an apology is submitted for here retailing some commonplaces of a very evil duet of rascals.

that began with certain dropping shots of irony, and it ended at pretty close range.

the kitchen of the tumbled lodge served for guardhouse; and the two officers were quartered in the little parlour opposite mr. tuke’s room of bondage. between walked a sentry, and another (on this occasion mr. joseph corby) was stationed to the front of the house in the freezing moonlight. burnt fallow-deer meat had been plentifully bolted after the exertions of the day, and kegs of rum—supplied, it must be confessed, by mr. breeds, who was not otherwise represented in this climax of affairs—topped very agreeably the simplicity of the repast.

mr. fern and his lieutenant exchanged speech for the first time after the second glass. then said the former suddenly:

“brander, who’s the cock of this run?”

“oh, don’t you know, jack fern,” was the answer; “the bantam, by the token, that crows himself red in the face?”

there seemed some personality here.

“then i’ll have you know, by god, that i’m not to be supplanted by any white-shackled rooster that can out-screech me. you assume too much authority, sir, on the strength of an acquaintance with primers.”

mr. brander very urbanely recited the fable of the cock and the jewel.

“’twas the lake of wine,” said he; “and there it was under your nose while you kicked up the dunghill. primers have their uses.”

“maybe; maybe not.”

“why, man—give me cutwater’s letter.”

“what for?”

“give me cutwater’s letter, i say.”

the other hesitated, then from a pocket-book that he drew from his coat, selected a yellowed fragment of paper and flung it sulkily across the table to his companion.

“now, mr. fern,” said brander, taking up the letter deliberately and referring to it—“vouchsafe me your kind attention, if you please. this was dated, i think, some months before the lamented gentleman’s death, and was addressed to you?”

“oh! curse you out of your pedantry, ebenezer brander!”

“in it occur the following words, once expressive of mere violence to you—of enigma to me. let me re-read them. ‘i’ve got the stone, bloody jack fern, and the stone i mean to keep. you’ll find it, despite the devil and mister c., will you? find it, you——’ (tut, tut, mr. cutwater! what a shocking unpoliteness!) ‘pray to the blessed st. anthony, you’d better; for it’s hid well, i’ll tell you. it’s in my head but you’ll make a lame matter of the search.’”

he finished, threw the paper back to the other and pulled at his pipe.

“‘in my head,’” he repeated, softly knuckling the table. “who, when you showed him the letter, half-read the riddle in those words, and egged you on to renew the search? whose prognostications were verified in that which was overheard by our friend the innkeeper?”

“i grant you can see further into a haystack than the most of us.”

“you do, do you? then what’s your complaint?”

“that you undermine me in the favour of my fellows, by god!—that you assume the leadership and work first and foremost to your own advancement.”

“have i misrepresented you in giving that gentleman-scamp his last warning?”

“no.”

“in concealing from him the truth of the girl’s throwing herself into our hands?”

“no.”

“you would have blundered in all this. you have the hoofs and horns of a bullock, and they are your one appeal and resource. take the fighting to yourself and leave the diplomacy to your betters.”

“you don’t rest content with your share. i grant you one devil, and you spawn out a dozen. as there’s hell smouldering for us all, i believe there was truth in the fellow’s story of your double-dealing with him.”

brander rose to his feet.

“mr. bloody jack fern,” he said, “i’ll wish you good-bye and a happy release from your difficulties. i waive all claim to a share in the profits of this undertaking as conducted by you.”

“sit down, man, sit down—by god, sit down! i believe you’ve the right honour, and i apologize. ’twas a test, and the devil fly away with it! i don’t understand your methods. to me we’re as little advanced as two days back, and i begin to scent failure.”

“of course. you’ve a crimson standard of measurement in such affairs. a murder or two would set you clucking like a hen.”

“the thaw, man, the thaw. should it come, as that fribble hinted, before——”

“and where should we be the better then, for staining our hands? i play for our necks, jack fern. from the first i’ve founded our claim on the unlawful detention of the stone. but you want the leadership—you want the leadership and that means the credit for all. and you shall have it, by thunder, and set that fat head of yours, with the brains drawn out o’t, against a miry problem you shall sink in for all your frog’s croaking.”

mr. fern came slowly to his feet.

“not empty enough,” he said, in an indrawn voice—“not empty enough, ebenezer brander, to misread the little game you’re contriving. oh, i see through it, my friend! you’ll carry your brains to the enemy’s camp, will you, and——”

he choked with his rage. in a moment he had snapped out his knife and sprung round the table. the other was prepared for him in the same instant. they set at one another bent-headed, like a couple of game-cocks seeking to strike. here promised an end of the pretty conspiracy; but the devil cares for his own. on the tick of combat the door was thrown open and one of the gang stood gaping in the entrance.

“curse the fool!” cried brander. “what does he want?”

the man, half-drunk, stood confused, as if he had interrupted some sacred ceremony.

“the gal,” he mumbled, “she’s a-singin’ psalms in the attic.”

“you——!” shouted the schoolmaster; cracked in his upper register and went into a skirl of laughter. the tension of the cord was eased, and both men fell back.

“get to your bowl, you horn-bug!” screeched fern. “what, the fiend! shan’t she prepare herself for the sacrifice?”

“oh!” said the man, “i thought subbody might ’ear—thas all.”

“hear, you rat? who’s to hear in the middle of sahara?”

he waved his hand peremptorily. the fellow stumbled out and drew the door to behind him with a clap. fern slipped his knife into its sheath. he looked at the other scoundrel stealthily, and grinned.

“cry off, brander,” he said. “we’re hunting counter. fill and call a toast, man. my heart warms to the ladies. ’twere a pity to waste this heat of passion on a friend’s undoing, when an enemy, and a pretty one, offers.”

brander strode to the table and seized the flask.

“a bottle to that,” he said grimly. “nothing under a quart reconciles me to a petticoat.”

they sat for an hour—for two hours, swilling fire and wickedness. the night closed upon itself, and the moon was half-across the sky. the frost without crackled in the very heart of the fearful sentry, so that presently he could stand it no more, and tapped on the casement.

“it’s in my roots,” he said, when brander came to him. “i must be let in or die.”

“i can’t have you in his room, joe. he’s far too cunning a gentleman to trust you with him.”

“then give me a drink. a bucket of schnapps wouldn’t drowse me here.”

they handed him out a stiff jorum in a bottle, and closing the window again, resumed their orgy. another hour passed. suddenly one beast looked significantly at the other, and both rose. together they staggered to the door, opened it, and lurched out into the passage. the sentry here came to himself with a start, and stared at them like an owl. they bade him have ears for his only business, and went swaying on to where, by the kitchen, a little stairway led to the floor above. the house was dimly lighted with candles that guttered here and there on brackets. one of these fern seized in his evil hand, and they ascended softly to a narrow landing. the congested snore of many crapulous ruffians came to them from below; a third sentry nodded at hand on the top step.

“let him be,” whispered brander. “he shall be breeched for neglect to-morrow.”

in a little attic, with barred windows, the girl had been confined. gently they turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and entered.

the room was empty as a rifled grave.

stupidly staring, they saw by the hearth a heap of rubbish, an overturned flag; and with bursting oaths they rushed for the place, and, swinging the light down, were aware of a jagged rent, torn through the rotted fabric, that looked into the room below.

“his room!” cried fern, putting his hand to his forehead and staggering back.

the next moment they were out on the landing again. the sitting sentry grunted and cocked a bleared eye at them. with a foul curse, and no condescension of question to him, brander drove his heavy foot at the man with all his force. the fellow started up with a shriek like a neigh, doubled upon himself, and, toppling, went down the whole flight with a noise of snapping, and collapsed in a writhing and coughing heap at the bottom.

immediately there was a humming uproar of waking men, in the midst of which the two bounded into the passage and scrambled for the door of the second prison-chamber.

they burst it open. the window was flung wide—the room was empty—a fragment of rope trailed from the fire-place.

“dolts! dogs! bullock-heads!” cried brander, pelting, screaming with fury, into the passage again. “where are they? what have you been doing, hearing, overlooking in your damned folly? let me pass, you worse than curs and maniacs!”

he was wrenching and tugging frantically at the handle of the entrance-door. in an instant he was out, had staggered, had sprawled with his hands to save himself, and had gone with a sliding run into the snow. he was up directly, and shrieking to those within for a light. some one brought it flurried, and he seized and held it over some shapeless thing huddled against the porch.

“drunk?” he muttered. “no, by god!” and he stooped and gave a little pull to the inert mass. a squelch of darkness ran out into the snow, that received and held it like a blotting-paper.

mr. corby had been stabbed to the heart.