dorothy looked more worn and anxious than on that morning when i had walked with her in westbourne grove. but the air of mystery enveloped her still, and to even the casual observer her face was interesting as that of a woman with some tragic history.
“miss drummond,” i said, “it is a real pleasure to me that we meet again.”
she started at the mention of her name, but made no comment, except to say, in her sweet, well-modulated voice:?—
“the pleasure is mutual, i assure you, dr. pickering.” then she asked: “how did you know i was staying in this neighbourhood?”
i explained how i had seen her emerge from the farmhouse and gather the flowers, and what old ben knutton had told me of her youth.
“i had no idea that you knew this district,” i added.
“yes,” she responded, looking around her, “i’ve known it all my life. every house, every field, every tree is familiar to me, for here i spent my happiest days,” and a slight sigh escaped her as her memory ran back.
we were walking together slowly along a path beside the winding welland. she knew the way, and had led me through a gate and across a small strip of pasture down to the river. we were safer from observation there than upon the open highway, she said.
after we had been chatting some time she suddenly grew serious, and said:?—
“do you know, doctor pickering, why i’ve come to you to-night?”
“no, but i hoped it was to resume our pleasant companionship,” i said.
“it was to warn you.”
“of what?”
“of your enemies.”
“you mean those men bennett and purvis,” i said, hoping to learn something from her. “purvis is your uncle, is he not?”
she glanced at me quickly, and responded in the affirmative.
“tell me, miss drummond,” i urged, “are you aware of the reason i am staying here?”
“i know it all,” she replied, in a strained voice. “i am well aware that you are searching for the hidden gold, which you cannot find. i am aware, too, that you hold the key to the plan, and that by aid of that key the place of concealment could be at once ascertained.”
“mr. purvis bought the plan from old knutton,” i remarked.
“yes; the drunken old idiot sold it, even though it had been in possession of his family for centuries. the treasure would be partly his if it could be discovered.”
“but does mr. purvis know anything definite regarding the place where it is hidden?”
“he believes it to be in the manor house, and for that reason they have reopened the old subway from the glebe to the manor. he has with him the man bennett, said to be one of the worst characters outside the walls of a gaol.”
“i know; they call him black bennett,” i said.
“beware of them,” she urged. “they will hesitate at nothing to possess themselves of the treasure. they would kill you.”
the recollection of what reilly had witnessed in london flashed through my mind. it was on the tip of my tongue to mention it, yet i feared to do so, not knowing what effect it might have upon her highly strung temperament.
“what knutton has told me regarding your romantic life has aroused my interest, miss drummond,” i said presently. “did you never know your parents?”
“alas! no. they died when i was quite young. all i know about them is that they lived somewhere in norfolk, and that my father was ruined by speculation just before his death. i was fourteen when the good woman who brought me up died, and my aunt lewis sent me to school. then on her death, quite recently, mr. purvis became my guardian.”
“but who and what is this man purvis?” i asked. “i know you are unhappy. confide in me everything. i give you my bond of secrecy,” i said earnestly.
“i knew nothing of his existence until a few weeks ago, when aunt lewis died and mr. purvis came forward and promised to look after me. i had taken up typewriting and obtained a clerkship in a city office, which i held until i resigned a fortnight ago to come down here.”
“at purvis’s suggestion?”
“yes, because i am acquainted with the district.”
“then you lived alone in bayswater?” i suggested.
“yes. i have never lived under the same roof with purvis, except here at page’s, because i—i hate him.”
“why?”
her pale, quivering lips compressed, but no word escaped them.
i knew the truth. the man was implicated in the assassination of her lover, if not the actual murderer. therefore she held him in loathing.
“well,” i said at length, as we strolled along beside the dark, silent stream, “tell me the story of the treasure as my enemies know it. we are friends, miss drummond, and our enemies are mutual. cannot we unite forces and combat them?”
“oh!” she sighed, “i only wish we could. i fear, however, that it is impossible.” there was a pathos in her voice which showed that the words came direct from a heart overburdened with grief.
“what do these men know about me?” i inquired.
“everything. they have watched you vigilantly day and night, and are aware of every movement on your part. they know the whole story of how you discovered the derelict, and what you found on board. they even know the contents of certain of the parchments you recovered—one, i think, had a number of signatures upon it.”
“the one stolen from mr. staffurth’s?” i cried.
“yes. but they had a copy of that long before. from what i’ve heard, there was on board your steamer a man named harding, who had sailed as seaman, but who was a professor of latin who had come down in the world. it was he who made the copy and translation and sold it to some one, who afterwards sold it to purvis. the latter lost no time in coming here and buying the parchment from knutton, thus forestalling you.”
“was harding previously acquainted with purvis?”
“i think so. the copy and information were not, however, sold direct, but through a third person.”
“are they sanguine of success?”
“oh, yes,” she answered. “by some means they’ve discovered evidence that the gold is concealed in the manor house.”
“in what part?”
“ah! that is not known. they intend to make a search. to-night they will probably break through—four of them. therefore be on the alert.”
i explained how we had been aroused on the previous night by the cutting of the door, and how we had explored the passage as far as the glebe farm. then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said earnestly?—
“oh, dr. pickering, do be careful! i fear that you may come to harm at the hands of these unscrupulous men.”
“but why have you associated yourself with them?” i asked, taking her hand and speaking very seriously.
she was silent. then at last she answered:?—
“because i am unfortunately compelled.”
“but the fact that this man purvis is your guardian is no reason why you should participate in his scheme. he seems an adventurer, just as bennett is known to be one.”
“ah! doctor,” she cried, turning to me suddenly, her whole form trembling, “do not argue thus! you do not know; you cannot know all.”
but i knew, and regarded her with pity born of love.
those men held her to them by threats of exposure. she had enticed that unknown man to his death, and was therefore an accessory. the hideous truth was plain. she was the puppet and decoy of these scoundrels. she had decoyed me on that night when she had taken me to blackheath, but at the last moment her better nature had rebelled and she had sent me back without any explanation more than a lame excuse.
i saw how utterly helpless she was in the hands of that pair of assassins. when i questioned her i found that the sum purvis allowed her was very small, and that long before the death of her aunt lewis she had earned her own living as a typewriter.
by dint of careful questioning i endeavoured to obtain from her some facts regarding purvis’ private life, but she appeared to know but little of it. he now lived at hammersmith, she said, but she never visited his house unless at his orders, and then the motive was generally in connexion with their scheme to gain possession of the treasure.
it is always advantageous to have a friend in the camp of the enemy, and in this case what dorothy drummond told me ultimately proved of the greatest service to us.
i longed to explain the knowledge i possessed regarding the murder at kilburn, yet how could i? if she suspected that i knew the truth she would, in her present agitated state of mind, flee from me in terror lest i should betray her.
“cannot you sever yourself entirely from these men?” i suggested. “indeed, miss drummond, i hate to think of you participating in the desperate schemes of such adventurers. suppose they should fall into the hands of the police, you also may be implicated!”
she burst into a torrent of tears at my words and, halting, covered her face with her hands. tenderly i strove to console her, and placing my hand upon her shoulder, there in the darkness, i bent to her ear and in hot, fervent words told her my secret—that i loved her.
she heard me in silence, sobbing till the end. then, in a hoarse, broken voice, she answered:?—
“no. it is impossible! you must not tell me this—you must not entertain any affection for me.”
“why not, dorothy?” i asked, calling her for the first time by her christian name. “have i not confessed to you how i love you with all the passion of which a man is capable? for weeks and weeks you have been my all in all. waking or sleeping, your face has been ever before me, and i feel by a mysterious intuition that our lives in future are bound to one another.”
“ah, spare me!” she cried, through her tears. “spare me! i cannot bear to hear your words. would that i might return your love, but i dare not. no, i dare not—for your sake, as well as for mine.”
was she thinking of her dead lover, and of the traitorous part she had been compelled to play? yes. she hated herself, and at the same time held me in fear.
“but you love me, dorothy?” i whispered. “tell me, truthfully and honestly.”
“no, no,” she urged. “do not seek to wring the truth from me. let us part. we must never meet again after to-night. i—i saved you once from death, that night when i took you to blackheath,” she went on breathlessly. “it suddenly dawned upon me that they meant to kill you and secure all the documents which you had found on board the derelict. they awaited you in a house they had taken for the purpose, and compelled me to come to you with a fictitious story regarding my brother, and to induce you to walk into the trap. held in bondage, i dared not disobey, and came to you. but at the last moment i compelled you to return and went back to face their anger. why did i act as i did? cannot you guess?”
“perhaps, dorothy, it was because you entertained a spark of affection for me?”
a silence fell between us for some moments. then she answered in a low voice, only just audible:?—
“you have guessed aright. it was.”
i leant towards her and kissed her cold, hard-set lips. she made no remonstrance, only she shuddered in my grasp, and a second later returned my caress and then burst again into tears.
“ah, you must not care for me,” she declared. “i am unworthy. you don’t know everything, or you would hate me rather than love me.”
“but i love you with the whole strength of my being, dorothy!” i declared, in deep earnestness. “that is enough. now that you reciprocate my affection i am satisfied. i want for no more. you are mine, darling, and i am yours—for ever.”
“but i fear that you may bitterly repent this—i fear that when you know all my past your love will turn to hatred and your admiration to loathing.”
“the past does not concern us, dearest,” i answered tenderly, with my arm about her slim waist. “it is for the future we must live, and to that end assist one another.” and again i pressed my lips to hers fondly in all the ecstasy of my new-found happiness.
what further description can i give of those moments of bliss? you, my reader, know well the sweet idyllic peace that comes in the stillness of night when two hearts beat in unison. wisely or unwisely, you have loved with all the ardour of your nature, just as i loved. you remember well the passion of those first caresses, the music of those fervent words of devotion, and the opening vista of happiness unalloyed.
pause for a moment and reflect upon first your own love, and you will know something of my tender feelings toward the poor hapless woman whose pure and loving heart was frozen by the terror of exposure.
