After the marriage and the going back of Lavirotte to London, all things went on regularly in their old course. Before the return of the bride and bridegroom from their Continental tour, Mr. O'Donnell paid the second call. He had done so with extreme difficulty. It had taken every penny he could lay his hand upon; and, indeed, the way in which he was obliged to draw in money from those who owed it to him threatened to be of serious injury to his business. Still he fought on bravely. The heart of the old man was stirred within him. His dogged nature was aroused to activity such as it had never known, even in his younger days. James O'Donnell was at bay, and he would show the world what James O'Donnell could do when his case seemed desperate. Day and night he worked. His energy appeared inextinguishable. His resources seemed to increase with the demands upon them. His vision was clear, his judgment infallible, his instincts true, his premonitions verified. Rathclare stood still and watched this miracle of new-born strength in the old man. People knew well enough that he had called in his last farthing, and that now, outside the four walls of his business place, he had not a hundred pounds in the world, beyond the book debts, which to claim hastily would be finally to destroy the business. When his son came back from abroad, he was more amazed than anyone else. The slow, plodding manner of late years had completely disappeared from his father, and instead he encountered the indomitable energy, the insatiable thirst for activity, and a judgment clearer and sounder than he had ever found in any other man. The newly-married couple took a small house in Glengowra. Every day Eugene went in to business, and every day returned to Glengowra in time for dinner. While Eugene was away his father had written to him, saying he had paid the second call, and that, with the help of Lavirotte, he would be able to pay the third, which would, he assumed, be the last. In Dublin the opinion was that the third call would certainly be the last. The determination was to wind the whole thing up with the greatest possible despatch, and hide its infamy away for ever. It was possible for accountants, who had charge of the affair, to go over the share book, and place opposite every name, which had hitherto proved solvent, a very close approximation of the resources at the disposal of each; and it gradually oozed out that there would be no use in having a call of anything less than five hundred pounds, for if they had two hundred and fifty now, and another two hundred and fifty later on, they would simply have the same names recurring, since the men who could meet the two hundred and fifty could meet the five. In Rathclare, at last, people began to believe that someone must have promised to sustain O'Donnell at the final moment, for all agreed that unless the old man had lost his reason, there could be now no doubt he was certain to tide over the affair. He had made arrangements one, two, three years in advance. He was in treaty for purchasing adjoining buildings with a view to incorporating them in his vast store. He had ordered new lighters to be laid down for him in the dockyard. Up to this he had always refused the mayoralty of the town, although he had for many years been a member of the corporation. Now he allowed himself to be put forward as a candidate for next year. No bankrupt could be mayor. From first to last he had never once sought any communication with the Vernons. Now he seemed to think his old friend not so great a criminal as at one time he appeared. Although he could not entirely forgive him, he spoke less harshly of him than of old, and was heard even to say once: "Poor devil, how do we know how he was dragged into it?" Meanwhile, Lionel Crawford and Dominique Lavirotte wrought with the energy of desperate men in the basement of St. Prisca's Tower. By day they dug and delved, Lavirotte, being younger, carrying the fruit of their labour to the top of the tower. The slow and cautious mode of procedure adopted by the old man was too tedious for the fiery-hearted Frenchman. "I'll risk the lofts," cried Lavirotte, "if I were to perish beneath them. You may stick to your old plan if you like, but it is too slow for me. It would kill me. It would drive me mad, when I think of my friends over there, when I think of the approaching ruin which we may avert." Mr. Kempston was a bachelor, easy-going and somewhat indolent, when the first news reached him that Vernon and Son had closed their doors. Hour after hour, and day after day, brought him nothing but a tedious aggravation of the worst reports, and gradually it dawned upon him that now, when he was no longer young, he was a ruined man. Harrington, the father of Dora, and he had been friends in youth. Hence his trusteeship to the will. Hence his guardianship of Dora. He had always been a man of excellent business capacity; but outside his business he was inclined to be lazy, self-indulgent, extravagant. When younger, he was greatly devoted to what is called fun. Now he liked rich living, good company, good clubs, and, if the truth might be told, a great deal more rather high whist than was good for his pocket. He paid the first "call" of the Vernon bank with a groan. "When I have paid the second," he said, "I shall still have my profession--that is," he said bitterly, "if they don't make a bankrupt of me." Then Lavirotte came with his amazing promise of indemnity, and his still more amazing forgiveness. The elderly attorney groaned, smiled, shook his head, swore, thanked Lavirotte profusely, said he'd take the help if it came, grasped Lavirotte by the hand, swore again, gave Lavirotte an excellent luncheon at his club, shook hands and said good-bye to Lavirotte, and then swore mutely the whole way from his club back to his office. When the time for paying the second instalment arrived, he paid it without a murmur, and then swore no more. He had nothing to swear by. Day by day Lionel Crawford and Dominique Lavirotte tore at the earth and clay and stones at the base of St. Prisca's Tower. Day by day they grew nearer and nearer to the goal. Crawford had told Lavirotte what that goal would be like. He knew every stone of that tower from his old readings. They were to keep now to the centre, as near as possible, driving the pick down as far as ever they could. "If it meets anything hard," said the old man, "strike again with the pick a few inches all round, and if it meets anything hard all round, that's it--that's the conical roof of the vault. In that vault the chests have now lain buried more than two hundred years." At last, the accountants who had charge of the affairs of Vernon and Son issued the last call. It was for five hundred pounds per share. Eugene wrote to Lavirotte, and asked him, for God's sake, to be quick. Lavirotte scarcely ate or slept. For days now he did not go near Dora, even. He was wasted, haggard, thin. He had long ago given up living at his rooms off the Strand. He and Lionel Crawford spent all their time now in the tower. Once in two or three days he went to his lodgings to see if there were letters. The morning he went and found Eugene's there he felt faint, and he had no sooner sat down in a chair than the fact that he had at last worn out all his energies came upon him. If death threatened him there he could not have arisen. For two nights he had not slept, and he had eaten little for the two days. The lofts had already shown unmistakable signs of impatience at the weight they bore. Any moment they might come crushing down upon the two workers, burying Crawford and himself and the stupendous treasure for ever, since outside that tower no living being knew what they sought. The sight of Eugene's letter, and the sense that not only were his labours not completed, but that they must be redoubled, overcame him. He called for wine. They brought him some. He drank a little, and felt stronger. He thought if he drank a little more he might be able to get back to the tower before his drowsiness overcame him. He drank a little more wine, and, before he found himself sufficiently invigorated to move, he fell asleep in the chair. He did not awake for some hours. Then he felt refreshed and stronger. "It was a shame for me," he said, "to fall asleep, but the sleep has done me good. Now to work once more." He drove to within a hundred yards of St. Prisca's Tower, and there alighted. He walked up to the massive oak door, opened it with his key, and entered the tower. The darkness was Cimmerian. He could see absolutely nothing. "Crawford must be aloft." He looked down. His eye detected something unusual below. In the middle of the impenetrable gloom there was what seemed to him a phosphorescent glow, covering about two square feet of the bottom of the pit. The lantern by which they worked was not to be seen. What could this glow of light be? The lantern, when below, looked like a distinct yellow patch surrounded by circles of light, decreasing in brightness as they receded from the lantern. But the light below was perfectly equal. It was not more intense at the centre than at the edges, and, contrary to the case of the lantern, there was no dark patch in the centre. Lavirotte descended the ladder in uneasy amazement, and approached the glowing space. It was not until within a few feet of it he discovered what it was. A hole! At the bottom, twelve feet below, an uneven floor. Through the hole dangled a rope. On the floor below, the lantern by which Crawford and he worked. Close to the lamp, the prostrate form of a man. Lavirotte seized the rope and descended. This was the vault in which they had hidden the treasure, unmistakably. He stooped and raised the lantern, casting the light slowly all round him, so that when he had finished his inspection nothing that was in that vault could be unknown to him. Then he knelt down beside the prostrate form of the man, and turned the face upward. Lionel Crawford! There was no other way of getting out of that vault but by climbing up that rope. He tried to climb that rope and failed. His strength was gone. He sat down on the floor of the vault, and covered his face with his hands. With the exception of himself, the lantern, and the corpse of Lionel Crawford, the vault was empty!
