After breakfast disastrous news came from two quarters, and concerned both Don Pablo and Julian Hardwick. While the Squire, his daughter and his guest were ending their meal, the housekeeper rushed into the room with an agitated face to announce evil. Like all her class she was delighted to be the bearer of bad tidings, and counted upon making a sensation, which she assuredly did. Enistor had scarcely raised his eyebrows at her unceremonious entry when she burst into voluble speech.

"Oh! sir: oh! miss, here's dreadful goings on. That poor young gentleman who painted pictures is dead and gone."

"I thought he would die," said Alice, with a sob. "He had no strength when I left him last night. Oh! poor Julian: poor Julian."

"But that ain't the worst, miss. SeÑor Narvaez is murdered!"

Enistor started to his feet and overturned his chair. He could not believe his ears. "Murdered! Don Pablo! Be careful what you say."

"I am careful, sir," cried the housekeeper resentfully. "He's as dead as a doornail, lying outside his cottage with a broken neck. Mrs. Boyce as looked after him came on the corpse this morning, and is now in the kitchen crying dreadful and exhausted, as she well may be, having rushed across the moor at her age to tell of the wicked crime."

"But is it a crime?" asked Alice, deadly pale and anxious.

"For sure, miss. Men don't break their own necks."

"Who killed him?" demanded Montrose sharply.

"No one knows, miss—I mean, sir. Mrs. Boyce said as SeÑor Narvaez had some one to see him last night, but who he was she don't rightly know."

Enistor's eyes rested on Montrose, who started and flushed. "When did Mrs. Boyce discover the body?"

"When she got up early to make the old gentleman's breakfast," said the voluble housekeeper. "He wasn't in his room, as usual, but she thought he might have gone out for a stroll, as he sometimes did. Then later, as he did not return, Mrs. Boyce went out to look and found him dead just outside the gate, looking as quiet as pussy. And please, sir, she wants to know what she's to do, having come as quick as ever she could to tell, so that it mayn't be thought to be her fault, which it ain't, she being one as wouldn't kill a fly."

"Tell Mrs. Boyce that I shall go over to the cottage and see what is to be done," said Enistor quickly, "and send one of the men down to the village for the policeman. We must communicate with the Perchton Inspector."

"And what about Mr. Hardwick as is dead and——"

"You needn't trouble about that. Do what I say."

The housekeeper vanished reluctantly, as she dearly wished to remain and discuss the deaths. The moment the door was closed Enistor turned to Montrose with a frown. "What do you know of this?" he asked imperiously.

Alice started and spoke before her lover could open his mouth. "Douglas cannot possibly know anything," she cried indignantly. "What do you mean, father?"

"I mean that Montrose was the last person who saw Don Pablo alive."

"You can't be sure of that," said the young man, very pale but very quiet. "I certainly called on Don Pablo shortly after eight o'clock, to question him concerning the lie he told about me. But I left him some time before nine perfectly well. His death is as great a surprise to me as to you, Mr. Enistor."

"I hope the police will take that view," sneered the Squire. "You returned here after nine and went straight to bed, when you might have guessed that I was in the library waiting for your report."

"I was too upset to give any report," said Montrose shortly.

"Oh, I quite believe that."

"Douglas! father," cried Alice imploringly, as she could not yet understand the precise situation. "What does it all mean?"

"It means so far as I can judge that Montrose forced the lie down Narvaez' throat, as he said he would, and very thoroughly."

"Do you accuse me of killing the man?" said Montrose hoarsely.

"Yes!" said the Squire, looking at him with grim directness.

"Then I deny absolutely what you say," declared the other vehemently; "as I said before, I left Narvaez in his room shortly before nine o'clock, after he had confessed to me that what he mentioned to you was untrue."

"What did he mention to father?" questioned the girl, terrified at the furious looks of the two men. "I was with Julian until eleven, and when I returned home you had gone to bed, Douglas. I came to tell you about Julian, father, but you did not say that anything had happened."

"Nothing had happened then so far as I know," said Enistor quickly. "My dear, I saw Don Pablo yesterday and he told me that Montrose was already married."

"Married! Married!" Alice started back the picture of dismay.

"It is a lie!" cried Douglas fiercely, and passed round the table to take her in his arms. "I swear it is a lie, dear. When your father told me after dinner I went at once to Narvaez. He confessed calmly that he had spoken falsely so as to prejudice my chances of making you my wife. Had he been a younger man I should have thrashed the life out of him. As it was I told him my opinion and then left him quite unharmed. I swear that I never laid a finger on him, but returned here shortly after nine o'clock to go to bed. I was too indignant at what had been said to seek out your father and explain."

Enistor laughed coldly. "That is a very neat story. Do you believe it, Alice?"

The girl clung to her lover. "Believe it: of course I believe it. Douglas would not tell a lie."

"Not even to save his own neck?"

"My neck isn't in danger," said Montrose haughtily.

"I don't know so much about that. The other day you threatened to kill Narvaez for the insult he offered to Alice, and many people heard that threat, as you know. To demand explanation of a lie—I daresay it was a lie—you left this house breathing fire and fury against Narvaez. When you returned it was to retire to bed without a word of explanation. Now we hear that the man, whom you regarded as your enemy, is dead—murdered. The evidence in favour of your having killed Narvaez is very strong."

"Purely circumstantial evidence," said Montrose, but turned paler than ever when he realised his position.

"Innocent men have been hanged on circumstantial evidence before now," said Enistor coolly. "Although on the face of it I do not admit your innocence."

"Father, how can you think Douglas would murder any one!"

"Ah, I have not the belief in him that you have, Alice."

"Indeed that is true," said Montrose bitterly. "You have always been hostile to me, although for a time you masked your feelings. Now it seems that without a shadow of proof you believe me to be a murderer."

"A shadow of proof!" echoed the Squire tauntingly. "Upon my word, I think there is much more than a shadow of proof. You threatened Narvaez and——"

"And so did Job Trevel," interrupted Alice defiantly. "It is probable that Job murdered Don Pablo."

"Probable, but scarcely possible," said her father coldly. "However, I shall send for the Perchton police and strict justice shall be done. Until the truth comes to light, Montrose must lie under suspicion. Leave him, Alice."

"Never! Never! Never!" cried the girl, with her arms round Montrose's neck. "He is innocent: wholly innocent."

Enistor stepped forward and wrenched his daughter from the young man. "Obey me, Alice, I command you," he cried imperiously. "So far you have had your own way, but now the time has come for me to have mine. Go to your room and stay there until I look into the matter. As to you," he faced Montrose, who was quiet and pale and as still as a statue, "I should order you out of my house but that justice must be done."

"You mean to have me arrested on a charge of murder?"

"I mean to explain the whole circumstance to the Perchton Inspector and let him deal with the matter," retorted Enistor haughtily. "Meantime, if you try to escape you will be taken in charge at my instance by the Polwellin policeman. You understand."

"I understand that you are bent upon my destruction, Mr. Enistor. But you need have no fear. Being perfectly innocent, I shall not attempt to escape."

"Oh, Douglas! Douglas!"

"You will disobey me." Enistor dragged back his daughter and forced her to the door. "Go to your room, I tell you."

Montrose clenched his hands on seeing the girl he loved so roughly handled, but he could do nothing against the authority of her father. With one last sorrowful look, Alice disappeared and Enistor followed, leaving the unfortunate young man alone with his misery. The wicked atmosphere of the house seemed to bear down upon him with such force that he could almost feel the physical pressure. But this probably was imagination, as he was not sufficiently clairvoyant either to see or hear or feel the unseen. But in this agonising moment when it seemed that he was being swept away by a flood of evil, his thoughts turned swiftly to Eberstein. In that man he hoped to find aid, but even as he dwelt on the doctor's assistance a line from one of the Psalms flashed insistently into his mind. "Vain is the help of man" was the phrase, and he became vividly aware by some sixth sense that salvation could only come from the Great Power of Love as manifested in the Lord of Compassion. So intolerable a sense of his peril seized him that, almost unconsciously, the cry for help issued from his lips.

"Oh, Christ!" he breathed audibly. "Lord help me, lest I perish."

It might have been that the intense agony of the moment opened his interior senses, for he became conscious that some glorious light, not of the world, was enfolding him in its radiance. It welled—so he believed—from the golden heart on his breast, as if the stored-up sacramental power was issuing forth to do battle with the dark influence. But be this as it may, Montrose became aware that the gloom was receding, that the evil was being baffled, and that he was growing stronger by virtue of some higher force to resist the terrors pressing in upon him. The radiance which clothed him as with a garment gradually died away, and he found himself standing in the common light of day; but the peaceful, holy, uplifting feeling remained. He knew his innocence, and he knew also with profound thankfulness that God would make that innocence apparent to others. The trouble prophesied by Eberstein had indeed arrived, and very terrible it was; but behind the clouds which environed him shone the sun of righteousness, and its glory would sooner or later dispel the gloom. Having arrived at this knowledge in some way which he was wholly unable to explain, Montrose left Tremore and descended to Polwellin.

Here he walked straight to the post-office and sent a wire to Eberstein asking him to come over at once. He would have gone to Perchton instead, but that he did not wish Enistor to put his threat into execution and have him arrested by the village policeman. As it was, he became an object of suspicion to the fishermen and their wives. The news of Narvaez' violent death had travelled swiftly from ear to ear, and Montrose was apparently looked upon as the criminal. The evidence of those who had heard his threats against the man was too clear to admit of doubt, and already accusations had been spread broadcast, judging from the horrified looks which met Montrose's gaze on all sides. He had been tried and condemned without loss of time, and in spite of the sustaining power he felt his heart sink with purely human fear. It was with a feeling of relief that he met the vicar face to face. From a more educated man he at least hoped to have justice.

"Mr. Montrose," said the vicar, who looked more solemn than ever and was certainly more stiff, "are you wise to walk through the village just now?"

"Why should I not?" asked the young man defiantly.

"Well, there are rumours: rumours," said Mr. Sparrow, removing his clerical hat to brush his bald head with a nervous hand. "SeÑor Narvaez is dead, as you know, and it is said that you are responsible."

"Why should I be?"

"He insulted Miss Enistor the other day in your presence and you threatened to kill him, I understand. Of course I am not a believer in your guilt," added the parson quickly, "as from what I have seen of you I do not think for a moment that you would shed the blood of a human being."

"Thank you," said Montrose simply, and extended his hand.

Sparrow took it with a flush on his parchment face. "It's all rubbish as I have said," he burst out with very human wrath. "And as you are staying at Tremore, undoubtedly you will be able to show that you did not see SeÑor Narvaez last night."

It was on the tip of Montrose's tongue to confess his visit, but something—perhaps common sense—prevented him from incriminating himself. Instead, a question sprang to his lips to which he was extremely anxious to get an answer. "What about Job Trevel?"

"There you are," said the vicar quickly. "A rough hot-tempered man like Job is much more likely to have done the deed, though God forbid I should accuse him or any one unjustly. Yet Job certainly hated SeÑor Narvaez on account of Rose Penwin, and uttered many threats against him. But when the news came of this murder, Mr. Montrose, I at once went to see Dame Trevel, remembering Job's enmity. She tells me that Job went out fishing last night early and has not returned. Therefore he cannot be guilty."

"Then who can have murdered Narvaez?"

"It is hard to say. Of course he lived in a lonely situation and had much wealth, if rumour is to be believed. We shall see when the police come from Perchton. They should be here soon. I believe that Mr. Enistor and our village constable have gone to the cottage to see the body. Meanwhile, Mr. Montrose, I advise you to return to Tremore and wait until we learn more. SeÑor Narvaez was no favourite, yet it is dangerous for you to walk about amongst my rough parishioners, as they seem to think that you are guilty."

Montrose was no coward, yet he did not see the necessity of courting danger when no benefit could be derived from such foolhardiness. He bowed his head and accepted the warning, thankful to think that Mr. Sparrow did not believe him to have committed the crime. "And Hardwick is dead," he said sadly.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! It is a world of trouble, Mr. Montrose. I have just seen the body, and the poor fellow looks asleep rather than dead. Strange that he should die on the very morning when this tragic event takes place. Polwellin is such a quiet place: nothing of moment ever happens here. Yet now we have two deaths: one from natural causes and one by violence. It never rains but it pours. I have much to do: much to do. Now go back to Tremore, my dear young friend, and rest assured that God will prove your innocence in His own good time. You have my sympathy and my wife's sympathy."

"You are a good man and she is a good woman, Mr. Sparrow," said Montrose, deeply moved. "I assure you I shall not forget how you are standing by me."

"Pooh! Pooh! Of course I stand by you, and so will Mr. Enistor. There is absolutely no ground for these rumours against you, save your unhappy threat. You should keep your temper, Mr. Montrose: you should keep your temper."

"Rather hard to do when a lady is insulted," said Douglas dryly.

"Of course: quite so. If it had been Mrs. Sparrow now, I should have forgotten my calling. Still we must fight the enemy of evil feelings even against those who strive to harm us. Good-day: good-day and hope for the best."

Montrose, climbing the hill to Tremore, would have smiled on any other occasion at Mr. Sparrow's fight between human failings and the divine command to turn the other cheek to the smiter. But he did not smile, as he was very grateful to the man for his advocacy, and thought highly of him for standing up so boldly against public opinion. Sparrow was limited in many ways, but he had a considerable fund of common sense, which he used to the best advantage. He followed his Master as best he knew how and was very close to Him in his present attitude, which was one few men would have assumed in the face of such hostility. Montrose determined that when his innocence was assured he would repay the vicar in one way or another. Meanwhile he had to deal strenuously with his very disagreeable situation.

After midday Enistor returned and requested an interview with his guest in the library. The young man appeared, looking haggard and anxious, which was very natural considering the dangerous position in which he stood. Also he was angry at not seeing Alice, for by Enistor's orders she was not allowed out of her bedroom, the housekeeper being on guard. Douglas insisted that he should be permitted to have a conversation with the girl.

"You have no right to keep us apart," said Montrose indignantly.

"Until you clear your character I have," said Enistor coldly.

"But you don't think that I am guilty: you can't think so. Why, even Mr. Sparrow, whom you say is narrow-minded, does not believe that I killed Narvaez."

"Mr. Sparrow does not know of your visit to the cottage last night. Nor does any one but myself and my daughter. The Perchton Inspector came with several policemen and has examined the cottage and the body, and Mrs. Boyce, who looked after things for Narvaez. She declares that someone called last night, but could not say who it was."

"Perhaps Job Trevel?"

"Job went out fishing last night early and has not returned. Rose was with her mother all day and all night. Neither of these two can be guilty. And from your open threats it is said that you struck the blow, or rather broke the man's neck."

"I am not strong enough to do that," said Montrose, looking at his hands.

"Rage can make any one strong," said Enistor coolly. "And as you had every reason to be in a rage, seeing that Narvaez told what I believe was a wicked lie, you may have handled him too roughly."

"I did not handle him at all. How dare you say so!"

"Don't dare me too far, Montrose, or you may suffer. As it is I have a proposition to make to you. Only Alice and I and you know of your visit to the cottage last night. Alice because she loves you will hold her tongue. I am willing to do so also, if you will make over the fortune by deed of gift to me straightaway. Narvaez' lawyer from Perchton came with the police, as it seems my dead friend has left his money to Hardwick for some reason. It is a vain gift, as Hardwick is also dead. However, that is not the point. What I mean is that this lawyer can make out the deed of gift to-day and you can sign it. Then I shall hold my tongue."

"And if I refuse?" asked Montrose, seeing himself placed perilously between the devil and the deep sea.

"I shall then tell how you visited Narvaez last night, and I need hardly inform you that such an action coupled with your previous threats will bring you within reasonable distance of the hangman's noose."

Montrose nodded and swallowed, as his mouth and throat were very dry. "I see my danger. All the same I decline to give you the money."

"Then you must take the consequence."

"I am ready to do so. And I give you the credit of not believing in my guilt or you would scarcely compound a felony."

"You don't know what I would do or what I would not do," said Enistor coolly, "as you know little of my character. But you are in my power to hang, and hanged you shall be unless you surrender the money. I don't think," ended the man with a sneer, "that your dear friend Eberstein can aid you in this dilemma. What do you think yourself?"

"I think nothing about it," rejoined Montrose decisively. "I have wired to Dr. Eberstein to come over, but——"

"But he has not yet put in an appearance," interrupted the Squire, with a harsh laugh. "And he never will."

"I disagree. When he knows of my peril he will come."

"He knows of your peril without your telling him, if he is the wonderful man you have made him out to be. However, this is an unprofitable discussion. The question is, will you give me the money to save your neck?"

"No!" said Montrose obstinately.

"I shall give you until six o'clock to decide," replied the Squire calmly. "And then, if you still refuse, I shall inform the Inspector about your visit to Narvaez last night. That will mean your immediate arrest and subsequent punishment."

"It will mean the first undoubtedly, but I may escape the second. I trust in God to prove my innocence."

"The age of miracles is past," said Enistor with a shrug, and left the library to again interview the Inspector.

Montrose remained where he was wondering why Eberstein did not either come over to help him, or at least reply to his wire. Enistor's taunt was surely true, for the young man had sufficient knowledge of Eberstein's wonderful powers to be certain he was aware of all that had taken place. With his ability to procure super-physical knowledge, he probably knew who had murdered Narvaez, so he would surely come to the rescue. But an hour passed and the shadows began to deepen without any information. Montrose began to feel his spirits sink, and again tried to invoke the helpful power which had aided him before, but without success. He felt desperately angry against the Squire for behaving so wickedly, and resented the hate directed against him. "Hate only ceases by love," as Eberstein had said, but how could he love, or even tolerate, a man who was bent upon encompassing his destruction. Montrose asked himself this question several times without getting any reply, and was well nigh in despair, when an interruption came. This was none other than the unexpected appearance of Alice.

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she cried, hastening across the shadowy room to throw herself into his longing arms. "I have been broken-hearted over you, but I could not get out to see you. Father came some time ago and said that I could try to persuade you to give up the money."

"And what do you say?" Montrose asked her softly.

"Give it up: give it up. What does this miserable money matter?"

"I care nothing for the money as you well know. But Eberstein told me to keep it, and I obey him in this as I obey him in all things."

"But why hasn't he come to help you?" sobbed the girl, trembling.

"He will come: he will do something. I have every confidence in him. Remember how he prophesied this woe, and said that we had to learn to walk alone. I can't believe that one who has helped me so much will desert me in my hour of need. Depend upon it, Alice, all will be well. What have you got here?"

"It is the Bible," she offered him the book. "I have been trying to find comfort in it. But I can't: I can't. Everything seems to be against us."

"Eberstein said that it would be," replied her lover gloomily, "and he has proved himself a true prophet. However, we can only wait and let your father do what he wants to do. I refuse to buy my safety by giving up the money."

"But why not?"

"Because such a surrender would be tantamount to my admitting guilt. Since Job can prove an alibi I don't know who murdered Narvaez, but I know my own innocence, and am prepared to face the worst."

"Then—then—" faltered Alice with white lips, "there is the danger that you may be condemned. Oh, Douglas, if my father reveals your visit, the evidence is so strong against you. Why not hide until we can find out the truth?"

"Would you have me sneak away like a cur?" cried the young man in high anger. "No. I am innocent and therefore can meet my accusers with a calm mind."

"But the evidence is so strong," pleaded Alice again. "If we can only get time to learn the truth there will be some chance of proving that evidence false."

"How can we get time?"

"You must hide, and meanwhile I shall see Dr. Eberstein and search for the person who is guilty. Oh, if Julian were only alive," moaned Alice, clasping her hands, "he would help. But he is dead: dead, and we have no friends to help us in any way."

"We have God, and Eberstein who is a servant of God," said Montrose tenderly. "Dearest, I must have faith and so must you. Besides, even if I did hide I know of no place where I could be concealed."

"I do," said Alice eagerly, and thinking that this speech was a sign of yielding. "There is a cave in the cliffs some distance away from the jetty where the boats go out for the fishing. I could guide you there and you could take provisions and candles and something to drink. There you could wait until things grew quiet, and with Dr. Eberstein I could find out the truth."

"The cave would be discovered."

"No. I have thought of that. No one but I knows of the cave—at least I fancy so. I found it one day by chance. And no one would ever think of looking for you there. They would never think you had taken refuge in a cave."

"My dear, I can't admit guilt by running away."

"If you don't, my father will destroy you."

This was true enough, and undoubtedly Enistor would press on the charge as strongly as possible. Montrose wavered. "It might be reasonable to gain the delay," he muttered. "Oh, I wish Eberstein were here to advise."

As if in answer to his speech, one of the servants entered with a telegram, which proved to be from the doctor. Montrose opened it when the maid had left the room, and found the message rather cryptic: also unsigned, save by the initial "E." It ran: "Matthew x. 23, twelve words!"

"Look up the text, Alice," said the young man eagerly.

The girl, luckily having the Bible with her, rapidly skimmed over the leaves and took the book to the window to read the small print in the fast-failing light. "But when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another," she read slowly, and would have continued the verse, but that her lover stopped her with a gesture.

"Those are the twelve words," he said, folding up the telegram. "The rest of the verse doesn't matter. So Eberstein wants me to fly. I wonder why," and he looked woefully disappointed.

"Take his advice," said Alice eagerly, and glad that such a powerful opinion backed her up. "You always obey him, you know."

"Yes. All the same I did not think he would tell me to sneak away. It seems to be cowardly: it seems like admitting guilt."

"I said in London that I believed in Dr. Eberstein and I say the same now, Douglas," was Alice's decided answer. "He knows more than we do about things, as he prophesied that we should have trouble. Do what he says."

Montrose frowned and bit his lip, for his faith in the doctor was being sorely tried. He never expected to get advice coinciding with that of Alice. And the idea of flight was opposed to his sense of manhood. All the same there was no sense in being heedlessly rash, and undoubtedly Eberstein must have some powerful reason to telegraph as he had done. Alice watched his changing face eagerly and inwardly prayed that he might yield. She saw no safety for the present but in flight. Finally with a sigh he took her face between his two hands and kissed her. "I shall go to your cave," he murmured, but winced at such resignation to what he regarded as an ignoble course.

The two put the plan into execution at once and stole away across the moor into the gathering night after certain preparations. In the space of an hour Alice regained her room, and was apparently innocent of what had taken place. But Douglas was safe in the unknown cave with a scanty store of food, and wine, and a few candles.

"Gone," said Enistor furiously. "Then he is guilty after all."