a couple of words.

'Brandy— ring!'

Lavenham looked round for the bell, failed to find it, and remembering the fellow's use of the poker, picked it up and went through the appropriate ritual. The stolid-faced wench appeared, looked at the two men, and the broken mug and flood of beer upon the floor, with the incurious gaze of a cow, and the artist shouted to her: 'Brandy! Quick! The man's dying!'

The last statement might be an exaggeration, but the stricken man certainly had every appearance of being in extremis. He reeled to a chair; and dropped in it heavily, his hand still clutching his throat, whilst he made a kind of gibbering moan. The girl flew, and Lavenham tore loose the man's collar, threw open his shirt, and held back his head.

'For the Lord's sake, man―'

The girl came running with half a tumbler of brandy; and at her heels followed an elderly woman who throw up her hands and screeched at the sight of the inn's guest. The artist snatched the glass and thrust it to the man's mouth. The fellow's teeth rattled on the glass, and in fear that he would inadvertently bite on it, Lavenham made to draw it away. But the other gripped it convulsively, and carrying it to his mouth, gulped the spirit neat without so much as a cough or a splutter. Then he grew calmer, his face ceased to work, and though there was a quivering of the slack lips, and the shadow of terror in his eyes, he was in the way of becoming his own man again, as he proved a moment later, when the elderly woman began to express her relief.

'Lor', Mr. Lavenham, but 'ee did give I a proper turn. I thought vor sure―'

'Get out!' the man interrupted peremptorily. 'You too, girl! Shut the door behind you.'

The two hastily departed, closing the door as instructed, and the fellow spoke to the artist.

'There's a bolt on the door. If you wouldn't mind obliging―'

Lavenham shot the bolt, and when he turned saw that the man had the pistol in his hand again, and, still in the chair, was staring out of the window. A second later he fired a question. 'You said there was a man out there— watching?'

'With a field glass. He was behind the wall across the road, but decamped when he saw me coming―'

'Um! But he won't have gone! There were others?'

'I saw only one; but to be sure I never thought of looking for more.'

'But they'll be there!' The man made a despairing gesture. 'All round the house, I'll swear. There isn't a dog's chance. And I thought I'd shaken the fiends off, and was clear of―'

He broke off, and gnawed his slack under lip, whilst he stared at the artist as if considering some idea that had occurred to him. Lavenham, agog with a very lively curiosity, ventured to express it.

'But, man, you don't mean that the fellow I saw will attempt to do you an injury?'

'There are four others with him. There isn't one of them but would knife, or shoot, or hang me if he got half a chance,' groaned the other.

'Oh, but come,' protested the artist. 'This isn't Chicago. Things like that aren't done in England. The police―'

'Police!' the man laughed mirthlessly. 'Met a squad of them up the road, I suppose?'

'No; but―' The man waved a hand towards the window.

'On this God-forsaken moor anything might happen. These devils could burn the house and who'd be the wiser?'

A despairing look came into the man's eyes. 'I thought when I came to his place I'd be safe as a badger in his hole, and now―"

He broke off with an abruptness that was more significant than words, and rising from his chair, almost staggered to the window, where with a hand on the sill to steady himself, he stared forth on the bleakness of the moor. Charles Lavenham watched him, divining that he must be looking for the watcher with the field-glasses; and at the same time wondered into what strange business he had stumbled. The man's very real terror, the hint or desperate trouble, the manifest hopelessness, all implied some grave danger he had cause to fear; and that he believed his peril was imminent was very certain.

For a full minute he stood considering whilst the man continued to stare out on the moor, then he spoke tentatively.

'Look here, I might help you.' The other swung round at tho words, and demanded tersely.

'How?'

'Well, I could walk on to the nearest police station and―'

'No use! This is not a business for the police. You might as well fetch a parson.'

Lavenham had his doubts about the first part of the statement, it seemed I to him that there was something that really shouted for police activity; but he kept his thought to himself, and watched the other, who now seemed to be considering some matter closely. After a little time the man spoke again, tentatively.

'I don't say that you couldn't help me, if you would in a friendly way.'

'How?'

'Well,' replied the other slowly, 'do you know Notanam?'

'I have stayed at the inn there often.'

The man fairly jumped at the words.

'Man,' he cried. 'You're a godsend. The inn-folk'll know you personally and by name, and, by George! there are rooms engaged and waiting for you at this moment.'

'The deuce, there are?'

'Yes. I was going there tomorrow. But if you took my car―' He broke off and asked anxiously. 'You can drive?'

The artist grinned. 'I have driven a taxi in London in unhappier days.'

'Good! Then if you took my car and drove there tonight you'd draw off the pursuit, and I'd get clear away. Oh! for God's sake, don't refuse, man! No harm would happen to you; those fellows would just think they'd blundered pretty badly, and 'tisn't as if you weren't known at the Inn. An inquiry there would settle their hash in no time at all, and they'd never trouble you for a minute. I'm their game― And there's a thing besides that you could do— a thing that would be money in your pocket.'

Lavenham laughed. 'Money and may pocket in these days have scarcely a nodding acquaintance.'

'It might be worth twenty pounds to you.'

'A fortune!' cried the artist. 'How am I to earn it?'

'It's as simple as eating cake. You've got to take a letter to an address that will be on it, receive what is given you, and bring it to me to—"

'Not here?'

'Lord! no man. But if you watched The Times agony column I could give you instructions where to come— yes! That would be dead easy.'

'Dead easy!'' agreed the artist a little ironically.

'Then you'll do it? You'll do it— to help me!' cried the other excitedly.

'I might take the risk.' laughed Lavenham.

'Risk! There'll be no risk for you. You'll merely draw the hounds away on a false scent, which they'll abandon as soon as they discover the truth.'

The artist laughed again. 'When do I start!'

The other fairly jumped at the question and cried, 'My dear chap, you will go? Somehow I knew you would. You're the adventurous type―'

'An adventure at the end of which lies twenty pounds is not to be despised,' broke in Lavenham. 'But I shall want money for immediate needs. There will be the bill at the inn; and the truth is that my purse is suffering from slimness—'

'Don't mention it. Of course, it is up to me to pay for the rooms I engaged. Here you are.'

The man drew out a wallet as he spoke, and counted five pound notes on to the table. 'That will see you through, and provide rail fare to the place of our meeting when you have done the business.'

The artist picked up the money and thrust it carelessly into a coat pocket, then― 'The letter?'

'I will give you before you go. But you cannot start until dusk. That man with the field glass might spot you.'

He looked apprehensively towards! the window, then laughed a little nervously. 'Thank heaven, the dusk is falling. We will have the blind down and a lamp brought in. I shall call for the lamp whilst you draw the blind.'

He picked up the poker and rapped upon the panel. Whilst understanding quite well the reason for the task allotted to him, the artist moved to the window, and, reaching a hand for the blind-cord, looked forth.

Dusk, as his name-twin had said, was beginning to fall, but the length of dry wall at the other aide of the road was still clearly visible, and thirty yards away, above the crest of the wall, he made out the crown of a trilby hat. The watcher, it appeared, had returned. He pulled down the blind, and turned towards the fire, and as he did so the other asked quickly: — 'See any one?'

'Yes! There is a man behind the wall, down the road.'

A spasm of fear twisted the other's sallow face, but he said nothing, and when the girl came in with the lamp he was apparently his own self again, and proceeded to give the artist necessary instructions.

'Here is the letter. You will have no difficulty in finding the lady to whom it is addressed. The house is well-known and no more than half a mile from the inn at Notanam. I think if I send the message to the Times to 'Name-Twin,' to use your own phrase, it will be secret enough.'

'Secret as the grave, except for you and me.'

'Then we will let it go at that.'

AN HOUR LATER, in a night black as pitch with a suspicion of fog adding to the darkness, Charles Lavenham steered the brown touring car out of the gate and turned down the rough road. He had the head-lights on, but not the little light on the dashboard, so that his face was practically invisible to anyone watching across the road.

His namesake, for obvious reasons, remained in the house, and as the artist changed gears and accelerated he was conscious of the kindling of excitement that goes with the opening of adventure. That excitement quickened as a little way down the road, in the darkness that was not banished by the glare of his lamps, a tiny flame appeared. Someone, he guessed, had struck a match; and as he drew nearer the place, in the penumbra of the car's lights, he dimly glimpsed a man stooping over something— a motor cycle, as he guessed.

'Well—' he said to himself. 'A stern chase will be exciting.'

A little way on, he threw a swift glance backward, and saw a light flare  brightly and then go out.

'Having trouble with his lamp!' he chuckled, and pressed the accelerator a little more.  The engine purred sweetly as it quickened, and the car went at a good rate, bumping now and again in a pothole and once skidding a little on the loose surface. But he kept the pace going, up-hill, down-hill, until, looking back from an elevation in the road, he caught the star-like gleam of an acetylene lamp at least two miles away.

'Left him at the post,' he laughed. 'I shall be in Notanam by the time he tops this hill.'

But three minutes later, in a bottom where there was a water splash, he ran into a bank of fog. which forced him to go dead slow, and he was still creeping along, his eyes on a stone wall on his near side, when out of thee grey blanket of vapour in front came a sudden cry.

He pulled up dead, with screeching brakes, and a second later saw a girl step from the side of the road full into the glare of the headlights, and, shading her eyes with a gauntleted hand, move forward with the clear intention of speaking to him.

Chapter 2

AS the girl came forward, Lavenham noted that she carried a switch and was in riding kit. A second later, when the shading hand was lowered, through the mist he visioned a face of gleaming loveliness; with clear-cut features, soft curving lips, and eyes that were frank and innocent as a child's. Throwing open the door, he slipped out of the car.

'I am so sorry to trouble you,' began the girl apologetically, 'I am stranded. My horse has broken his neck out on the moor there. I wonder if you could give ride a lift in the direction of Notanam?'

'With all the pleasure in the world. I am going there.'

As he spoke, Lavenham glanced back up the road. The fog blanketed everything, and he could see nothing of the motor cyclist whom he knew to be out the way; but he thought he caught the sharp tuck-tuck of his machine. Then he spoke again.

'I am in something of a hurry, so we will not waste time. Excuse me.'

He slipped back to the driver's seat and took his place at the wheel. The girl followed him, and as they started she gave a little laugh of relief.

'Your coming was a god-send,' she said. 'This road is usually empty at night. I was afraid that I should have to trudge the whole way, and already I have walked miles.'

Her voice was cool, matter of fact, but with a ring in it that caught the ear very pleasantly, and which stirred the artist in Lavenham as her face had done. Engaged in driving, the mist offering difficulty, he could not look at her, though he would have liked to do so: but he could encourage speed and did.

'Your horse?'' he said tentatively, 'Do I understand that it was killed? '

'Yes. He is dead. We took a stone wall on the moor, and he fell. His neck was broken, and he died at once, poor chap. I am glad it was like that. If it had been a leg I could not have left him― and we were miles from everywhere.'

'You were fortunate not to be hurt,' said Lavenham, with some feeling.

'Yes.' The girl gave a shudder. 'Out there one might lie for days. I fell into thick heather and haven't a scratch.' She was silent for a little time, and as the mist thinned Lavenham quickened the pace: but before doing so he looked back through the little window in the rear of the leather hood. The girl caught his glance.

'You are looking for something?' she asked.

Lavenham laughed.

'For a motorcyclist. I am racing him. No doubt we shall get the glare of his head-lamp through the window when he is out of the fog.'

'Racing!' the girl cried. 'On a night like this, and a road that is like a gutter! But no doubt it is for a wager?'

'No! Just a whim of mine. I don't know the man. We chanced to start  together, and I have an ambition to keep in front.'

The girl laughed. 'I know the feeling. It is the obstinacy which makes one accelerate when someone is going to pass you. I suffer from it.' Her laughter sounded again. 'The safety-first people call it names, nasty ones; but  it is human nature to refuse to be beaten.' She looked through the back window.

'Not yet in sight I hope you will win. Mr.―. Mr―?'

'Lavenham.' As he gave the name the artist saw her start, then look at him a little curiously. A second later she asked:

'Did you sav Lavenham?'

'I did,' laughed the young man, adding, 'You seem surprised.'

'With occasion,' replied the girl. 'It is really a very odd co-incidence.'

'Of which I have no idea.' he answered, hoping that she would  elucidate.

But the girl did not respond. Instead, she shook her head smilingly. 'No, Mr. Lavenham! I shall keep the little mystery to myself until we meet again.'

'There is hope of that?'

'Why, yes,' she said. 'It is likely unless you change your mind.'

Lavenham saw a glimmer of light. His companion, it appeared, was acquainted with the name, and no doubt mistook him for the man upon whose errand he was going. He wondered for a moment if he should enlighten her; then, deciding against it, laughed cheerfully.

'I shall not change my mind.'

They ran into the village without once catching a gleam of any following light, and there, despite Lavenham's offer to drive her to her destination, the girl insisted on being set down.

'Thank you! I have but a little way to go. I will descend here. But I am glad you did not lose your race, Mr. Lavenham. Good-night.'

She moved on in the darkness, leaving Lavenham with the little mystery unsolved; and when the sound of her footsteps grew faint, he drove on to the inn.

The landlord welcomed an old customer without the least idea that he was a substitute for the man who had engaged his room, and Lavenham did not enlighten him.

'You will have no other guests at this time of the year,' remarked the artist, as they returned from the garage.

'Wrong, Mr. Lavenham,' answered the inn-keeper. 'I've two. The queerest birds! Both strangers here an' unknown to one another. One of 'em goes out every night with a hurricane lantern an' a butterfly net after winter moths, he says; though the Lord knows what he wants with em. T'other prowls the countryside by day, an' does conjuring tricks in the bar parlour at night. Some sort of foreigner, I reckon, an' has been in a circus in his time I'll swear. 'Tis fair wonderful what he can do. He's there now throwing a seaman's knife at the dartboard, an' pinning every number that any of the company calls. Offered to put the knife between the fingers of any hand spread open on the board; but there's no man will take the risk. They're a cautious lot, but not to be blamed. Knife is sharp enough to cut a finger off if he made a wide.'

Lavenham was interested . A man who could throw a knife like that was a rarity in a country inn.

'Some sailor, I expect,' he commented. 'I should like to see his performance.'

The landlord laughed. 'It's free, gratis, an' for nothing.'

They turned into the tap room, and Lavenham looked swiftly round. There were perhaps half a score of men seated on the benches watching the performer with bucolic wonder. They were what they seemed— nothing more. Assured of that, the artist gave his whole attention to the entertainer. He was standing at the far side of the room from his target, balancing a sheath-knife in his hand, plainly about to throw.

As Lavenham and the landlord entered he turned, flashed a glance at them, and gave a chuckling laugh.

'Ah, my host.' he cried, 'you are in the neeck of time. I am about to win you and all these others free refreshments. Eef you will keep quiet as the mouse in the hole―'

He twitched the knife upward caught it by the blade and a second later it passed like a flash of light across the room, and stuck quivering in the cork target.

'One!' The man flashed his teeth in a smile, and whilst one of the rustics returned the knife, explained to the landlord. 'I go the round of the clock, Meester Smale; an' our verra good friend VowIer pays the round of drinks. Eef I miss―' He shrugged his shoulders and laughed— 'But that is not possible, no!'

Lavenham considered the speaker carefully. Short and round, dark haired, olive-skinned, with eyes of a piercing blackness, there was little doubt that the landlord's judgment was right. The man was unquestionably a foreigner, of Latin ancestry. Italian or Spanish for a certainty. But what was he doing here, entertaining rustics in a village inn, and that on the edge of winter when visitors were as scarce as swallows? As he asked himself the question, Lavenham's mind went back to the man at the Three Feathers, to the watcher he himself had seen, and to the others of whom the man had spoken. Was this accomplished knife-thrower one of the crowd? It seemed possible, and as he made the admission he whistled softly to himself. If it were so it seemed that the arrival of his namesake had been anticipated—and that there was a possibility of eventful happenings which had not entered into his own calculations. Unless the other Charles Lavenham were well-known to the men who were watching him, he himself might come in for an undue share of their attention, and―

'Four! Meester Vowler, you may the money get out, and our host the cider may draw.'

The man laughed as he boasted, and flicked the knife in the air, caught the blade deftly, and flung it unerringly.

'Five!' he registered. 'The next time we are half way round the clock.' He balanced the knife in his hand, flung it upwards, caught it, and his arm went back. He was in the very act of throwing, when the landlord spoke. 'Mortal clever, hey, Mr. Lavenham?'

The knife sped widely, missed the target altogether, and stuck in the match-boarding a foot away. A shout went up from the rustics. The man who had made the wager cried out, jubilantly. 'Glory! I win. The drinks be on 'ee, mister!'

The knife-thrower showed no chagrin, but swung round and looked swiftly at Lavenham, then laughed at the landlord. 'You speak too quickly, my friend. I make a meestake, as you behold; and I have to pay for the liquor. But it was only a meestake. as I show you.'

He spoke sharply to the man who had returned the knife for him. 'You get me the knife each time, as queek as you can... behold.' He began the round of the clock again, wasting no more time between the scores than was needed to bring the knife back to his hand. In no time at all he had accomplished the test he had set himself; and when men were applauding and hammering the table he made a gesture of impatience.

'Give me the dart! I show you something!'

A man handed him one of the feathered darts. With apparent carelessness he flung it, making a bull's eye. Then he balanced the knife in his hand once more, threw it in the air, caught it, and flung it with a violence that had been absent from his previous efforts. There was a sharp sound and, split neatly in two, the wooden shaft of the dart dropped to the floor, leaving its pin in the cork. The rustics shouted applause, and the man turned to the landlord and the artist.

'I owe you for new dart, Meester Smale Yes! That is so! And one can buy a new dart, but not a new heart, hey? Now if a man had been standing there — poof. By this time he would have gone queek to heaven. What?... But now we drink. Yes. And I the reckoning will pay for all... You Meester Lavenham— I catch your name right just now, hey?— you will drink to my cost and pleasure? Yes... Meester Smale you will us all oblige.'

The landlord went to the bar and began to draw mugs of cider. The performer stepped across the room to the dart board to recover his knife; and Lavenham twisted a cigarette, frowning thoughtfully as be did so. What on earth did the fellow mean by his odd words? Were they a covert threat or warning addressed to himself? It was possible. He remembered how the man had swung round to stare at him after his wild throw; and he divined that it was the sound of his name as the landlord spoke it which put the man off his aim. He had remembered the name and ?

His thought broke off sharply; and in the very act of lighting the cigarette he paused with the match in his hand, whilst he listened to a sound which came from outside— the noise of a motor cycle with an imperfect silencer.

'Our friend of the trilby hat!' he thought. 'Late!'

He waited tensely. Would the man pass the inn?

A moment later he had his answer. The motor cycle pulled up just outside the uncurtained window. He stared through the latter in the hope of seeing the man who, he was assured, had followed him from The Three Feathers. As he did so he saw a man's face pressed against the dark pane whilst he peered into the room. He had not seen that face closely before, and so could not identify it; but it was crowned by a trilby hat, and the fact that its owner had arrived on a motor cycle was fairly conclusive evidence that he was the shadower.

After a couple of minutes the face was withdrawn, and as Lavenham caught the quick tread of feet in the passage he gave his attention to the door. A man entered the tap-room, the man who had taken stock of the company through the window. Watching closely, Lavenham saw the man's eyes go to the knife-thrower, who returned what the artist took for a warning glance, then the newcomer seated himself, and calling for beer, lit a cigarette.

From his corner, Lavenham watched the pair closely but unobtrusively. No further glance passed between thein, and they might have been the most utter strangers. The artist, however, was assured of the contrary. The fact that the newcomer's glance had gone straight to the knife-thrower, in conjunction with the latter's silent warning, to his mind argued previous acquaintance; and that conclusion was confirmed when presently the cyclist, finishing his beer, went outside and was followed immediately by the other. Lavenham made no attempt to spy on them; but now he as quite sure that the knife-thrower was acquainted with his name, and that momentarily at any rate he had mistaken him for the man at The Three Feathers. Would the newcomer be able to set that mistake right? If not, it seemed to him there were lively moments ahead. He began to think that the sooner his mission was discharged the better, and taking out the letter he had to deliver he considered the address for the first time. 'Miss Helen Lavenham, The Priory, Notanam.'

He whistled in surprise as ne read the name, then recalling the surprise shown by the girl whom he had succoured on the road, jumped to the truth. Here was the explanation. She had known the name, and mistaking him for his namesake was expecting a visit from him. He chuckled to himself. It was, he thought, an odd sort of coil: and as be considered the letter he wondered what mystery was behind it. That he would ever know seemed very improbable; but there was one thing he could learn that might be helpful; and without delay he sought the landlord.

'What is the name of that circus man, Smale?'

'Calls himself John Prado,' answered the landlord, 'which is a good enough name for a foreigner I reckon.'

'Yes,' laughed Lavenham carelessly; and turned away as the inn maid brought the news that supper was ready.

He followed her to a neighbouring room, where he found three tables spread, and the girl indicated one.

'This be your table, zur.'

'Indeed!' he said. 'And the others?'

'They'm vor Mr. Hammerton an' Mr. Prado, who like to feed alone. Between you an' me, Mr. Lavenham, they'm both a bit queer.'

Lavenham, knowing the girl, laughed at her confidence, and wagged an admonitory finger. 'Tryphena, you will be saying the same about me to these two gentlemen.'

'Not me, I know you, zur. But Mr. Hammerton, now, what, goes chasing moths by candle-light?' She broke off sharply as someone walked up the passage whistling.

'Cor!' she whispered. 'Talk ov the devil, an'―' She made an expressive gesture and fled.

Lavenham smiled, and whilst he ate, kept an interested eye upon the door, assured that in the next few minutes he would be making the acquaintance of the motor-cyclist.

He had not very long to wait.

Tryphena bustled in with a tray, winked broadly at the artist, and almost at her heels followed a man, tall, lanky, lean-faced, with a thatch of ruddy hair, and a fan-like beard of the same hue, which hung well down his chest. His eyes were hidden with blue glasses, he was dressed carelessly in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers which emphasised the thin, pipe-like legs: and the boots he wore were much begrimed, proclaiming that he went further afield than the roads would take him. For whatever reason he wore glasses, it was not that his sight was bad, for almost instantly he was aware of Lavenham's presence in the room, and to the artist it appeared that he was surprised. He saw the man start then he halted sharply, and Lavenham would have taken an oath that the eyes behind those blue glasses were regarding him intently, staring in a way that would have been impertinent had it not been veiled by the spectacles. Wondering at the man's surprise, the artist gave him the greeting permitted to strangers housed temporarily under the same roof.

'Good evening.'

'Good evening,' replied the other, with a cordiality that was surprising in view of Tryphena's description of him.

'It is very cold outside.'

'Very.' The man stepped forward to the fire, spread a lean hand to the blaze, and then looked at Tryphena, who was busy at the table which was set aside for him. 'One moment, girl,' he said, and then looked at Lavenham. 'I wonder if you would mind me sharing your table, sir. A man grows tired of his own company at times.'

'I shall be honoured,' Charles said, then nodded at the girl who stood waiting.

The newcomer left the fire and seated himself opposite the artist, and a moment later remarked carelessly: 'Do you know, sir, I think I can guess your name!'

Lavenham was a little startled, but laughed easily.

'Perhaps you have it from Tryphena there, as I have yours, Mr. Hammerton.'

'No!' replied the other sharply. 'I have not been gossiping, nor have I heard it mentioned here. Nevertheless, I am sure that it is Lavenham.'

'You are right, answered the artist, hiding his wonder under an air of: casualness. 'But how you know―'

'And for a guess, your other name is Charles.'

Lavenham laughed again, whilst he wondered if here was another mistaking him for the man at The Three Feathers.

'Pure wizardry.' he commented, 'unless you have seen me before.'

The other shook his head. 'No,' he averred. 'I have never seen you before. Mr. Lavenham, but for those who can read signs, your carry your name in your face.'

'The deuce!... You are the first who has ever been able to read them, anyway.'

The other laughed, and lifting a hand removed his glasses and proceeded to polish them on his napkin.

'Possibly, I am specially privileged,' he commented, and as he lifted his face Lavenham saw a pair of china-blue eyes full of dancing lights, which regarded him whimsically for a moment, before the glasses hid them again.

'I do not know why you should be,' replied Lavenham, utterly mystified.

'And I shall not tell you to-night. Another time, perhaps.'

The man dismissed the subject for another.

'You are a stranger here, I suppose?'

'Scarcely that,' answered the artist. 'I have stayed at this inn on other occasions.'

'Ah!' The interjection in Lavenham's ears seemed burdened with unnecessary significance, then the man spoke again.

'You have some special interest in the neighbourhood, perhaps?'

'None but that which it affords for the practise of my calling,' replied Lavenham, wondering where the catechism was leading. 'I am an artist.' He laughed and added: 'But perhaps you are aware of that as well as of my name?'

'No!' replied Mr. Hammerton tersely. For a little while no more was said, but as they ate, Lavenham was conscious that the man was scrutinising him closely through the veiling glasses; then abruptly the conversation was resumed.

'You know, of course, that there are two Lavenhams in the district!'

'I have learned today that there are two Lavenhams in the district, one of them a young lady―'

'A very charming young person, I assure you. I have seen her.'

'I am glad to know that since I am to make her acquaintance in inn morning.'

At the admission Mr. Hammerton removed his glasses and stared at Lavenham in unconcealed wonder

'You are!' he ejaculated.

'Yes,' replied Lavenham, deliberately. 'I have a letter for her.'

'The devil!' Mr. Hammerton's amazement was very plain. An odd light flashed in the blue eyes. Then he said excitedly: 'A letter for Helen— by your hand! You are someone's messenger perhaps? Do I guess aright? There is a man here―' He broke off and drummed on the table with his fingers. 'But no! Spanish John would not use you. He―'

'Who on earth is Spanish John? asked Lavenham, moved by strong curiosity.

'He is a guest of the house. A man whom you will do well to beware of. If, as I guess, that letter to Helen Lavenham is from— Perdition!' he cried, as a voice sounded in the passage. 'Here comes the man. Do not let him know your name!'

'He has heard it already, if that: Is the man who is speaking outside.'

'Then watch your steps! See there is a key in your door! And when you go to the Priory— go privately; for if that scoundrel knows―'

He broke off hurriedly adjusted his glasses, and rose to his feet as the man Prado entered the room; then went off quite suddenly into what to Lavenham seemed the wildest nonsense.

'I do not agree with you, sir. Sixteen legs in the outfit of the caterpillars of all Sphingidae, and practically all carry a horn on the second last segment. Bates shall prove it to you. I will fetch his book―'

He made a gesture that might have been a warning, and which certainly indicated the knife-thrower, then hurried from the room.

That the man had any indention of returning Lavenham did not believe. The excuse he had made for his departure was so groundless that it was obvious that he merely wanted to avoid the man whom he had named Spanish John, and of whom, as the use of the sobriquet indicated, he must have considerable knowledge. Nevertheless he waited for some little time; then, conscious that Prado was regarding him closely from the neighbouring table, he left the room, hoping to meet the moth hunter, and continue the broken conversation.

In that he was disappointed. Mr. Hammerton, it appeared, had departed on one of his nocturnal expeditions; and though Lavenham sat late, he finally sought his room without having seen the man again. There he took out the letter he was to deliver to Miss Helen Lavenham in the morning and considered it with speculative eyes, wondering what its contents might be. Then, with a laugh, he thrust it under a looking glass and sought his bed.

For a long time he did not sleep. His mind busied itself with the mystery into which he had stumbled, trying to link up the various points— the terror of the man at The Three Feathers; the watchers of whom he was afraid; the surprise of Prado on hearing his name; Mr. Hammerton's warning to make his visit to The Priory secret; and last, but not least, the baffling hint of their next meeting made by the girl whom he had befriended, but he got nowhere. The various points were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, that, try as he would, could not be fitted together, and only sufficed to make him wakeful.

His wakefulness was further accentuated by the rising wind, which caused the hanging inn-sign outside to creak and groan on its stanchion. Weary of his barren reflections he cursed the signboard fervently, but finally went to sleep with its creaking in his ears. The sound followed him in his dreams. He was painting a guinea portrait of Spanish John. As he squeezed the tubes on to his palate they squeaked. His easel groaned for no reason at all. The very brushes creaked as he set them into the canvas. His stool―

He awoke suddenly from his fanciful nightmare, to find that the creaking was real enough. He heard it quite plainly, but it was of a quality different from that which he had previously heard. It was nearer, more intimate— then suddenly the truth came to him. The door! It was there the sound came from But a locked door should not creak; and his heart beat quicker with sharp excitement as he realised that someone was entering the room.

Chapter 3

LISTENING TO the creaking door, Lavenham lay perfectly still, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom in the hope of learning the identity of the nocturnal prowler, who, as it appeared, had picked his lock. But he could see nothing. The room was pitch dark, and though there were matches and a candle on the chair at his bedside, to attempt to use them would he the merest vanity. He must find some other means of discovering who the intruder was.

After reflecting a moment he decided that the best course would be to wait until the man was well in the room then leap suddenly out of bed, close the door, and so compel the intruder to declare himself.

The plan was simplicity itself; but there came to him a thought which made him postpone its execution. It was desirable to learn what the intruder wanted, unless he was just a common thief; that could be done only by giving the man sufficient time to reveal it. So thinking he continued to lie as a man deep in slumber, still as the dead, but with eyes half open, peering into the gloom. The creaking ceased, but was followed by faint sounds as of someone moving cautiously; then followed a deep silence.

Lavenham guessed that the intruder was listening, no doubt with the idea of making sure that the occupant of the room slept. He remained perfectly still, breathing regularly, though his heart fairly bumped with excitement: then there sounded a faint click. Instantly Lavenham's eyes closed, and a second later he was aware of a beam of light playing on his face, making it difficult to keep his eyelids from quivering. After a moment the beam was removed, and opening his eyes cautiously he was aware that it was directed to a chair on which rested his portfolio.

The bearer of the light moved towards the chair and the artist came near to chuckling, as he thought that if the fellow wanted colours he would find them, but would find nothing else. The intruder stooped over the  chair. Lavenham caught just the faintest sound as the lid was opened and again tried to glimpse the man. All he saw however, was the dim outline of a form stooping over the chair, which told him nothing.

As he anticipated, the examination of the portfolio occupied but a very little of the intruder's time. The man straightened himself. The beam of the flashlight travelled round the room again, and fixed upon Lavenham's day-clothes hanging on pegs behind the half open door. The man moved towards them, and the artist speculated whether he was just a common thief or not. He told himself that in a moment that question would be settled, for in his wallet in his coat pocket reposed the five pound-notes which he had received from the man "The Three Feathers". No one could possibly overlook them, and none who was nothing more would leave them behind.

He waited, watchful, his eyes wide open, prepared to spring out of bed at the right moment, for he had no intention whatever of losing those five pounds. He saw the man's hand go to the inner pocket where the wallet was, and a little time after caught the rustling of paper, and guessed that the man  was examining two or three letters which the wallet contained.  He still could not see the man's face but the beam of the flash-light enabled Jinn to watch his hands, and he saw letters, and money alike returned to the wallet, and the latter put back into its place.

That proved to his satisfaction that the man was not a common thief.  What then was he looking for?  On the heels of the question the answer leaped to his mind very promptly. That letter lying where he find thrust it under the  looking glass― yes, that was it! But who was the man that he should know of it, and comes seeking it in the night? Almost instantly he thought of the blue-spectacled moth hunter! He was aware of the letter, and none other as far as Lavenham knew. But there was that man Prado— Spanish John. He had entered the dining room almost immediately after the letter had been mentioned.

It was possible that he might have been at the door, listening, in which case it was important that he should make sure. Very gingerly he raised himself on his elbow, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man's face. That was not possible, the fellow was standing in the angle between the wall and the half open door, with his back towards the room; and though the flash-light made the corner bright it revealed no more than a vague silhouette of the owner of it who, it seemed was now going through the other pockets of the artist's clothing.

Lavenham, however, was determined not to be baulked. Sliding to the edge of the bed he gently pushed the blankets and sheets from him; then slipped out to the floor, and began to creep in the direction of the intruder, with the intention of crashing the door. The misfortune of a creaking board stultified that plan; and at the sound the visitor swung round, his flashlight directed dazzlingly into Lavenham's eyes.

The next instant he leaped forward, struck the artist a body blow which knocked all the breath out of him, and sent him reeling back to the bed. He clung to the post for a moment, double with pain, unable to do anything; and in that moment, he heard the door close softly, and the key turn in the lock.

Knowing that now he was alone he groped his way to the candle, lit it, and looked round.

Save for himself the room was empty. There was nothing whatever to indicate that he had had a secret visitor. His portfolio was where he had left it, closed. His clothing was apparently undisturbed, and examination revealed that nothing was missing from the pockets. But for the pain of the blow, and the door locked on the wrong side, he might have dreamed or imagined the whole affair. He considered the door, debating with himself whether he should hammer upon it, and rouse the house, or wait until morning. Finally, he decided on the latter course. He had lost nothing, and to make a disturbance when the intruder was beyond discovery would not in any way help the elucidation of the mystery.

Placing a chair so that it wedged the door, he returned to bed, blew out the candle, and disposed himself to slumber. But sleep would not come. His excited mind, under the pricking of this new event, insisted on reviewing again the occurrences of the afternoon and night, seeking to link them to his unknown visitor. He failed dismally, falling all the time between two stools represented by Hammerton and Spanish John; the first of whom might be anxious to learn the contents of the letter the news of which had surprised him, whilst the second, having learned his name, and suffered a slight shock in doing so, might have come seeking to enlarge his knowledge about himself. Try as he would he could get no further than this, and he was left with a sense of wading further into troubled waters, the depth of which he had no means of knowing.

In the morning he had a surprise. When the maid brought him a cup of tea and his shaving water, he hurried to the door, meaning to bid her bring the landlord to him. He changed his mind, however, when, chancing to glance downward, he saw the key of his room sticking under the door. He wondered if last night intruder had placed it there when he left, or whether he had returned with it later. In either case the man had shown sense, for now there was no need to proclaim to all the inn that someone had gaoled him in his own room for the night. He could keep the matter to himself, and spot the Intruder at his leisure.

As it chanced he did not keep the occurrence entirely secret, for at breakfast he found himself alone with Hammerton, who greeted him with a friendly cordiality which rang so true that it precluded any possibility of his having been the surreptitious caller of the night. As he seated himself at the table, he remarked jestingly:

'Those 16 legs of the sphingidae, and their musical horn— Did Bates really support you in that? You forgot to return and tell me?'

The other laughed cheerfully. 'You think I know that? I never heard of the fellow till I read his name in a portmanteau encyclopaedia of the landlord's yesterday... I hope you dreamed pleasantly.'

'No! And I had unpleasant realities.'

'Ah!'

'Someone entered my room—'

'You locked your door? I warned you—'

'Oh, I locked it right enough. But the man who entered was cleverer than the lock.'

Mr. Hammerton laughed.

'He would be! I have seen Spanish John do marvellous things with a piece of wire.'

'You think it was he, then?'

'Besides yourself, my friend, there were three men in the house last night— our host, Spanish John, and myself. You may take your choice, I but I assure you I had nothing to do with the business, and if you think Smale had—'

'The idea is ridiculous. '

'Precisely! And if you believe me, there remains only one man who could possibly have entered your room.'

'Someone may have come from outside,' suggested Lavenham.

'No, Mr. Lavenham. Smale does not leave his door on the latch; nor does he trust only to the lock. There is a stout wooden bar which goes right across the door. It was in place last night; as I chanced to know, for I was the last person to enter the house, and I saw Smale slip it into place. But the windows, you would say? Well, take a look at them; A cat might get through— a monkey at a pinch, but a man— he would stick there till you chiselled the mullions out.'

Lavenham recognised the truth of the statement; and did not challenge the other's conclusion. Instead he cried a little testily: 'But what on earth did the fellow want? He went through my belongings, but he did not take a farthing.'

Mr. Hammerton laughed. 'Possibly he was not looking for farthings so much as for information. Your name— which you told me he had heard— probably intrigued him. He wanted to learn all about you, so―'

'But why?'

The other shrugged his shoulders. 'I am not in the man's counsels. But I can assure you that he is very thorough in getting anything to which he sets his hand. I think you told me last night that you carried a letter for a certain young; lady?'

'But Prado could not know that!'

'I would not be so sure. I remember he came in the room whilst you and I were talking. He may have listened outside the door; or he may have already known that you were a special courier―'

'I don't see how he could possibly know.'

The moth-hunter made a little grimace. 'You can take your choice between the alternatives. Spanish John did not pick your lock for nothing―' He broke off and asked sharply: 'He did not read that letter you carry?'

'No. It was not in thy pocket. He never saw it.'

'Good! Then my advice to you is to deliver it at once. You will be safer without it.'

'Safer?' echoed Lavenham in surprise.

The other nodded. 'That is the word, my friend. You carry another man's letter. Perhaps I could guess the man's name; and you may accept my assurance that he is a young scoundrel... But here is the point Why did he ask you to be his messenger? Why did he not carry his letter himself?'

'Well, there were pretty solid reasons.'

'Five of them shall we say, Mr. Lavenham?'

As he asked the question and caught the look in the younger man's face, Mr. Hammerton permitted himself a dry laugh. 'You are surprised that I know so much. I imagine you will be even more greatly surprised before you are through this business. But prophecy is out of date except with Old Moore. When do you propose to go to The Priory?'

'This morning.'

'Mind If I show you the way to the gates? There are reasons— five of them— why you should not, go alone.

Lavenham looked at the man of mysteries, not doubtfully, but scrutinisingly, while he wondered where he came into this odd business into which he himself had stumbled. The other noticed his keen regard, and possibly guessed what was in his mind.

'I should go as your friend, but even more as the friend of Helen Lavenham, whom I knew as a child.'

The artist reached his decision almost instantaneously.

'We will go together,' he said.

HALF AN HOUR later they started. As they left the inn Lavenham glanced up at the windows. The blind of one was still drawn.

'That man— Spanish John as you call him— lies late abed.'

'I would not be so sure of that,' replied Mr. Hammerton. 'I noticed before breakfast that there is a hiatus of a couple of inches between the sill and the bottom of the blind. The scoundrel is probably on his knees spying on our going ... Do not look round again until I tell you.'

They continued on their way until they reached a point where from behind cover they could see the inn, without themselves being observed. There crouching, the moth-hunter looked back, then gave a dry laugh.

'Spanish John is awake at last. You can see him if you look, my young friend.'

Lavenham stared at the Inn. The blind that he had noticed on leaving was now raised, and at the window was a man— Spanish John as he guessed— dressed in pyjamas, and apparently engaged in some form of Swedish drill.

'Um! 'he commented. 'A careful man. Does physical jerks before breakfast apparently.'

'You think so?' the older man laughed. 'There Is perhaps another explanation. Come with me, and I will show you.' The man led Lavenham across a narrow field and in the lee of the hedge halted.

'Now, my friend, look into the far corner of the field on the other side at that place where it makes a little bay in the copse there, and tell me what you see?'

The artist followed the direction and then answered.

'A caravan. There's a man on the steps. By Jove! He's got a field glass at his eye's.'

Mr. Hammerton chuckled. 'And he is not looking for Christmas, no; nor yet for wood pigeons. He is watching Spanish John at his morning exercises and receiving his instructions for the day.'

'Oh— you think Prado is signalling?'

'I am quite sure of it. I have seen him before; but though I know Morse I could not read the message, He is semaphoring with his arms— in some private code; I will lay you five, to one that in a little time we shall find that gentleman on the steps there at our heels— or some other spy. Come, Mr. Lavenham, I should not like the fellow to know that we had been watching him.'

They moved forward and reached the road again, walking on for a little while in silence, until Mr. Hammerton halted to praise the beauty of some faded-looking lichen on a wall; and incidentally to look back. As he did so, he laughed softly. 'Do not look round,' be warned his companion. 'It is as I told you. That man who was on the van steps is sauntering up the road. No doubt as to the instructions he received from Spanish John, hey? Let him follow. You are the quarry he stalks; and presently at the gates of The Priory I shall leave you and then—' he laughed cheerfully— 'then the stalker will become the stalked. Those are the gates we are making for— on the left there. Quite a handsome entrance is it not?'

As they approached the entrance Lavenham was constrained to own the correctness of his companion's judgment. Three stone pillars, each surmounted by some heraldic bird with wide wings, carried gates of iron beautifully wrought, of antique pattern, and excellently preserved. The double gates of the carriage approach were closed; but the narrower gate for pedestrians was slightly ajar; whilst within was a .lodge of moorland stone, with mullioned windows, and grey-flagged roof, with a little garden surrounding it. Beyond, at the far end of the approach was a small mansion, set against a background of dark green pines, with a tall flagstaff on the lawn iii front from which a flag fluttered in the morning breeze.

As he saw the flag, Mr. Hammerton started. 'Do you remember the date, Mr. Lavenham?'' he asked quickly.

'Why, yes, it is the fourteenth!'

'Yes! Confound it! I had forgotten— in my concern for other things. Well, a telegram― I—'

He broke off, did not trouble to explain what he had forgotten, nor yet the sight of the flag should make him think of a telegram.

'It will be well not to linger,' he, said abruptly. 'Our friend from the gipsy-van might suspect that we are more intimate acquaintances than we are.'

He waved a hand towards the gates.

'There's your bourne. Mine lies further up the road; and I shall have to negotiate the hedge unobserved of Spanish John's spy. Au revoir. We shall no doubt meet at lunch time, if not earlier.'

He walked on, swinging an odd-looking stick, and whistling the air of 'The 'British Grenadiers.' For his part, Charles Lavenham glanced once on the backward way, and saw a man with a grey trilby hat strolling slowly down the deserted road; then crossing to the gateway he passed the lodge gate into the carriage drive, aware as he did so that the strolling watcher had quickened his pace.

The lodge apparently was deserted. No one challenged him, and with a quickening excitement he moved in. the direction of the house. Soon he told himself he would prove his idea of the previous night, arid know whether Helen Lavenham were Indeed the girl whom he had befriended out on the moor. Possibly he might glimpse the heart of the mystery about the outskirts of which he moved blindly.

Before he reached the house a girl came in sight, running; at her heels a couple of cocker spaniels. The latter seeing him scampered towards him, pleasantly vociferous. The girl herself fell into a sedate walk. He knew her instantly. Here was the girl of the moor— Helen Lavenham, for whom the note in his pocket was meant. Momentarily, however, he forgot the note, absorbed in tho picture she presented. Her delicately cut face was a little flushed with running, the flush accentuating the gleaming loveliness which he had noted on their first meeting. The eyes again drew his attention. They were large, of a curious blue that had a sparkle like the inward fires of opal, with a directness of gaze that was almost disconcerting, but which was a revelation of an utterly candid soul. She wore no hat, and her small shapely head with the bobbed hair, side parted, and rippling in natural waves and curls was very like a beautiful boy's; whilst her figure, slim, with a delicate roundness at the bust, appealed strongly to his artistic eye.

She greeted him pleasantly in a voice that was cool as running water, and as musical. 'So we do meet again, Mr. Lavenham.' She gave a little laugh. 'And now you know my little mystery of last night.'

Lavenham thought of the other mystery that was yet unexplained, but laughed as be answered. 'The denouement is at any rate a pleasant one.' The flag overhead fluttered sharply in the wind coming from the moor and his eyes lifted towards it.

'One might think it was a gala day,' he began.

'It is,' she laughed. 'My birthday. So I fly the flag to let the world know— as was my grandfather's way. Those who are in the secret shake their head in solemn prophecy. "She'm growin' old-maidish, quick, Miss Helen be"— and there you are!'

'Many happy returns — if I may be so bold, Miss Lavenham,' replied the artist, with a thought to himself, that Hammerton must have known the meaning of the flag, the date of her birthday; and that the telegram he had spoken, of must be one to be sent in congratulation. But how the follow knew?

'Good wishes are never amiss,' laughed Helen Lavenham; then  more seriously added, 'But did you not come to bring good wishes only this morning?'

'No,' he answered. 'I have a letter for you.' He fished it from his pocket and presented it. The girl took it, opened it, real it quickly, and then looked at him a little oddly.

'Come!' she said. 'I will show you. '

Of what he was to be shown he had not the remotest idea, but he fell Into step by her side, and as she faced the November sun, her delicate beauty thrilled him; and he was aware of something more than an artistic interest, was conscious of that great kindling a man's heart knows truly, but once. Dumbly he paced with her to the house, wondering to what she was leading, aware that already he had glimpsed the greatest prize life had to offer; and presently he was in a small gallery, where a line of portraits hung on the wall, twelve in all. Before one she halted and laughed lightly.

'Here,' she said, 'is our black sheep turned saint, and there in the corner is the artist's signature... A curious device.'

Lavenham stared at the picture a little bewilderedly. What was in the letter he had brought he did not know, and what the picture was to tell him he had not the remotest notion. That scared man at The Three Feathers, in his funk . and hurry, omitted to inform him of that. It was sometimes more than a mere answer to the letter which was wanted; but what was required he knew no more than the I man in the moon.

A little blankly he stared at the portrait, and, as an artist, grew interested. whilst he racked his brain for anything that might serve to indicate what had been omitted from his namesake's instruction.

The picture itself was of challenging interest, portraying a tall, spare man, in middle life, in the costume of the 18th century coat and blue velvet, a yellow waistcoat, knee breeches, silken hose and silver-buckled shoes, he stood with one jewelled hand resting on a revolving globe, on which Africa and India were dimly hinted, whilst the other hand held against his heart, what was manifestly a Bible. The face of the man, darkly handsome, strong, enigmatic was arresting; and the eyes, a little sunken and brooding, had more than a hint of power, which was corroborated by the firm mouth. Not the man, thought Lavenham, to go about the world with a Bible in his hand— a sword seemed the likelier thing.

As he stared at the portrait he had an odd sense of familiarity with it. But he could not recall ever having seen it before; and explained the feeling to himself with the thought that it some time he must have encountered a print or reproduction of it. There was a name and a date on the frame which he read mechanically, HENRY LAVENHAM, ESQUIRE, 1746.'

So that was the name of this enigmatic gentleman with the brooding eyes; who one-handedly grasped the Bible whilst with the other he hold the world! Well it told him little enough. since he had not the needful key. His eyes went to the face again.

Where on earth had he seen―?

Helen Lavenham's voice broke on his thought.

'You seem perplexed?' she said a, little curiously. 'What is it?'

'Oh!' he laughed. 'I have an odd sense of familiarity with Henry Lavenham, esquire. I seem to have met him either in semblance or in the flesh; but for the life of me. I cannot tell where '

The girl's sudden laughter filled the gallery with music; then she asked:

'You really cannot remember. Mr. Lavenham?'

'Not to save my life'.

'Then come. I will assist your memory at the risk of kindling your vanity. This way, please.'

Straight across the gallery she led him. There, exactly opposite the, portrait, a great gilded mirror filled a panel of the wall. She halted him squarely in front.

'Stand just there,' she commanded merrily. 'And now look. You should see the reflection of Henry Lavenham esquire.'

He looked and saw the reflection of the portrait behind him. He studied it carefully, but saw nothing that could afford a spur to his memory. He looked round.

'Still, I do not see—'

Helen Lavenham's laughter rang through the gallery. 'There are two reflections in the glass If your modesty will permit you compare them. The key to that which perplexes you lies between the pair — I fancy.'

He stared in the glass again, first at the reflected portrait and then at the reflection of himself. Instantly, he caught the girl's meaning. The elusive likeness stood revealed. There were differences; the hollows about those brooding eyes, the furrows in the cheeks, the hint of dark melancholy: but there was essential likeness.; something that despite the differences could not be denied; a strong resemblance proclaiming the link of blood and race. For a monism he was too startled to speak, then he ejaculated: 'Great Harry! '

'Great Henry, you mean,' the girl said, whilst her laughter trilled through the room.

'I have no doubt that before he bought that Bible and got religion, he was called Harry Lavenham— for Henry has not the daredevil ring. It is too— too respectable to go with the skull and crossbones.'

Her laughter sounded again; then she faced him with a sober air. 'But perhaps, Mr. Lavenham, having found the likeness that troubled you, the riddle you came to read is plain to you'

It wasn't. It was indeed a seven-fold mystery.

As he turned to the picture anew, Charles Lavenham cursed his namesake at The Three Feathers, for leaving him in the air. He felt a fool, and was assured that presently he must proclaim himself both fool and an impostor. But with a desperate hope that he might yet save his face before this frank and lovely girl, recalling that she had mentioned the artist's signature, he looked for that, and stared at it as keenly as a man might stare at a thing that offered unhoped for salvation.

Chapter 4

THE SIGNATURE, if it were that, at which Charles Lavenham stared, was curious enough. In pursuit of his art he had seen miles of pictures in European galleries, with all sorts of signatures, placed here or there— sometimes on the hem of a robe, across a bush, or on an open book, and so on, as the fancy of the individual artist had dictated; but never had he seen one like that on which he looked. In the right hand corner of the picture, painted in a colour like that of faded ivory, was a skull and crossbones, a ghastly symbol, which notwithstanding the fading due to the passage of nearly a couple of centuries, stood out conspicuously against the dark background. On the grinning skull was what he took to be the signature proper; but which as he looked at it did not resolve itself into anything more than a curious hieroglyphic. It was roughly drawn in scarlet across the skull itself. An odd thing, he thought, and the more he stared at it the less intelligible did it become. Of the outer lines he could make nothing whatever. Look at them from what angle ne would, he could not make them take the shape of any letter, and finally he gave his attention to the smaller figure. Again he was baffled. He could make neither head nor tail of it, though he stared for quite a long time, and at length the girl said:

'You have, solved the riddle, Mr. Lavenham'

'No!' he answered slowly, 'No! It is not very clear, is it?'

Helen leaven ham laughed. 'It has puzzled some generations of Lavenhams, I believe. But I gathered from the letter you brought that the solution would be certain.'

'The writer of the letter has, I imagine, never seen that fancy piece of work,' he replied, laughing to conceal a growing embarrassment.  'If I could make a copy―'

'No need, Mr Lavenham,' answered the girl lightly. 'I have a photograph I can present to you. You must know that ever since I was a small child with a governess, have been interested in this picture of Henry Lavenham, and the story that was told of him.'

'There is a story, then?'

'Why, yes' The girl looked at him a little curiously. 'But surely you know.'

'No,' he answered. 'I know nothing

'But―' The girl's bewilderment was plain, and quite suddenly Lavenham decided to make a clean breast of the whole affair.

'I suppose you think I ought to know, but it is the simple truth that I know nothing, that I am just a messenger in profound ignorance of the message I delivered, and equally ignorant of what is expected of me further, the man who sent me having bungled the instructions. If you will listen I will tell you how I came to be here; for the truth is that I feel a most awful imposter―'

'Impostor! You!' The girl laughed a little incredulously.

'Unintentionally. I assure you. But tell me. From something you said last night you were this morning expecting a visitor?'

'Why, yes, you, Mr. Lavenham.'

'You were expecting Charles Lavenham, yes; but whilst that is my name, I am not the man who had made the arrangement to call.'

The girl's face expressed her bewilderment.

'But in that case how did you come to the Priory with that letter?'

'That is what I mean to tell you, for I am convinced that there are things behind the situation of which neither of us has the remotest idea.'

He did not wait for any comment, but, anxious lo convince her, plunged into a narration of the events that had befallen since his finding of the letter of the previous day.

Helen Lavenham listened in growing amazement, and at the end cried:

'And you do not know what mystery is behind it, Mr. Lavenham?'

'I have not the foggiest notion; but at a guess it has something to do with that picture there.'

The girl looked swiftly at the portrait, with its brooding face, then more to herself than to the artist, whispered: 'It would be strange, if―'

She did not finish the thought, but stared at the picture thoughtfully until Lavenham broke on her reflections with a question.

'Just now. Miss Lavenham, you mentioned that there was some story about your ancestor there. I wonder if you would mind telling me it, or at least indicating its nature. It I might afford some dun to the mystery.'

'Oh!' she replied, with a little laugh, 'there is no secret about it. It is known everywhere, and even hinted at in one of the guide books. The story is that Henry Lavenham, a younger son. with wild blood in him and a taste for the sea, left Devonshire and entered on the Guinea trade— was, in fact, a slaver, and later a pirate. At the latter trade, according to the legend, he prospered exceedingly, and on the death of his father and elder brother he came back to the Priory bringing with him great wealth. No one ever actually saw the treasure, but there is a story that is whispered in the countryside, even yet, that he returned to the Priory in the dead of night, in the very thick of a Dartmoor fog, accompanied by a single black servant, who was dumb, and that on the day after his return a newly made mound was found up on the moor which looked like a grave. It was a grave, for there is a family record that Andy Lavenham, that gentleman whose portrait hangs next but one to Henry, had it opened, and found there the bones of two men, with rusted pistols and hangers.

'Whether these two men were in any way associated with Henry Lavenham's return is not known; it is possible, but there is no doubt whatever about the black man, for there is a picture of him in the library, with an inscription 'Fidus Achates, painted by command of Henry Lavenham, whom he served.' So there is a core of truth in the legend, but whether there is more I do not know. If Henry Lavenham did bring a treasure with him he either incorporated it in the estate, or hid it where it could not be found.'

'That grave―' began the artist quickly.

The girl laughed softly. 'Ancestor Andy had that idea, but he found no more than the dead man's bones.'

'But if there should be hoarded wealth?'

Helen Lavenham laughed again, merrily this time.

'You share that conjecture with all the Lavenhams since Henry went to the family vault... When I was a child I used to dig secretly in the garden, looking for the hoard, and Andy Lavenham has left it on record that following the same search he was gruesome enough to open his ancestor's coffin, where apparently he drew a blank cover.... But you have now heard all the story which brings in that portrait, averring that the secret of Henry Lavenham's piratical hoard is there, though no one has been able to read the riddle. I had an idea when I got your note— or rather I should say the note of the man I mistook you for— that perhaps after all the solution had come at hand. You disappoint me terribly.'

Lavenham did not join in the laughter which accompanied the words. Whilst she had been speaking half-jestingly he had seen a glimmer of light on the mystery. It broadened as he considered, and whilst he stared absently at the man who, having sailed under the Jolly Roger, had caused to be painted that dread symbol on his portrait, his mind was at the gallop. Here was a possible explanation of those watching men, and of the terror of that man at The Three Feathers. It was far-fetched, of course, belonging to the realm of romance rather than of reality. But men did go treasure-hunting every day. Never a year passed without the newspapers mentioning some such quest. There were companies formed; expeditions equipped.

He whistled thoughtfully, then suddenly asked a question. 'Miss Lavenham, has anyone else, any stranger, I mean, displayed an interest in your picture gallery lately?'

The girl shook her head: 'No.'

He thought of the letter he himself had brought. There might be light there; but shrinking from appearing impertinent he forbore from questioning her upon it.

'That photograph you mentioned? If you could trust me with it for a little while―'

'Yes!' she broke in. 'But what, will you do with it?'

'I shall take it to the man who sent me here and make him own the truth. If he had the secret he shall proclaim it, for somehow I have a feeling that he has no right to divide my name with me. It may be no more than unreasoning  prejudice, but it is there.'

'I will get the photograph; and oh, I will come with you, if I may.'

'It is likely that he has already left The Three Feathers. But if he has not―'

'I should like to see him. If you will excuse me I will have my car brought round.'

She hurried away on the word, and planting himself before Henry Lavenham's portrait, the artist stared at It beneath frowning brows. The likeness to himself was rather remarkable, and suddenly he remembered the moth-hunter's conviction as to his name, and the odd remark that he carried his name in his face. Had Hammerton seen this picture, and was that the explanation of his wizardry? It seemed likely, yet he had Helen Lavenham 's word that no one had recently shown any interest in this portrait save only the scared man at The Three Feathers. There must be something else. The man simply could not have guessed his name in that offhand way without some very clear pointer; and he had displayed a familiarity with one custom of the Priory which was certainly revealing― That matter of the flag. But that was capable, of explanation. Any gossip in the village, or on the estate, even the Inn-keeper might have given him that detail and―

His reflections ended abruptly with the girl's return.

'If you are ready, Mr. Lavenham, the car is at the door.'

He left the house with her, and as she took the driving wheel he seated himself at her side. As they glided down the drive Lavenham kept his eyes open for the man who had been lounging in the lane. He saw nothing of him, but a little way inside the gates he had a glimpse of Hammerton standing among the trees, an alert look on his face, holding that curious stick of his in an odd fashion, two handedly across his chest exactly as if it were a gun, and he were waiting for a pheasant to go rocketing in the tree tops. Hammerton could scarcely have missed seeing the car, but he gave no sign, and as they sped on Lavenham was left wondering whether that alert look on the other's face was explained by the presence in the park of the grey-hatted watcher.

In daylight, unhampered by fog, it took but a little while to arrive at the crest of the slope from which they could look down on The Three Feathers. In the cold sunshine, it appeared less forlorn and desolate than on the previous day, when Lavenham had seen it in unfavourable conditions. But for all that it was very solitary; and as they sped towards it, the thought crossed Lavenham's mind, that here was a fit setting for a tragedy. In this solitude anything might happen; any crime be enacted, and yet go undiscovered for months.

He looked at the inn closely. Smoke was blowing from one of the ; chimneys; in the open, behind the house, a woman was hanging some linen to dry; but there was no other sign of life. His eyes ranged further across the moor. A few moorland ponies were the only moving things; nowhere did a human figure obtrude on the vast monochrome of dried heather and dead bracken. But whilst he stared, half a mile or so away, in the direction of a tor, which bald and grim lifted itself from the moor at the rear of the house, he caught sight of something that winked and glinted in the cold sunshine. A piece of glass or tin he told himself, thrown there by some careless tourist, and not yet covered by the growth of heather. But though he found an explanation of the quite common phenomenon, he amused himself by trying to mark the place, drawing in his mind an imaginary line between the tor and the inn along which the gleaming thing must lie.

Helen Lavenham drew the car up at the Inn. The door was closed, and knocking brought no response; so the pair walked round the house to the place where the woman was still engaged in hanging the family wash to dry. The girl was known to the woman, who immediately dropped a curtsey and gave her a civil good morning, adding a greeting for Lavenham whom she immediately recognised. The latter without loss of time went straight to the point.

'You had a visitor here yesterday, Mrs. Haynes, that man who was taken suddenly ill.'

'Left last night, zur, three hours after 'ee drove away with the car.'

'Left!'

'If I zaid he bolted, 'twouldn't be zo far out, vor one minute zo to speak he was zitting an' staring at the vire, an' the next he was a-shouting vor his bill an' in a 'ery sweat to be gone... Looked as if he'd seen a ghost an' was scared a'most to death.'

'Ah! Did you have any callers' here after my departure. Mrs. Haynes!'

'Two men called vor a drink. On a motor-cycle they was; strangers goin's on to the Duchy Hotel up to Princetown. Didn't stop no more than vive minutes; an' never left the passage though my daughter says one of them did take a look into the parlour where that young man was. It was just after they called that the man said he must be gone an' began the buzz like a bee caught in a maid's hair. There was fog out, an' the moor be dangerous vor a stranger when that be the case; but there was no stopping the man. He vowed the fog was nothing, an' then he laughed like a crazy man an' said a queer thing.'

'What was that?'

'Well, zur, he said that if the fog would hide a road 'twould hide a man too; an' he left me with a notion that he welcomed the fog which most folk would curse. Anyway in the end he paid the bill and went off carrying his suit-case.'

'Which way did he go?'

'Princetown Road.'

'And that was the last you saw of him?'

'The very last, though to be sure my daughter has a notion that a whole hour afterwards she hear men shouting up on the moor at the back of the house; but that I reckon be no more than a silly girl's fancy.'

Lavenham thought the woman might be mistaken in that judgment but he did not say so. Having learned all that the woman could tell him he turned away, and with Helen Lavenham by his side walked round to the front of the Inn.

'Another disappointment,' remarked the girl lightly.

'Something more than that,' he answered, staring round the desolate landscape.

'Ah! you think there were happenings here last night! Those men— the voices, that girl imagined she heard―'

'Yes, was thinking of them. It is possible that the pair were bona fide callers. But they had a motor cycle, as had the watcher of yesterday who crouched behind the wall there. And it is significant that the man whose message I carried to you departed so hurriedly after those men had called. That he was in a great funk is clear from Mrs. Haynes's description.'

He broke off and looked round, his gaze taking in the rising ground at the back of the inn. Then he remarked quietly.

'That girl may not have imagined those voices. I have seen her. She is the stolid kind not given to vivid imaginings. There may be something in her story.'

As he spoke he remembered the bright thing gleaming among the heather which he had marked on their way down the road, and an unreasoning desire to see it nearer at hand stirred within him.

'Miss Lavenham, do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes. I should like to take a walk as far as that tor there.'

Helen Lavenham's candid eyes met his in a straight gaze.

'You are not going to take the view?' she asked.

'No.' he answered frankly. 'The view does not interest me.'

The girl nodded. 'I understand. As it chances I want to go further myself. I left a saddle and bridle on my dead horse, yesterday, and I want to give instructions for their recovery, and for the poor creature's burial. Shall we say in an hour from now?'

'I think that will be ample time.'

'Very well, Mr. Lavenham, in an hour from now I shall be back. If you are not here, I will wait.'

Entering the car, she drove away; and left to himself Lavenham turned to the hill.

Beginning to climb he kept his eyes open, but saw nothing to indicate that anyone had passed that way for a very long time. The heather was unbroken; in. a strip of soft ground where his own foot left well-defined tacks, he found no print of other feet; and by the time he was half-way up the hill, he had decided that he was following a wild goose chase. His reason protested. Why should that other Charles Lavenham have come up here with the road beneath his feet, to have taken to the heather in a fog was stark lunacy for any man. But those men on the motor-cycle? If he had fled from them, being pursued he might, have left the road in an attempt to get back to the inn.

Half-way up the slope he paused and looked back, then carefully examined the hillside. The bright thing for which he looked was not visible. Either it had ceased to catch the sun's rays or it was hidden from his view by some swell of the ground; or one of the many boulders with which the hill was strewn. He took a careful note of the road, the position of the inn, and of the tor behind him, and then, instead of continuing in the direct ascent, began to move across the hill in an upward line.

From time to time he paused to survey the ground around him without getting any glimpse of the gleaming point that he sought. At last, when he had almost given up hope, it leaped into view some three hundred yards to his left, and higher up the slope. Marking the place carefully, as a golfer marks a driven ball, he hurried forward, still following the unreasoning impulse which had started him upon the quest against his judgment; for, as his mind urged anew, what could he expect to find, beyond a broken bottle or a discarded tobacco tin?

Advancing, he again lost sight of the gleam, but that did not trouble him now; for with the place well-marked, he could scarcely fail to find the reflecting surface. He reached the neighbourhood where the thing should have been lying, and looked round, a little eagerly. He saw nothing to account for the gleam. There was a litter of small boulders about the place, some heather and stunted gorse, but nothing else. He began to move between the stones, now this way, now that, as a man does when searching for something he has lost, and which he knows must be in the immediate neighbourhood.

Then quite suddenly he stumbled on it, and caught his breath as he did so. It lay almost at his feet, caught In a branch of springy heather— a white-handed, nickel-plated revolver.

For a little while he stared at it incredulously, without touching it. It was a strange thing to find lying there on moor-side, where probably not once in years came a man carrying such a weapon. He remembered, as he stood looking down at it, that the pistol which his namesake had produced so dramatically yesterday had possessed just such a shining barrel and chamber, and not for a moment did he question that this was the identical weapon.

He stooped and picked it up. A quick examination told him that it had five chambers, four loaded and one that had been discharged, the empty shell still in the chamber. But where was the owner of this neat and almost dandy weapon? And at whom or what had it been fired?

He looked carefully about, surveying the ground in the neighbourhood. He found nothing to help him to answer his own questions. The pistol in his hand was the sole indication that the man whom he had come to seek had passed that way. It stirred in him a great disquiet as he looked at it again. That discharged shell was very significant. It meant that the pistol had been fired almost immediately before it had been lost; for the chamber had not been turned, and the hammer still rested on the exploded cap. Had the chambers been all charged, he would have felt less concerned, since the owner hurrying up the hill, or perhaps stumbling among the rocks, might easily have dropped it without any immediate consciousness of his loss. But, taken in conjunction with the man's fear of those who watched him, and the voices that girl at the inn had heard last night, that empty shell was portentous. It implied that tragedy had befallen on this forlorn hillside, tragedy hidden under cover of lost night's mist and lost in this vast solitude.

Hurriedly, he turned to ascend the hill. The tor would give him a view of all the immediate neighbourhood, and maybe show him the whereabouts of the dread thing that he expected to find. A whole twenty minutes passed before be stood upon the granite's summit which lifted itself like a great jagged tooth above the hill.

There, panting, he looked forth, surveying all points of the compass in the immediate neighbourhood. A few sheep and a huddle of ponies were the only living things that presented themselves to his view But now he was not looking for anything living; and very carefully he searched the hillsides for the thing that might lie there, unrecking of the cold sunshine which now lit the great waste from mound to mound. Rock to rock, each gorse clump, each fold in the hill, he searched without making any discovery; and shivered before the iron wind which rang about the tor. At the very foot of the further slope, there was a little wood, a rare thing on the moor. It fringed, as he knew, a small stream that further down joined the Teign; and as he looked at them, in his eyes, the leafless trees had a gaunt, dark aspect.

'Perhaps there?' he muttered. 'It has the look; and no one ever goes―'

He clambered down from the tor and began to descend the hill, walking quickly. He had gone but a little way when something moving away to the left caught his eyes. He took it for a rabbit until with a gust of wind it lifted high and then flung down again.

'A hat!' he ejaculated.

He ran towards the place where he had seen it fall. Before he reached it, the wind caught the hat again, carrying it merrily across the hillside in a downward direction. He sprinted to overtake it and was conscious of a losing race, when to his relief the quarry was caught and entangled by a clump of gorse. At the same moment, whilst he was running, his foot caught in something that he had not observed, and he was flung heavily in the heather.

Chapter 5

SHAKEN though he was by the unexpected crash. Lavenham rolled over, picked himself up in a twinkling, and stared at the cause of his downfall. In the instant the hat which he had been pursuing was forgotten, for at his feet, burst open by his own violent, contact, lay a small brown suitcase, its contents partly strewn in the heather.

Amazement was the first thing that showed in his face, but  it quickly gave place to a look of deep concern. That ivory handled pistol which he had found: the hat which was the plaything of the moorland wind; this suitcase lying in the heather so far from the road, all pointed to one thing― and of that he did not like to think.

Mechanically, he stopped and began to gather the scattered things in the  case again, and as he did so came upon a foolscap envelope full of papers. With a desire to make sure that the owner was indeed the man for whom he had been deputising, he took out the papers, glanced at one of them, and caught the name of Lavenham. That banished all doubt from his mind. The man who had fled from The Three Feathers on the previous night was unquestionably the man to whom the suitcase belonged.

Assured of that he thrust the envelope into his pocket, thinking that a careful examination of the papers it held might throw light upon the mystery in which he himself was innocently involved; then he finished the repacking, and  when that was done fastened the case with the belt of his trench coat. That done he stood up and stared first in the direction of the gorse bushes where the hat was, and a moment later, to tho gaunt-looking wood at the foot of the hill.

That some dark thing had happened on this remote slope of the moor, he was convinced. A man might conceivably drop a pistol from his pocket , unawares or unconsciously, and in the dark he unable to find it  again. Anyone might lose his hat in the strong winds that blow across the moor. But a suitcase? That must have, been set down deliberately, or likelier abandoned by a man in a great hurry, perhaps by a man who had made the sacrifice of his possession, knowing that life was in jeopardy, as most certainly that frightened man at the inn believed his was.

But why had he come this way where nothing but a steep path offered?  No man in his senses would have taken to the moor in the misty darkness unless―  Yes, that was it— unless some great peril had driven him from the  road.

As he stood there he remembered Miss Haynes's description of the man's hurried departure from the inn, spurred as it seemed by fear. An absorbed look came on his face, and for a moment the wide landscape faded from view whilst he visioned the scared fugitive setting forth in the misty night up the Tavistock road, carrying his suitcase and bound for heaven knew where— perhaps only to the next inn. That odd remark which he had made to the woman was perhaps a reason for his selling forth in haste. The fog that hid the road would hide the man: but apparently he  had forgotten that if it afforded a screen for the fugitive it provided a screen for the pursuer. Somewhere up the road he had become aware of the fact, had possibly encountered those two men who had called at the Inn; them or others, certainly. In haste he had fled the road and taken to the heather, running wildly up the hill. There he had been in danger of capture, had fired his pistol, dropped it by accident and, being denied time to search for it, and continued his flight.

In vision, Lavenham saw him still running, a desperate, scared man, through the mist and darkness. Panting, breathless, he reached the crest of the hill, and plunged down the further slope. There he was hard pressed, and in his fear dropped the burdening suitcase in order to run the better. Down the hillside he went, tearing his clothes in the gorse, bruising himself on the rocks, and escaping complete disaster by a miracle. On he. went a shadowy figure in the dark night, with other shadowy figures at his heels: figures that did not bunch together, but were spread out in the manner of men who boat a field of hares. The pursued man ran more wildly, taking terrible chances among the rocks. Before him dimly-outlined things lifted themselves in the trees. He plunged into their sheltering shadows and was lost to Lavenham's vision. Where was he?

At the question Lavenham came out or his absorption with a start.

He looked down the bleak hillside to the dark wood; then a single word broke from him almost explosively.

'There!'

He cherished no doubt upon the matter. Since his encounter with the scared man at The Three Feathers all the events which had befallen had indicated possibilities of violence. The things which he had found; the discharged pistol, this suitcase, that hat down in the gorse, were all pointers along a tragical road. And that road ended in the dark too, at the foot of the slope; he was as sure of it as if he had seen the culmination of that wild flight in the mist and darkness of last night. He would find his namesake among those gaunt trees, cold and stark, with the last look of fear frozen on his face.

For a time he made no move to prove his conviction, but remained there, staring at the wood, reluctant to act. Why should he make the discovery and he involved in all the troublesome inquiries of an official I investigation! Ho knew nothing about the man. His encounter with him, though it had led him into an extraordinary situation had been of the merest chance; and his acquaintance was of the most slender. If someone else found the man in the wood it would be better far himself, and possibly even for Helen Lavenham, who could scarcely escape questioning if it were known that he had carried to her a letter from the man who last night had fled so desperately through the darkness.

'Coo-o-ee!'

He started at the hail and looked round. Helen Lavenham was standing at the top of the tor waving to him. He waved back, and drew a breath of relief. There, he thought, was his chance of escaping the necessity of going down to that dark wood, she was waiting for him. He would go back to her, and leave the grim discovery for someone else to make.

He began the ascent, carrying the suitcase with him. For her part, Helen Lavenham clambered down the tor and moved forward to meet him, with light springing steps, her lissom form outlined against her dress by the wanton wind, her face glowing, her eyes bright with excitement.

'You have found something, Mr. Lavenham?' she cried gaily as she approached him.

'Yes,' he answered as lightly as he could, 'a suitcase— as you see, and one that is full at that.'

'What?' she began laughingly, and then the mirth died from her eyes, the laughter froze on her lips, and the face with its delicate loveliness became exceedingly grave.

'That man,' she said half whisperingly, 'He carried a suitcase when he left the inn.'

'Yes,' answered the artist.

'And that―?'  She glanced questioningly at the case he carried.

'Yes,' agreed Lavenham, again.

Slowly the blue eyes ranged the hillside with the rocks, the patches of gorse, the dark wood at the foot, then came back and met Lavenham's in level gaze.

'You have found him?' she asked still in the half-whispering tone she had previously used.

'No! I found the case: but I have not looked for him since.'

'Ah!' she said. 'You were looking for him then?'

'Yes!'

'You— you think something has happened to him?'

'I am very sure of it.' he answered. 'A men does not throw away his suitcase for nothing. He may leave it in a train or a taxi or a shop, but―'

'No!' Her eyes went down the hill again. 'Don't you think we ought to seek for him? He may be lost or hurt, or lying exhausted―'

She caught the look on the artist's face and checked her conjectures. 'You do not think so, Mr. Lavenham?' The words were an assertion rather than a question. 'You think that something terrible has happened?'

'I am sure, he answered. 'You see on the other slope of the hill, some distance above the inn. I found this.'

He produce the pistol as he spoke, and Helen Lavenham looked at it in surprise, then she inquired: 'You think that it is his?'

'I am morally certain. You will remember that I told you that in his funk yesterday the man drew a pistol from his pocket. That pistol was very like this one, of which a chamber has been discharged.'

The girl nodded, then asked a new question. 'What do you think happened?'

'Well— for a guess— when he left the Inn he met the men from whom he, was running away; the two men on the motor-cycle who called, most likely, with possibly others. Desperately afraid, he left the road and took to the moor, and— and―'

'They caught him, you think?'

'I cannot think but that they did. You see they must have been fairly close, within eye-range at any rate, for him to fire the pistol at them, and you know what the night was— misty and dark. He could have seen no more than a few yards at best. Then this case he probably sacrificed it when they were at his heels. It may have held what they wanted, and he hoped that way to buy them off; or it may have been a mere jettisoning of cargo.'

'They caught him!' broke in the girl. 'I am sure they caught him.'

'I am convinced of that myself,' agreed Lavenham. 'They must have been close upon him. I do not see how he could escape.'

He himself looked back down the hill, and then added a little irrelevantly: 'His hat is down in the gorse there. It was blowing in the wind and I was chasing it when I came a cropper over the suitcase.'

Helen Lavenham looked at the patch of gorse, then she spoke with decision.

'We must look for him— find him!'

'Do you think so?' he asked. 'I was debating that question when you hailed me.'

'I am sure of it!' replied the girl. 'I had a thought that it might be better if you were not dragged into it. The letter I carried to you might involve you.'

'What matter? We must know what happened―'

'Very well,' he answered, setting down the suitcase on a conspicuous rock where it would easy to find again. 'We will go down to the wood there. I have a premonition― a hunch as the Americans say. I would wager a hundred pounds on it.'

They began to walk down the hill together, saying little; and as they approached the wood. Lavenham was conscious of a growing uneasiness. Whatever secret the wood might hold, it was likely to be an unpleasant one and not of the kind for the girl at his side to make first-hand acquaintance with. At the very edge of the trees, with the sound of running water in the air, he halted.

'Miss Lavenham, you had best wait ; here whilst I investigate.'

'But―' the girl began protestingly.

'I must insist,' he interrupted firmly. 'I have an idea that there may be something remarkably unpleasant among those trees. There is no need why you should have a nasty experience, unnecessarily. For your own sake it is wiser to do as I wish.'

'Well, If I must―'

'You must,' he answered, with a smile, 'if I have my way.'

He left her and moved into the wood. It was an eerie place, full of rocks covered with moss and lichen, a trap for unwary feet The trees were mostly oaks, with here and there one of another species which lifted itself above the oaks, gnarled and twisted by the moorland winds. A tangle of snake-like roots left partly bare, the earth washed from them when the stream was in flood, added to the difficulty of moving among the stones. Each now leafless bough, as also each trunk, was green or yellow with lichen, with odd black patches where the lichen had died; and here and there were tufts of whortleberry or some other stunted moorland shrub,  whilst everywhere there was debris, hay from the moorland farms, bracken, small sticks brought down to this place by some recent flood.

Once in the shadow of the trees, he stood looking about him. He could see nothing but the tangle of trunks and branches, and the stream purling between rocks. He moved deeper into the wood, stepping cautiously as there was need, and travelling up-stream where the wood was more dense. He looked about him alertly as he went, but saw nothing to justify the premonition of which he had spoken to Helen Lavenham. He listened, but nothing moved there; except for the wind strumming in the tree tops and the babble of the water, there was no sound.

He continued his exploration, looking to right and left, turning aside when the density of the wood called for closer inspection; and as he went doubts began to lift themselves in his mind. Had he after all been mistaken? Had the man, whose flight he had followed in imagination, turned aside before reaching the wood, and followed another course? Or, alternatively, had those from whom he fled overtaken him before he had come this far? Either alternative was possible, and he was considering the wisdom of continuing his search of the wood when he heard the girl crying to him excitedly.

'Mr. Lavenham! Mr. Lavenham. Oh, quick!' There was an urgent note In her voice, and it was clear that some unexpected thing had happened. Possibly standing outside the wood she had made the discovery which he himself had expected to make within; in any case it appeared she wanted him.

'Coming!' he cried, and, as well as he could, started to make a bee line out of the wood. The going was difficult The moss covered rocks were everywhere; there were slippery places full of decaying matter, holes where water had gathered; and it took him at least six minutes to break out of the wood into the open. He saw the girl, seventy yards or so away. She was standing with her back towards him, apparently staring uphill in the direction of the tor, and as he looked towards the rocky height, he saw a man hurrying among the boulders scattered at its feet.

Wondering who the man was, and why the girl should have called to him with such urgency and excitement, he ran towards her, shouting to attract her attention as he went. She swung round, then pointed to the man, still visible, running among the rocks at the foot of the granite pinnacle.

'That man,' she cried excitedly, pointing towards the running figure. 'He has stolen the suitcase. I saw him take it, and begin to hurry away.'

'Your car? Where is it?' he cried back, changing his direction.

'In front of the inn,' answered the girl.

'I'm going to use it! Wait for me!'

He hurried uphill in pursuit of the man who was still among the rocks, meaning, as it appeared to skirt the base of the tor, to go down the further side, making beyond question for the road. The going uphill was difficult. To run became impossible, and long before he reached the jumble of rocks, he was forced to slacken speed; and. as he did so, for one moment he saw his quarry clear against the skyline before he disappeared over the crest. The man had taken the right of the tor; but he himself bore to the left, knowing that was the shortest cut to the inn. The thought dictating this divergence was that the man was making for the road, where possibly he had some vehicle waiting for him; and the sooner he himself could reach the girl's car, the better was the chance of successful pursuit. Not for a moment did he entertain the idea that the fellow was some ordinary thief, who, seeing an unexpected opportunity, had taken the suitcase. He was as certain as the sun shone, that the man was one of Spanish John's associates; or even that formidable knife-thrower himself.

The prowling watcher up the road by the Priory had done his work well; and no doubt guessing the destination of Helen Lavenham and himself had followed alone, or with some of his friends, with all speed. Well, he should not get away with the spoils. No doubt there was something in the bag by which Prado and his crew set great store, or he would not have taken the risk of stealing it in this barefaced fashion. What it was Lavenham could not even guess; but he was annoyed at being outmanoeuvred, and resolved that he would compel the fellow to give it up. After all, he was not like that scared namesake of his at the inn; and as he felt the pistol sagging in his pocket and bumping against his thigh as he hurried, he gave a little laugh of excitement.

He reached the base of the tor, skirted it quickly, ad as he did so looked swiftly down the hill. That fellow with the case was there, running for the road where a small car was waiting. So far as he could see there was no one in the vehicle; if it came to a scrap the chances were at least even, whilst the pistol in his pocket might yet bet the odds in his favour.

Recognising that it was no use trying to outrun the man who had so good a start, he made straight for the inn where Helen Lavenham's car was parked, with Its nose in the direction at Notanam. The thief's car was facing the ether way, no doubt in the direction he meant to take, and he himself would have to turn, and so lose a little time in commencing the pursuit. But he was not without hope. The girl's car was a good one. It was probably faster than the other, and with speed on his side, on the long moorland roads where one could see a vehicle for miles, short start mattered little or nothing. Just as he reached that consoling thought, a second man appeared running from the direction of the inn towards the waiting car.

'Two of them!' he muttered grimly, 'Well―'

The pair reached their car almost simultaneously whilst he had still some four hundred yards to go to make the inn. He saw the man with the suitcase open the door and throw it inside, whilst his fellow ran round to the front of the car and stooped over the starting handle.

'Cranking up!' laughed Lavenham. 'Self-starter out of action! If only the blamed thing would jib!' The luck, as it seemed, was with him, for the man made several attempts before the engine fired, and in the time before the purr of the engine reached him he had covered a hundred yards. He ceased to trouble about the pair, for the moment concentrating on reaching the car which would enable him to follow and overtake them. The roar of the smaller car ascending the stiff hill on a low gear reached him quite plainly, as he threw himself into the girl's car; and the sound rejoiced him exceedingly, for it proclaimed a low horse power.

In the time it took to switch on and press the self-starter, he started the engine. In four seconds more he started her forward with the intention of turning the car at the side of the inn.

Bump! Bump! Bump!

Before he stopped the engine and jumped out he divined what had happened; and when he walked round the car his anticipation was confirmed. The two back tyres were down, flat as a board; and examination told him the cause, a couple of cuts in both tyres, done doubtless by a sharp knife. The car carried but one spare wheel, the pursuit was now out of the question.

'Diddled!' he ejaculated in a chagrined voice, and looked at the receding car. It was now well up the hill, and. whilst he watched, it topped the rise and disappeared from tight. There was nothing that he could do. The second men seeing him in pursuit of his accomplice with the suitcase had seen to that very effectively; and till the tubes were repaired, to drive the car at all would be folly.

After a moment's consideration he left the car in front of the inn, and with a thought that he would meet Helen Lavenham returning began to re-ascend the hill.

He reached the top without seeing anything of her; and from that high vantage looked down the steep slope in the direction of the wood. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Rock by rock, clump by clump he searched the hillside in vain. Unless she had deliberately hidden herself she was nowhere on the slope.

His eyes went to the wood again. He had left her at the very edge of it, and it was possible that curiosity might have led her to enter, even to search. The thought set him hurrying down the hill. As he went his eyes were alert for her re-appearance; and again and again inked the hillside without seeing anything of her.

He came to the edge of the wood at last. There he stood, and with hands at his mouth to make a trumpet, shouted her name twice.

'Miss Lavenham! Miss Lavenham!'

There was no response whatever; and with alarm quickening within him, he entered the wood, and turning this time to the right, downstream, he began to search for her convinced that some untoward thing had befallen. From time to time he paused to co-oo-ee or call her name, each time without receiving any answering cry; and then he caught sight of that which told him that at any rate he was on the right track, her footmarks in a half-boggy place.

He hurried on, then caught a little gleam of white through the trees, quite close to the river, at a point where the ground fell sharply down towards the water. He looked more closely, and saw that which brought his heart to his mouth. At the foot of the steep slope Helen Lavenham was lying in a crumpled heap.

With a thought that she must have slipped, and falling down the slope, hurt herself or at least suffered some blow which had knocked her senseless, he hurried recklessly down the steep place and within a minute was kneeling by her side. She lay quite still. Her eyes were closed, and she was so pale that the pallor might have been mistaken for that of death. But she breathed, and in utter thankfulness for that knowledge he hurried to the river to procure water to revive her. Filling his hat he hastened back, and had almost reached her when he suffered the shock of his life, a shock indeed so great, that the hat slipped from his hands, spilling the water, whilst a cry of sheer horror was wrenched from him. He understood, now, what had befallen Helen Lavenham, and a sick look came on his face as he contemplated the cause of her swoon.

Less than half a dozen yards away, from a bough of one of the larger trees, dangled the body of a man, his toes almost touching the ground. The eyes were open wide, staring glassily; the tongue was hanging out, half-bitten through, the face was black, swollen, and still wore the stamp of such agony that it was certain the man had died horribly. He had to look at him twice before he recognised his namesake, who the night before had fled from The Three Feathers in fear; and on whose errand he himself had gone that morning, carrying the letter to the girl who now lay there, white and senseless, almost at the dead man's feet.

Chapter 6

BEFORE THE first shock of horror was past, Lavenham's thought was for the senseless girl. That, wandering in the wood, she had stumbled on this terrific  thing, and overcome by the same horror that had shaken his own soul, had swooned, was very clear; and it was imperative  that she should not revive to look at the dreadful thing afresh.

Stooping swiftly he gathered her in his arms, and with her head lying limply against his shoulder, her body a dead weight, he began to stagger from the wood in the direction of the open moor. It was hard work. Twice he stumbled and came near to falling on the broken ground; once he stepped in a boggy place and sank half way to the knees; but gasping and staggering he reached the edge of the wood, and there halted to recover his breath. Then he moved forward again half a score of yards, and gently laid her on the heather. That done he waited another moment or two, looking down on the pallid and lovely face, hoping to see some sign of revival. For that he watched in vain, and at last was constrained to re-enter the wood to search for his hat, which was his only means of carrying water.

He found it, and with a single glance at the horror on the tree, turned to the river; and presently was kneeling by the girl's side, laving her forehead with the cold rivet water. Two or three minutes passed, then she sighed heavily, the heavy-lashed eyelids fluttered, lifted, and the blue eyes stared forth, dazedly, unseeing as he thought.

He knelt by her side without speaking, waiting for the light of comprehension to dawn in them. He saw them fix upon his face, a little bewilderment showed in them, then a look of stark horror, proclaimed full remembrance, and she started convulsively.

'Steady, Miss Lavenham!' he cried quickly; and as she stretched a hand, appealing as a child might have done, he caught it, and held it firmly.

'Oh-h-h!' she sobbed, shudderingly. 'In— the— wood—'

'I know,' he interrupted quickly. 'I found you there. I saw. Don't think of the terrible thing. Lie still Don't talk. Breathe slowly and deeply. It will help you to keep control.'

He saw her try to take the long breaths he advised. She achieved only a fluttering, gasping inhalation at the first two or three trials then she ceased to gasp, and as her breathing became deep and regular a little colour came back into her face, but there was still a look of horror in the blue eyes.

Deeming it unwise for her to linger in the neighbourhood of the tragedy, the sight of which had so overcome her, he asked tersely:

'Can you walk, Miss' Lavenham?'

'I will try.' He helped her to her feet; held her, as she stood swaying; then with his support she began to move forward.

'Capital,' he said, as cheerfully as he could, with a thought that he must keep her from thinking of the horror of the wood.

'Capital!' she gave a little hysterical sob. 'You will think I am a scared child.'

'Not at all!' he said. 'Not at all. Shall we try a faster step? There are clouds across the moor there; they may be emptying before we reach the top of the hill, and we shall be drenched if we are caught.'

She quickened her step without speaking; but a moment later she broke out.

'I must speak. That man in the wood— you saw him?'

'Yes,' he answered. 'But don't think of him! It will do no good.'

'But I must— I want to know— was he the man whom we came to find?'

'Yes!'

He felt her shiver and hoped for her own sake that she would let the matter rest there but it seemed she could not; that she must talk; and realising that if she unburdened her mind by speech it might after all, he ceased endeavouring to check her.

'I went into the wood,' she whispered. 'I came upon— upon him suddenly. I wasn't expecting— anything like that— I think I screamed.'

'Very likely', he answered. 'That was natural. Most women would scream in the circumstances.'

For a full minute she was silent, then, shivering a little, she asked: 'Do you think he died by his own hand or was he— was he—'

'I can't tell you. It looked at him only once. My concern was for you. I carried you out of the wood and then went back for water.'

He remembered something as he spoke. 'And, my the way, I have forgotten my hat, which I used as a bucket.'

'If you would like to go back, I feel sufficiently well to―'

'Not for worlds. We must get to the inn where you can rest and recover from the shock.'

'But I must get back to the Priory at once.'

'I am afraid you won't be able to do that immediately?' he answered. 'Do you carry a repair outfit in your car?'

'Of course! But why?'

'Because your tyres have been monkeyed with. Both the back ones have been cut through and are as flat as a pancake.'

'But who can have done such a thing?'

'A fellow who was waiting for the one who made off with that suit case. There was a car at the foot of the hill, and I suspect we were followed here from Notanam. I imagine the man saw me chasing his comrade with the suit case, and took that means of putting me out of action— a very effective way of doing it, too. I meant to follow them, but as soon as I started the car with the intention of turning it, I realised that I had been checkmated.'

'You think that the two men belong to those who were watching that— that other man?'

'Dead certain of it. Only to be sure they were watching us and not him, and―' He interrupted himself as a thought occurred to him, then broke out  sharply, 'My stars! That might be it!'

'Of what are you thinking, Mr. Lavenham? I cannot follow you.'

'It has just come to me that those two men may not have followed us at all. They may have come here to seek that which they took away with them.'

'The suitcase?'

'Yes, he reasoned. ' Assuming that they belong to the crew who were watching the man whose letter I brought this morning. Last night they were still at their vigil. They saw him leave the inn carrying the case. It is a fair presumption— no, a certainty— that they followed him. They lost him in the mist and darkness for a time, then found him again. But in the meantime he had disburdened himself of the suitcase. They wanted something from him, I imagine, wanted something very urgently for if mere revenge inspired their vigil, they could have killed him as he left the Inn, and before he had gone five yards from the door. They wanted something. When they overtook him they searched him without finding the thing they sought...

'Then they remembered the suitcase. The desired thing was possibly there. But the suit case had been discarded; it would have been easier to find it in the blackness of a coal pit than on a wide moorside in the misty darkness. So they came here this morning to search for it. And we saved them all the trouble. We set it on a rock plain for that fellow to see; and he helped himself to it. Yes, that I fancy, is the situation.'

He glanced at her as he finished speaking. The look of horror had gone from her face. There was a light of interest in the blue eyes. He had not talked in vain; for her thought was diverted from the horror in the wood below them; and her curiosity was stirred.

'But what could they have wanted?'

'Some secret,' he answered quickly. 'Something that possibly had to do with that picture you showed me this morning.'

Helen Lavenham stared at him in amazement.

'It seems preposterously absurd. And yet— If you are right, they killed him for it.' Her face paled again. 'Hanged him as if he were a criminal judged and condemned. Oh―'

Lavenham broke in on the words. 'You must not assume too much... The man himself may have sought the way of despairing.'

'No,' she whispered, her soul appalled by sudden remembrance. 'No! His hands were tied. I saw them.'

Lavenham had not noticed the fact that the stated. Its significance was unmistakeable. And realising the utter ruthlessness of those responsible for tho horrible deed he shivered a little, and then faced a problem which had been troubling him from the moment of the discovery of the dead man.

'Miss Lavenham, I shall have to report this thing to the police, but I do not see that you need be brought in... I cannot pretend entire ignorance of the man, since I met him at the inn here yesterday, and came here to inquire about him this morning. I shall have to answer questions, but, well, I shall keep you out of it. You must know nothing before Mrs. Haynes.... Even your car wheels must be no more than ill-luck to her... Do you understand?'

'Yes,' she whispered. 'And I am very grateful. It would be dreadful to have to say that I discovered that man... that I was looking for him―'

'You can add nothing material except.... er... I mean nothing to what I myself can detail.'

He had been about to say, except the contents of the letter which he had delivered that morning, but had checked himself in time. There had been nothing in that letter likely to lead to the discovery of the criminals; and for her to be dragged into any inquiry into tho tragic business for that letter's sake, seemed unnecessary. He continued quickly.

'We keep your knowledge secret between us, then? You know nothing, and you will remain entirely outside the affair. I shall explain to Mrs. Haynes before we leave, but you will be out of earshot, in the car to be exact. And we are not conspiring to defeat the ends of justice, but merely keeping you out of the clutches of that modern inquisition of the coroner's court.'

They approached the crest of the hill as he spoke, and whilst still just below it he halted.

'It will be as well if you can walk alone, Miss Lavenham. In two minutes we shall be in sight of The Three Feathers. All folk living remote from their kind are inquisitive and given to gossip also most country people have at knack of making five out of two and two. You would not like Mrs. Haynes to jump to an unwarrantable conclusion?'

The girl's face flushed rosily, then the blue eyes lost the gravity induced by the dreadful thing, they had looked on. For a second they gleamed with merriment. 'I understand! And it would be difficult to persuade her that last night we were strangers, wouldn't it?'

Lavenham laughed at that. 'It certainly would. I think we will not try.'

They passed the crest, and walked down the hill together, side by side sedately enough to starve even gossiping tongues, but on Lavenham's part with the sense of comradeship that was very pleasant, and on the girl's side with a feeling that here was one in whom she could trust.

Arriving at the inn, Lavenham made a careful examination of the deflated tyres. The cuts were clean ones, and to one who had driven a taxi in his time as he had confessed to the dead man over the hill, temporary repairs afforded small difficulty.

He set to work without delay, and in something over an hour tho car was ready for the road.

'Take your place at the wheel,' he said, 'I am going to break the news to Mrs. Haynes. Look as unconcerned as you can.'

He entered the inn and found the woman busy with preparations for midday meal. 'Mrs. Haynes,' he began, 'I have some news for you—'

'Um!' The woman's eyes, showed mirthful understanding. 'Ee an' Miss Lavenham be—'

'Wrong!' be broke in tersely. 'It is about that man who was here yesterday. I have just seen him.'

'Bobs-a-dying! The man be come back then?'

'No!... The truth is that he can never have gone far away. He is in the wood at the far side of the tor.'

'For the land's sake what be the man doing there? Hunting rabbits?'

'No! He is dead.'

'Dead! Lord save us!'

The woman threw up her hands. 'Then he went astray in the fog, as I did warn him. Where did ee find en, zur? In the river?'

'No! By the side of it. Hanging from a tree.'

'God have mercy!' the woman cried. 'Ee never say— why―'

'Quietly,' he interrupted. 'I don't want Miss Lavenham to hear us. It is no use shocking her with terrible news, you understand.'

'None better,' averred the landlady. 'But... God keep us! The poor man suicided then?'

'I don't know. That's for the police to settle when I've reported to them.'

The woman nodded. 'Iss! But that be what it be. The man was half crazed when he went from here. I guess he lost his road an' his reason together, an' was pixy-led into the wood which, he haunted―'

'Haunted? I hadn't heard.'

'Be true enough. Vive an' twenty years ago— a Johnny Fortnight— a packman 'ee understand— who'd been drinking heavy, hanged hisself down there, an' his ghost have walked ever since. My soul! Think of en with his ghostly eyes watching the man do the deed and maybe driving en to it, a hungering for company in his lonesomeness. I wouldn't go near that wood — no! not vor minted gold.'

'Well, you won't be asked. But the police will want to know what you can tell them about the man, I expect.'

'And that be precious little. Closer than an oyster he was... Lucky thing ho paid his bill... But I won't have en brought here, no ! A man dead by his own hand would set a blight upon the house.'

'That is not my affair, but the police may insist, you know. Anyway you have the news, and are prepared if they do. I must now go. The sooner the authorities are in possession of the facts the better, I think and I must get to a telephone. Good morning. You may see me again later in the day.'

He returned to the car, and before entering asked the girl if she felt equal to the task of driving.

'Certainly,' she answered. 'My nerves are better than appearances seem to warrant. That faint was due to the utter shock of that tragic thing.'

He took his place by her side, and when they were well away explained. 'Mrs. Haynes had no notion that you saw the dead man, so that is one stile crossed. But I must get to the nearest telephone―'

'The Priory is as near as any other place.'

'Then I will go there with your permission. I must let the police know.'

'You will tell them all that you told me— about those watchers, and man's terror and Spanish John?'

Lavenham considered, and after a moment replied.

'Not all, I think. That might drag you into the affair. I shall tell them what I know, not what I conjecture, and they will make their own deductions.'

As events befell, he did not require to go to the Priory to communicate with the police. Half a mile from Notanam, a bulky figure in uniform came into view riding a bicycle.

'There is Jago— the constable!' cried the girl.

'Yes. Please stop. I can give him the news and ne will make the report.'

'But I shall see you again? You will tell me what happens. I simply must know, Mr. Lavenham.'

'Yes,' he said. 'You shall hear everything, at the very earliest moment.'

The girl set him down and drove on.

Lavenham waited for the constable with whom, owing to his previous visits to Notanam, he had a slight acquaintance. He signalled to the officer who promptly descended from his machine.

'Good morning, sir,' said Jago genially. 'Wonderful nice day for the time of the year.'

'Yes,' answered the artist; then without preliminary opened out. 'Jago, there's a job waiting for you upon the moor, back of The Three Feathers. In the wood on the further side of the hill, there is a dead man hanging from one of the trees.'

'A dead man!' Constable Jago was startled, then recovering, sought information. 'Hanging did you say, sir? Then it is a case of suicide.'

'I don't know. Possibly not. His hands are tied; and that may mean foul play.  But you will be able to judge when you see him.'

'Who is the man? Some tramping fellow, I daresay?'

'Not quite that, Jago. He called himself Charles Lavenham.'

The constable stared at him like a man who was unable to believe his ears.

'Charles Lavenham, but— but, sir―'

'But that is my name, you would say? Quite true, but whether it was really, his or not I don't know. I met him yesterday at The Three Feathers. He lent me his car to come to Notanam. I have it here still, as he was going away. It appears that he started out rather late last night, walking and carrying a suit case―'

'Queer thing to do!' interrupted the constable, instantly fixing on a weak point of the story. 'You'd have thought he wanted the car―'

'That's just what he didn't,' broke in Lavenham. 'It might have helped him to get away quickly; but also it would have made his departure conspicuous, and he wished to avoid that, for the very good reason that there were men watching him, or so he averred, though I myself saw only one.'

'Watching him?' the constable grew round-eyed. 'What for, sir?'

'That he did not explain. But listen, and you shall have the story of my meeting with the man.'

The constable listened in growing amazement to the account, and at the finish exclaimed, 'Looks as if he expected trouble.'

'No doubt about that.'

'And if it's true that he's dead in the wood, he found what he expected I reckon. I'd best slip along at once; though I'm due to meet the sergeant at the cross roads in half an hour.'

'That is fortunate. You ride along and wait for him. I will go into Notanam and get the man's car, and we will run over together. That way you will both get to The Three Feathers quicker than by pedalling.'

He hurried on to the inn. Spanish John, he saw, in front of the fire, reading the morning paper; but there was no sign of Mr. Hammerton, and with a thought that the latter was still on the watch at the Priory, he avoided the other man, and getting out the car, drove away to meet the officers.

He found them awaiting him, the sergeant a keen-eyed man, who was plainly an enthusiast at his work. He took his seat by Lavenham, whilst Jago found accommodation at the back, and as they started off he spoke quickly.

'Queer story Jago's been telling me, sir. Did you know the man before you met him yesterday? I mean had you ever seen him before?'

'Never!'

'Yet he loaned you his car? That's rather odd, isn't it?'

Lavenham forced a laugh. 'Used I me as a decoy, I fancy, as I explained to Jago. Meant me to draw off the fellows who were watching him.'

The sergeant was silent for a full minute, then he leaned forward towards the dashboard, and after that spoke again. 'I should have said he was a very confiding man— no personal reflections, Mr. Lavenham— if the car had been his own.'

'Isn't It?' For answer the sergeant stretched a hand and touched a plate upon the dashboard, reading. aloud:— William Melhuish, Automobile Engineer, Tavistock.

'I know Melhuish. He lets out cars by the week. I fancy I've driven this one myself. I'll wager the man who lent it to you was the owner. Didn't care what happened to it if he got away, hey?'

'There may be something in that,' agreed Lavenham, with a side thought that if he were to keep Helen Lavenham out of the inquiry, he would have to walk very discreetly before this quick-eyed officer.

'You found things belonging to the dead man, I gather?'

'Yes. There's a revolver in my pocket that. I am morally certain was  his. There was a suitcase, but as I have explained to Jago, it was stolen by two. men who went off in a car.'

'Um! Business gets queerer. What made you go down to that wood? I never heard of anyone going there at this time of the year.'

'Curiosity, and a premonition the, man might be there. You see, I'd found the pistol and the suitcase, whilst there was a hat blowing about the hill side that I guessed was his. It was a natural conclusion that something had happened to that man, and as I could see nothing of him on the hillside, the wood seemed a likely place to find him.'

'Yes. That is true.'

They reached the top of the hill above The Three Feathers, and as they did so, came on a man with a push cycle toiling up the slope on foot. To his amazement Lavenham saw that it was the blue-spectacled Hammerton, whose face as they passed gave no sign of recognition.

'Queer looking bird, that,' commented the sergeant, looking round.

'Name of Hammerton,' said the constable. 'Lodging at Smale's at Notanam. Hunts moths at night. I've seen him.'

'Yes,' said Lavenham. 'An enthusiast.'

'A bit cracked, I should say,' commented Jago. 'To hear him talk about the insects you'd think they were diamonds.'

The sergeant lost interest in the moth hunter. Lavenham, on the contrary, found his deepening. He had left Hammerton in the grounds of the Priory, and here he was no more than half a mile from The Three Feathers. He found that fact puzzling, for whilst there had been ample time for him to make the journey twice over since their parting, he had no remembrance of having seen any cyclist other than the constable. Did the man know of the'' tragedy in the wood? It seemed almost impossible, unless—'

Lavenham was, so startled by the thought that came to him that unconsciously he pressed the accelerator rather heavily, causing the car to spurt forward, and moving the sergeant to a caution. 'Steady, sir! These hills—'

'A little mistake!' laughed Lavenham, and transferred his foot to the brake whilst his mind fairly raced.

Hammerton knew of the man who had been at The Three Feathers. He had named him for a scoundrel. He knew far more than he himself did about the mysterious business in which the head man had been engaged. He had. been out late last night. Was it possible that he had been over here; that he had been involved in that tragedy on the other side of the tor there? It was possible; and this unexpected presence in the neighbourhood seemed to indicate an interest that implied knowledge. Suppose it were so, then―

He was still debating the matter as he toiled up the hill with the two officers, and whilst they descended toward the wood, which, the sun being clouded over, had a sombre look. It began to rain before they reached it, wild moorland rain, whirling across the slope, and lashing them like whips. The last four hundred yards, they covered at a run, and arrived at the wood drenched to the skin.

'Phew!' whistled the sergeant. 'That was a steeper.'

'It still is,' commented his subordinate, as the rain drove through the wood. 'Well, we're soaked, and there's no sense in trying to shelter. Lead the way, Mr. Lavenham.'

Lavenham guided them in the direction of the tree where the dead man hung. It was still raining in sheets as they came in sight of it; and Lavenham gave an involuntary shudder as he looked at the hanging figure, which now was dripping as, if it had been taken from the river and hung there to dry, with the hair plastered grotesquely over the forehead by swishing rain. The sergeant stood in front of the dead man, wiping the rain from his eyes with the back of his hand, then lie rattled a sharp question.

'Mr. Lavenham, I thought you told Jago that this fellow's hands were tied?'

Lavenham thought quickly. Had Helen Lavenham made a mistake or had someone been here since, someone who had removed the bonds? He had little doubt of the answer. The girl had been too positive to be mistaken; and it was not a thing that if she had not seen it she would have thought of. Someone had been here. Who? Then he answered carelessly:

'I had that idea. I must have been mistaken.'

'You certainly were. The man's hands are quite, free.'

The speaker took a step forward, and again brushing the water away, looked at the dead man more closely, whilst Lavenham, keeping, his counsel, considered the problem of those free hands.

Chapter 7

CARELESS OF the drenching rain, the sergeant continued his examination, and as he did so offered a running comment.

'Look at the rope. It's made up of his own necktie and a long silk scarf tied together. Plain case of suicide I should say. Knotted the silk round his neck and the tree, and then stepped off the rock there. You can see where he dislodged the moss. He took chances with that rope, I reckon, but it held. It's wonderful how. strong silk is. Hemp's nought to it.'

Lavenham, listening, looked about as well as he could in the rain. Not for a moment did he accept the sergeant's reading of the case. Remembering Helen Lavenham's statement about the tied hands, he was morally certain that someone had visited the dead man since last he had been in the wood. And that visitor, whoever he was, had cut the bonds from the dead man's hands. He was as sure of that as of anything in the world. But why had it been done?

The sergeant's voice still expounding the matter provided the answer.

'There's not a doubt about it, Jago. The man was scared half to death, crazed, and hanged himself. But why he should be scared?'

Yes, reflected Lavenham, there was the answer. It was meant that it should be thought that the victim of this crime had been self-slaughtered. Whoever had been responsible for the dreadful deed had remembered the tell-tale bonds on the wrists of the dead and had returned to remove them, and so turn aside possible investigations. But who was the man or men who had so returned?

As he stood, staring through the rain, he saw in vision blue-spectacled Hammerton pushing his bicycle up the hill not half a mile from The Three Feathers. Was he the man? He had named the dead man for a scoundrel. He was, it appeared, involved in the mysterious business which had brought this man to his dreadful end; was he the one who had come here in the interval, since Helen Lavenham and he had left the place. If so―

The conclusion was inevitable. Whoever had come here had known of this dreadful thing, and the man who had that knowledge must have been a participant in the crime, if not the actual perpetrator. Again the sergeant's voice broke through his reflections.

'It is no good sticking here in this downpour. We must get someone to help carry the corpse to The Three Feathers. We'll want a hurdle and two other men. You'd better walk over to Salter's Farm, an' get the farmer and  two of his labourers to come along, Jago. I'll have a talk with Mrs. Haynes. Maybe I shall learn something about this poor fellow. But first help me to cut him down, and I'll go through his possessions. 'Twon't hurt him none, now, to lie on the damp ground.'

Jago gave the desired assistance and then departed.

Lavenham waited, watching the sergeant go through the dead man's pockets, and transfer all that he found there into a handkerchief. There was a well-filled wallet, a letter or two, some small change, a watch, a penknife, a leather key case, and some other trifles.

'The lot,' said the officer, straightening himself. 'Except that pistol you found, Mr. Lavenham.'

Lavenham handed it over, and the sergeant considered it critically. 'Um! One chamber discharged. Wonder if the fellow tried to shoot himself and lost his nerve at the last moment. I've known a man to do that just as he was pressing the trigger. A shot gun it was that he was using; and he broke half the panes in the window by moving his head out of the way of the charge.'

There was an alternative which did not seem to occur to the sergeant, and Lavenham forbore to press it. So long as the officer regarded the crime in that light, there was little likelihood of Helen Lavenham being brought in and that was all to the good.

A moment later the officer spoke again. 'Queer thing, the man should have your name, don't you think, Mr. Lavenham?'

Lavenham nodded. 'I have an idea he may have borrowed it. He didn't know me from Adam, and when I gave him my name he was more than a little incredulous. Though why he should take my name―'

'Saw it in the paper, as I did myself, yesterday,' answered the sergeant promptly.

'The devil you did?'

'Yes, 'twas in connection with a picture of yours bought by some gallery. Can't remember the name, but I've an idea it 'is linked with sugar—'

'The Tate?' asked the artist excitedly.

'That's the name, sir. Tate's Sugar and the Tate Gallery.'

'Sergeant, you're a bringer of good tidings. When we get to The Three Feathers you can have the longest drink you care to order. The news you bring is great. I've been half expecting it, but I haven't had a letter for a week, nor seen a paper for three days. But I dare say you're right. The man saw my name and borrowed it for some reason.'

'Better than Smith, Brown, Jones or Robinson,' grinned the officer, 'which-are the usual aliases. It's more natural and toney. Wonder what the fellow's real name was. Maybe those letters will tell us. But that was a funny business about the suitcase. Looks as if that pair might belong to the crowd who were watching him, that as if he wasn't just suffering from hallucinations.'

'There certainly was one man,' answered Lavenham. 'I myself saw him. He was behind a wall by the inn using a field glass.'

'Phew-phew!' the officer whistled. 'Then there was some ground for the scare which drove him down know what it was. You saw the watcher, you say? Would you know him again?'

'I might. Then again I might not. He was well away from me when I saw him,' answered Lavenham, deliberately exercising reserve.

'A pity,' replied the sergeant. 'It might have helped us to the truth if you could have been sure. And the man who could have enlightened us completely is there, snuffed out by his own hand, seemingly. Unless the man is known or his correspondence tells us something about him, we are likely to remain very ignorant so far as he is concerned.'

He tied up the handkerchief with the dead man's possessions, and then remarked: 'May as well move on, sir. There's nothing to be gained by waiting in the rain. Jago will see to the body.'

They turned to leave the wood, the officer leading, and as they stumbled among the roots and rocks Lavenham kept his eyes open for the bonds that had been about the dead man's wrists. He saw no sign of them, however, and though a little disappointed told himself that it was unlikely that the man who had cut them from the dead hands would leave them lying about for anyone to find. But he was none the less sure that Helen Lavenham had been right; and again his mind went to the moth-hunter as the man who might possibly be responsible for their removal.

By the time they reached the Three Feathers both men were glad to avail themselves of hot liquids and the great peat fire on the hearth. With his trench coat hung over the back of the bench, making a pool on the stone floor, and his back to the fire, Lavenham stared out of the window on, the sodden landscape, whilst the sergeant questioned Mrs. Haynes.

It was little, however, that she could tell him. The dead man had driven up on Sunday, five days before, and asked if she could put him up for a day or two. She had been only too glad, for visitors were rare birds and callers few at that end of the moor in November. Her guest had gone out a goodish bit mostly in his car; he had asked a lot of questions― more than anyone in the house could answer; and had seemed to be interested in the old stones on the moor. That was all she could tell them, except that his money was good enough, and that he'd given little trouble before yesterday, when he had got the jumps.

The sergeant nodded. 'You keep a register, Mrs. Haynes?'

'Iss. 'E don't catch me out there, Sergeant.'

'Your guest signed it?'

'To be sure; I'll fetch it 'ee.'

She did so, and the sergeant read the last entry. 'Charles Lavenham. Nationality— British. Address given— London.' He threw the book from him. 'Fat lot of help these registers are. London. Might as well have been the moon. It would have been as useful.'

'He left a book in his bedroom when, he went away. Maybe you'd like to see it, Sergeant.'

'To be sure. Fetch it.'

The woman left the room and presently returned with what was most obviously a guide book. The sergeant almost sniffed as he took it.

'Not much that's useful here I reckon.'

He began to turn the pages casually, and as he did so an envelope, which had possibly been used as a book mark, fluttered to the floor. Stooping, he retrieved it, and read the address:

James Carling, Esq., The George Hotel, Tavistock.

'Um! Wonder if he borrowed that envelope or—' He turned, the pages of the guide book carelessly, then he gave a jump.

'By jingo! Look there, Mr. Lavenham.'

The artist looked at the top of the title page, which was the place indicated by the officer, and read a name 'J. Carling.'

'May have borrowed the book,' commented Lavenham, 'or stolen it.'

'Maybe, but―'

The sergeant was already reaching for the bench where he had thrown the inn register. He gathered up the latter, opened it at the last used page, looked at it once; then chuckled.

'If he borrowed the book, he borrowed the owner's handwriting too. Just have a look, Mr. Lavenham.'

Lavenham did so. Then he nodded. There was no question whatever that the hand which had inscribed J. Carling in the guide book, and written Charles Lavenham In the inn register. The handwriting had character, and the identity of both inscriptions was unmistakable.

'James Carling,' said the sergeant. 'That's who the fellow was. He wrote it in this book before he rechristened himself, and why he wasn't content with his own name might tell us a whole lot if we but knew, which we don't. But I'm going to find out. There's the hotel and the garage at Tavistock. The folk there may know something. Then there's this envelope, and what is in that handkerchief. Between them they may tell a whole lot.'

But there was something else, also. Lavenham quite suddenly remembered the envelope which had fallen out of the suitcase, and which he had thrust into his pocket. It was there now. He was within an ace of producing it, when second thoughts prevailed. He had seen his own name there and it might be desirable to inspect the papers privately before handing them over to the police. He could easily plead that he had forgotten them, as indeed he had until that moment; and a little extension of that forgetfulness would make no difference.

The sergeant thumbed the guidebook again, then offered comment.

'Mrs. Haynes is right about the fellow being interested in the old stones on  the moor. Wherever there's a mention of them the page is turned down. I guess J. Carling must have been in the antiquarian line; and what a fellow wants with the old junk on the moor fair beats me.'

J. Carling's concern with the moorland antiquities had Lavenham gravelled too. Recalling the man as he had seen him, he did not seem to be of the type who grow excited about the crosses, clapper bridges, ancient pounds and hut circles with which the moor abounded. Yet there was Mrs. Haynes's testimony to his interest, and this book with its turned down pages for further evidence. The fact puzzled him considerably. He held out his hand for the book.

'May I have a look, Sergeant?'

The sergeant tossed the book over and Lavenham turned the pages with interest. Many of them were bent down at the corners, and on every page so treated there was some reference to Dartmoor's old stones and antiquities. In one or two cases there were pencil marks as if passages marked had held a peculiar interest for the owner of the book. He read one or two of the marked passages:

'We pass Hamilton Cross, a rough hewn slab, about four feet high, duly marked H.C., and also bearing the letters D.S., interpreted as Duke of Somerset, the former owner of an adjoining manor.'

Another marked passage had to do with the cross at North Bovey―

'that at one time served as a foot-bridge across the Bovey, but is now restored.'

There were others so indicated each one pencil marked having some outlandish feature in the way of history, or form or markings; two being distinguished from the other by having notes of interrogation pencilled opposite, but there was nothing to indicate what had been in the man's mind when he made them.

Lavenham could see nothing in the markings that pointed to anything but an antiquarian interest; and he handed the book back.

'I shouldn't have thought the man would have been interested in Dartmoor relics,' he commented, 'but apparently he was, and that accounts for him being here, perhaps.'

'Maybe he came here to hide from those fellows who were watching him,' said the sergeant shrewdly, 'and took up with the stones as a way of passing the time. Dartmoor's a damnably dull place in November.'

The sergeant left the room, and moving to the window Lavenham saw that the weather was breaking. In an hour it would be fine; and by then he would be on his way to Helen Lavenham to give her such news as was there, which was little enough.

A musing look came in his eyes as he thought of her. He had known her less than twenty-four hours and already she seemed to fill in his life. The remembrance of her loveliness moved him greatly as he stood there, and as he recalled how he had held her in his arms, his heart quickened. Then he laughed at himself as he saw where his thoughts were tending; She, it seemed, was mistress of The Priory, and he was a penniless artist who had been plunged into this odd adventure by a desire to earn £2 from a stranger.

No! It had not been that. Rather it had been the oddness of the adventure; and he was not penniless now, quite. That sale of the picture the sergeant had mentioned would put him in funds and would lead to the sale of others. It would be the beginning of prosperity and―

But all the same, it was preposterous for him to even think of that bright girl, with her candid eyes and comradely attitude, just because he had been privileged to do her a service that any other man might have done better. But then that service was not yet ended. If, as he suspected, the interest of those men who had been watching the dead Carling had its real centre at The Priory, as Hammerton had seemed to indicate, then he might still be able to help her.

It crossed his mind that possibly he might best help her by telling the sergeant all that he suspected was behind Carling's death; but even as the thought came to him it died. He visioned the officer's stolid face as he listened to his ideas— and laughed outright! The sergeant would think that he was cracked; or was emulating Sherlock Holmes or Nick Carter or some other of the great heroes of detective romance— and that would never do. He must know more before he spoke, and in the meantime the privilege of further service would be his.

It was all two hours later when he drove Jago and his sergeant back to Notanam, after being informed that he would be needed at the inquest, leaving the car in the sergeant's charge, entered the inn, to find the man whom he could best think of as Spanish John eating' a very late lunch. The man greeted him genially.

'Ah, Meester Lavenham, you also are among the late scholars. It is very naughty of us, but to save the trouble to the house we eat together, hey? Yes?'

Lavenham, following a sudden impulse, seated himself at the table and laughed.

'Smale won't mind. He is used to the vagaries of his guests, who are largely fishermen or artists like myself.'

'The eccentricities of the sportsmen and artists―' Mr. Prado shrugged his shoulders and laughed back. 'But they make good landlords— yes; and men like myself who follow quiet interests reap the benefit— yes!'

To Lavenham it appeared that the other was deliberately offering him a lead, and after a moment's reflection he took it as deliberately as it was offered.

'Quiet interests, you say, Mr. Prado. I wonder what they are; you have not a passion for moths like our fellow guest with the blue spectacles, have you?'

Spanish John laughed. 'But no! I do not care for the little things that fly by night, to catch them and spreadeagle them with pins on cards as I saw Meester Hamilton doing yesterday. But I am crazy on the Druid remains of the moor, with those strange circles and old crosses which perhaps you also are interested in?'

Lavenham almost whistled with surprise. Here, it seemed, was something this man had in common with that dead man at The Three Feathers. He wondered swiftly if the reason for that interest were the same; then laughed.

'You can have them all for me. I care nothing for antiquarian lore.'

'You are the bad boy, Mr. Lavenham.' Spanish John wagged an admonitory finger as he spoke. 'But the antiquities may not be so dry-as-dust as you suppose. They have, shall we say, subsidiary interests, and those interests are— er— more intriguing than the ancient ones, as I daresay you know.'

The man's dark eyes, smilingly enigmatic, met Lavenham's as he spoke, and the artist realised that the words were in the nature of a challenge, but he gave no sign.

'I do not know of any such interests,' he answered easily.

'Indeed, sir.'  The other was politely sceptical, and there was no doubt that he was hinting at something of which Lavenham was in profound ignorance. Then he laughed genially. 'But of course, as an artist your interest will be in pictures, yes? I am right, am I not?'

Lavenham with a notion that the man was laughing at him, was not disposed to let him have things altogether his own way. He tried a lead of his own.

'Just now my interests are in a dead man whom I found hanging in a wood at the back of The Three Feathers Inn, which place I daresay you know.'

The other puckered his brows and shook his head. 'No,' he answered. 'I do not know of such an inn. But you spoke of a dead man— hanging! That was tragical. Some poor fellow who had lost the last hope in life, I suppose.'

'Or possibly a man who was done to death by brutal hands,' retorted Lavenham.

'Murder! You do not say?' The man's face had a disturbed look. 'In this solitude! Sir, you make me shake. If one man dies, what other man is safe? But you have the police informed. Yes?'

'Of course! They are already inquiring into the matter.'

Spanish John laughed. 'Yes, they will be inquiring. It is their little way. And you will be helping them? Do I guess aright? Yes―' He broke off, and there was a sudden change in his tone.

'Mr. Lavenham, I read the papers. I see that you are of growing reputation as an artist. But it would not help you to be mixed up in unpleasant things, hey? The British public is very conventional. It loves above all things respectability. It would be wise of you to keep your nose out of— er— nasty affairs, shall we say?'

There was no doubt in Lavenham's mind now. He was being warned, not covertly, but openly. He was astonished, but at he same time moved to anger that the other should have been so brazenly daring. But he did not let his anger betray him into an indiscretion.

'You forget the advertisement,' he retorted lightly. 'Publicity nurtures reputation.'

'But meddlesomeness— Is it not so?— burns its fingers. That is a thing to be thought of, Mr. Lavenham.'

Lavenham's astonishment grew. The man's tone was cold, but there was a threat in it. The artist had now no doubt of that. Before he could find words the other spoke again.

'A word to the wise man, my young friend, is better than a discourse. That man of whom you spoke just now— the man with the rope about his neck— he is perhaps like the notice in the park, "Keep off the grass"!'

The man laughed as at some rare jest, and playing with his fork began to draw patterns on the table cloth. Lavenham watched the fork whilst he sought for an answer that would lead the other to think that the threat had gone uncomprehended. The pattern drawn on the cloth was an odd one; but had a familiar look.

It came to him suddenly that it was remarkably like the hieroglyphic which he had seen that morning on Henry Lavenham's picture, drawn in reverse, and, of course, to his view upside down. He stared at it fascinated, realising that here was the true inwardness of the other's remark about his interest being in pictures. Then he became aware that the draughtsman was slyly watching him, and instantly assumed a careless expression, and a moment afterwards laughed.

'You speak in parables, Mr. Prado, and you are too deep for me. I am an artist, not a litterateur―'

'I would not be impolite, Mr. Lavenham,' replied the other pushing back his chair, and rising to leave the table, 'but you are not a brother of the wise virgins. No, one might almost say you were a―' He shrugged his shoulders, waved a deprecatory hand, and then laughed. 'Almost I stumbled into the sin I would avoid―'

He did not wait for any reply, but turning abruptly, left the room. Lavenham smiled to himself. 'Hard words break no bones,' he reflected, 'but they may reveal a weakness in the speaker.'

Then his face took, on a grave look. In his mind there was no doubt that he had been warned. The man who had just left the room was apparently quite well informed of his recent activities; and suspected him of knowledge beyond what he possessed. Decidedly, it would be well to keep an eye on Spanish John, who claimed such quiet interests, and yet threw a knife with the expertness or circus performers. Again it occurred to him that it might be well to take the sergeant or Jago into his full confidence but a review of the rather broken, fantastic story that he would have to tell, decided him against it.

'No! I'll wait till the medlar is ripe!'

He finished, his lunch and departed for The Priory to fulfil his promise to Helen Lavenham. When he arrived at the house he found that she was out, having taken her dogs for a scamper on the moor; but she had left a message for him that she would be back by four o'clock. That meant he had half an hour to wait, and he decided to walk in the direction of the moor in the hope of meeting her. He had luck. Scarcely had he reached the top of the steep road he followed when he saw her, running with her dogs, on a green strip between the heather.

Something else he saw also— a man standing behind a stone wall, head and shoulders plain to view. Just as Lavenham saw him, the watcher must have become aware of him, for he sharply ducked out of sight; but not before he had time to recognise the man for Mr. Hammerton, who at this hour could scarcely plead that he was engaged in his pursuit of nocturnal lepidoptera. That he was watching the girl seemed certain; but that thought stirred no apprehension in he artist, for he was assured that the man's interest was wholly beneficent.

A moment later, Helen Lavenham saw him. She waved a hand and hurried to meet him. As they approached each other, the artist in Lavenham was stirred by we picture the girl presented, and the man in him even more. Against the wide background lissom as a sapling, the wind revealing delicious lines; her delicate face glowing with loveliness, the blue eyes sparkling as from inner fires; to his eyes she was like an embodiment of a fairy, a white pixy, with powers of enchantment, whose spell in that moment, he was vividly conscious of in his heart.

Chapter 8

CHARLES MET HELEN at the foot of a small undulation at the top of which an old cross of granite lifted itself against the grey sky, one of Dartmoor's relics variously but uncertainly explained; a rude, rugged carving, fitting the wildness in which it was set.

'So you came to seek me?' cried the girl, with a friendliness that was undisguised.

'And I am happy to have found you,' answered the artist, very truthfully. 'They told me at your house that you were up here.'

'I often am,' she laughed. 'I love the moor, even in winter, when the great winds are blowing and the tors are white.'

'That is because you are Dartmoor's child,' he asserted confidently.

'You are wrong,' she cried, again with laughter. 'I was not born here. I was three years old when I came to live with my grandfather at The Priory and I have still a faint memory of palm trees, and blue seas and dark faces.'

'You were born abroad?' he asked, a little surprised.

'No, Panama,' she replied, adding vivaciously. 'So you see I am Dartmoor's child only by adoption!'

Then, before he could reply, her face grew grave, and she said quickly:— 'But you did not come to talk of my birthplace. You have news?'

'Nothing much. But we have, I think, discovered the true name of that man who was at The Three Feathers, and whose note I brought to you this morning. It is James Carling and he seems to have adopted my name as he might have taken any other, carelessly. The police sergeant suggests that he saw it in the paper in connection with the purchase of a picture of mine by the Tate trustees ? '

'I saw that note. I ought to congratulate you, Mr. Lavenham, and I do from my heart. But— but I don't think that man took your name quite so carelessly as the sergeant suggests.'

'No?' The girl's wide blue eyes had a look of absorption, as if she were considering some intricacy, then she answered:

'I am sure he did not. There was something more than the mere accident of seeing it in a newspaper, which led to the adoption of your name by that man. I am not sure what it is. I have been thinking, and have an idea it may have some thing to do with that old story of Henry Lavenham's lost treasure; but just in what way I cannot conjecture.'

She broke off, and for one moment the blue eyes stared scrutinisingly in his face, then she said quickly, 'You are marvellously like Ancestor Henry; and your name― It cannot be entirely accidental! You have relatives hereabouts?'

Lavenham shook his head.

'No! I was born abroad, like yourself, in the West Indies, and have palms and warm seas in my heritage. But so far as I know I haven't a relation in the world.'

'It is strange,' the girl mused. 'Too strange for coincidence... Do you know that all the Lavenhams in the male line are Charles, or Antony or Henry?'

He laughed carelessly. 'No! I have not that knowledge, at least I hadn't. You see my acquaintance with the family dates no further back than last night.'

'Last night... It seems ages ago! I seem to have known, you―' she broke the confession off half way and a little flush came in her face. Then she smiled away her embarrassment, and asked: 'You have other news, perhaps?'

'Very little. But there is a thing I should like to ask you, if I may. You said this morning that Carling's hands were tied.'

'Yes!'

'I did not notice that myself. Are you sure?'

'Quite sure! It was one of the things that Impressed itself upon my notice,' answered the girl with a little shudder. 'But why do you ask?'

'Because when I went there with Jago and the sergeant the hands were free. Which means that in the interval someone had visited the place and gone to the trouble to remove those bonds.'

'But who?' cried the girl, a startled look in her eyes.

Lavenham shook his head. 'If we  knew that I fancy we should know who really was responsible for that crime, Miss Lavenham. As it is, the officers incline to the theory of suicide, and without dragging you in I do not think it would be possible to alter their views. And I cannot do that now without some awkward questions.'

'You have no idea who... who...'

'Nothing definite. I have a suspicion, but it rests on very slight ground; so I will not give a name―'

He broke off, then began awkwardly. 'Miss Lavenham I should like to— er, I mean, may I give you a caution?'

'Certainly.'

'It is about that picture of yours. lf anyone wants to inspect it, any stranger, I mean, on any pretext whatever, refuse them.'

Helen was not so surprised as he had expected.

'Why?'

'Because there are men in the neighbourhood who I fancy are interested in the secret of it; and anxious to exploit it.'

'I guessed that,' 'she answered quietly. 'I have been sure of it since you came with that note, and we found the man who sent it in the wood.'

'That note ... I do not know what was in it.'

'It was merely a request that the bearer, Charles Lavenham, should be permitted to view Henry Lavenham's portrait— but well, it was signed with a name to which at all times I should give attention.'

The name was not mentioned; nor did Lavenham ask for it, though he was very anxious. After a pause, he said, 'You will act on my caution, then?'

The girl laughed lightly. 'It will Interest you to know that I have already done so.'

'You have already—'

'This very afternoon,' she interrupted. 'A man called at The Priory who claimed to be writing a book on the legends of Devon families, and having heard the story of Ancestor Henry's treasure, he asked permission to view the portrait. He was quite an entertaining gentleman, but I refused him. The refusal in no way discomposed him. Indeed, he laughed cheerfully, and said that it was wise to guard the family treasure; but that he hoped that having denied him I would also deny a rival bookmaker who was in the field. I assured him that I would; and he went away whistling "The British Grenadiers." '

Lavenham fairly jumped at the statement.

'Whistling what?'

'The air of "The British Grenadiers." Why?'

'What was he like — this man who called?' demanded the artist excitedly.

'Oh! rather an oddity. Red-haired, "bearded like the pard"— whatever that may be, wearing blue goggles—?'

She broke off at the sight of her companion's face, and then cried— 'You know him?'

'Yes,' was the answer given a little sharply. 'His name is Hammerton Ostensibly he is here after winter moths. He is lodged at Smale's, and I fancy he knows more about your picture than he owned. There are other things. He guessed my name— or pretended to, and... yes— that will be it, I think it is possible that he is already acquainted with Henry Lavenham's portrait.'

'But how can he be?'

'I don't know... But there is another thing. Tell me, have you, to-day, received a telegram with birthday wishes?'

'Several!' laughed the girl.

'The one I mean must have arrived late, probably from some local office '

The look on the girl's face checked him. She was clearly startled; and the blue eyes were bright with sharp excitement. Then she cried a little tensely.

'How did you know?' He countered her question by another; 'Would you regard the sender of that telegram as a friend?'

'Oh!'' she cried, 'more than a friend. Where is he? If he is near, I must see him. Tell me... For sixteen years—' She broke off, an appealing look on her face, her eyes bright with sudden tears. 'If you knew,' she whispered. 'If I could tell you— you would hurry to bring him.'

Lavenham was secretly amazed at the emotion she displayed and much moved by it.

He looked round towards the wall where Hammerton had sought concealment. Then he spoke quickly.

'I will do so,' he laughed. 'I will bring, him— on a magic carpet— within three minutes. Wait.'

He ran from her in the direction of the wall, wondering as he did so what was behind the girl's keen desire to meet the moth-hunter; but unable to find any solution of the problem. He reached the wall and looked over. There was no one there. He climbed to the top and surveyed the moor. Apart from Helen Lavenham, so far as human presences were concerned, it was blank as Modred's shield. The moth hunter, doubtless, having witnessed his meeting with the girl, had ceased to watch her and had withdrawn himself. A little crestfallen he returned to the girl and answered the wondering look in her eyes.

'He was there when I came — behind the wall — watching you; but he is there no longer.'

'Watching me?' cried Helen.

'Playing the part of guardian angel, I daresay! There is much that I don't understand in this affair. But I am sure he meant no harm to you, and that he really visited The Priory to give you a covert warning '

'Visited The Priory— You mean the man in the blue spectacles?' cried the girl in amazement.

'Yes! He is the man who sent the telegram and I think it is likely that he wanted to put you on your guard against others who might be interested in your picture.'

'I care nothing about the picture. Where is he? You know where he is staying?'

'At Smale's. He—'

'I must go to him at once. If you like you shall take me.' She made as if she were for an instant departure, but Lavenham laid a detaining hand upon her arm.

'Wait!' I think you must not go so hurriedly, Miss Lavenham. I cannot speak precisely, but I have a notion that it would not be wise to do so. I do not know what Mr. Hammerton may be to you; but I am sure he would not like you to go to him at Smale's openly. Since he is your friend the fact that he visited The Priory without revealing himself is significant. I take it that for the present he wishes to remain incognito— and there are reasons I suspect that he is watching that man at the inn— the knife-thrower, Spanish John— who I am certain had something to do with Carling's death, and who is, I fancy, interested in that picture of Henry Lavenham.'

'You mean that he has the secret?' cried the girl in a startled way.

'No, that he is resolved to learn it. And Hammerton knows that purpose I am sure. At present Spanish John has no suspicion of him— takes him for a harmless naturalist. But if you went to the inn to see Mr. Hammerton it might be a pointer to the other man. It might be more— a complete revelation of a concealed identity; and in that case— well, you can see all sorts of possible consequences I am sure. There is that man whom we found in the wood. And there is Spanish John's expertness with the knife. They point a moral. At present there is nothing I could prove against the man. But I am sure he is mixed up in that tragedy somehow, and interested in your picture— and an hour ago he gave me a covert warning about meddling―'

'You?' The girl looked at him with apprehension in her blue eyes.

'Even me!' Lavenham laughed lightly.

'That he guesses or knows that I was Carling's deputy is certain. But that is neither here nor there. The point is that Mr. Hammerton in his present incarnation is unknown to Spanish John, and you might be doing him a very great disservice by setting an enemy on his track. That's how I read the situation.'

Helen Lavenham did not speak for a little time. She stood, staring across the moor, a look of trouble on her face; then she whispered passionately:

'Oh, but I must see him― I must.'

'There is a possible way,' answered the artist, quietly. 'If you like I can tell him of your desire. He has visited The Priory once; he might do so again if you―'

'Please!' interrupted the girl 'Please bring him.'

'I will do my best in induce him to do as you wish.'

'The sooner the better. If you only knew. Let us go. We might see him in the wood. And to speak to him to-day of all days in the―'

She ended her incoherences abruptly, and whistling to her dogs moved off towards the road, Lavenham walking at her side, and whilst he wondered over the reason for her eagerness to see the moth-hunter, kept a bright look-out for the man himself. He saw nothing of him however, and when they reached The Priory gates he was convinced that for the moment, at any rate, Mr. Hammerton had really given up his secret vigil.

'You will bring him, Mr. Lavenham?' begged the girl, as they parted.

'I will do my best to persuade him,' he answered fervently, with a conviction that he would drag the moth hunter to the interview by the scruff of the neck if more peaceable means would not suffice;

Absorbed in the new problem set him by the anxiety of the girl to meet Hammerton, he walked slowly towards the village. His way lay along a lonely lane winding between high banks crowned with hazel, and at one of the turns he remembered
that it might be possible to get a glimpse of the caravan, to which, if the moth-hunter were right, Spanish John had been semaphoring before ; his late breakfast. Looking for a likely place, he mounted the bank, and from the top looked across the field to the little bay in the woods where the van had been parked. It was no longer there.

He whistled thoughtfully as he made that discovery, and wondered if Spanish John had likewise taken his departure. It did not seem to him very likely; but on the other hand, having secured Carling's suitcase, and no doubt searched his pockets thoroughly, it was possible that they had secured what they wanted from him and―

Quite suddenly he remembered the papers in his possession which had fallen from the dead man's case. In his absorption in other things, he had omitted to examine them and this quiet lane, deserted save for himself, offered a good opportunity, whilst he had the matter in hand.

Jumping down from the bank, he moved forward a little way, until he came to a field gate, set in the deep bank, which made a small recess; and seating himself on the gate, took the envelope from his pocket, and then slipped out the papers.

There were several of them clipped together, the bottom one and largest of parchment, ivory yellow with age and very and very ragged at the edges. The others, much more recent, were, in the case of the two of them, certificates; and remembering the names he had glimpsed in the moment when he .had found them, he gave his attention to the topmost of these first.

It was a marriage certificate, setting forth the fact that Charles Lavenham had just married Isobel Rivado at Jamestown more than 30 years before. He stared at the names for a time, utterly astonished as a man might be who in such a curious fashion had stumbled upon what was undoubtedly the marriage certificate of his parents.

Then, eagerly, he sought other details. The groom's 'profession or rank' was given as a civil engineer; his address at an hotel, and his father's name as Antony Lavenham, gentleman.'

At that point he remembered something which Helen had said, about all the Lavenham's in the male line being Charles, Antony, or Henry; and whistled aloud.

'Phew! Now in the name of all that's wonderful―'

He got no further. He had heard nothing, seen nothing; but quite suddenly an alarm bell rang in his brain. He started to turn on his awkward seat. He never finished the action. Something soft and heavy struck him on the back of the neck. Lightnings flamed before him as he shot from the gate; but he had no consciousness of striking the earth— only a sickening sense of plunging through an illimitable darkness.

WHEN HE CAME out of that void of darkness, he felt unutterably sick. The world seemed to be gyrating like a humming top, making a rushing sound commensurate with its size; and in the midst of the wheeling landscape was a face with a flaming beard; whilst through the roaring hum a voice broke on his ears.

'Well, my young friend, you return to these glimpses of the moon! Better take a drink.'

Something was thrust to his lips. The metal neck of a flask, he thought, and as the liquor flooded his mouth, he gulped to save himself from being choked, and recognised the flavour of neat whisky.

'Again! The kick of liquor is not what it was, and one swallow does not make a toper, nor yet a sick man whole.'

The flask was tipped again. The spirit once more flooded his mouth, compelling him to swallow, and as the world steadied a little before his reeling brain he made out the face of Mr. Hammerton, whose eyes, the spectacles being removed, were regarding him with genial solicitude.

'Humpty-dumpty sat on a gate―' he laughed; then asked, 'Not much worse for the knock-out whack, I hope, Mr. Lavenham.'

Lavenham remembered something and looked around. 'I am poorer. There were some papers—'

'Fellow who gave you the loving pat took them, I expect.'

'Who was it?'

Mr. Hammerton shook his fiery head. 'Search me, as they say in Chicago. I don't know. I saw you at The Priory gates―'

'You mean you were watching me?' asked Lavenham a little sharply.

'You need a guardian angel if ever you're going to be P.R.A., my son. I will own. I was keeping an eye on you and this young lady you met upon the moor. But when you started to take a siesta on the gate I sat in the hedge well down the road to await your leisure. I heard a clatter and came along to find you spread-eagled in these furrows. There's the whole story and you may make of it what you can. What were the papers that you lost?'

'They were papers that the man of the Three Feathers was carrying. His name, it appears, was Carling―'

'I know. James Carling— son of Pat Carling, of New Orleans.'

'The dickens!' Lavenham sat up as he spoke, and though the action brought on an attack of giddiness, he stared at the man in wonder. 'You seem to know everything.'

'Except about moths!' Mr. Hammerton grinned as he spoke. 'One can't be omniscient; but one does his best. Those papers now— they intrigued you?'

'One, the only one I read, was the wedding certificate of my father and mother, I will swear.'

'Charles Lavenham and Isobel Rivado at Jamestown, A.D. 1899, hey?'

'How you know―' began Lavenham wonderingly.

'All in good time, my friend. Just now, I think it will be well if you struggle over to Brother Smale's. You are not fit for the great deeds that may be required of you before long. If I gave you an arm, maybe you could hop along.'

'Yes!'

'Then we will start. And you shall tell me all the news since we parted this morning. About that dead man now, whom they're talking about at Notanam? A case of 'What Cato did the Addison approved' hey?'

'If you mean he committed suicide, I don't believe it.'

'Nor do I! But your reasons.'

'Well, when Miss Lavenham first saw him―'

'Helen saw the man!' Mr. Hammerton was greatly perturbed.

'She saw him first. I found her in a swoon almost at his feet.'

'Dear God!' the man whispered; and then asked sharply. 'Yes?'

'His hands were bound. Miss Lavenham noted that particularly. But when I went along with the officers, the bonds had been removed.

'Yes! I cut them off him.'

'You!' In spite of a suspicion he had entertained, Lavenham was really startled. 'You knew about the man?'

'Not till I went down to the wood after seeing you come out with Helen in your arms. I saw at once that he'd never hanged himself, but I cut those hands free in order that it might be thought he had. You see, he was a rogue, not worth troubling over; and I have a desire to square accounts with the men who did it, myself.'

'But that caravan is gone?'

'Yes. It has taken the Ashburton road. But Spanish John is still at the inn, and I'll swear the disappearance of, the van is just a blind. Having got your papers that crowd will be buzzing back here like wasps around a honey pot...  You must get fit, my friend, before dark, for I fancy you and I are going to be needed at The Priory.'

'You think so?'

'Well, Miss Lavenham wants to see you!'

'She does!'

'Badly. I've promised to take you to her.'

The man's answer was merely an enigmatic laugh.

'By the scruff of the neck if you won't go quietly,' said Lavenham jesting feebly.

'Oh, I'll go. The question is — will you? When a man has recently been 'coshed,' he is usually indisposed for violent action.'

'I shall be fit... I just must be.'

'When we get to Smale's you'll lie down for an hour or two, then!... And I'll see to your nourishment... If you're going with me you'll do just what I say. Here we are at the village, and— By Peter's thumb! My goggles! I was forgetting them.' He laughed oddly. 'It's wonderful how Dartmoor light tries the eyes!'

He slipped on the blue glasses, then laughed again.

'There's Spanish John watching the road. I think we'll take the back way to the inn.'

They did so; and when they arrived the moth-catcher made Lavenham lie down in his room, where presently he fell asleep. Quite a long time after he was awakened by the creaking of the door; and sat up to find it was pitch dark, and to see Hammerton I carrying a candle and a tray in the act of entering the room. The man chuckled as he looked at him. 'I have given it out that you have had an accident and broken your collarbone. But even an invalid must eat! I hope, however, you will risk an indisposition by eating quickly, for in twenty minutes time I start for The Priory. It will be better if we move out separately. Wait until you hear an owl hoot four times. That will mean that the coast is clear. I shall be waiting for you in The Priory grounds. Get that ?'

'Yes!'

'Then au revoir, my friend. I go to prepare for the night's adventure, which I don't fancy will be dull. But listen for the hoots, and do not so much as move before.'

Hammerton departed, and feeling much better for his sleep, Lavenham ate his food, which the man had brought, and drank the tankard of ale. Then he slipped off the bed and waited for the passing of the of the dizziness which assailed him when he moved. It disappeared after a moment or two, and walking gently to and fro in his room, he listened for the signal. It seemed unduly delayed. There was a babel of noisy voices from the tap-room below, and fearing the sound he waited for might be drowned by it, he moved to the window and threw it open. Then the signal came.

'Too-whoo-whoo-oo!'

He waited until the cry had sounded four times, then with his heart pounding wildly, and his brain beating a very tattoo, he moved silently from his room; and descending the stairs caught a glimpse of the taproom as he went. Spanish John was there; a flushed look on his dark face; his eyes bright, as Lavenham thought, with suppressed excitement the fact that the man wore his hat and a trench coat, buttoned and belted, with collar turned up to the ears, seemed to indicate that he was going out, and Lavenham, desiring to pass that open door unobserved by those quick eyes, waited until the man lifted his glass.

Then he slipped by in a flash; gained the street and began to hurry towards the appointed rendezvous, excitement mounting in anticipation of the adventures the night might hold for him, and for Helen Lavenham.

Chapter 9

THE NIGHT was cloudy, but here and there a break in the clouds revealed star; and to Charles's left there was a brightness which indicated the rising moon. Lavenham noted the latter, and wondered whether it would be an advantage or not; but as he left the street for the lane, found the faint radiance helpful; for ' the overhanging trees made the way very dark. There was no sound save that which a slight wind made in the tree tops, and no noise of movement except his own steps which in that quite lane seemed unduly noisy; and with a thought that anyone might hear and follow him, he took to tho grass at the side of the road, where he could walk in silence. For some time he heard nothing, saw nothing, then with startling suddenness a whistle sounded in front of him. He halted as sharply as if a sentry had challenged him, and standing in the gloom of the trees, considered the darkness ahead. He could see no one; and that whistle, unquestionably a signal, puzzled him. Hammerton might have so whistled; but since he had said he would see him at The Priory and as yet he was more than half way there, it did not seem to him to be very likely. But in that case, who was the man? To whom had he signalled. Was the fellow, aware of his approach, mistaking him for someone else?

To all these conjectures he found no answer; and after waiting a little time he heard footsteps approaching him from the direction he wished to go. Silently he slipped down into the ditch and, crouching low, waited a little breathlessly. The footsteps came nearer, halted quite close to him and the whistle again broke the silence. Dimly against the growing radiance on the left, he discerned the figure of a short man. That settled the question. The whistler most certainly was not Hammerton who was of taller stature. Nor was it anyone whom he had seen before. Of that he was made sure a moment later, for the man muttered to himself.

'Be shot if I ain't fancying things. I'll be seeing spooks next.'

There was a nasal quality in the tones which, to Lavenham's straining ears, proclaimed the man who was a nephew of Uncle Sam, and he waited eagerly to see if the man would continue his reflections. As it chanced he did something much more effective. There was a little click, and then a ray of light cut the darkness like a sword. The man, still not satisfied that his eyes had deceived him, had turned on a flashlight, and Lavenham had just. time to lower his head, when that penetrating beam passed over him. He waited tensely. Would the man see him or not? The light passed on, and he drew breath; and drew it easier still when the click sounded afresh and the road once more became dark.

The footsteps made themselves heard anew. They were going along the lane in the direction of the village. In a moment, unless the man was just pacing to and fro in the lane, the way would be clear. Lavenham listened.

The footsteps now well behind him seemed to be slowing down. He caught a little stamping sound, and interpreted it by a remembrance of days in the school O.T.C. The man was doing a rightabout turn according to the drill book. In a moment he would be returning. It was time to go, unless he wished to remain in the ditch until the fellow's turn at sentry-go was ended.

Silently he climbed up, the bank, and hurried along the grass. He got away unnoticed. He was sure of that; but when he had gone three hundred, yards the whistle sounded again; and this time it was answered from further away. The man or men for whom the American had been waiting had answered his signal; and assuming that the man or one of the men was Spanish John, there was most certainly something in the wind. Assured of that, he began to run, having, after his unfortunate experience of the afternoon, a most, fervent desire to join forces with Hammerton before anything could happen in the way of hostile action.

He made the Priory Gates without encountering anyone; and was in the act of slipping inside, when the lodge door opened, and he caught the sound of a voice which made his heart beat violently.

'Good night, Matty. I am glad the little one is so much better. If there is anything you need send me word in the morning.'

The door closed and the speaker moved down the little garden to the drive. The artist wasted no time. Slipping through the smaller gate, he whispered sharply to the advancing shadow.

Miss ''Miss Lavenham!' The girl halted sharply, no doubt a little startled by this summons out of the darkness. Then she gave a little laugh.

'It is you, Mr. Lavenham!'

'Yes.'

'You have brought Mr. Hammerton, as you promised?'

'No. He preceded me. He knows of your wish. He should be here now.'

'Perhaps he has gone to The Priory. I have been at he lodge a little time. There is a sick child there. You will accompany me?'

'With pleasure. It is Mr. Hammerton's wish that I should meet him here.'

He did not explain the reason for that wish, and gave no hint of anticipated trouble, for there was no sense in awakening apprehensions which might never be justified. Falling into step by her side, he moved with her towards the house, his eyes alert for any sign of the moth-hunter.

They had gone for a little way when the girl clutched his arm sharply.

'There is someone in the grounds,' she whispered in surprise. 'I saw a light over there. It shone for but a moment and then went out, as if someone had lit and extinguished a match.'

'It may be Mr. Hammerton,' he said a little dubiously. 'You are quite sure it was a match and not a flash-light?'

'Certain. It was not sufficiently bright for a flash-light. But why should Mr. Hammerton be there in the park, instead of going to the house?'

'He may have been and found you were not at home.'

'But I left a message for you and him. You were to be shown into the library and await my return.'

'There is another explanation,' said the artist. 'He may be on the lookout for me.'

'Over there? Mr. Lavenham, you do not know The Priory very well. There is no road on that side of the grounds which runs into the copses without break.'

'Then Hammerton may have gone astray. He―' A little sceptical laugh broke on the words. 'I fancy Mr. Hammerton knows The Priory grounds at least as well as I do myself.'

'Well, there's a way of finding out. If you will wait here, or go on to the house I will investigate.'

'Do. I am curious about that light, though it may mean just a poacher after the pheasants. I will wait.'

He left her standing in the drive and began to walk in the direction where she had seen the light. There was grass under his, feet, and he made no sound as he went. Presently trees loomed in front of him, and he stopped to listen. It was one thing to follow a light; an entirely different thing to find the man who held it when the light was no longer shining; and in the darkness it would be impossible to find any man among the trees by sight alone. No sound came out of the wood except such as were made by small creatures of the night. He could see nothing, and he was at a loss how to proceed. The man who had flashed that light might be the moth-hunter; on the other hand it might very well be a comrade of the man doing sentry-go in the road; in which case, to plunge carelessly into the wood, would not merely be futile, but might prove to be disastrous.

He was in a quandary, uncertain what to do, when from the direction of the gates there drifted to him a faint sound of voices. He turned swiftly at that, concerned for the girl. If those voices, as he conjectured belonged to Spanish John and his associates, there might be trouble for her if those men came on her in the drive. He was still debating what to do, when from the direction of the gates there drifted to him a faint sound of voices.

He turned swiftly at that, concerned for the girl. If those voices, as he conjectured belonged to Spanish John and his associates, there might be trouble for her if those men came on her in the drive. He was still debating what to do, when quite close to him he heard a sound of movement. He stiffened and clenched his fists ready for action; at the same time regretting that he had come unprovided with any more efficient weapon. He heard the movement again, and then for one brief second the light flashed in his face, dazzlingly. As it was extinguished, he heard Hammerton's voice, speaking chucklingly.

'So, my friend, you came to look for me.'

'Of course,' replied Lavenham, conscious of a surge of relief. 'Miss Lavenham saw your light as we came up the drive―'

'She is there? The chuckle was gone. The voice was tense and strained; and there was an urgency in the tone that struck Lavenham forcibly.

'Yes! She is in the drive waiting for me to bring you to her... and there are others about. There was a watcher in the road, who signalled by whistling. And just now I heard voices—'

'I know. Don't wait, Lavenham. Get her to the house. Put out the lights.' Do nothing unless you hear me call for help.'

'But what are you expecting?' asked Lavenham, quickly.

'Judgment Day! Go! For God's sake go! Get Helen under cover. Bar the doors, and don't answer any summons for your life. Go—!'

The man's urgency left Lavenham in no doubt that some serious situation was developing. He wasted no more time, but started instantly to run across the grass, making for the point where the girl awaited him. He was breathless when he reached her, and before he could speak she asked: 'You found him? I saw the light again. It was he?'

'Yes," he gasped. 'We are not to wait for him. He will come to the house presently. There is trouble about.'

A faint sound of feet rasping on the gravel reached him, and he clinched his words with a plea that was almost a command. 'Oh, hurry!'

Helen did hot ask for explanation. Possibly she guessed more than he knew, for stepping on to the grass, she began to run. They reached the house without seeing anyone, and, as they entered Lavenham turned, closed the door, and without asking her consent locked and bolted it. The girl watched him a little wonderingly, then she asked a little breathlessly:

'You think— those men— are— coming here?'

'Hammerton has that idea. There certainly are men about. There was one watching in the road as I came along. I had to hide from him. And now there are others. I heard their voices.'

'But why should they come?'

'There is that picture of yours. They are interested, in that. Possibly—' he broke off. 'You are on the telephone. If we really knew they meant to come here, the most sensible thing to do would be to ring up the police.'

'But we don't know, for certain," said the girl quickly. J' And la any case, I don't think we can do that―'

'Why not?'

M — Mr; Hammerton would— would not wish it. Of that I am quite sure.'

'But why on earth—'

Lavenham did not finish his almost explosive question. Here, he thought to himself, was another phase of the misery into which he had plunged. One thing in relation to it was clear to him. Hammerton and Helen Lavenham were somehow acquainted, and each was concerned for the other; but the inwardness of it all was hidden from him. He might question the girl and learn the truth; but he preferred that she should give him her confidence freely; and resolved to wait until she did so. And there were things to be done immediately.

'Well,' he remarked, 'since Hammerton's wishes are to put you in some sort of jeopardy, it is only right that you should give attention to instructions that are apparently meant to help you. He told me to put out the lights.'

Miss Lavenham gave a little laugh at that.

'We are to sit in the dark, together, and wait? That will be quite spooky. You had better locate a chair, Mr. Lavenham, and then I will switch off.'

'Wait! You have an electric torch, perhaps?'

'Yes! But the battery is almost exhausted. It is very dim.'

'Better than nothing. It might he worth while to get it. we may have need of it.'

'Very well. Excuse me, I won't be a moment.'

She left the room, and Lavenham looked round. His eyes fixed themselves on the fireplace, where a wood fire glowed cheerfully. There was a poker there, and crossing to the hearth he secured it. If lawless things were to he done in this old house; he would at any rate be equipped for taking something, more than a passive part in them. When Helen Lavenham returned she carried a torch, which from, the size of it would have been a very efficient one had its battery not been enfeebled. Seeing the poker in his hand she halted sharply. For a second a look of consternation came in the blue eyes, but swiftly passed; and she inquired lightly: "You think you may have need of that?'

'One never knows,' he answered tersely. 'The men who hanged Carling are not likely to be scrupulous. It is well to be prepared.'

'Yes!' she said: then inquired: 'Where will you sit?'

'Nowhere, for the moment! I shall stand by the door to listen.'

'Very well! Ready!' There followed a click and the room was in darkness save for the glow of the fire.

Then Lavenham remembered something.

'Who is there in the house besides ourselves?'

'Two maids. The cook has gone to her mother who is unwell.'

'No men?'

'No; There is no butler.'

'And the maids, where are they?'

'In a little sitting room I keep for them, at the top of the house. But very shortly they will be retiring. You see we are early risers at The Priory.'

Lavenham realised that Helen and he were to all intents and purposes alone in that house set solitary in a fold on the moor. If the things that Hammerton plainly anticipated, were to happen, then on the moth-hunter and himself depended the safety of Helen Lavenham. As he stood in the darkness of the door; he found himself wondering why this should be, when a simple 'phone call would settle the whole business. There might, he reflected, be something connected with Hammerton himself that preclude an appeal to the police.

There were, as he knew, many men in the. world who dare not seek the help of the officers of the law lest they themselves should fall into their clutches— men who made their own laws, exacted their own dues, defended their own lives, and executed their own decrees and revenges, That Hammerton was one, of these was highly possible; for that his character as a moth-hunter was the merest masquerade he had confessed when he had brazenly owned that he knew nothing about Bates, the authority on the sphingidae. There was indeed nothing surprising that he should be of the company of lawless adventurers; what was surprising was that Helen Lavenham should apparently be aware of the man's reluctance for any close association with the police.

That puzzled him sorely. It was quite beyond his comprehension; and as he stood there in the darkness of the doorway, waiting for he knew not what, the implication of that knowledge which apparently Helen Lavenham possessed disturbed him profoundly. For anything he knew to the contrary, Hammerton might be the most utter scoundrel; and the only bright spot in the secret association between them was that the moth-hunter was as deeply concerned as himself for the girl's well-being and safety. A sudden gasp behind him made him turn swiftly round.

'What—'

'There is a man,' whispered the girl, 'looking in— at the window."

Lavenham moved swiftly and silently in order to get a view of the window. The room being almost dark, at first he saw nothing, save an almost black space, where he knew the great window to be. Either the girl had been mistaken or the man had withdrawn.

His thought were still uncompleted when he had confirmation of her words. A log in the hearth spurted with  sudden flame. It lit the room with a momentary brightness, and in the dark square of the window, pressed in close against the pane, something that was white reflected the sudden radiance — a man's face that he recognised  for that of Spanish John.

The flame died down almost as swiftly as it had spurted. The great window grew dark again, but dim and ghostly, just visible, the face remained at the window still.

'You— you see?' whispered the ' girl shakily.

'Yes!" he whispered back. 'And I know the man. It is John Prado who is staying at the inn— Spanish John, Mr. Hammerton calls him."

'I w-wonder what―' Her remark was broken in half as Something crashed smartly against the frame of the window. The face disappeared as if its owner had fallen suddenly to the ground.

'That sound! What was it?'

'I don't know,' he answered. 'That is, I don't know for certain. But I can guess that it was a slug.'

'A slug!" the girl was so surprised that she forgot to whisper. 'But slugs are soft creatures, and that slug which hit the window sill was hard as a pea—'

'Perhaps it was a pea― of lead!'

'A bullet.' She was back at her whispering again now. 'But there was no report.'

'No! An air-gun makes none worth mentioning.'

"But who can have fired it?'

'For a wager— Hammerton. He carries a curious-looking stick. I noticed it this morning. Very likely it is an air-rifle. But whoever it was, he did the trick. That man has gone from the window.'

'Yes!'

There followed a period of inactive waiting and silence. The fire died, down a little; but the moon breaking fitfully through the clouds, now and again shed a ghostly light; and staring through the great window, Lavenham had occasional glimpses of the park, and could distinctly make out the line of the wood which bounded it. But he saw nothing moving; nor any sign of the men who, as he was convinced, were out there, purposing some unlawful thing. Then the clouds came up again; the park was swallowed up in darkness, and the gloom of the room where they waited was almost Stygian, only the dying fire emitting the faintest glow.

Lavenham, tense and, alert, his ears, straining, found the stillness and waiting getting on his nerves. He longed for something to happen, for anything was better than the inactivity to which, as it seemed, he was condemned. Helen Lavenham was only just visible to his eyes. She had not moved or spoken for, quite a long time; and he was thinking that possibly she had slipped into a doze, when she suddenly broke the silence in a small whispering voice.

'Mr. Lavenham!'

'Yes,' he answered.

'I hope you will not think I am silly. But I do feel jumpy and nervous. I  wonder if you would mind me standing near you.'

'Mind!' his answering whisper was fervent enough to be convincing. 'Of course not! If it will, help you―'

He heard her moving towards him; and a moment later was aware of her nearness, heard her quick breathing, caught the, perfume of her hair, saw her face dimly like a fair white flower in the gloom. Propinquity set his pulses leaping. He remembered how he had carried her in his arms, visioned her as he had seen her on the moor that afternoon; then he looked at the face so indistinct in the darkness— and imagined he saw the blue eyes shining star-like in the gloom. In that very second, the girl laid a quick hand on his arm.

'Hark!' Her ears were quicker than his. He heard nothing and  said so.

Then the hand on his arm gripped spasmodically. 'Now! At the hall door!'

This time he heard— a faint sound of cautious feet on the steps outside.

'Yes!' he whispered. 'There is someone there.'

Before the girl could reply,  proof of the fact was afforded by a sudden sharp rat-a-tat upon the door. There was something almost menacing in: the unexpected summons. It startled Helen Lavenham terribly. She moved, convulsively, and almost without thought he slipped a supporting arm round her.

'Steady, Miss Lavenham!' he whispered almost in her ear. The rat-a-tat was repeated, a commanding, threatening thing, in Lavenham's ears, and the girl gasped, and unconsciously moved closer, to him, like a frightened child snuggling closer in protecting arms.

'Do not speak,' he whispered. 'And for God's sake do not cry out! Let them think the house is empty.'

The knocking was repeated again; then a man's voice spoke in a hoarse, low tone. 'The place is empty, or everybody's a-bed!'

'So much the better. Try the wire; Pete.'

Lavenham laughed silently as he caught the words.

'What— what—'

'They're going. to try to pick, the lock.'

'Oh, if they should―'

'Nothing to worry about. The bolts will prove a corker to them. Listen!'

They stood there together, his arm around her, protectingly; the girl apparently accepting the fact as the most natural in the world. Lavenham heard her hurried breathing, was aware of the rise and fall of her breasts; but. her face was turned away from him, her eyes straining towards the door. Wild emotions wore surging in him. He wanted to kiss that pale face, to fold her to . him more closely, to whisper that before she should suffer hurt he would die, whilst at the same time he strove to give attention to things that were happening outside.

A rasping sound made itself heard; the scraping of some steel implement against iron, 'What is that?"

'The pick-look at work. Someone is trying to—'

A new sound impinged on his ears, a kind of 'plung!' as if something had struck the door and embedded Itself in the wood.

'Flames of the Pit!' cried a hoarse voice outside. 'There eet ees again! That was a bullet, surely.'

'Yep! There's some guy out there in the. darkness trying, to pot us. We've sure got to look lively, or Oh, blast! The devil's got me in the shoulder an'—'

'Scatter!' broke in a voice which Lavenham recognised for Spanish John's. 'We must find, the man.'

'But who the blazes―'

'Dat dam picture-painter! If we get him we scrag him for good!"

Impulsively the girl turned her face to Lavenham.

'Oh!' she whispered. 'Oh! you are in danger, here, for me!'

Lavenham laughed a little wildly. 'Not yet!' he said.  'But I wouldn't be in any other place for worlds.'

'But—' She faltered, and apparently becoming suddenly conscious of their unconventional position, made a movement of withdrawal from his protecting arm. He made no effort to hold her, and as she stood a little, apart from him, again he heard her breathing, quick, irregular, as if she were battling with strange emotions. Unspeaking, they stood waiting. There reached them the sound of feet furtively withdrawing, then followed a long period of silence, which was an even greater strain than the exciting moments which had preceded it. Outside the night was still as the night in the remote country can be, with no roaring traffic, no clanging bells, hooting horns, or human babble to break its calm. Within the house was silent as some vault of the dead. So for a time— then again a sound reached the pair, distant but clear, the sound of an opening window, which was followed almost immediately by the crashing, noise of a door caught and flung to violently, as by a strong draught.

Chapter 10

AT the crash of the door, Helen utterly startled, clutched nervously, at Lavenham, and a little shuddering cry came from her lips.

'O-o-h!'

'Steady, Miss Lavenham,' he whispered. 'there's no damage done yet.'

'But that sound,' she answered quickly, her voice staking with apprehension. 'It— it was a door?'

'Yes!' he answered quietly.'

'A door that, crashed.'

'And before that— a window—'

'Yes. Someone certainly opened one.'

'That means that someone has entered the house?'

'I think it is very likely.'

'One of those men who were at the door?' she persisted.

'I don't know that, but I have got to find out. If you will remain here—'

'Alone? I would rather come with you. I shall feel safer.'

'But there may be danger,' he protested.  'These men have no outfit of scruples. Remember Carling. I think you had better let me tackle the. job by myself."

'You mean I should be in the way?'

'I  did not say that.  What I meant was that there is no need for you to thrust yourself into danger when—"

'Listen. Oh! listen, Mr. Lavenham.'

He did not need that appeal. Already he had caught the sounds of movement to which the girl was drawing his attention; and he strained his ears to catch the direction from which they came. Unfamiliar with the lie of the house, he was not sure, and finally he asked: 'Where can that man be?'

'In the gallery,' she whispered, promptly. 'It has a polished floor, you can hear his feet—'

'That means the picture,' he said. 'It cannot mean anything else. Now we  Know where he is. l will go.'

'And I! I simply must.'

'Very well!" he said. 'But keep well behind. You might carry the torch; but do not switch it on until I give you the word. Ready?'

He moved into the hall, with Helen Lavenham at his heels. For a moment he stood hesitating, debating with himself whether he should turn the switches and light up the place; that way at any rate, he would at least be  able to see the Intruder. He decided against it. The darkness, which concealed the interloper, was a friendly screen for the girl and himself; and the truth was that he was rather worried by her presence, since if it came to a rough and tumble she might be very much in the way. But it seemed that now she was less agitated, rendered cooler and more collected by action; for she softly whispered the direction in his ear.

'To the right!' They arrived at the doorless archway which gave admission to the gallery; and there paused for a moment. Within someone was moving lightly on the polished oak; and then came a sound of something being set thereon.

The pair stared into the darkness of the gallery, the blinds of which were all drawn, they could see nothing at all. The sounds of movement, however, continued; and after a little the came to a noise of tearing. Lavenham stared into the darkness, greatly puzzled; then quite suddenly the explanation came to him.

'The picture,' he whispered. 'Someone is ripping it from its frame— the torch, you have it ready?'

'Yes!'

'When I give the word switch on!'

He waited tensely. The ripping, f tearing sound continued; but before iv he spoke the word, a new sound mingled with it — that of furtive feet creeping along the gallery. The man who had invaded The Priory had, it  appeared, not arrived alone, and there was more than one man to deal with. Undaunted, however, Lavenham faced the situation.

'Get ready!' he whispered; then tensely gave the word: 'Now!'

He heard the slight click as the girl moved the switch. For a second, no more, the torch shone a little feebly, then faded out, completely.

'Oh!' whispered the girl, 'it has failed!'

He heard her clicking the switch to and fro, but knew that was hopeless; and he had seen so little by the brief, faint flash, just the dim figure of a man on a library ladder, busy with a picture on the wall; and two other vague forms coming along the gallery; all too indistinctly seen for him to make out their identity. But the flash, brief as it was, had plainly startled the intruders; for, save a little rustling sound, all noise of movement had ceased abruptly.

He conceived the intruders, momentarily frozen to inaction by that brief radiance; the man on the ladder uncertain what to do, and the two men up the gallery in like case; and an idea came to him. To flood the gallery with light if it did not scare the intruders into a stampede would at least reveal who they were. Instantly he whispered to Helen.

'The switch for the gallery, you can find it in the dark?'

'Yes. It is at the entrance here.'

'Then turn on all the light you can— every lamp; but keep out of sight.'

He caught the faint rustle of her dress as she moved away; then the sounds in front of him were renewed. This time, it seemed to him those who made them were incautious, reckless, as if they cared nothing whether they were discerned or not.

'Get the man. Sharp!'

The voice came snappingly out of the darkness; and thinking the speaker was directing hostilities against him, Lavenham gripped the poker ready for action. He was not called to use it, however. There was the briefest pause during which there reached him the click of switches vainly turned; and as he realised that whoever had entered the house had begun by turning off the main switch, and ensuring darkness through the house, there was a rush of noisy feet on the polished oak. He waited tensely, his back to the wall. The first man to come should have the poker.

A crash broke on the thought, and a man spat an oath!

'Flames of hell!' There was another crash as if a man had gone to the floor, a light laugh, sounds of men scrambling, to their feet, and then a man's voice hoarse and savage.

'He's going. Stop him!'

Apparently someone had try to stop someone else, for there was a noise of impact, and another man bumped upon the oak. Someone, ran lightly up the gallery, and a voice shouted ragingly:

'After heem. Two of you to the gates. He weel go that way. Pete, you come with me.'

'Spanish John!' whispered Lavenham.  Followed the din of stampede; several pairs of feet pounding the oaken floor, as their owners rushed from  the gallery at the further end. The sounds grew fainter and once more a door clashed noisily; then from outside came a new rush of hurrying feet on the gravel path. At the same moment, his eyes grown accustomed to the darkness, Lavenham saw the girl moving towards him, a dim and ghostly figure.

'The lights!' she said a little shakingly; 'I can't―'

'No! They've been tampered with. Main-switch turned off, I expect. If you could procure a candle . No, stay, I have matches. It may be quicker. Where is the switch?'

'In a recess off the kitchen. We have a private installation.'

He struck a match and by its faint radiance glimpsed her face. It was pale, but the blue eyes were dancing with excitement, to which, as he surmised; the shaking in her voice had been due. There was at any rate no fear of her swooning.

'Lead me quickly. We must have light.'

She gripped his hand as the match expired...

They went at a half-run, hand in hand; reached the kitchen, and then the girl halted him.

'There is a door here. The switch is inside and all the fuse boxes and whatnot.'

He struck a match, and finding a half-open door pushed it wide, then stepped into the recess. A single glance showed him the switch and as he turned it the room behind him was flooded with light, the switch there having been left on when the main switch had. been turned off,

Lavenham looked at Helen as he emerged from the recess. There was a hot colour in her face flow, due either to hurry or excitement; and quite clearly she was finding the adventure pleasurable, for she laughed as she asked: 'What next?'

'The gallery,' he said. 'We will go there, and I think you may find you are a picture short.'

'You think they took it?' she asked quickly. 'That man on the ladder—'

'You saw him clearly? You recognised him?'

'No,' she answered. "I saw the ladder was there and that there was a man on it. Nothing more.'

'A pity,' he ejaculated. 'I hoped you; had seen him.'

'There were several men—' she began.

'Yes, but the man on the ladder was not with the others who tried to get him.'

'You think it might he, Mr. Hammerton?'

'I have that idea. But I am not sure.'

They reached the gallery, turning the switches as they went, and instantly Lavenham's glance went to the wall where Henry Lavenham's portrait should he. As he had anticipated it was gone, cut cleanly from the frame.

'That man got it!' cried the girl.'

'Yes! The question is, did those others get him?'

He looked round the gallery as he spoke. The ladder was lying where it had fallen, one rung snapped. A sheath knife gleamed on the oak; and farther away was a grey Trilby hat. These things and the empty frame were the sole indications of the thieving visitors to The Priory, which now was silent as the. grave. He looked at Helen Lavenham and gave a short laugh.

'I do not think we shall see any more of these gentry tonight. Whichever side got the picture, the other will know it is no longer here. You can ring up the police now or in the morning and inform them of the burglary.'

'If it were a burglary—' began the girl.

Lavenham jerked a thumb in the direction of the empty frame. 'No doubt of that, I should say!'

'But there is!" said Helen. 'If the man on the ladder were Mr. Hammerton I am sure it was not a―'

Crang! Crang!

Two sharp reports from the park interrupted her words, and her face lost its hot colour.

'Oh-h! Those were g-gunshots.'

'Pistol shots more likely,' answered Lavenham hurriedly. 'It seems those men are in touch with—'

'They may have killed him!' she whispered tragically.

'That is possible, but—" A faint shout came through the night; and he changed what he was going to say.

'Not yet, I think. They are in pursuit, that is all. If that is Hammerton, he may come back here, or he may be requiring help. Do you mind if I leave you for a short time, Miss Lavenham, if I may be of use to—'

'Oh, go! go!" she cried tensely. 'You do not know why now, but I will tell you when― when— Go! Save him if you can.'

He needed no second bidding. Carrying the poker with him, he ran to the ball, groped for the bolts, undid them, and then made to unlock the door. The key he found was already turned, in testimony to the efficiency of the man who had picked the lock.

He opened the door, and passing outside, stood on the steps listening. The half-clouded moon made it possible to see right across the park, dimly outlined the trees on the right, and showed him the gravelled drive like a winding ribbon. But nowhere could he see any, signs of the men whom he knew were out there, somewhere among the shadows. To plunge into that wide reach of park and wood, without anything to guide him, was mere vanity, and he wanted for any sound or sign that would indicate the whereabouts of the men for whose safety the girl was so anxious.

The time of waiting grew prolonged. With the remembrance of those two shots, he began to grow anxious. Had the pursuit triumphed, and was Hammerton lying dead somewhere in the park or in the copses away to the right? The silence seemed ominous. To his anxious, mind, there was am quality in the stillness. He had a half-formed conviction that these two shots proclaimed a fresh tragedy, and that somewhere out in the. shadows lay a dead man. In that case―

A sharp whistle broke on his dismal reflections. A shout followed, other voices answered; and with an assurance that the game was still afoot, and his. heart leaping with relief, lie began to run across the lawn in the direction of the trees, whence the sounds had come.

Before he reached them the moon sailed clear of the clouds, and he saw the trees clearly. As he ran he perceived another runner, a man who skirted the wood for perhaps twenty yards and then plunged into it.

'Hare or hounds?' he muttered, and ran for the place where the man whom he had seen disappeared. When he reached it, he stood for a moment staring Into the shadows in front. He did not know whether the individual who had vanished there was Hammerton or one of the pursuers; but whilst he stood there, a second man broke into the trees, arid almost before Lavenham saw him launched himself upon him. Instinctively, rather than of set purpose, the artist struck with the poker and his assailant went down like a felled ox. In the same moment Lavenham heard feet crashing through the undergrowth in the wood; and without delay hurried in the direction of the sounds.

The moon, clear of the clouds, filled the wood with shadows. More than once he stopped," thinking there was a man in front of him, only to find that it was some trick of the moonlight among the trees. Then quite suddenly, in a glade-like place, he saw a man running. The turf under the trees, deadened the sound of the man's steps, and the unearthly light gave him a ghostlike appearance. But the fact that he was alone, and that there was apparently no one else in the immediate neighbourhood, brought to Lavenham an uplift of heart. Here he was reassured, was the fugitive Hammerton, sound of wind and limb, with his pursuers tricked or left behind. But for the fact that any noise must attract the baffled hunt he would have hailed the fugitive. Deeming that action would be the merest folly, he started to follow the man. He was still running when the fugitive disappeared, having apparently walked straight into a tree.

For a moment he was utterly nonplussed. The thing was incredible. His imagination he thought must be playing tricks with him, and indeed, the shadows in the wood were very confusing. Then he moved toward the tree in question, and before he reached it the explanation was afforded him. What looked like a shadow on the trunk was really an opening where the wood had rotted away, and he was still moving towards it when the vanished man emerged into view again, and began to run forward, apparently without seeing the-artist; but as he became aware of him, he stopped suddenly, and lifted something 'that he carried to the shoulder. Lavenham remembered the slugs that had struck the window frame and the door at The Priory, and knowing that he was in some peril, cried out sharply:

'Hammerton, for heaven's sake!'

The other lowered his weapon and ran forward.

'You, ' he cried tensely. 'You! Lavenham! Go back to the house! Guard Helen! You don't know this crowd. They're capable of—'

A sharp whistle sounded. A hoarse voice gave a view holloa! and a man appeared running towards them. As they saw him a second man came in sight, and Hammerton cried imperatively:

'For God's sake, go. I'll come along shortly.'

The artist waited no longer. Hammerton's urgency proclaimed a very real apprehension. For some reason the man feared that the hostility directed against himself might include Helen Lavenham; and that he should be so afraid sowed fear in Lavenham. He slipped into the shadow of the trees, and as he did so heard a sharp 'P-l-u-n-g!'

The sound was followed by a raging cry.

'Perdition! The fellow's shooting. Ware slugs, Pete.'

Lavenham glanced round once, and bad a glimpse of Hammerton standing in the moonlight; that camouflaged air-gun ready for action, with the two men halted a little distance away, plainly uncertain how to proceed. Then as he moved on he heard a laugh, Hammerton's by the sound; there followed shouting; and he divined that once again the moth-hunter was in flight, with the other men in pursuit.

He lost his way among the trees; wandered for some minutes; stumbled in a clump of brambles and dropped the poker somewhere in the heart of the clump.

Picking himself up, he did not trouble to look for the weapon, but hurried forward in the direction where he conceived the house was.  The shadows were denser in this part of the wood, and he ran straight into a man who emerged from behind a bunch of hollies. The man gripped him.

'Now— you blighter!'

Face to face, held in a hug like a bear's, he saw the, other's face was blood-stained, and divined that here was the fellow whom he had felled with the poker a little while back. That the man recognised him, or at any rate guessed him to be his assailant, seemed certain, for there was a vicious snarl on his face, and he could not possibly have mistaken him for the bearded Hammerton.

Instinctively he struggled to free himself, but his opponent; had a wrestler's hold, and lifted him off his feet with the plain intention of throwing him amongst the trees. With a thought, that such a fall might mean a broken neck or back, Lavenham clung to the man like a cat; and though the fellow swayed and whirled and butted with his wounded head, he could not break the artist's hold. Then with his feet still off the ground, Lavenham bethought him of something.

In such a desperate case there was no room for sportsmanlike rules. Instinctively he began to kick the man's shins, knowing how vulnerable the man was there. The fellow spat an oath; made one more desperate attempt to. throw his opponent; then as the latter's boot toe found the bone, he gave a sharp groan and released his hold, but almost simultaneously struck viciously with his right fist.

The blow was a staggerer. It caught Lavenham over the heart, and knocked him to the ground. He lay there helpless for a moment, breathless aware only of intolerable, pain, and of a darkness which seemed shot with little, points of fire. Then the darkness lifted a little, his brain functioned, and he was aware of his opponent staggering towards him. He heard the man laugh savagely, and saw him lift a foot.

'Now you crawling worm. I'll trample the life out of you.'

The ruffian meant just what he said.

Lavenham had. no doubt of that; and still doubled by the agony of the, blow that he had suffered, he was helpless to protect himself. He tried to roll away, and lifted a hand to save his face. The fellow saw the action and laughed; 'I'll spoil your—'

A feminine cry of fear sounded through the night, checking the fellow's words. He looked round.

'Lumme! What's that?'

Lavenham himself had no doubt of the meaning of that cry. The peril which Hammerton had anticipated had materialised, and Helen Lavenham was in danger. The thought helped him to triumph over the agony which he still suffered. He drew a gasping breath, clutched suddenly at the other's legs, and jerked sharply. Taken by surprise, the man crashed backwards, grunted once, and lay still, his head against a tree.

Slowly, Lavenham picked himself up, the effort causing him new pain; his heart beating so violently and irregularly that he felt that he must choke. He looked down once at the ruffian, saw that he was really out of action, and then with, a great effort began to stumble forward. When he was out of sight of his fallen antagonist, he leaned against a broad tree-trunk; and notwithstanding his intense anxiety, schooled himself to wait until the wild beating of his heart steadied a little; then again he began to go forward. From behind, in the depths of the wood, occasional sounds reached him. Once a man shouted; and twice there were whistles, one very; very sharp and clear, as if the whistler were summoning others to him; and finally, just as he broke into the open, from the road bordering the park there sounded, the soft purr of an automobile. The wide lawn in front of him was a mere void of darkness at the further side of which the lights of The Priory gleamed. He began to move towards them as quickly as he  could; but slowly for all that; for the blow had been a cruel one, and his limbs shook as if he had a palsy. Before he reached the house he was aware of a white figure standing on the steps and had a hope that his fears were groundless; then he became aware of someone running up the gravelled drive towards the house.

Who the runner could be, he could only conjecture. Possibly Hammerton had heard that feminine cry of distress, and it might be her; or again it might very well be one of the men who had previously entered the house, returning. He could not be sure; and in either case it was incumbent upon him to make sure that no harm had befallen Helen Lavenham. Before he reached the terrace the man who had been running up the drive had arrived at the door  and Lavenham heard a man's voice asking excited questions.

'But what have a-been to do? An' where be Miss Helen' gone? Ruth d'say that—'

He heard no more at the moment. That some untoward thing had overtaken Helen Lavenham the words revealed and as he recalled the cry of fear which, he had heard in the wood; his apprehensions were confirmed, Hammerton's- anticipation had been justified. The girl had been brought into the circles of Spanish John's nefarious activities, though why, he could not even dimly guess. His new fears set his heart pounding afresh.

Again he felt that he must choke; and as he began to cross the terrace towards the man and the girl who stood there in her night attire, he staggered like one far gone in drink. The man heard him coming and swung round; then cried challengingly: 'Now, who the blazes be you?'

Chapter 11

IN answer to the man's challenging question, Lavenham explained as concisely as he could.

'I am Charles Lavenham, a friend of Miss Helen's. I was here a little while ago, when some men entered the house. When they left there were sounds of trouble out there in the grounds— shots were fired, and at Miss Lavenham's . request I went to find out what was happening. I was attacked and I heard a cry from the house here—'

He broke off, and asked sharply, 'I heard you ask where Miss Helen had gone. Is she not here?'

'No, zur,' answered the man, 'not if tales be true, I was home a-bed; having been up two nights with the child who is sick, when I heard two shots. "Poachers," said I, an' the pheasants being my job, I got up and started to dress. I zat in a chair to lace my boots, an' it's God's truth, zur, that I, falled asleep again, being that dog-tired; and I knowed  nothing more, till I heard Ruth hammering at the door, and shouting about wild, deeds happening here; an' I came along zo fast as I could; though now I know no more than the man in the moon what have happened.'

Lavenham looked at the girl, and saw that she had recognised him.

'You know me,' he said, "I was here this morning. Your mistress and I drove away together. You saw us go. Tell me what has happened as quickly as you can.'

'I don't know, sir. Ruth and me was a-bed. We heard sounds in the house; an' Ruth said that. 'twas burglars or as like as not some convict broke loose from Princetown. We lay shivering thinking that Miss Helen would call for help if there was trouble, an' then heard the shots the keeper mentioned, an' thought that there must be poachers making a dash for the 'copses. Things went dead quite after that, except for a shout or two and a whistle across the park, which didn't worry us none, being too far away; then us heard Miss Helen cry out and if—as if— God have mercy! I hope they haven't killed her, sir—'

The maid broke down suddenly. She began, to sob hysterically;  and with a fear that she might lose control altogether, and so waste precious time, Lavenham intervened sharply.

'Steady, girl. Keep hold of yourself. There's no time to waste in tears. Tell me what else happened. Quick! Can't you?"

His sharpness braced the girl. She pulled herself together, and between sobs replied:

There s nothing else to tell, sir. Ruth an' me, scared out of our wits— came down together. The door was wide open— but Miss Helen was not about. We went from one room to another but couldn't find her nowhere and at last Ruth put on shoes and a coat; and ran down to the lodge for William here. That's all that I know, sir, and what has happened to Miss Helen—'

The rest was lost on Lavenham. He stood there trying to conjecture what had happened. That some untoward thing had befallen Miss Lavenham he was certain; and as his mind made a rapid survey of the events of the night, he recalled the motor-car which he had heard going down the lane shortly after that stricken cry had sounded through the night. Did the explanation of Helen Lavenham's disappearance lie there? Had she been kidnapped and carried away in the car? The idea seemed a wild one. He could not think of any reason why Spanish John and his associates should do such a desperate thing. But, then as he told himself, there were many mysterious things connected with the events that had befallen in the last forty-eight hours, and not the smallest of those mysteries was the evident knowledge of Hammerton which Helen possessed, whilst the moth-hunter's acquaintance with the customs of The Priory, as in the matter of the flag and the girl's birthday, seemed to be linked in that particular mystery That there was some kind of relationship, or, at any rate, of near acquaintance, between the two, was certain; and if the men who were Hammerton's enemies were certain of that, it was possible that they had kidnapped the girl as a hostage to force what, they wanted, from the moth-hunter.

The thing was preposterous; but not impossible. There was, he had gathered, some reason why  the help of the police should not be sought, and if the desperate crew who had invaded tho house knew that there was good ground for their wild action. And the thing was not so wild as it seemed. Desperate things of the kind were common enough in America and other places out of England; and if, as he suspected, the men engaged in the enterprise, were men who. had lived abroad, there was nothing inherently impossible in the idea. The popular Sunday Press was full of stranger things; of stories, and enterprises carried out by ruffianly men, which, to the ordinary citizen, were desperate to lunacy; of accounts of men, who for gain killed in cold blood, risking that short walk from cell to scaffold in the chill of the early morning. He told himself all these things swiftly; and remembering the story of Henry Lavenham's lost treasure around which recent events centered, he did not doubt that the one explanation of Helen's disappearance, which his mind offered, was the correct one.

She had been kidnapped to be used as a pawn or queen in the risky game which desperate men were playing. But in that, case where could they have taken her? Almost on the heels of the question the answer leaped to his mind— that caravan, which, had stood in the little bay in the woods, but which now, if Hammerton's information were correct, was somewhere on the Ashburton road. That was the place to which they would take her— a safe hiding, where she could be detained until their will was accomplished. The answer had the force of a conviction. He was as sure of it as that the sun was in the heavens, and as the conviction forced itself upon him, his mind began to seek, some way of delivering the girl from desperate hands.

A moment later he addressed himself to the man William.

'Listen!' he said. 'I have an idea that Miss Helen may have been taken away against her will—'

'Lord save us, zur.'

'But it is well to make sure. Will you go over the house with this girl here and make certain Miss Lavenham is not in any of the rooms. Afterwards, we will get a lantern and search the grounds, though I think we shall be wasting time.'

'If Miss Helen has been taken away, zur, wouldn't it be zo well for one of us to telephone the police at―'

"Not yet," he interrupted, "I have reason to believe that Miss Lavenham would not wish that. We must first try to- do all things ourselves." He turned to the girl.

"Have you the garage key?"

"It is kept in the library, sir."

"Then fetch it! I think you will not find your mistress here, and I will take the car out in case I have to try to follow her. "

"Very well, sir." The girl hurried away, and returned with the key, and a lantern. "You will need a light, sir, I think. So I brought the lamp along."

"Thank you! Now the two of you go over the house thoroughly whilst I go to the garage. Don't waste time, but, begin the search at once."

The pair departed, and taking the lantern he moved to the rear of the house, where the garage was situated. As it chanced he found the door was unlocked, and entering he saw that there were two cars, the one which the girl had used to run to The Three Feathers; the other a saloon of heavier build and greater power. The tyres of the first were fiat again; and a saloon was the only one that could be used. He made a swift inspection of it; saw that the tank was full of petrol, that there was a sufficiency of oil, and that the radiator had its full requirement of water; then he backed the car into the yard and round to the front of the house.

There waiting for William and the girl to complete their search of the house, he contemplated the silent park, which was dimly visible in the faint moonlight. There was now no sound of hurrying feet or the voices of excited men. The place was still as a grave. Not for a moment did he think that Helen Lavenham was anywhere in the park. Wherever that car that he had heard after, her cry was going, was her destination. Of that he was as certain as a man could be in this uncertain world, and to search the park would be a waste of time. The Ashburton road, and the caravan that was parked somewhere on its lonely length, was the place where the missing girl would be found.

But there was Hammerton? What had happened to him? Was he still out there among the trees hiding from his enemies, or had he, evading pursuit, taken his way to Notanam and the inn? That was a question he could not settle; and he did not excite himself unduly over it. Wherever he was, Hammerton, he was convinced, was well able to look after himself.

He waited impatiently for the appearance of the pair who were searching the house; and when at length they came and announced that nowhere was there any sign of Helen Lavenham, having expected no other result from their search, he was neither surprised nor disappointed. There remained the park to be searched; but in his own mind  assureed that the search would be as barren as that in the house had been, he proposed to leave that to the keeper whilst he himself went further afield.

He explained the situation to the man, gave him precise instructions, ordering him, in the event of his encountering Hammerton, to inform the latter what had happened, and entering the saloon, he drove away.

The road ho followed was sufficiently lonely at the season of the year, and at all times was solitary a-nights; being one of the secondary roads of the great moor, running between wild stretches of heather and furze, and under the shadow of the tors. Along this, as he knew, were many places where a caravan might be parked without undue observation; places that would offer the solitude desired by men engaged in a desperate undertaking. He drove on at moderate pace, using only his sidelights, and alert for any sign of the men whom be sought.

For quite a long time he found none. The moor was like a place of the dead, with no vehicle, save his own, upon the road; no passenger a-foot, no light anywhere on its dark reaches.

He came to a point where a road branched from the road he followed. It led, as he knew, towards Stonerdown and the Exeter and Plymouth road and incidentally to Ashburton; but not so directly as the way he was on. But some intuition made him halt the car there, and climb the hill to make a survey. Along the one road there was nothing to be seen; but on the road running to Stonerdown in the slight valley where, as he knew, a stream ran across the road, a dim light shone.

He considered it carefully. Its position, he thought, was almost on the road itself; a road that he knew very well, and on the whole length of which, as he remembered no house stood. Was that the place? He was still wondering when a thing happened which brought conviction to his mind. The gloom about that dim light was suddenly cloven by a bright glare, as he divined the glare of a car's headlights switched on. There was a car there, and besides the car there was something else which had a light— the caravan he told himself; and would, have wagered his life upon the fact. He lost no time. The car's headlights were facing towards him, and presumably if it moved the vehicle would come in his direction. In a twinkling he was running to the saloon. When be reached it, he started the engine and ran the car a little way up the Ashburton road, then drawing well into the side, he extinguished all lights, and waited, watchful and very alert.

He could not now see the headlights which had made him act so hurriedly, but the glare was visible; and presently he saw advancing a great fan of light, whilst the roar of the car, breasting the hill broke the stillness of the moor with an alien sound. The fan grew broader, clearer. The roar of the car on the hill was more pronounced, then he saw the vehicle cross the junction of the road, and take the way he himself had come from Notanam.

He could not see the driver, but that troubled him not at all, for down in the valley the dim light he had first observed remained; and there, as he was convinced, was the caravan, he sought; to which he would have taken oath, Helen Lavenham had been brought by that car now roaring its way up the hill.

He wasted no time. Leaving the saloon ne began to move in the direction of that dim light in the valley. The blow he had suffered still troubled him; once or twice on his way down the steep and rough road he paused to get his breath and to try and induce his heart to function normally. Then he moved on again.

As he neared the bottom of the descent, his intuition stood proved, for over the little stream which meandered across the road, dimly he made out the outline of a caravan, with a curtained window at the side, through which shone the light which had been his guiding star. As he neared it he grew more cautious. He did not know how many men there might be there, and beyond his conviction had no assurance that the van had become a prison for the vanished girl: and to discover these things was not an easy task.

Creeping forward, guided by the babble of the water as It crossed the rood, he found the tiny footbridge, and slipping across it as silently as a prowling fox, he lay down in the heather and grass tussocks on the further side. Little more than the width of the road separated him from the vehicle; and the light from the window streamed almost directly on him. To his chagrin he could see nothing, whilst strain his ears as he would; no more than a mere rumble of voices reached him.

He was disappointed, but not disheartened. The voices told him that in the caravan there were two men if not three; but they did not reveal whether Helen Lavenham was there or not. How was he to find out; and when, he was sure of the fact, how was he to deliver, the girl with two— or possibly three men keeping watch and ward? He considered the quite knotty problem for a long time without finding out any solution. The more he thought upon the situation, the greater did the difficulties appear. Short of going up to the steps and knocking on the door, he could think of no way of learning that which he so much wanted to know. He was still battering his brains for some road to the knowledge that he sought, when that knowledge was almost flung at him.  Within the caravan there was a sound of movement; the: glazed door :was flung open, and a man with an enamelled jug appealed on the top of the steps, stood for a second or two staring into the darkness, and then descending the steps made intention of filling the jug with water, and almost In the same second, a man's hoarse laughter sounded from the van.

'Give the Jane a swig, Pete. Maybe t'will help her to treat yo' more kindly.'

Lavenham 's heart almost stood still at the words. Here he thought . was the continuation that he sought. There wore three men with the van; and unquestionably Helen was the 'Jane' referred to. He looked at the. man at the stream wondering if it would be possible to take him by surprise, and so learn the number of the men to be dealt with, but before he could make a decision the man began to return to the caravan and the opportunity, went past him on the other side.

Shouts of laughter sounded in the van, whilst he racked his brain for some expedient that would serve his purpose. He had little, doubt that the men were drinking;  but he found no help there, since, all seasoned heads, no doubt, they would carry their liquor without growing fuddled. Then quite suddenly he had an inspiration, Hammerton had shot at the men with an air-gun. What had happened to them, he had no means of knowing, but if he could induce those fellows to believe that the moth-hunter was again at their heels it might help enormously.

Creeping to the gutter at the side of the road, he groped for and found a handful of pebbles of small size. Selecting one, he threw it with all his might at the side of the caravan. As it struck, it made a sharp sound distinctly audible to himself, and, as he guessed much more so to the men within the caravan.

A voice came clearly now: "The devil! What was that?"

He acted again swiftly. A second stone hit the caravan, a third, and a sharp oath broke through the stillness.

'It's that cursed ginger-headed son-of-a-gun with his air-pistol.'

'It's a run!' roared another voice ; whilst a third shouted in panic, 'Douse the light.'

Almost Immediately the light was extinguished, and with that Lavenham directed his next stone at the window. That he found it was proved by the splintering of glass which, followed, and a curse, from some man struck, no doubt, by a piece of glass.

'Got you, Pete?" asked a voice in alarm.

'Nope! Glass, I guess, in the face. That guy out there can't know we've got the Jane or he wouldn't be plugging away at random.'

'Might put her in front of the window,' suggested, another of the men.

'Nope! That would give the whole circus away. We've just got to go out an' git that sniper.'

'He'll get us sure; that way.'

'Nope! It's dark. We've only got to crawl out quietly an' wait for the plung of the gun—'

The voices died to a rumble; and Lavenham was left to conjecture the plans the men might be making. He threw another pebble or two, taking care that they should hit the van smartly; then silently and swiftly he crossed the space between the van and himself, and stood listening.

Still he could hear no more than a rumble, the men within having no doubt- realised the possibility of being overheard. He broke-off. There was a sound of stealthy steps within the click of a latch, and a slight creaking as if the door were being opened. He slipped round to the front of the van. There was a window there as well as at the side and he drove one of his pebbles against the panes smartly.

'Sharp!' ejaculated a voice in a whisper. 'He's changed position to the front.'

There was the sound of men jumping from the van, as the artist changed his position again, chuckling as he dived between the wheels under the van; which, as he guessed. would be the last place the trio would look for him. They ran round the van in a bunch, separated, and began to beat the bushes in front, in the most futile way, shouting to each other as he imagined to keep, up their courage,

He wasted no time. Within a minute he had wriggled the length of the van and emerged by the stops: He paused there no more than a second to listen, and heard one of the men shout:—

'The guy's gone to ground.'

Then he mounted the steps, and passed Inside the van. It was very dark there, and he could see little.

'Miss Lavenham,' he whispered. 'Where―'

'Here," answered the, girl's voice. 'In the corner. I am tied to a stool.'

He felt in his pocket for his penknife, and groped his way to the corner. He could not see her bonds and had to feel for them, and take the risk of cutting her.

'Keep quite still,' he said, and began to saw at the rope with a knife which having in its turn been used as a tin opener, had scarcely a razor edge. The voice from outside Bounded occasionally, and as the; last strand of rope gave, quite clearly and very near the van one of the men shouted, 'It's no go, Pete. The beggar has vamoosed. He hasn't fired since we left the van. May as well chuck it.'

'Yep!"

'Quick!' whispered Lavenham, 'Down the steps; and up the hill to the right. There's a wall there which you'll have to negotiate. But whatever happens keep going and work towards the Ashburton road. Your car's there. Now!'

The girl slipped down the steps and light as a fairy made the gorse on the slope. Lavenham followed, but went only a little way before dropping down behind the bushes. The men were returning to the van, rather noisily, assured that the danger they had apprehended had passed. Knowing the surprise that awaited them, and sure that it would sting them to new activity, he wanted to scare them afresh and hinder the pursuit until Helen Lavenham had a good start. He heard the men make the, van whilst he grubbed for stones of a suitable size. They stumbled up the steps, and then one of the men struck a match.

A second later there was a yell.

'Holy smoke!— The kid's gone!'

'Blazes, how—'

It was that second which Lavenham chose to launch another missile, with the idea that he might detain, the men in the caravan for a little time in the belief that they were under fire. Unfortunately his shot was a bad; one hit the window, which he had not intended, broke through, and from the yell that followed struck one of the men. The light went out; but, a second later another match was struck and then a voice fairly roared.

'Flames! It's a pebble. That guy out there has been fooling us, chucking stones at us whilst—'

'Outside! Get the girl, or the boss will roast us. Sharp, for God's sake!'

They were already tumbling out of the van as Lavenham, crouching low, began to hurry up the hillside. He could see nothing of Helen, but he had no doubt that she would follow his instructions; and he cherished- the hoped that they might get away undiscovered. Then that happened which wrecked the hope. The moon which had been hidden emerged slowly from a flying cloud. It grew brighter. He could see, quite distinctly, each bush in front, of him as he ran in a moment the hillside would be bathed in silver light.

He glanced up, and saw that another cloud was approaching, and would presently veil the moon again. But there was that Interval of light to be passed; and he dropped in the heather and lay prone waiting for the new spell of darkness. It was then that discovery came. Scarcely had he touched the heather when behind him at the bottom of the hill a voice roared exultantly—

'By God! There's the vixen! Up the hill.'

He looked up sharply at the words, and on the top of the wall, silhouetted, against the moonlight saw Helen's lissom form. She was there but for a second. The next she had leaped down and was out of sight. But she had been seen. The line of her flight was known, and the three scoundrels were in full cry. Further concealment was useless, and leaping to his feet the artist followed the fleeing girl, with another roar from the pursuers as they saw him to speed him on his way.

Chapter 12

BEFORE the driving cloud had hidden the moon anew, Lavenham reached the wall ahead and, having climbed it, followed the line of Helen's flight.  Within two or three minutes he 'was running by her side, and giving instructions.

'Bear left! The car is that way. Run evenly. We have rather a long way to go.'

The friendly cloud veiled the face of the moon, and the moor grew comparatively dark. They hurried on as noiselessly as possible, conscious that their pursuers were not very far behind, but unable to see them owing to the nature of the ground. They came to another wall, climbed it, and on the further side Lavenham halted to reconnoitre.

There was at least one man moving through the heather in the, direction of the wall; he heard him distinctly, once; but the others he could neither hear nor see. In a little time, however, he had news of them, for as he and Helen resumed their way, a man's shout came from the darkness in front, and was answered both by the men behind them and by someone away to the left.

'They are between us and the car,' he whispered quickly. 'We shall have to dodge them. If they should light on the car first that would be awkward.'

In attempting a detour they were seen, by one of the men, and the pursuit growing hotter they were forced further from the car; and try as he would, Lavenham could not shake the pursuit off.

Both he and Helen, who was well acquainted with this end of the moor, lost their bearings; and when presently it began to rain, they were wholly astray. The rain was fine but drenching, and after a little time they were enveloped in what was less a mist than a rain cloud; and stripping his coat the artist insisted on the girl donning it.

They stood , for a little time in the lee of some rocks, sheltering, all fear of the pursuit dead, for the cloud blanketed everything, and only the veriest accident could any of the men stumble on them.

'I wonder where we are?' whispered the girl.

'Haven't a notion,' he answered. 'The mist and the darkness alter the aspect of things so much. But there's a slope below us, and these rocks may be one of the smaller tors. Unless we are interfered with we had better remain here in shelter until the mist lifts. We may break our, necks otherwise—'

'Yes,' agreed the girl, and after a little time asked: 'What happened out in the park when you went investigating? Did you see Mr. Hammerton?'

'Yes! He sent me back to you, and when I arrived I found you had gone. How did it happen?"

'I was standing in the terrace listening, when a man slipped up behind me. I cried out— once—'

'Yes! I heard you.'

'He gave me chance for no more. Another man joined him, and in no time at all a handkerchief was tied over my mouth, and my hands and feet were tied... . I think I must have fainted, for the next thing I remember was being in the car with those three men, and hearing one of them say, "I wonder why we've made this cop?" '

'Was there any answer?' asked Lavenham quietly. 'I myself have been wondering why they should have kidnapped you.'

'One of the men said that it was because Spanish John would play the Queen.'

"But even yet I do not understand.'

'I think that man Spanish John had somehow learned who Mr. Hammerton was, and hoped to bring pressure on him by making me a hostage.'

'But―'

'You see Mr. Hammerton is my father!'

'What?' In his amazement Lavenham, forgetting the peril in which they stood, fairly shouted the word.

"You are surprised!' Helen Lavenham gave a little laugh. 'I do not wonder. But that was why I wanted you to bring him to me. I have not seen him since I was a little child. But always on my birthday I have had a message from him, and once a string of pearls.'

'But why on earth did he not come to see you?'

'My grandfather would not allow him. That was a condition of my being at The Priory. You see I was three when I came here, and I only know what I was told by my grandfather; but there was some kind of disgrace—'

'Yes!' he said, as her voice quivered. 'No need to go into that.'

'When you mentioned that telegram, and told, me that you thought the sender of it was already acquainted with Henry Lavenham's portrait, you told me, without knowing it, that my father was in the neighbourhood, but I did not know till you revealed it that the man who had called to see the picture, and whom I refused, was my father. I— I ought to have known, but I just didn't—'

'Instinct isn't all it is cracked up for,' said the artist, sympathetically.

'No!' she said. 'No,' then added, 'I wonder where he is now?'

'Squaring accounts with Spanish John, if I know him. He is not quite the mild, moth-catcher that he seems, And if he learns that you have been abducted he won't be too gentle In his handling of the knife-thrower; and he is armed.'

'Oh!' whispered the girl tragically, 'if anything should happen—'

'If those two meet, I think it is very likely. Apparently there are old accounts between them, and, I should say that neither of them would settle by any appeal to law.'

'No,' whispered the girl, and stood staring tragically into the rainy darkness.

Lavenham himself did not continue the conversation. The revelation which Helen had made was an amazing thing, though the moth-hunter's, knowledge of her birthday, and of the flag-hoisting custom of The Priory, as well as varied cryptic utterances, had prepared him for some kind of close acquaintance or relationship. He wondered what was behind the man's long exile from The Priory; and how it came that he should have appeared at this juncture when the dead Carling, and Spanish John and his associates should, have appeared on the scene. That the conjunction of these men had to do with Henry Lavenham's rumoured treasure, was certain, and it appeared that the moth-catcher's aim had all along been to thwart the activities of the others.

From the moment when Spanish John had appeared in the gallery he had guessed the identity of the man on the ladder; and now did not doubt at all that it had been Hammerton, who, anticipating the action of the others had removed the picture from the frame. And he knew now where that picture was. As he reflected staring into the wet darkness, before him flashed a vision of the moonlit wood, with a man in front of him walking apparently into the heart of a tree.

'There!' he whispered, with a little laugh.

'What? Where?' asked Helen quickly.

'Nothing! I was only thinking that I knew, where your picture is at this moment. Tell me, across the park in the wood, there is a hollow tree—'

'Yes!' she answered. 'An oak, incredibly old, with its heart gone.'

Then Henry Lavenham's portrait is there."

'But how do you know?'

'Because I saw your father take it there. He was the man who cut' the portrait from its frame. and—"

Quite suddenly, very close as it seemed in the darkness, a whistle sounded, the kind of whistle a man makes with his fingers in his mouth; shrill and penetrating, and to the pair, utterly startling in its sheer unexpectedness.

'Oh!' whispered the girl shiveringly, 'those men—'

It seemed that, she was about to fall; and Lavenham caught her and held her in his arms.

'S-s-s-h-h!'

The whistle sounded once more; but a very few yards away. Tithe pair among the rocks it seemed full of menace, and instinctively the girl huddled closer in the man's protecting arms. This time the whistle was answered from some point away on the left; and it became clear to Lavenham, that whilst Helen and he had lost their way in the darkness they had not shaken off the pursuit. Two of the men at least were in the immediate neighbourhood; and might yet stumble on them in their hiding place among the rocks. He heard feet rustling in the heather, caught their rasping on the stones, and felt the girl shiver in anticipation of discovery.

He clasped her closer, felt, her heart beating wildly, was aware even in that tense moment of a sense of elation that; she should trust him so utterly; and the very next second saw a shadow pass almost directly In front of them, certainly no more than four yards away. The man, whoever he was, stumbled among the rocks, swore horribly, then whistled once more, and when the answering whistle came, moved away, apparently to rejoin his fellow.

With Helen still in his arms Lavenham waited until the noise of the man's footsteps wore lost in the swish of the rain, then looking down into the girl's face, he laughed silently, .with a desire to reassure her.

'A near squeak!' he whispered, almost in her ear. 'Another step and he must have discovered us.'

'But for you—'

The girl lifted her head, as she spoke, and he saw her eyes gleaming through the mist and dark; and at the same moment was aware of a surge of elemental emotion in his own heart which swept aside all narrowing conventions like a flood; and for a moment drowned all sense of the peril which environed them.

'For you,' he whispered with burning fervency, 'I would give my life.'

A moment later he was appalled at his own temerity. He meant, quite literally, the words which had been wrenched from him by sudden passion, but remembering their situation and her helplessness and dependence upon him, was afraid that now he had destroyed her trust for ever. But hours of peril together had, it appeared, thrust the merely conventional aspect of things from Helen Lavenham as from him. He felt her move in his arms, and the movement was not away from him.

Then she spoke: 'But I, but I do not want— that sacrifice, I— I— prefer that you should live— that— that—' Her whisper faltered, and failed altogether, but her face, pale and ethereal in the darkness was very close to him; and there was a radiance in her eyes that was unmistakable.

He laughed silently and exultantly, whispering: 'And the day before yesterday we did not know each other!'

'Is it so short a time since we met?' she whispered back, wonder in her voice. 'So short a time.'

'But so very much has happened―'

'Yes, and in that multitude of happenings we have fulfilled long years— my dear!'

She lifted her face a little nearer; and in the rainy darkness on the bleak tor and in the shadow of peril, he kissed her.

'What your father will say—?' he began, but she interrupted him.

'He will say nothing against you, I am sure, for from what you told me, I think he knows that you have as much right at The Priory as any Lavenham of us all and if my guess is right, I am sure you have."

'Your guess?' he whispered wonderingly.

'Yes,' she whispered back. 'My father had a brother Charles—'

'That was my father's name!' he said.

'When they were little more than boys, they left The Priory together. I do not know why, unless it was that Grandfather was something of a tyrant and difficult to live with. But Grandfather was very angry and vowed they should never set foot in The Priory against whilst he lived. It was the old housekeeper who now lives at Hoine who told me this; and your likeness to Henry Lavenham is so strong that I have an idea that you may be Charles Lavenham's son as I am his brother's daughter. That thought came to me when I got that man Carling's letter, which was signed with your name.'

Somewhere down the hillside there was a shout, which was answered by whistles from two directions; and it was clear to Lavenham that the trio from the van were, still engaged in their search; and whilst that went forward, he and Helen were , marooned on the tor in the rain and dark. It was far from a cheerful prospect, but it was better than the risk involved in discovery by those scoundrelly searchers. Holding the girl closer in his arms, he whispered: "I think we might make ourselves as comfortable as we can here  for the present. If we move we may step straight into those rascals... If you will wait I will look round for a little more sheltered position.'

He left her, and within three minutes was back again.

'This way, dear,' he said, taking her arm. 'There is an overhanging rock with a natural seat, which the rain does not reach. We can wait there in comparative comfort.'

He led her to the, place, and they seated themselves. His arm went round her protectingly, and he whispered:

'Perhaps we had better not talk. I want to listen. If those men come this way the swish of the rain may deaden the sound of their approach.'

'Yes,' she agreed. 'Silence will be wise.'

Seated very close, his arm around her, her head against his shoulder, they waited and watched for quite a considerable time. In the sheltered place it was warmer than Lavenham had hoped for, and though he himself was wet, his coat had kept the girl comparatively dry, and her discomfort was not very great. Indeed, after  ay time she began to nod, and then awakened with a little start.

'It sounds ridiculous,' she whispered, 'but I feel sleepy.'

'Then sleep, my dear. I will waken you, if there should be need, or if the opportunity to leave should come."

'But I do not like. It Is not fair to leave you to watch alone.'

'I shall not be alone,' he laughed softly. 'With you in my, arms.'

She made' a gallant attempt to keep awake, yawned once or twice delicately, nodded again, and again, then her head slid back to his shoulder and she slipped into a profound slumber. Lavenham content that it should be so, smiled to himself, and continued his vigil.

Once or twice he heard signals not very far away; and wondered whether the trio, were still continuing their search; or whether like Helen and himself, they were lost on the hillside. In either case it was clearly inadvisable to stir from this sheltered place. If they  did not fall into the hands of the scoundrels from whom they had escaped in the darkness, they might walk into some steep moorland bog, or over some steep place where, death might be the penalty of mistake.

He sat watchful, with ears strained for any footfall, scarcely daring to think of the events of the day and night; or even of the happiness into which he had stumbled, lest his attention should be distracted from his vigil.

The rain ceased, hut the cloud still enveloped the tor; and even on that high place the night remained dark owing to the moon's face being hidden. For a very long time nothing at all happened, then startlingly near a voice, lifted itself in a long-drawn "Cooo-ooo-ee."

Helen stirred in his arms, but did not wake; and fearing that one of the pursuers had somehow, discovered their presence on the tor, he set his teeth and waited grimly. If the man showed himself he was resolved that he would go to any length rather than allow the scoundrels to recapture Helen. His apprehension grew at the sound of someone stumbling among the rocks. Then he heard a voice cry savagely, 'Oh, curse the place. It's like a stony hell.'

The voice though very near brought a little reassurance. The owner of it, whoever he might be, was unaware of their presence on the tor, and apparently had lost his companions. Well, if the worst came to the worst, he could deal with one man; and he waited for the discovery which  he felt was imminent. The stumbling among the rocks continued, passed away to the left, then abruptly ceased. He waited breathlessly, quite sure that the man had not left the tor; afraid that he was merely delaying his attack.

Then an utterly unexpected thing happened. At a distance of only a few yards away a match was struck. He saw its radiance dimly through the mist, and a little time after as the tiny flame died out, there drifted to him an odour of rank tobacco. The man quite clearly had started a pipe; no doubt with the idea of consoling himself whilst he waited there in the darkness. That he did not know, of the presence of Helen and himself Lavenham was certain, and could have laughed at the situation, had Helen not been involved in it. The explanation of the fellow's presence, there was not difficult. He had lost his comrades somewhere on the hillside, and being uncertain of his position, rather than risk the hidden dangers of the moor, had seated himself to wait for the dawn. His presence, as Lavenham recognised, did not lessen the difficulty of the situation. Helen and he, were for the time being, definitely anchored to these sheltering rocks. To move, now, without being discovered, was beyond hope.

But one advantage was his; he knew of the rascal's presence, whilst the ruffian was entirely ignorant of the nearness of those whom he had sought with his companions. He could more or less watch the man without being observed; and with him if need be lay the advantage of surprise. He hoped the fellow would go away; but apparently he had no intention of doing so. Two or three times, at long intervals, he relit his pipe, and to Lavenham, with Helen sleeping against his shoulder, the night seemed intolerantly drawn out.

At some time towards morning he must have fallen asleep; and he came out of slumber with the dawn breaking across the great moor. The mist was gone, and a cold wind was blowing which made him shiver. His shiver awakened Helen, who started as she met his eyes looking down into hers, which still were clouded with sleep. In that second he remembered the man who had been so very near in the night, and who might still be there.

'Don't speak, dear,' he whispered quickly. 'There may be danger. Keep quite still. Wait here, and do not move whatever sounds you hear.'

He saw the mist of sleep roll from the blue eyes and a light of comprehension come into them. Then her delicate face flushed divinely, and she spoke his command, whispering with her lips very close to his ears. "I have slept— in your arms— through the night?'

'Through the night!' he whispered back; and saw confusion and laughter together kindle in the blue eyes.

'Oh Mrs. Grundy!" He flashed a warning glance, kissed her silently; then with a gesture commanding silence, withdrew his arm— and rose stiffly to his feet. His manifest caution impressed, the girl, but curiosity got the better of her. 'What―'

'S-s-s h-h! There is a man not a dozen yards away. I think.'

Startled amazement lit her face, and; she asked no more questions, but watched him as, moving forward with the utmost caution, he peered among the rocks. Then he stiffened.

The man was lying in a huddled position between two rocks, snoring heavily. His pipe was by his side, also a flask; the nickeled cup a little distance away, as if it had fallen from his hand when this hoggish sleep had overtaken him. To Lavenham as, creeping forward, he looked down on him, the man was a complete stranger, but he had no doubt that he was of Spanish John's crew and one of the trio who had hunted Helen and himself in the night

His first though was to leave the man lying there, whilst Helen and himself got clear away; but as he looked down he saw the man's coat pocket bulging, and, looking more narrowly, he noticed a patch of black vulcanite, which was undoubtedly part of the handle of automatic pistol. That caused him to change his mind. He remembered the shots that had been fired in the wood. Any moment the fellow might awake, and if he became aware of Helen and himself he might proceed to desperate  action. That was a risk not to be taken. He must take the immediate chance and disarm the man.

Stooping, he caught the handle of the pistol lightly between his finger and thumb, sliding the weapon gently out until he could grasp it, then forsaking finesse be drew it rapidly forth.

At the same moment he man stirred, opened his eyes, and the most astonished villain in the three kingdoms spat a couple of words. 'The devil!'

'A mistake, my man. Charles Lavenham at your service. Get up! Sharp!'

The man stumbled to his feet, his eyes on the automatic.

'Careful with that gun,' he said. 'It's set on a half-trigger, an' is liable to go off at a touch.'

'So much the better,' answered Lavenham. 'Take off your boots!'

'What the deuce―'

'Take then off!" said the artist sharply, making a suggestive motion with the pistol. The man made no demur, hut obediently removed his boots. "Now your socks.'

'Going to strip me naked?'  growled the man.

'I certainly will if you don't remove the socks at once.'

Again the fellow obeyed the order, and as he finished Lavenham gave a fresh command.

'Now go forward to that big rock there!'

'Snakes! You're not going to pot me as—'

'No! But I shall certainly shoot if you try any cunning game.'

The man took his word, and in his bare feet began to limp forward over the rough stones. As soon as he began to move Lavenham stooped and taking the boots flung them into different patches of gorse growing below the rocks.

The man looking back over his shoulder, saw him, and called out: 'That's a darned fine game to play on a man.'

'Keep moving,' laughed Lavenham. 'You'll be able to find them when I'm gone.'

He disposed of the socks the same way, then for the first time took a swift survey of the moor, on the look out for any sign of the man's companions. A sudden hoarse shout made him turn savagely on the man whom he had rendered helpless to pursue him on the rough ground.

'Silence, fool!' he cried angrily, thinking the man had cried to some of his fellows.

'But, flames and brimstone! Look! Look! As I live, there's murder to be done! "

Chapter 13

THE man's manner was impressive. There was no doubt that he was in earnest; and backing from him a few yards, Lavenham mounted a rock which lifted him above possible surprise and stared in the direction indicated. What he saw was sufficiently amazing.

Several yards away, standing on a rock, on the lower slope of the tor, was a man with a field glass at his eyes, surveying the moor. His back was towards the watchers, and to Lavenham he was an unfamiliar figure; though it appeared that the barefooted man recognised him. Behind this man with the glass, less than twenty yards away was a second man, crouching in the shelter of a rock against which his hatless head made a splash of colour that was unmistakable, and Lavenham knew that he was the moth-hunter, now in pursuit of larger game than moths; for resting on the rock behind which he crouched was that curious stick that he carried, pointed directly at the unsuspecting man with the spy-glass.

'Who is that man in front?' asked Lavenham with a suspicion of the truth.

'Prado! ' snapped the other. 'An' unless we warn him his number's up.'

With his suspicion confirmed, the artist had no doubt of the truth of the other's words. Hammerton's attitude was that of the stalker in range of his quarry; and however deserving of his fate this particular quarry might be Lavenham had no desire to witness a cold-blooded murder.

'Shout!' he said, 'Warn the man, quickly! '

The man needed no second bidding. He shouted instantly. 'Look out, Prado! For God's sake!'

There was a brief interval in which the two men below remained in precisely the same attitude; then as if the bullet from that curious gun had  found him, Spanish John dropped from his perch like a stone.

'Too late!' whispered Lavenham to himself, and then knew he was wrong; for the fiery head of the man whom he knew as Hammerton, turned swiftly as if to learn who had warned his quarry. A second or two later, Spanish John came into view again, running a zigzag course among the rocks and the bushes, now apparently acutely aware of his peril. The red-haired man stayed only long enough to shake his fist at the man who had baulked him by that warning cry; then he leaped to his feet, and began to follow the man, who was fleeing like a hare from the hounds.

'Well, I'm jiggered;' exclaimed the barefooted man. 'How in the thunder did them two get here?'

Lavenham himself was wondering that very thing, and as he stood watching the pair, he had a thought that Spanish John, knowing that Helen Lavenham was to be brought to the caravan, had made his way there with Hammerton at his heels all the time.

Possibly the other two men after the pursuit of last night had returned to the caravan; and from them the chief villain had learned of Helen's escape, and had set out to find her, stalked still by the moth hunter upon the trail of vengeance. That was the only possible explanation; and as he stared down the hillside where now only Spanish John was in view, he wondered what the . end or the phase would be. He had an answer to his unspoken conjecture from the man below him, who exclaimed excitedly:

'Twill be one or the other if Ginger comes up with Prado. There's old scores between them two— not to mention a few new ones!— I reckon I'm quitting this game for keeps. I don't see myself a witness In a murder trial.'

Lavenham watched the hill.

Hammerton came into view again, running steadily. Then Prado disappeared, and only his pursuer was in sight, running, as it appeared to the watchers, very incautiously, in view of the certainty that his quarry was armed.

'Can't get it,' muttered the barefooted man. 'Prado must have lost his gun, or he'd lie low an' pot Ginger.'

Then both quarry and pursuit were in view, still hurrying down the hill. which was strewn with rocks and bushes. A patch of the greater gorse lay in front of them, offering cover to the man who would brave its spines.

'Twill be there, as sure as a gun. Prado'll see his chance an'―'

But Spanish John did not choose that spiny sanctuary. He ran past it, still hounded by the relentless moth hunter.

They became no more than a pair of dots moving apparently with incredible slowness down the brown hillside Once Lavenham lost sight of both of them completely, then he picked them up again; and as he did so became aware of a wide stretch of black and vivid green which lay between the slope in front and an ascent on the further side of the valley.

A sudden suspicion occurred to him. Spanish John, unfamiliar with the great moor, was being hunted towards one of its death traps. As he watched, the suspicion mounted to conviction. That black and green stretch in front of the hurrying Prado was bog— soft, clinging, slimy ground that would suck a man who ventured it unwarily. Hammerton familiar with the moor from boyhood knew that, and apparently the other did not, for now he was running in a straight line for the death-trap, with the other man hounding him ruthlessly.

'Never knew Spanish John to run before without making a fight,' the barefooted man grunted. 'Ginger must have him scared stiff.'

Lavenham watched breathlessly.

From the height where he stood it was difficult to judge how far the two men had still to go before the morass was reached. But another minute of two would decide the form of the tragedy. If Spanish John became aware of the slimy peril in front of him, he might turn, and then―'

'What is the matter! What are you watching?'

Helen's voice behind him made him swing sharply round. The girl, disobeying his injunctions, had moved into the open, and was looking from him to the barefooted man, with wondering eyes. He could not tell her the whole truth, and thought it was desirable that she should remain in ignorance of the impending tragedy.

'There are two men running down the hillside,' he said, hoping she would find that a sufficient explanation. 'Spanish John and Ginger, miss. Racing to kill one another!'

A startled look of comprehension leaped in Helen's blue eyes. She flashed a questioning glance at Lavenham, who realising that concealment was impossible nodded.

'Yes,' adding, 'They are too far away. We can do nothing.'

He gave his attention once more to the pair down the hill. The foremost man was now very near the quagmire. His figure showed like a black spot against its vivid greenness.

Would he at the last moment realise the peril in front of him and turn or—' The man ran on. He reached the edge of that green place, and still he ran with the other but a few yards behind him. In spite of his knowledge of the fleeing man's villainy Lavenham was moved to sudden pity.

'God help— Ah! He's in.'

The first of those dark figures was well in the quagmire; and the other had halted on its very edge, aware no doubt of the full extent of his enemy's plight. The man on the green face of the bog seemed to be making spasmodic movements like a drowning fly. Then there was a flash of light, and the other man on the firm ground fell down but picked himself up in a twinkling. Though he heard no report, Lavenham surmised that Spanish John had been armed after all, and had fired.

'Chucked his knife an' got Ginger, but not badly,' ejaculated Spanish John's satellite.

Yes. That would be it. Prado, already floundering in the bog, had made an eleventh hour attempt on his enemy's life. But short of help immediately rendered there was now no hope for the knife-thrower. With the morass sucking at his limbs, dragging him momentarily deeper, the end was sure, and there was no one to deliver him. Faintly, a cry came up; the hillside, a cry that was very like a scream. It stirred Lavenham to futile action.

'Come!' he cried to Helen.  'Let us go. We may be in time.'

In his heart he knew they would not be, yet with the girl at his side he began to hurry down the hill, leaving the barefooted man, who had not yet realised the tragedy taking place before his eyes, staring after them in wonderment. As they ran, Helen asked but a single question:

'One of them— is in the bog?'

'Yes, Spanish John. The other hunted him straight into it.'

He had no real hope of helping the perishing man. but he ran on till Helen, gasping, fell behind.

The man in the green, though he was drawing nearer, was shrinking before his eyes; and he had still half way to go, when a wild scream reached him. The dark figure or what was left of it, seemed to slip forward, and in a very little while disappeared.

He halted in his tracks. The tragedy was over, Spanish John was gone beyond all recall; for what a Dartmoor bog swallows it holds till Judgment Day. He looked at the second man who was still standing at the edge of the morass, apparently unaware that there had been other spectator of his enemy's terrible end. The man remained there for a full minute; then without looking round, he half turned, and began to follow the course of the valley where he soon disappeared.

Then behind Lavenham sounded Helen's voice quiveringly.

'We are too late.'

'Yes,' he said simply; and taking her arm faced the hill again. The girl walked wearily; her face was very pale, and there was a tragic light in the blue eyes. After a little time she spoke again. 'He killed him... it was murder?'

'Technically, no. He never touched him. It would be easy to plead an accident.'

'But in intention? Tell me the truth.'

'I think he meant to kill him. He probably knows of your abduction; and in any case I am sure it was one or the other... But we must reserve judgment till we know the whole truth. There is much more behind all this than we know at present.'

They reached to top of the tor, and, looking down on the further side, saw the man whom they had left there limping down the hill. He had his boots on; but his lameness proclaimed at what price he had recovered them.

Lavenham looked carefully round. They had ran further than he realised in the night; but half a mile away a road ran through the brown heather, and it would lead them straight towards the saloon which he had left so carefully parked the previous night. If no one had found it, and it were still there, they would be at The Priory within an hour.

He found a track down the hill, and led the way to the road, then turned towards the place where the car had been left. The road climbed upward, and from the crest they saw the car, saw also a man examining it. Lavenham guessed that he must be one of the men who had been with the caravan, and leaving Helen, he began to run, shouting and displaying the automatic he had taken from the other man.

The fellow did not wait his coming but fled; and sure that now, there would be no Interference, he waited for Helen, and they went on together. The car was dead cold, but after some cranking, the engine started and they drove away, with Lavenham at the wheel. After going some five hundred yards, he pulled up at a place which gave him a view of the caravan. What he saw there interested him greatly. The man who had run when he had shouted was still running; the other who had spent the night on the tor had ceased to limp and was fairly plunging down the hill, whilst a third man was yoking a horse to the van, apparently in as great a hurry as his fellows. Lavenham looked round for the possible cause; and presently he found it, in a figure standing statuesquely on the hill above where the caravan stood.

'Hammerton,' he thought. 'Speeding the parting guests or still carrying on his vendetta.' He said nothing to the girl about her father as he re-entered the car; and when she looked at him inquiringly he explained briefly: 'Those men are going in a hurry. I don't think we shall see them again.'

Then, wondering to himself whether Hammerton really meant to deal ruthlessly or not with the trio, he drove on, realising that in any case he could do little; and knowing that Helen must be almost at the limit of her endurance.

IT WAS LATE in the afternoon of that same day, when having attended the inquest on the man Carling, and having beard the jury give a verdict of 'Suicide whilst temporarily insane,' which he was sure was wrong, Lavenham once more took his way to The Priory. He had seen nothing whatever of Hammerton— to give the man the name he had chosen for himself; and was wondering if some mischance had befallen him at the hands of those men in the caravan, when he encountered a stranger with a bandaged hand.

The man looked at him narrowly but did not speak; and as he passed on it came to the artist suddenly that here was one of Spanish John's crew, the man with whom he had his own encounter on the previous night and who had been left lying in the wood. He stopped and looked round, to find the man in the very act of looking after him. Finding himself discovered, the fellow took suddenly to his heels and fled like a hare, removing all doubt from Lavenham's mind.

'A guilty conscience,' the artist laughed to himself, 'is a fine spur.'

He made no attempt to follow the man, but continued on his way, and entering The Priory gates moved on towards the house. Before he reached it, he suffered a shock of surprise. Standing at the great window of the room where Helen and he had waited on the previous night, was a clean-shaven man with a fiery head.

'Hammerton!' he ejaculated in amazement. 'Minus his beard! Well!'

The moth-hunter was at the door to welcome him, and gave a genial greeting.

'Step right in, Nephew Charles; you should be as much at home here as I am.'

Remembering that cold-blooded shepherding of a man to his death in the grey dawn, Lavenham could find no answering geniality in himself; and with marked coolness followed the man into the room to which he led him. The other closed the door behind him, locked it, and waved the younger man to a chair by the fire.

'My daughter has left me to do the honours. Sit down, Charles. You will take some refreshment? No! Well, you will excuse an old man who has had a lively day.'

He smiled as if the lively day had been made up of quite ordinary events , and then having helped himself to a brandy and soda, seated himself, and in a matter of fact voice announced:

'I have some papers of yours! Here they are.'

As he spoke he produced the long envelope of which the artist had been robbed the previous day, and tossed it to Lavenham, who immediately observed that it was thinner than when he had lost it. Possibly his face betrayed knowledge of that fact, for the other laughed.

'Yes, I have extracted some papers, to which I have, I think, a prior right. But your birth certificate and that of my brother Charles's marriage are there. Those are rightfully yours; and the fact that they should have fallen into your hands so oddly from that young villain whom Spanish John hanged, almost induces me to believe in an overwhelming Providence.'

'It was Spanish John, then?'

'Yes! A regular trick of his— not the first time performed. I recognised his handiwork. He'd have done the same with me, if I'd fallen into his hands. The joke is that despite my flaring top-knot he didn't recognise me when I first followed him here and—'

'I wouldn't be so sure of that!'

'No? Well it's neither here nor there now. He won't go treasure hunting again this side of the crack of doom, as you know. Helen told me you saw that accident up on the moor.'

'Accident—'

'Well, call it an execution; and don't look a gift horse in the mouth too closely, nephew Charles. That man murdered your father.'

'Murdered—'

'Yes! Over twenty years ago in a saloon at Colon. Threw that cursed knife of his, and robbed him of those papers I've just given you, and some others, though I didn't know for years after, when a man told me at Devil's Island.'

'You— you were there?' cried Lavenham amazed.

'Did ten years of the worst; then was released on a sort of ticket-of-leave. Allowed to settle and cultivate the land you know— but not to leave Guiana. Spanish John was there, too, and when he left— without asking leave― I followed. I was three years finding him; and then heard that he had gone to England, in pursuit of a fellow who had robbed him of some papers—'

'Carling!'

'No. Carling's father. A man reared in Devon who knew the story of Henry Lavenham's lost treasure and thought those papers would put him on the track. His game was to play his son in your name part, and get the other half of a secret.'

'That which was in the picture―'

'Exactly. But Spanish John dished old Carling as he did the son— same way; so I guess young Carling knew what he was up against when he decided to carry on alone. What I he didn't know till he got here was that Spanish John was at his heels all he time, and that, poor stick as he was, he was no more than a pilot fish to that shark.... But you know what happened; and I'll give you the history preceding recent events, since you've a right to them, and I want everything to be clear from the start between you and Helen; who, though you mayn't believe it, is the apple of mine eye. That's pure gospel! Always I've thought of her; and when I sent her to the old man, kept away, though every year I've remembered her birthday, and even from Guiana managed to pass letters through. But here's the family history:

'Your father was my elder brother by two years. As boys we had the devil of a time, for our father was a martinet and no end of a tyrant. Holidays from school were just painful episodes to a couple of high-spirited youngsters, who could do nothing right, and were punished for all things that were counted wrong... We were a pair of romantics, too, and a little cracked about the yarn of Henry Lavenham's treasure. We knew there were papers in the safe, and one night we burgled it and read them. A rotten thing, you'll say; and maybe it was; but you don't know the sort of life we endured. There were what we took to be clear pointers to the treasure; a long account of Henry Lavenham's indicating a place off the Pacific coast of Panama... To cut things short; we just cleared out, taking the papers with us, and worked a passage to America. It took us five years between working and hunting to spot the island; and then we didn't seem much nearer. We hit the exact place after two years more; broke open what had the semblance of a grave, but which was a fake, and found in it a little brass box, about four times the size of a matchbox. There was in it just a couple of pieces of parchment, one of which had a drawing upon it, very like that drawing on old Henry's picture which I guess he did himself; and on the other, a screed in spidery writing done in Indian ink. Here it is! I'll make you a present of it, if you'll undertake not to use it before tomorrow morning.'

'Ah! You know the secret?'

'Yes! And I'm going to prove it when the moon is up. You and Helen will have The Priory; but I claim Henry's hoard. Lord knows I've paid enough for it— you agree, Charles?''

'Yes.'

'Well there you are! Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.'

He threw the papers to the artist, with a light laugh; and Lavenham looked at them with excited eyes. The first was what he said, a mere hieroglyphic like that on the portrait; but as he was quick to note drawn the reverse way and with a slight difference. He considered it a moment and then looked at the other parchment. What he saw there was puzzling enough. First in that spidery writing there was a text indicated:

'St. Matthew V1, 21 ' he read aloud.

'Where my treasure is there is thine heart also!' laughed the older man. 'I ought to know. Charles and I fairly combed Panama to find an English Testament to get that piece of information. Read the rest.'

Lavenham read on:

'But my high treasure is now in the skies, and here is half the symbol of my salvation attached, the other half is on the picture that thou knowest, and the whole shall be thy salvation if thou hast the wit to read; But if thou be witless thou shalt go penniless to thy grave.'

The older man laughed again as he caught the look on the artist's face.

'Nice sort of thing for a couple of youngsters to have spent years in finding, and made themselves outcasts from here for! Hey? We cursed Henry and all his works then; and though both of us cherished a notion that some day maybe we would get the truth at The Priory here, we settled down to jobs, and made a little money. Both of us married; and Charles was killed by Spanish John, as I told you, for those papers; for he had been indiscreet enough to talk jestingly about the hidden fortune; and I later hit trouble, as I told you.'

'And how did you get those papers, yesterday?'

'From the guy who robbed you— I told you a little tarradiddle— I was at the fellow's heels when be corned you; and I did the same for him and relieved him of the papers. He was lying in the next field when you revived.'

The man laughed lightly as at a jest.

'You can't read those papers— I mean the secret of them; but you will after a little time, when I've quit. And I'm going to-morrow morning, or maybe to-night. But neither you nor Helen need worry about me. If old Henry wasn't the most consummate liar, I shall be richer than you. Now, I'll keep you no longer, my son. Helen's in the library waiting for you. First door across the hall. Off you go; and leave an old man to his cheerful thoughts.

Lavenham went. He found Helen white faced and anxious.

'He has told you?' she asked tremulously.

'Yes; nearly everything.'

'And you know that I— I mean that he has been in prison?'

'What of that?' Lavenham laughed joyously. 'He is my uncle, and his daughter is to be my wife.'

'My dear!' she whispered as she went to his arms.

THAT NIGHT at moonrise Charles Lavenham saw his uncle drive off in the car, carrying with him a pick and a spade, and three hours afterwards from Ashburton received a telephone call, and answering, heard his uncle's voice lively and exultant.

'Found salvation! Enough of it to buy a palace, which I'm going to do in a sunnier clime. Just put that piece of paper against that fancy drawing on old Harry's portrait, which you'll find behind the old spinet in the drawing-room. You'll see that it's an eye opener. So long for the present! When I see the announcement in 'The Times' I'll send Helen a string of— er— moths.'

The message ended on a laugh, and though the artist shouted again and again the conventional 'Hello! there was no response.

He explained to Helen, who promptly ran for the portrait. Together they spread it on the table, and carefully Lavenham joined the two hieroglyphics together to find himself staring in wonder at the result.

'A cross! The symbol of salvation.'

'I know,' cried the girl. 'Henry Lavenham's cross where we met yesterday. I am sure. See there are his initials. He set the cross up. And there he hid all his ill-gotten treasure. Oh, let us go and make sure. There is a moon, and we can take a lantern. I must know, or I shall never sleep.'

They went together, arm in arm, with none to see. When they came within sight of the undulation where they had met the previous day, both stared eagerly towards where it lifted like a soft shadow In the moonlight.

'The cross is gone!' whispered the girl tensely.

'Not gone. Thrown down I fancy.'

They climbed the undulation together. It was as Lavenham said. The cross was thrown down on a heap of earth, and where it had been was a deep trench.

'You were right. Helen! It was here, at their own door, the wealth your father and mine as boys ran away to seek.'

'But— but,' she whispered. 'The joy is ours.'

'Yes! And on our wedding day we will set up this cross again— to commemorate if you like.'

'Yes! Oh, yes!' she whispered.

And for those who are interested in Dartmoor relics the cross stands again, but now under Henry Lavenham's monogram there is another, newly carved, in happy remembrance.

The end

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13