It is not my purpose to describe the interview which took place between my hero and Mr. Monk. Suffice it to say that when the young man again emerged from the gloomy shadows of the dwelling there was a curious smile upon his face, while Mr. Monk, who had followed him to the door, and watched his retreating figure, wore a horrible expression of hatred and fear.

No sooner had he disappeared than Monk left the house also, and, following a footpath, through the woods, made straight for William Jones’s cottage. Entering unceremoniously, he found that worthy seated beside the hearth. Without a word he rushed upon him, seized him by the throat, and began pummelling his head upon the wall.

The attack was so sudden that for several minutes William Jones offered no resistance whatever. Indeed, so passive was he, and so violent was the rage of his opponent, that there was every prospect of his head being beaten to a jelly. Presently, however; Monk’s fury abating, his unfortunate victim was allowed to pick himself up. He sat and stared before him, while Monk, looking like the Evil One himself, glared savagely in his face.

“You villain! You accursed, treacherous scoundrel!” he said. “Tell me what you’ve done, or I’ll kill you!”

But William Jones was unconscious of having done anything, and he said as much, whereupon Monk’s fury seemed about to rise again.

“Mr. Monk,” cried William Jones, in terror, “look ye now, tell me what’s the matter?”

“I mean you to tell me what you have been hiding from me all these years. Something came ashore with that child—something that might lead to her identity, and you have kept it, thinking to realize money upon it, or to have me in your power. What means it? Speak, or I’ll strangle you!” But William Jones was evidently unable to speak, being perfectly paralyzed with fear. Monk stretched forth his hands to seize him again, when the old man, who had been a horrified spectator of all this, suddenly broke in with—

“Look ye, now, I know there was summat. It were a leetle book, stuffed in the front of her frock!”

“A book!” returned Monk, eagerly; “and what did you do with it? Tell me that, you old fool! Did you burn it?”

“Burn it?” exclaimed the other. “No, mister; we don’t burn nothin’, William and me. You know where you put it, William dear, in the old place.”

“Then curse you for an avaricious old devil,” thundered Monk. “The book has been stolen—do you hear!—stolen by that young painter!”

He could say no more, the effect of his words upon William Jones was electrical. He gave one wild shriek, and began tearing his hair. It now became his turn to moan and rave, and for some time nothing coherent could be got from him.

At length, however, Monk gathered that there was some secret hiding-place which Brinkley had discovered.

“I thought his poking and prying meant summat,” moaned William Jones. “I fancied, too, I seen marks i’ the sand, but I never could find no one near, and I thought they was my own marks. Oh, what will come to me! I’m ruined!”

“Curse your folly!” exclaimed Monk, “you’ve brought it all on yourself by your own greed, and you don’t deserve I should help you; but I will help you! Listen, then! It is clear that this young man has possessed himself somehow of your secret and mine. But from what he said to me, I fancy he has not as yet divulged it to a single soul. He is the only human being we have to fear. We must cease to fear him. Do you understand?”

No, William Jones did not understand; so in order to make his meaning clear, Mr. Monk drew him out from the cottage, and whispered something in his ear. William Jones turned as white as death, and began to tremble all over.

“I couldn’t do it, sir,” he moaned. “Look ye now—I couldn’t do it!”

Monk stamped his foot impatiently; then he turned to his frightened victim.

“Listen to me, William Jones. You ought to know by this time that I have both the power and determination to effect my ends. Continue to oppose me, and play the fool, and all that power shall be used against you. Do you hear? I will ruin, you! I will hand you over to the authorities as a thief—I will have you tried for concealing the papers which might have proved the identity of the child found washed ashore fifteen years ago! Do you hear?”

Mr. Monk evidently knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, for after a little more conversation William Jones, cowering like a frightened child, promised implicit obedience.

“Now, then,” said Monk, when he had brought matters to a satisfactory termination, “you will show me this hiding-place of yours.”

To this William Jones at first objected, but Monk was firm.

“Who knows,” said he, “but there may be other things having reference to the child? I mean to see for myself. Now, William Jones.”

So William Jones, seeing that resistance would be useless, promised to conduct his friend to the cave; and after a good deal of hesitation and of continued show of unwillingness on William Jones’s part, the two men started off.

When they drew near to the cave, William Jones gave a cry, and pointed to the sand. Looking down, Monk clearly saw footprints. They followed them, and found that they led right to the mouth of the cave.

“It’s standing open!” cried William Jones, as he pointed down with trembling finger.

“Follow me!” said Monk, crawling down into the hole.

Jones followed in terror.

As he reached the path below, he heard a sharp cry, and looking down saw, by the dim light of a candle stuck in the wall, Brinkley struggling helplessly in the powerful grip of Monk. He had been sprung upon from behind, and was helpless through a sort of garotte.

Horrified and trembling, William Jones was rooted to his place.

Suddenly he saw the young man fall backward lifeless, and, with one last gasp, lie perfectly still. Monk stooped over him, and looked into his face.

“Oh, Mr. Monk!” cried William, “is he—is he——”

“He is dead,” was the reply. “So much the better.”

As he spoke, he bent down and searched the young man’s pockets. His brow blackened, for he did not find what he sought. Then he took the light from the wall, and held it close to Brinkley’s eyes.

Satisfied that he did not breathe, he climbed up the path and rejoined his trembling companion. They passed out of the place, hurriedly replaced the trap-door, and piled on sand and stones.

“There!” said Monk, with a wild smile on his deadly pale face. “He won’t trouble either of us again. Come, come!”

And he strode hastily away, followed by William Jones, leaving the young man of the caravan in the subterranean tomb.