It was afternoon when I climbed back through the breach in the wall and dropped into the garden. I had noted, as I went through the garden that morning, an arbour overgrown with honeysuckle; in the sunshine now it was a pavilion of gold and green. I was hurrying by this arbour when I was startled to hear my uncle’s voice.

“Nephew!” he called; and, turning, I saw him in the arbour, lounging indolently on an old garden seat of marble, yellow with age and stains; his arms outstretched along its back; he seemed bloodless, ivory-white, in the green shade.

“Nephew!” he called again, and beckoned to me. Much as I feared and hated him I obeyed him. He smiled benignly on me; observing my colour and the disorder of my dress, he asked, “Why, nephew, nephew, into what mischief have you been straying? You’re too old for boyish pranks, and I assume too young for philandering.”

I answered, “I’ve been walking in the wood.”

“The wood!” he repeated. “You’re gaining confidence in us, John. A week or two since and you’d not have had the courage to stir from the house. And yet the wood is none too safe, nephew.”

I answered boldly, “I agree with you, sir. For example, I chanced upon two rogues, Blunt and Martin Baynes.”

Maybe my tones confirmed the suspicions he had formed when I came scrambling over the wall. He said drily, “You mean more than your words, John. The encounter should warn you not to walk in the wood, or yet ride down to the coast with my son. Mayhap, Oliver is no more than a decoy”—his lips curling.

“I do not think it of my cousin,” I said.

“Oh, I’m happy to have your assurance, John. You look to find a friend in Oliver. And yet I should not think it, John. My lad’s well enough, but rough, uncouth; I fear he does me poor credit. How he passes his days I know not. He’s dissolute; you’ve observed him with the bottle.”

He broke off, as wearying of the theme; he looked languidly over the sunlit garden to the ivied walls, “Here’s the very wreck and ruin of a great house, John!” he sighed. “I have a notion—nay, since your coming I have it not—of shaping order out of chaos. Here in this garden, with a book on such a sunlit afternoon; but here, with delightful arbours, trim walks and plots of flowers,—a fountain playing silver! Mark that old fountain, John—the form of it, the seamaids who support the sea-green shells; the fountain’s dry; the lovely shapes of bronze corroded. Or the designs on this pale marble: see where the moss grows green in these delicate designs of Italy. The sun-dial where the sparrows chirp—why, here’s an enchanted garden, John, where time stands still, as in the old wives’ tale. Ay, see the hedge of thorns grows all about the castle! Time stands still! Nay, ah nay! I’d picture, John, the garden in the days when the second Charles was King of England. Why, I have looked from my window of a summer night, and I have seen the ghosts walk in the garden, as it was, and I have known the beauty and the colour and the laughter of this garden and this house, as once they were. I have thought of the beauty of Craike House restored, the greatness of our race—ah me! Here am I, penniless son of—Mr. Edward Craike; penniless parent of—Oliver! I’d tell my hope to you, John Craike, that, if you win, you yet may care to carry out my own ambition.”

He had spoken earnestly; while his fine, melancholy voice sounded, I did believe him,—knowing him for a rogue. His mood did not endure. He laughed, and eyeing me, he said, “So you’ve progressed, my friend, in the favour of your grandfather. So you’re a master in the house, and his retainers take their orders from you as from himself!”

“He did no more than insure me against insolence,” I answered uneasily. “You’re well served, my uncle!”

“Oh, I am!” he conceded. “To be sure, the woman Barwise came raging to me that morning. They’re servile to you, nephew, are they not? Thinking my father not yet in his dotage! And yet he is so near to breaking.” His eyes held mine; he said quietly, “Nephew, I’ve a proposal to you, more than truce—alliance. Liking you!”

“As you’ve surely proved, sir!”

“Yet hear me out,” he said. “You stand in favour with your grandfather. But you’re no fool; what should you say would happen, were the old man’s wits to go wandering, or were he to die, suddenly, as old men die, if they be fortunate? How should you fare at the hands of all these rogues, John?”

“Or at your hands?” I muttered.

“Or at my hands! I compliment you, nephew, on your wit. Or at the hands of Blunt, or Barwise? This old man so near to dying or to dotage, nephew! I put this to you.”

“Why, I’d suffer no more,” said I, “than Mr. Bradbury would speedily call you to account for.”

“A lonely house,” he muttered, “so near the coast. And none save old Sir Gavin within miles of us. Should we not work our will with you, and set our fingers on what’s hid in the house, and be away—in France, or whither in the world we would—ere Bradbury might lift a finger.”

“What’s hid in the house!” I repeated.

With sudden impatience he cried out, “Ay, what’s hid in the house! Why not be frank with me, nephew? You know this—Bradbury knows, as I—there’s in this house more than a moiety of all my father ever took on his voyages. There’s treasure in this house, about this house; and one man knows where it is hidden. And one man knows, and this one man may die, or his mind grow dark, and he forget, and it never be known. You know of the existence of this treasure, nephew, this secret hoard of his—and yet you lie to me!”

Unguardedly I answered, “I’ve heard no more than a talk of the treasure.”

“When? From whom?” he took me up instantly, and his face was livid, and his eyes were two evil gems. “This morn! Surely you heard this morn. Talk near the wall there. Or do you know from him?”

I said coolly, “I’ll tell you nothing.”

He mastered himself; he lay back on the seat; his lips sneered at me. “I would have made alliance with you, nephew,” he said. “I would have shared with you—as kinsman. I would have offered you security. Ay, I offer it now.”

I answered deliberately, “I’ll have no dealings with you. None!”

“Nephew,” he said, with mock severity, “I abhor duplicity. I confess myself mistaken in you. Pray go! You stand between me and the sunshine!”

I swung upon my heel and left him. I heard him humming his little tune as I climbed the steps.