Amidst a profound silence Jack walked slowly and quietly out of the house. There was no anger in his heart against the old man whose favorite he had once been—for the moment there was scarcely any anger against Stephen; surprise and bewilderment overwhelmed every other feeling.

He had not expected a large sum of money—had certainly not expected the Hurst; and but for the words spoken by the dying man, he would not have expected anything at all, after having offended him in the matter of the money-lenders and the post-obit. But most assuredly the squire had intimated that there would be something—something, however small.

And now he was told that there was nothing, that his name was not even mentioned.

Apart from any mercenary consideration, Jack was cut up and disappointed; if there had been a simple mourning ring, a few of the old guns out of the armory—anything as a token of the old man’s forgiveness, he would have been satisfied; but nothing, not one word.

Then, again, he could not understand it, near his end as he was when he spoke to him. The squire was as sane and clear-headed as he had been at any time of his life, or at least so it seemed to Jack; and he certainly had given him to understand that he had left him some portion of his immense wealth.

It was another link in the chain of mysteries which had seemed to coil around Jack since he started from London.

Slowly and thoughtfully he made his way back to the “Bush,” and began to pack up the small portmanteau which had been sent from town.

Hurst Leigh was no place for him; every minute he remained in it seemed intolerable to him. He would go straight back to town by the next train.

Suddenly a thought struck him, and he paused in his task of packing the portmanteau, an operation which he reduced to its simplest by thrusting in anything that came first and jamming it down tight with his fist; he stopped and looked up with a red flush on his handsome face. Why shouldn’t he go to Warden Forest on his way back?

In a moment, the idea thrilled him with the delight of anticipation, the next, a shade came over his brow. Why shouldn’t he? Rather, why should he? What was the use of his going? If he had no business there before, he had less excuse now. He was next door to a beggar—and——

Realizing for the first time the blow that had been dealt him by the squire’s neglect, he continued at the jamming process, jumped and kicked at the portmanteau till it consented to be locked, and then went down to the bar and called for his bill.

There were several people hanging about—a funeral is a good excuse for a holiday in a country village—but Jack, in his abstraction, scarcely noticed the little group of men who sat and stood about, and merely nodded in response to the respectful and kindly greetings.

“But, Mr. Jack,” said Jobson, with a deeply respectful air of surprise, “you don’t think of going right away at once, sir?”

“Yes, I’m off, Jobson,” said Jack. “What’s the next train?”

“To London?” said a dry, thin voice behind him; and Jack turned and saw Mr. Hudsley’s clerk—old Skettle. “There’s no train to London till seven o’clock; there’s a train to Arkdale in an hour, but it stops there.”

“All right,” he said, “I’ll go to Arkdale; and, by the way, Jobson, I don’t want to be bothered with the portmanteau; send it on by rail to my address—Spider Court, the Temple, you know.”

Jobson touched his cap, and while he was making out the bill Jack lit his pipe and paced up and down, his hands in his pockets, the knot of men watching him out of the corners of their eyes with sympathetic curiosity.

Jack paid the bill—so moderate a one that he capped it with half a sovereign over; and with a “good-day” all round, started off. He had not got further than the signpost, when he felt a touch on his arm, and, turning, saw that old Skettle had followed him.

“Halloa,” said Jack, in his blunt way, “what’s the matter?”

The old man looked up at him from under his wrinkled lids, and fumbled at his mouth in a cautious sort of a way.

“I’m very sorry things have gone on so crooked up at the Hurst, Master Jack,” he said, respectfully.

“But not more sorry than I am, Skettle, thank you.”

“I’m afraid it’s rather unexpected, Master Jack,” he continued, his small, keen eyes fixed, not on Jack, but on his second waistcoat-button, counting from the top.

“Well, yes, it is,” said Jack, tugging at his mustache. “Very much so. I’ve got a hit in the bread-basket this time, Skettle, and I’m on my back again.”

Old Skettle looked a keen glance at the handsome face and frank eyes that were looking rather ruefully at the ground.

“Hitting below the belt is not considered fair, is it, Master Jack?” he asked.

“Eh, what?” said Jack, who had not been paying much attention. “No, according to the rules; but what do you mean by the question? You are always such a mysterious old idiot, you know. You can’t help it, I suppose.”

Old Skettle smiled, if the extraordinary contortion of the wrinkled face could be called by so flattering a designation.

“I’ve seen such mysterious things since I first went into Mr. Hudsley’s office to sweep the floor——”

“Now, then,” said Jack, “none of that game; going into the old story, which I have heard a hundred times, of how you went as an office boy, and have risen to the proud position of confidential clerk. You’re like one of the old fellows in the play, who draws a chair up to the footlights, and says, ‘It’s seven long years ago——’ and the people begin to clear out into the refreshment bar, and wait there till he’s done. Where were you? Oh, ‘mysterious experiences.’ Well, go on.”

But old Skettle had, apparently, nothing to say; he had, while Jack had been speaking, changed his mind.

“I beg pardon for stopping you, Master Jack,” he said. “I felt I couldn’t let you go out of the old place without expressing my sympathy.”

“Thanks, thanks,” said Jack, holding out his hand. “You’re one of the right sort, Skettle, and so’s Hudsley. I believe he’s sorry, too. Looks a little puzzled, too. Puzzled isn’t the word for what I feel. I’ve got the sensation one experiences when he’s been sitting through one of the old-fashioned melo-dramas. Not even a mourning-ring, or a walking-stick. Poor Squire—well, I forgive him. He had a right to do what he liked with his own.”

“Just so, Master Jack, but it’s hard for you,” said Skettle. “Not a mourning-ring. By the way, sir,” and something like a blush crept over his wrinkled face. “If—if you should be in want of a little money——”

Jack stared, then laughed grimly.

“Well, you certainly must be mad, Skettle,” he interrupted. “Want money! When didn’t I want it? But don’t you be idiot enough to lend me any. It would be a jolly bad speculation, old fellow. There is not a Jew in London would take my paper. No, Skettle, it would be downright robbery, and I don’t think I could rob you, you know.”

“Do you remember the day you swam across the mill-pond, and fished my little boy out, Master Jack?”

“You take care I shan’t forget it, Skettle,” said Jack, with a smile. “It was a noble deed, wasn’t it? Every time you mention it, I try to feel like a hero, but it won’t come. How is little Ned?”

“He’s well, sir; he’s in London now, working his way up. He’d have been in the church-yard if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Why, Skettle, this is worse than ‘’Twas seven long years ago!’” exclaimed Jack.

“On that day, Master Jack, I swore that if ever a time came when I’d a chance of serving you, I’d do it. It did not seem very likely then, for we all thought you’d be the next squire; but now, Master Jack, I should be grateful if you’d borrow ten pounds of me.”

“Nonsense,” cried Jack. “Don’t be an idiot, Skettle. You a lawyer! why, you’re too soft for anything but a washerwoman. There, good-bye; remember me to little Ned when you write, and tell him I hope he’ll grow up a little harder than his father. Good-bye,” and he shook the thin, skinny claw heartily.

Old Skettle stood and looked after him, his right hand fumbling in his waistcoat pocket; and when Jack had got quite out of sight he pulled the hand out, and with it a small scrap of paper with a few words written on it, and a seal. It was just such a scrap of paper which might have been torn from a letter, and the seal was the Davenant seal, with its griffin and spear plainly stamped.

Old Skettle looked at it a moment curiously, then shook his head.

“No, I was right after all in not giving it to him; it may be nothing—nothing at all. And yet—it’s the squire’s handwriting, for it’s his seal, and what was it lying outside the terrace for? Where’s the other part of it, and what was the other part like? I’ll keep it. I don’t say that there’s any good in it, but I’ll keep it. Not a mourning-ring or a walking-stick! All—house, lands, money—to Mr. Stephen, with the sneaking face and the silky tongue. Poor Master Jack! I—I wish he’d taken that ten-pound note; it burns a hole in my pocket. Not—a—mourning-ring,” he muttered. “It’s not like the squire, for he was fond of Master Jack, and if I’m not half the idiot he called me, the old man hated Mr. Stephen. I seem to feel that there’s something wrong. I’ll keep this bit of paper;” and he restored the scrap to its place and returned to the “Bush” with as much expression on his face as one might expect to see on a blank skin of parchment.

Jack was more moved than he would have liked to admit by old Skettle’s sympathy and offer of assistance, and in a softened mood, produced by the little incident, sat and smoked his pipe with a lighter spirit.

After all he was young, and—and—well, things might turn up; at any rate, if the worst came to the worst, he could earn his living at driving a coach-and-four, or, say, as a navvy.

“I shouldn’t make a bad light porter,” he mused, “only there are no light porters now. I wonder what will become of me. Anyhow, I’d rather live on an Abernethy biscuit a day than take a penny from Stephen or borrow ten pounds from Skettle. Stephen. Squire of Hurst Leigh! He’ll make a funny squire. I don’t believe he knows a pheasant from a barn-door fowl, or a Berkshire pig from a pump-handle. I should have made a better squire than he. Never mind; it’s no use crying over spilt milk!”

Jack was certainly not the man to cry over milk spilt or strewn, and long before the train had reached Arkdale he had forgotten his ill-luck and the mystery attending the will, and all his thoughts were fixed on the beautiful girl who dwelt in a woodman’s hut in the midst of Warden Forest.

Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest, and Jack felt that the fruit was forbidden here. What on earth business had he, a ruined man, to be lounging about Warden, or any other forest, in the hope of getting a sight of, or a few words with, a girl, whom, be she as lovely as a peri, could be nothing to him? What good could he do? On the contrary, perhaps, a great deal of harm; for ten to one the woodman would cut up rough, and there would be a row.

But he felt, somehow, that he had made a promise, and promises were sacred things to Jack—excepting always promises to pay—and a row had rather a charm for him.

Nevertheless, when the train drew up at Arkdale Station, he had quite resolved to wait until the London train came up, and as such resolutions generally end, it ended in giving up the idea and starting for Warden.

Jack was not sentimental. Men with good appetites and digestions seldom are; but his heart beat as he entered the charmed center of the great elms and oaks which fringed the forest, and the whole atmosphere seemed full of a strange fascination.

“I wonder what she will say, how she will look?” he kept asking himself. “I’d walk a thousand miles to hear her voice, to look into her eyes. Oh, I’m a worse idiot than old Skettle! What can her eyes and her voice be to me? By Jove, though, I might turn woodman and—and——” marry her, he was going to say, but the thought seemed so bold, so—well, so coarse in connection with such a beautiful person, that Jack actually blushed and frowned at his effrontery.

He found no difficulty in recognizing the way, and strode along at a good pace, which, however, grew slower as he neared the clearing in which stood Gideon Rolfe’s cottage, and just before he emerged from the wood into it he stopped, and felt with a faint wonder that his heart was beating fast.

It was a new sensation for Master Jack, and it upset him.

“This won’t do,” he said; “I must keep cool. A child would get the better of me while I am like this; and I mustn’t forget I’ve got to face that wooden-faced woodman. Courage, my boy, courage!”

And with a resolute front he stepped into the clearing.

Yes, there was the cottage, but why on earth were the shutters up.

With a strange misgiving he walked up to the door and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again and again—still no answer.

Then he stepped back and looked up at the chimney. There was no smoky trail rising through the trees. He listened—there was no sound. His heart sank and sank till he felt as if it had entered his boots.

With a kind of desperate hope he knelt on the window-sill and looked through a hole in the shutter into the room.

It was bare of furniture—empty, desolate.

He got down again and looked about him like one who, having buried a treasure, goes to the spot and finds that it has gone.

Gone—that was the word—and no sign!

It was incredible. Three days—only three days. What had happened? Was—was anyone dead? And at this thought his face grew as pale as the tan would allow it.

No; that was absurd. People—she—could not have died and been buried in three days! Then, where was she? Was it possible that the old man had actually left the wood—thrown up his livelihood—because of his (Jack’s) visit to the cottage?

A great deal more disturbed and upset than he had been over the squire’s will, he paced up and down. He sat down on the seat outside the window—the seat where he had drunk his cider and eaten his cake—the seat where Mrs. Davenant sat so patiently—and he lit his pipe and smoked in utter bewilderment.

Disappointment is but a lukewarm word by which to describe his feelings.

He felt that he had looked forward to seeing Una as a sort of set-off against the terrible blow which the squire’s will had dealt him, and now she was gone!

I am afraid to say how many hours he sat smoking and musing, in the vain hope that she, or Gideon Rolfe, or someone would come to tell him something about it; but at last he realized that she had indeed flown; that the nest which had contained the beautiful bird was empty and void; and with a heart that felt like lead, he set out for Wermesley.

By chance, more than calculation, he caught the up-train, and was whirled into London.

Weary, exhausted rather, he signaled a hansom, and was driven to Spider Court.

Spider Court is not an easy place to find. It is in the heart of the Temple, and consists of about ten houses, every one of which, like a Chinese puzzle, contains a number of houses within itself.

Barristers—generally briefless—inhabit Spider Court; but it is the refuge of the hard-working literary man, and of the members of that strange class which is always waiting for “something to turn up.”

Jack ascended the stairs of No. 5, passed various doors bearing the names of the occupants on the other side of them, and opened a door which bore the legend:

“Leonard Dagle.
“John Newcombe.”

painted in small black letters on its cross-panel.

It was not a large room, and it was plainly furnished; but it looked comfortable. Its contents looked rather incongruous.

At the end of the room, close by the window, which only allowed about four hours of daylight to enter it, stood a table crowded with papers, presenting that appearance which ladies generally call “a litter.” The table and book-shelf, filled with heavy-looking volumes, would give one the impression that the room belonged to a barrister or a literary man, if it were not for a set of boxing-gloves and a pair of fencing foils, which hung over the fireplace, and the prints of ballet-girls and famous actresses which adorned the walls.

As Jack entered the room, a man, who was sitting at the table, turned his head, and peering through the gloom which a single candle only served to emphasize, exclaimed:

“Jack, is that you?”

The speaker was the Leonard Dagle whose name appeared conjointly with Jack’s on the door of the chambers.

Seen by the light of the single candle, Leonard Dagle looked handsome; it was left for the daylight to reveal the traces which life’s battle had cut in his regular features. One had only to glance at the face to be reminded of the old saying of the sword wearing the scabbard. It was the face of a man who had fought the hard fight of one hand against the world, and had not yet won the victory.

Leonard Dagle was Jack’s old chum; friends he had in plenty—dangerous friends many of them—but Leonard was his brother and companion in arms. They had shared the same rooms, the same tankard of bitter, sometimes the same crust, for years.

There was not a secret between them. Either would have given the other his last penny and felt grateful for the acceptance of it. It was a singular friendship, for no two men could be more unlike than Leonard Dagle, the hard-working barrister, and Jack Newcombe, the spendthrift, the ne’er-do-well, and—the Savage.

“Is that you, Jack?” exclaimed Leonard, straightening his back. “Home already?”

“Yes, I’m back.”

“What’s the matter—tired?”

“Tired—bored—humbled—thoroughly used up! I’ve got news for you, Len.”

“Bad or good?”

“Bad as they can be. First the squire’s dead!”

“Dead?”

“Yes, dead and buried. Poor old fellow!”

“I am very sorry. Then you—then you—am I addressing the Squire of Hurst Leigh?”

“You are addressing the pauper of Spider Court.”

“Jack, what do you mean?”

“I mean that the poor old fellow has died and left me nothing—not even a mourning-ring.”

“I’m very sorry. Left you nothing, my dear old man!”

“Don’t pity me. I can’t stand that. Say serves you right, say anything. After all, what did I deserve?”

“But you expected something,” said Leonard.

“Yes, and no. I expected nothing till I got there, and then did. I saw him for a few minutes before he died, and he said—certainly said—that I—well, that there would be something for me.”

“And there is nothing.”

“Not a stiver. Mind I don’t complain, Len. I didn’t deserve it.”

“Where has it all gone? He was a rich man, was he not?” asked Leonard.

“Rich as a Croesus,” replied Jack, “and it has all gone to Stephen Davenant.”

“That is the man that goes in for philanthropy and all that sort of thing.”

“That’s the man,” replied Jack.

“Tell me all about it,” said Leonard, after a long pause.

And, with many pauses, Jack told his story.

Leonard Dagle listened intently.

“It’s a strange story, Jack,” he said. “I—I—it rather puzzles me. There could be—of course, there could be nothing wrong.”

“Wrong, how do you mean?” exclaimed Jack.

“Well, Stephen Davenant’s conduct is rather peculiar—isn’t it?”

“Oh, he’s half out of his mind,” said Jack, carelessly. “He has been playing a close game for the money, and hanging about the old man till he has got as hysterical as a girl. What do you think could be wrong? Everything was as correct as it could be—family lawyer, who made out the will, and all the rest of it.”

“Then you think the squire was wandering in his mind at last?”

“That’s it,” said Jack. “He wanted to provide for me—to leave me something, and he fancied he’d done it. It’s often the case, isn’t it?”

“I’ve met with such cases,” said Leonard.

“Just so,” said Jack. “Is there anything to drink?” he asked, abruptly, as if he wanted to change the subject.

“There’s some whiskey——”

Jack mixed himself a tumbler and sat on the edge of the table, and Leonard Dagle leaned back and watched him.

“There’s something else, Jack,” he said. “Out with it; what is it?”

“What a fellow you are, Len. You are like one of those mesmeric men; there’s no keeping anything from you. Well, I’ve had an adventure.”

“An adventure?”

“Yes, I’m half under the impression that it’s nothing but a dream. Len, I’ve seen the most beautiful—the most—Len, do you believe in witches? Not the old sort, but the young ones—sirens, didn’t they call them; who used to haunt the woods and forests and tempt travelers into quagmires and ditches. The innocent-looking kind of sirens, you know. Well, I’ve seen one!”

“Jack, you’ve been drinking; put that glass down.”

“Have I? Then I haven’t. Look here,” and he told the story of his wanderings in Warden, and all it had led up to.

“How’s that for an adventure?” he said, when he had finished.

“It would do for a mediÆval romance. And she has gone, you say?”

“Clean gone,” said Jack, with a sigh and a long pull at the tumbler. “Gone like a—a dream, you know. How is that for an adventure? You don’t believe in them, though.”

Leonard Dagle looked up, and there was a strange, half-shy expression in his face.

“You are right, Jack. I didn’t till the day before yesterday.”

“The day before yesterday? What do you mean?”

“Simply that I, too, have had an adventure.”

“Seems to me that we’re like those confounded nuisances who used to meet on a coach and tell stories to amuse themselves. Go on; it’s your turn now.”

“Mine’s soon told. After you started for Hurst Leigh I got a letter from a man at Wermesley——”

“Wermesley!” exclaimed Jack. “Why——”

“Yes, it is on the same line. He wanted me to go down to look over some deeds, and I went. I took a return ticket and got into the last train. When I got into the carriage—I went ‘first’ on the strength of the business—I saw a young lady—mind, a young lady—seated in a corner. It struck me as rather odd that a young girl should be traveling alone at this time of night, and I shifted about until I could get a good look at her. Jack, you’re not the only man that has seen a beautiful girl within the last week.”

“Beautiful, eh?” cried Jack, interested.

“Beautiful in my eyes. The sort of face that Cleopatra might have had when she was that girl’s age. I never saw such eyes, and I had plenty of opportunity of seeing them, for she seemed quite unconscious of my presence. Jack, I’m a shy man, and I’m often sorry for it, but I was never sorrier than I was then, for I’d have given anything to have been able to speak to her and hear her speak. There she sat, looking like a picture, quite motionless, with her eyes fixed on the flare of the lamp; and there I sat and couldn’t pluck up courage to say a word. At last we got to London; they came for the tickets, and she couldn’t find hers. I went down on my hands and knees, and at last I found the ticket under the seat. I looked at it as I gave it to the porter; and where do you think it was from?”

Jack shook his head. He didn’t think it much of an adventure after Una and Warden Forest.

“You’ll never guess. What do you say to Hurst Leigh?”

“Hurst Leigh! Why, who was she? Somebody I know, perhaps.”

“I found my tongue at last, and said, ‘You have had a long journey. Hurst Leigh is a beautiful place.’ And what do you think she said?”

Jack shook his head.

“She said, ‘I don’t know. I have never been there before today.’ That’s all until we got to the terminus, then I asked her if I could get her luggage. ‘I haven’t any,’ she said. ‘Could I get her a cab?’ I asked. Yes, I might get her a cab. I went and found a cab and put her in it; and, if I had a shadow of a doubt as to her being a lady, the way in which she thanked me would have dispelled it. I asked her where I should direct the cabman to drive, and she said 24 Cheltenham Terrace. And—and then she went.”

“Well?”

“Well, I—of course you’ll call me a fool, Jack, I am quite aware of that—I followed in another cab.”

“Good heavens! You’ve been drinking!”

“No. I followed, and when she had gone I knocked at the door of the next house and asked the name of the people who lived next door. They—for a wonder—were civil, and told me. She lives with her grandfather, and her name is Laura Treherne.”