Owing doubtless to the death of Bonhomme and to the orders given in no uncertain tones by Madame de la Fontaine, the bandits from the schooner in the cove did not make a further effort to attack the Inn that night. There was no rest, however, for Madame de la Fontaine, after her heroic exploit in the Oak Parlour, had swooned completely away. They carried her to the couch in Mrs. Frost's parlour, and, awkwardly enough, did what could be done for her by men. It was over an hour before they succeeded in restoring her to consciousness, and when they did so, she awoke to delirium and fever. Distracted by anxiety and by their helplessness, at the first streak of dawn, Dan started for town to get a doctor, and Ezra Manners volunteered to go to the Red Farm and bring back Mrs. Frost, Nancy, and the maids.

About six o'clock in the morning the women folk returned to the Inn. But the briefest account of the attack was given them, though they were told in no uncertain terms of Madame de la Fontaine's heroic action in coming to warn them and of her courageous shot at the leader. Then Mrs. Frost and Nancy turned all their attention to the sick woman, caring for her as tenderly and devotedly as if she were their own. Half-an-hour later Dan returned from Monday Port with the family doctor, a grave silent old gentleman, in whose skill and discretion they trusted. After making an examination of his patient, he nodded his head encouragingly; gave a few directions to Mrs. Frost, and then left, promising to return later in the morning with medicines and supplies.

At last, utterly worn out, the four men threw themselves on their beds and slept from sheer exhaustion. The sun was high in the sky when they came down stairs again and found Nancy waiting for them, and a smoking breakfast ready on the table. After greeting them, she pointed to the window, across the fields, almost bare of snow now and gleaming in the morning sunlight, to the bright waters of the cove. "See!" she cried, "the schooner has disappeared."

They both looked. "By Jove, it has!" exclaimed Tom, rushing to the other side of the room, and peering out at the shipless sea. "Heigho! that's a relief. Pray God we've seen the last of her. The Marquis gone, the schooner gone,—we three together once more! Perhaps we shall begin to live again. Ah!" he added more softly, glancing with sudden sympathy at Dan's white drawn face, "I forgot the poor woman across the hall."

Dan turned aside to hide his emotion, for though a load of anxiety had been lifted from his heart by the vanishing of The Southern Cross, he was sick with fear for the issue of the illness that had stricken down the woman he loved,—the woman who had proved her love for him by so terrible and so tragic a deed.

As though aware that for the moment they were best left together alone, Nancy slipped away into the kitchen.

"You love her, Dan?" asked Tom simply.

"Yes, Tom, with all my heart and soul. I staked my honour, my life, on her sincerity. And how she has proved that we were right to trust her! It can't be—she mustn't die—I couldn't bear it!"

"She'll be all right, old fellow, don't worry; trust to your mother and Nance. It is only the shock of the terrible things she went through last night. Come on, we must take something to eat. Here is Nancy back again."

There was no doubt of the fact, The Southern Cross had sailed away, vanished in the night as mysteriously as a week before she had appeared in the Strathsey and found moorings in the Cove. They did not count on the certainty of her not reappearing, however; and that night and for many nights thereafter the Inn was securely barricaded and a watch was kept, but neither then nor ever did The Southern Cross spread her sails in those waters again. She and her crew disappeared from their lives as completely as from the seas that stretched around the coast of Deal.

Tom at once was for making a search in the Oak Parlour for the hidden treasure, but for the time Dan had no heart for the undertaking. He urged delay at least until Madame de la Fontaine had recovered; and as for Nancy she would not hear of it.

"I can't bear to think of it,—of the trouble, the crime, the suffering of which it has been the cause. When our poor lady recovers, she will tell us all we need to know. I dread the Oak Parlour. I would not go into that room for anything in the world. Nor, believe me, Tom, could Dan do so now. You have guessed, haven't you, that he loves Madame de la Fontaine?"

"Of course, dearest; poor fellow! he betrays his love by every word and act. But good heaven, Nance, he couldn't marry her!"

"No—I don't know. I suppose not. But Dan will do as he will. To oppose him now would only make him the more wretched."

"Does your mother know?"

"No, and it is best she should not. I don't think she has the faintest suspicion."

"Well, I suppose we had better let things rest awhile;" Tom assented, "but I swear I would like to get at the Oak Parlour and tear the secret out of it."

"We must wait a bit, Tom dear. Let's just be glad now of what we have and are."

And with that he drew her toward him and pressed for a definite answer to the question which so deeply concerned their future.

"When Madame has recovered, when we know all and the mystery is solved," she replied; then she added inconsequently, "I wonder if we shall ever hear of the old Marquis again."

"I wonder too," Tom exclaimed. "Though he has sailed away on The Southern Cross, I doubt if he will willingly leave the treasure behind him."

"That dreadful treasure, Tom," cried Nancy. "I wish to goodness that the Marquis had it and might keep it always. We have each other."

The evening of the second day after the terrible night of the attack, as Dan was entering the Inn from his work outside, he saw Madame de la Fontaine standing on the gallery under the Red Oak. It was the dusk of a mild pleasant day. She was clad still in her soft grey gown with furs about her waists and neck, and a grey scarf over her head. But there was something infinitely pathetic to him in the listlessness of her attitude, in the expression of a deep and melancholy that had come into her face.

He stole swiftly to her side, and taking her hand in his pressed it to his lips, with a gesture that was as reverent as it was tender. For a moment something of the old brightness returned to her face as she bent her clear gaze upon his bowed head.

"You love me, Dan?" she murmured.

"You know I love you," he whispered passionately.

"Yes, I believe that you do," she said simply. "I shall always be thankful that I have won a good man's love." But suddenly she withdrew her hand, as the door of the bar opened. "See, here is Mademoiselle Nancy. She is coming for me: she is to be with me to-night. There is much for me to do."

His heart surged within him; for he knew that in her simple words there was the tragic note of farewell; but he could not speak, he could not plead from that sad and broken woman for a passion that he knew but too well she could never give. He knew that she would leave him on the morrow, that his protests would be vain;—nay,—he would not even utter them! With the gathering of the darkness about the old Inn, he felt that the light in his heart was being obscured forever.

The evening passed, the night. Morning came, and Madame de la Fontaine, accompanied by Nancy, left the Inn at the Red Oak for Coventry. There remained to Dan of his brief and tragic passion but one letter, which Tom handed to him that morning, and which, with despairing heart, he read and re-read a hundred times.

"Mon cher ami:

"You would forgive that I do not know well how to express myself as I desire, if you could read my heart. I bade you good-bye to-night under the Red Oak, tree for me of such tragic and such beautiful memories. I could not say farewell otherwise, dear friend, nor could you. We have loved sincerely, have we not? We will remember that in days to come; you will remember it even in the happier days to come that I pray God to grant you. I know all that you would say, my friend, but it cannot be. I must vanish from your life, be gone as completely as though I had never entered it. I love you deeply, tenderly, but I could not be to you what I know that now you wish. All the past forbids. The very tragedy that proved to you that I was worthy of your trust forbids. It is my only justification that I saved your lives, dear friend; but oh how bitterly I ask pardon of God for what has been done! Then also, dearest friend, my heart is no longer capable to bear passion, but only to feel great tenderness. I could not say these things, and yet they must be written. I cannot go with them unsaid. Certain other things must be told you in justice to all.

"The story I told you on the schooner that day was largely truth. The General Pointelle, who was at the Inn at the Red Oak in 1814, was in reality the MarÉchal de Boisdhyver, the father of your foster-sister Nancy. She is truly Eloise de Boisdhyver. The MarÉchal returned to France to support the Emperor, as he wrote to madame your good mother; and he fell, as I told you, on the field of Waterloo. Admitting the importance of his mission, admitting my ambiguous relation to him (indefensible as it was), to have left the child as he did was an act of kindness. In truth the treasure concealed in the Oak Parlour is considerable, and it was always my purpose to return, but the necessary directions for finding it were not entrusted to me, but to the Marquis Marie-Anne, whom I didn't meet until many years after Waterloo. Then I was induced by the Marquis,—your old Marquis—to provide the money for the miserable enterprise, of which we know the tragic result. From the first I was uncertain about the method we adopted; and then soon after our arrival here, from a hundred little indications, I became convinced that Bonhomme was prepared to betray us, once we secured the treasure. As for the Marquis, I suppose that he sailed away on the schooner. You need fear him no longer. It was he, I am convinced, that conveyed to them the information of the loosened casement in the Oak Parlour, and unwittingly arranged for his own undoing and our salvation. At all events he will have realized now that he has hopelessly lost the fight. As for the treasure, by right it belongs to Eloise, who should not disdain to use it. I enclose a transcription of the other half of the torn scrap of paper, which will supplement the directions in your possession.

"And as for me, my friend, I shall seek a shelter in my own country apart from the world in which I have lived so to little purpose and for the most part so unhappily. Believe me, so it is best. My heart is too full for me to express all that I feel for you.

"Dear, dear friend, do not render me the more unhappy to know that my brief friendship with you shall have harmed your life. Your place is in the world, to take part in the life of your own country, not, dear Dan, to waste youth and energy in the fruitless desolation of this beautiful Deal, not above all to grieve for a woman who was unworthy.

"I commend you to God, and I shall never forget you.

"CLAIRE DE LA FONTAINE."

It was with a heavy heart that Dan consented later in the morning to Tom's proposal that they force at last the secret of the Oak Parlour. He got the torn scrap of paper which he had found,—such ages ago it seemed, though it was scarcely a week,—in the old cabinet, and gave it to Tom, with the copy of the other half which Madame de la Fontaine had enclosed in her letter of farewell. The copy in Madame de la Fontaine's handwriting did not dovetail exactly into the jagged edges of the original portion, so that it was some time before they could get it into position for reading. But at last it was pasted together on a large bit of cardboard, and Tom, with the aid of a dictionary, succeeded in making a translation, which Dan took down.

"Learning of the attempt of my Emperor to regain his glorious throne, I leave these hospitable shores to offer my sword to his cause. In case I do not return, the person having instructions for the discovery of this paper, which I tear in two parts, will find herein the necessary directions for the finding of my hidden treasure. This treasure, bullion, jewels, and coins, is concealed in a secret chamber in this Inn at the Red Oak. This secret chamber will be entered from the Oak Parlour. The hidden door is released by a spring beneath the hand of the lady in the picture nearest the fireplace on the north side of the room. A panel slides back revealing the entrance. Instructions as to the deposition of the treasure will be found in the golden casket therewith.

"FRANÇOIS DE BOISDHYVER."

"Well?" said Tom, "the instructions are definite enough. Now we can put them to the test. Let's get to work at once. Wait a second till I get some wood, and well make a fire in the Oak Parlour." He filled his arms with logs from the bin under the settle in the bar, while Dan got the key for the north wing.

Soon they were at the end of the old hall. It was with an effort that Dan brought himself to enter the room, for there flashed into his mind the vision of the last time he was there,—the cold silver moonlight, the dark burly form at the casement, the white drawn face of Claire de la Fontaine, and then the sharp flash and crack of the pistol.

But with an impatient gesture, as if to thrust aside these tragic memories, he stepped across the threshold, and kneeling at the hearth, took the wood from Tom's arms and began to lay a fire. In the meantime his friend fumbled at the window casements, opened them, and let in the light of day and the pure air of out-of-doors. Soon the fire was crackling cheerily on the great andirons and casting its bright reflection on the dark oak panelling of the walls. Nothing had been disturbed—the old cabinet with the lions' heads stood opposite the window; the little escritoire, behind which he had crouched on the fatal night, was pushed back against the wall; the chairs, the tables, thick with dust, stood just as they had been standing for many years.

"Do you realize, Tom," Dan said, as they stood side by side watching the blazing logs, "that it is sixteen years since General Pointelle stayed at the Inn and used this room? And the treasure, if there is any treasure, has been mouldering here all that time."

"Let's get at it," said Tom. "I confess this place gives me the creeps. Have you got my translation of the directions?"

"Yes, here it is." Dan spread out the bit of paper on one of the tables. "'The hidden door is released by a spring beneath the hand of the lady in the picture nearest the fireplace on the north side of the room.' Ah! that must be it—that old landscape let into the panel there." He walked nearer and examined it closely.

It was a simple landscape, a garden in the foreground, forest and hills in the distance; and in the midst a lady in Eighteenth century costume caressing the head of a greyhound. It was beautifully mellow in tone, and might well have been a production of Gainsborough, though the Frosts had preserved no such tradition.

Dan began to fumble, according to the directions, beneath the hand of the stately lady, pressing vigourously here and there with thumb and forefinger. "What's that?" he cried suddenly. A faint click, as of a spring in action, had sounded sharp in the stillness, but apparently with no other effect. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I believe there is something behind it. You heard the click? See there! the panel's opened a bit at the side." Surely enough, there was a long crack on the right—the length of the picture. "Here, let's push."

Careless of the landscape, they put their hands upon the panel and pressed with all their force to the left. It yielded slowly, slipping back side-wise into the wall, and revealed a narrow opening, beyond which was a little circular stairway, leading apparently to some chamber above.

"Here's the entrance to the secret chamber all right," Dan exclaimed. "Let's see where it goes to." He climbed in and started up the winding flight of stairs, Tom close behind him. About half way up the height of the Oak Parlour he came to a door. "Can't go any farther," he called to Tom.

"What's the matter?"

"There's a door here; it leads, evidently, into some little room between the Oak Parlour and the bedroom next. Who would ever have guessed it?"

"Can't you open the door; is it locked?"

Dan fumbled about till he found and turned the knob. "No," he answered. "I've opened it. But it's pitch dark inside. Get a candle."

He waited anxiously while Tom went below again to get a candle, a strange feeling of dread creeping over him now that at last he was about to penetrate the secret which had been of such tragic purport in his life. In a moment Tom had returned, a candle in either hand, one of which he handed to Dan, and together they entered the secret chamber. It was a little room scarcely six feet square, without light, and so far as they could see without ventilation. As they stood looking about the candle flickered strangely casting weird shadows over the walls. Suddenly they saw at their feet a tiny golden casket, and then, in a corner of the room a row of small cloth bags, several of which had been ripped open, so that a stream of golden coin flowed out upon the floor. Nearby stood another little golden chest; and Tom, lifting the lid, started back astonished. For there sparkling and glowing in the candle light as though they were living moving things, lay a heap of precious gems—diamonds, rubies, opals, sapphires, amethysts, that might have been the ransom of a princess.

"It's a treasure right enough!" cried Dan. "But what's this?" He turned to the opposite corner where there lay a heap of something covered with a great black cloth. They approached gingerly, and Dan stooped and picked up an edge of the covering. "It's a cloak," he exclaimed. Startled, he paused for a moment; then quickly pulled the cloak away, uncovering, to their horror, a lifeless body.

"Tom!" Dan cried in a ghastly whisper. "A man has died here."

Tom held the candle over the gruesome heap. "But who?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

For reply Dan pointed significantly to the cloak which he had dropped on the floor.

"What!" cried Tom. "Good God! the old Marquis! But how? I don't understand—" he added, staring blankly.

"He must have come here the afternoon he pretended to leave the Inn, must have learned the secret passage somehow. It was he who loosened the casement in the Oak Parlour that night, and got his message to Bonhomme. He was waiting here for him. Can't you see it all—the panel slipped back; he couldn't open it again; Bonhomme didn't come; he was caught like a rat in a trap."

"My God, what a fate!"

"We can't leave his body here. We must give it decent burial, you and I, Tom, for we can't let this be known."

"And the treasure?"

"Ah! there was treasure, wasn't there? Wait, let's see what is in the little casket." He picked up the golden casket that they had stepped over as they entered, and raised the lid. A single scrap of paper was inside on the little velvet cushion, inscribed in the same handwriting as the paper of directions, "Pour Eloise de Boisdhyver."

"But come," Tom whispered, holding back the door, "I can't stand this any longer. We'll come back again, and do what must be done. Come, Dan."

Dan gave a last look into the strange horrible little room, then he followed his friend. They closed the door behind them and crept slowly down the narrow winding stairs to the Oak Parlour, leaving the treasure in the secret chamber and the Marquis guarding it in the silence and darkness of death. What had been so basely striven for was sorrily won at last.