so far as two men could explore minutely the interior of a house so eccentrically designed—on a plan that seemed indeed to affect an absence of all design—as “delsrop,” mr. tuke and his guest did explore during the whole of that winter morning. they measured walls and doors; they tapped for vaults, secret panels, or intermural recesses. they went down into the “priest’s hole,” and convinced themselves that no hiding-place had been contrived anywhere in that well of dank and solid masonry. they looked up chimneys; stamped on flags in hope of answering reverberations; prodded at ceilings hither and thither with a view to the discovery of some cunningly concealed hollow wherein it was possible the thing they sought might lie with all its crimson lustre quenched in dusk and darkness.
and it was only a complication of the puzzle that “delsrop’s” antecessor had left its rooms—with one exception—desolate and unfurnished; inasmuch as any chair or table or bureau would have offered itself a likelier depository for a treasure so self-contained. what could be done with bare walls and floors and ceilings but punch and measure them? this the searchers did, with all the thoroughness they could contrive, and with a proportionate absence of result. they even extended their investigations to the ruined outhouses, and to the external case of the main building itself—obviously a desperate resource. for here, long ages’ growth of matted creepers bespoke a confidence of increase that for generations had never known restraint. dense ivy—interwoven with leafless tendons of honeysuckle—that showed lace-work of muscular adolescence through every gap in its foliage; fibrous vines, that had never been schooled to culture, and that hung out annual clusters of unfulfilled berries—a very tradition of rustic gaucherie with the gentlemen starlings; winter jasmine that, when the world is wrapped in chilling reserve, protrudes a host of little red tongues in mockery of such self-importance—these, and others, contributed to such a thickset of arborescence as it were idle to attempt to penetrate.
the room—that one furnished chamber—they left to the last. it was their moral refuge—their forlorn hope. there, at least, was visible evidence of the material side of the long-dead highwayman. therein had he donned his guilty finery; or doffed it and confided the secrets of his cancerous conscience to the fine lawn of his pillow. and therein—unless a nice acumen should have led him to avoid that spot for his treasure’s hiding most patently inviting to common intelligences—was it presumable the stone was concealed.
at length the two bent their steps to this inner temple of their expectations. they were weary and a little depressed, and they sat themselves down in a fan of weak sunlight that spread through the broad window.
sir david looked about him with some listless curiosity—at the great posted bed; at the massive carved wardrobe of sombre oak; at the quaint old brass-framed mirror on the dressing-table.
“was this all as it stands when you came?” he said, his inquisitiveness getting the better of his languor.
“precisely as it stands.”
“then it belonged to cutwater?”
“i presume so.”
“by cock!” said the other, dreamily introspective, “’tis cursed strange to think that here the man prinked and made his toilet and slept his sleep like any decent citizen. he was known by his blue coat and filigree lace, i’ve heard tell; and what bloody secrets may he not have locked into that wardrobe, and what dumb witnesses to his villainy? for he would take life, by all accounts, and was a terror in his day. and was there nothin’, tuke—no trace——”
“not a rag in all the room. if any had been, it had been cleared out before i came.”
“well, he had his vanities; for all that his reputation, as i knew it, was rascal miserly. and he shows a pretty taste in bed and wardrobe. but there ain’t one consistent miser in all the history of niggards.”
“i seem to have heard of one or two.”
“who, sir? tell me.”
“well, for a few—‘plum’ turner, ‘vulture’ hopkins, elwes, jones, betty bolaine——”
“oh! i cry you mercy, as the books say. these were the best of their kind; yet not one of ’em but would give in charity occasionally. and each would have its vanity, if you came to look. mrs. bolaine boasted her coach; and even jones must have a new brim to his hat. no, sir. two orders of misers there be—your joneses and dancers for one; and of the other every third man in the tale of humanity.”
“tut-tut!”
“oh! i mean it—the host of those who give a half-heart to gathering, but a whole one against dissipating. now, did you ever hear of a miser who killed himself to save expense?”
“no, i didn’t.”
“nor i. yet that should be the right moral of parsimony.”
“no, no, my friend. possession is the disease.”
“then how better to minister to it than by realizing one’s property, hoisting the metal into a sack, tying oneself thereto, and tilting all into the deep sea?”
“there would be the hire of the boat; but never mind. you give thought to things, i see.”
“did you ever suppose i didn’t? i give it now to yonder wardrobe. ’tis there, i’ll wager, the jewel is.”
“we’ll look—we’ll look; though i’ve used it for months unwitting.”
he rose, with a laugh and a stretch, as he spoke. a cloud had blurred the sun, and the room had fallen to melancholy shadow.
perhaps it was on this account that, as he flung open one of the heavy doors of the cupboard, something within—an apparition—a momentary trick of the fancy—brought a startled oath from his lips.
a hanging wardrobe was revealed, with an empty shelf set above it; and back in the gloom of this shelf, a foul and withered face seemed to grin upon him from the darkness.
he thought it was darda’s hideous relic, and for an instant his heart jumped before the shocking revelation. then the illusion passed, and he saw that what had discomfited him was nothing more terrifying than a cuff or bracelet of mouldered fur.
“what’s the matter?” said sir david, rising.
tuke passed his hand across his forehead, and was surprised to find a little dampness thereon.
“nothing,” he said, with a rather uncertain laugh. “what a thing, blythewood, if the highwayman’s ghost should be whipping us on to the chase?”
“ah! if only he’ll put us on the right scent, then.”
the little man had come up behind his friend, and was looking down, his eyes intent upon something.
“lord!” he said suddenly, “i’ve found a hidin’-place.”
the other stared.
“the devil you have!” said he. “you’ve touched nothing. ’tis like ‘sit down when you see the rabbit’s tail.’”
he glanced nervously, once or twice as he spoke, into the recess above his head.
“well, i’ll lay odds,” said sir david, “that i’ll show you somethin’ in that cupboard you never guessed at before.”
the wardrobe—or the half of it exposed—was filled with coats, small-clothes, and other articles of a gentleman’s attire. but these hung high, and a space intervened between the skirts of them and the floor of the interior. into this space the visitor plunged his head, and, dropping on his knees, ran his fingers in a hurried, nervous way along the ornamental jambs and the beading of the door-sill. satisfied, apparently, he nipped this last and gave it a vigorous jerk and pull. there was a click—a snap; and the floor of the half-cupboard shot up, an inch open, like the lid of a box.
sir david fell back on his knees, trembling all over with excitement.
“what did i tell you?” he cried. “i’d seen another like it, and guessed the secret. ’tis your business to look within. zounds, tuke, make haste!”
his flurry would brook no delay, though the other was bending above him quite white with agitation; so it happened they both put down their hands together and tore open the flap.
the little man uttered almost a shriek, as he pounced upon a shagreen case lying upon the top of a folded coat that was deposited within the false-bottom revealed.
he staggered to his feet—thrust his treasure into tuke’s hands.
“take it!” he cried, absolutely dancing. “it’s found, by god!”
with the exclamation his face fell. the other had snapped open the box—a jeweller’s case, by every sign—and—it was empty. there was the depression in the green velvet for stone, trinket, what-not; but no stone was there, or anything but vacancy.
they turned, tapped, felt the casket all over; finally, they looked at one another dismayed.
“the stable,” groaned tuke, “but the steed is gone.”
he dashed down the useless shell, and with one impulse they both fell on their knees before the exposed recess.
“look!” whispered sir david, in an awe-struck tone—“his coat—cutwater’s—the same he robbed and murdered in!”
it would seem to be as he said. the historical garment—neatly folded and laid away—was of blue silk, cut in a bygone fashion, and its edges were richly crusted with filigree of tarnished silver lace. tuke seized it out, and dangled it up to view.
“’twould be a treasure in itself to some,” he said. “i wonder will the spirit of the bloody cutpurse resent having its own pockets picked?”
he was conscious of the least little thrill and tendency to an upward glance at the shelf as he plunged his hand into the bagging of the full skirts. nothing was in them but a torn laced handkerchief—a mere little limp cobweb thing such as ladies use. the two men looked at one another with lowered, compassionate eyes.
“he was spawn of the devil,” muttered sir david. “throw him his master’s livery again.”
the coat was returned to the recess. the latter was empty of aught else; as was its double, which they found similarly sunk in the other half of the wardrobe.
their jubilance was changed to depression. the search, they felt, had yielded all it was like to. that the case had once held the famous gem they felt convinced; and equally of course the cunning scoundrel would never have committed its contents to so simply contrived a hiding-place.
they were no nearer discovery than they had been any time that morning. as a matter of form they would closely examine every other article of furniture in the room; but they knew the result would be nil—as, indeed, it proved to be.
they came down to dinner, tired and famished, and a little morose. angela received them with a charming smile.
“we meet you with empty hands,” said her host. “i hope you are not devoured with ennui?”
“oh!” she cried sprightlily—“if i am devoured, it is not with ennui. i am meat for its master.”
“and who is that?”
“can you ask, sir! why, love, to be sure. i am fallen in love with mr. dennis. he hath entertained me since your going; and purely, believe me. never was a figure more melancholy and romantic.”
“i rejoice you have found amusement. our morning has been fruitless.”
“what—the stone? that does not concern me. i have discovered a rarer gem.”
