robert usher returned with me to chelsea and again took up his abode in keppel street.
to him i explained the whole of the curious circumstances, our exciting search after the hidden loot, and our utter failure—a narrative which interested him greatly, and caused him to become enthusiastic in his desire to render us assistance. i introduced him to seal, reilly, and old staffurth, and we all closely analyzed his story, which at first seemed so extraordinary to us as to be beyond credence. seal, however, as a practical seaman, examined the plan which usher drew, and gave it as his opinion that the seahorse had been preserved in the manner described by usher. his theory was that the antique vessel had been battened down for a storm, and that the rudder being carried away the men on board were helpless. the gale also carried away the masts and blew the wreck over the bar into the river, where she became wedged by the rocky ledge, as usher described. then a sudden flood of the river caused the waters to rise so rapidly that before the crew could open the hatches and escape the vessel became submerged.
i suggested that the reason the crew stayed below was that being storm-driven to the land of their enemies, the corsairs, they feared attack, therefore remained within their stronghold, hoping to float away when the gale abated, but were unfortunately overwhelmed so suddenly that escape became impossible. death had no doubt come upon them quickly, for we recollected that the interior showed no sign of recent fighting, and that asphyxiation was evidently the cause of death.
the fate of bennett and his men in that underground burrow caused us considerable apprehension. we had, up to the present, successfully combated the efforts of the gang to secure the treasure, but so ingenious and ubiquitous were our enemies that we knew not when or where they would turn up again. reilly was of opinion that they were entombed, but my own idea was that with black bennett as leader they would certainly escape in some ingenious manner or other. i had a kind of intuition that we had not yet seen the last of that interesting quartette.
so far as we were concerned we had given up all hope of discovering the gold at caldecott manor. it was surely tantalizing to read that long list of the treasure in english, covering eighteen pages in the vellum book—plates and dishes of gold, jewels in profusion, collars of pearls, jewelled swords, packets of uncut gems, golden cups, and “seven chests of yron each fylled wyth monie,” a list of objects which, if sold, meant an ample fortune.
accompanied by reilly, i visited the house at kilburn wherein the secret tragedy had been enacted. we had but little difficulty in finding it, a good-sized semi-detached place lying back behind some dark green railings. a board showed that it was to let, and having obtained the key at a house-agent’s in edgware road, we went over it as prospective tenants. the furniture had been removed, but on the floor-boards of the upstairs room in which the helpless man had been so foully done to death we found a small dark stain, the size of a man’s palm—the stain of blood. it was, according to reilly, the exact spot where the poor young fellow lay, his life-blood having soaked through the carpet.
we looked outside the window, and there saw the great hole in the conservatory roof through which my companion had fallen, while a piece of broken lattice-work hung away from the wall. the autumn sunshine fell full upon that dark stain on the floor, but the attention of the observer would not have been attracted thereby; it was brown, like other stains one so often sees upon deal flooring, and none would ever dream that it was evidence of a foul and cowardly crime.
on the following day i called upon dorothy at cornwall road, and almost her first words were to convey to me a piece of news from rockingham—namely, that old ben knutton had met with a fatal accident. while in a state of intoxication two nights before he had attempted to cross the river by the foot-bridge that leads to great easton, had missed his footing, fallen in, and been drowned. there was no suspicion of foul play, as a young labourer named thoms had been with him, and had been unable to save him. the inquest had been held on the previous day at the sonde arms, and a verdict of “accidental death” returned.
the old fellow was a sad inebriate, it was true, but in common with dorothy, i felt a certain amount of regret at his tragic end. had it not been for the presence of a witness i should certainly have suspected foul play.
“have you heard anything of your friends bennett or purvis?” i asked her as we sat together.
“mr. purvis was here last night,” she answered. “he has told me how you entrapped them in that subterranean passage.”
“then they have escaped!” i cried. “tell me how they managed it!”
“it appears that on leaving the manor, and descending into the secret way, they found that you had removed the planks that bridged the well. they returned to the manor only to discover that you had also closed down the exit securely.”
“what did they do then?”
“well, for a time there seemed no solution of the problem until mr. bennett, more ingenious than the rest, suggested that they should dig a hole straight upwards from the roof of the passage. this they did, and in half an hour emerged in the centre of a cornfield!”
“by jove!” i cried, laughing. “i never thought of that! then they are all four back in london again?”
“i think so. it seems as though they have, like you, given up all hope of making any discovery.”
“yes,” i said, with a sigh, “we are, unfortunately, no nearer the truth than we were when we started.” my eye fell upon the mantelshelf, and i noticed that in place of the portrait of the dead man there was now a photograph of a well-known actor. she had removed it, and had probably placed the picture among her most treasured possessions.
this thought pained me. it was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it, but i feared to give her annoyance.
i openly declare that i now thought far more of my sweet and winsome love than i did of that sordid treasure. the first-named was a living reality, the soft-voiced woman who was my all-in-all; but the latter was nothing more than a mere phantom, as fortune is so very often.
while my friends still discussed the ways and means of solving the problem i thought only of her, for i loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. how i wished she would set my troubled thoughts at rest regarding the poor fellow who had been done to death at kilburn, yet when i recollected the reason of her secrecy i saw that she was held silent for fear of consequences. hers was a secret—but surely not a guilty one.
still she had admitted to me having loved him, and that had aroused the fierce fire of jealousy within me. i felt that i had a right to know who and what he was.
we sat chatting together, as lovers will, and when evening fell we went out together and dined at a restaurant. i suppose that if we had regarded conventionalities i ought not to have visited her at her lodgings, yet i found her a woman overwhelmed by a sadness; one in whose life there had been so little joy, and whose future was only a blank sea of despair. my presence, i think, cheered her, for her soft cheeks flushed, her eyes grew bright when she chatted with me, and her breast heaved and fell when i spoke of my affection.
she was so different to other women; so calm, so thoughtful, so sweet of temperament, though i knew that in her inner consciousness she was suffering all the tortures which come to the human mind when overshadowed by a crime. it was because of that i tried to take her out of herself, to give her a little pleasure beyond that dreary street in bayswater, and to prevent her thoughts ever wandering back to that terrible night in kilburn when those brutal men forced her to touch the cold, white face of the dead.
when dining together in the big hall of the trocadero the crowd and the music brightened her, for evening gaiety in london is infectious, and she expressed pleasure that we had gone there. over dinner i told her how for the present we had abandoned the search at caldecott, and related to her usher’s remarkable story.
“and this man bennett actually cast the poor fellow away without food or water!” she cried, when she had heard me to the end. “why, that was as much murder as the shooting of the unfortunate dane! i hate the man, paul!” she added. “truth to tell, i myself live in fear of him. he would not hesitate to kill me—that i know.”
“no, no,” i said reassuringly. “he dare not do that. besides, you now have me as your protector, dorothy.” and i looked straight into her great dark eyes.
“ah! i know,” she faltered. “but—well, there are reasons why i fear he may carry out his threat.”
“what!” i exclaimed. “has he threatened you?”
she was silent for a few moments, then nodded in the affirmative.
i knew the reason. it was because she was aware of the secret at kilburn. perhaps he feared she might expose him, just as ten years before he had feared robert usher.
“if he attempts to harm you it will be the worse for him!” i cried quickly. “remember we have in seal and usher witnesses who could bring him to the criminal dock. at present, however, both men are remaining silent. the whole truth is not yet revealed. there is still another crime of which certain persons have knowledge—a tragedy in london, not long ago.”
her face blanched in an instant, and next second i regretted that i had hinted at her secret.
“what is that?” she asked in a hollow voice, not daring to look me in the face.
but i managed to turn the conversation without replying to her question, and resolved that in future, although anxiety might consume me, i would refrain from further mention of the ugly affair. she would tell me nothing—indeed, how could she, implicated as she was, even though innocent?
yet i hated to think that my love should be an associate of those malefactors, and was striving to devise a plan by which she might escape from her terrible thraldom.
after dinner i suggested the play, and we went together to see an amusing comedy. but afterwards, as i sat beside her in the cab on our return to bayswater, she sighed, saying?—
“forgive me, paul, but somehow i fear the future. i am too happy—and i know that this perfect contentment cannot last. i am one of those doomed from birth to disappointment and unhappiness. it has been ever so throughout my life—it is so now.”
“no, no, dearest,” i declared, taking her little gloved hand in mine. “you have enemies, just as i have, but if we assist each other we may successfully checkmate them. this fight for a fortune is a desperate one, it is true, but up to the present it has been a drawn game, while we hold the honours—our mutual love.”
she gripped my hand in silence, but it was more expressive than any words could have been. i knew that she placed her whole trust in me.
yes, ours was a strange wooing—brief, passionate, and complete. but i felt confident that, even though she might have entertained an affection for the man so ruthlessly assassinated at kilburn, she loved me truly and well.
in that belief i remained perfectly content. she was mine, mine alone, and i desired no more. for me her affection was all-sufficient. i had searched for a hidden treasure, and found the greatest on earth—perfect love.
