 
Transcriber's Notes:
THE MILLIONAIRE MYSTERY
BYFERGUS HUMEAUTHOR OF | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER. | |
| I. | A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE |
| II. | THE HUT ON THE HEATH |
| III. | AN ELEGANT EPISTLE |
| IV. | ANOTHER SURPRISE |
| V. | A NINE DAYS' WONDER |
| VI. | THE MISSING KEY |
| VII. | IN DIXON'S RENTS |
| VIII. | AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW |
| IX. | INVESTIGATION |
| X. | ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE |
| XI. | THE STRANGER |
| XII. | A STRANGE STORY |
| XIII. | A STRANGE STORY--continued |
| XIV. | THE ENMITY OF CAPTAIN LESTRANGE |
| XV. | TROUBLE |
| XVI. | ALAN'S DEFENCE |
| XVII. | JOE'S EVIDENCE |
| XVIII. | A PORTION OF THE TRUTH |
| XIX. | A REAPPEARANCE |
| XX. | THE AMAZEMENT OF ALAN THOROLD |
| XXI. | THE STORY OF THE PAST |
| XXII. | THE BEGINNING OF THE END |
| XXIII. | ONE PART OF THE TRUTH |
| XXIV. | THE OTHER PART OF THE TRUTH |
THE MILLIONAIRE MYSTERY
CHAPTER I.
A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE
Steering his course by a tapering spire notched in the eye of the sunset, a tramp slouched along the Heathton Road. From the western sky a flood of crimson light poured over the dusty white highway, which led straightly across the moor. To right and left, acres of sear coarse herbage rolled towards the distant hills, now black against the flaming horizon. In the quivering air gnats danced and flickered; the earth panted with the thirst of a lengthy drought, and the sky arched itself over the heat of a fiery furnace.
For many hours the tramp had held on steadily in the pitiless glare of the mid-June sun, and now that he saw ahead of him the spire and house-roofs and encircling trees of the village whither he was bound, a sigh of relief burst from him.
To ease his aching feet he sat down beside a moldering millstone and wiped his beaded brow with a red bandana. He did not swear, which was singular in a tramp.
Apparently he had but recently joined the cadging profession, for about him there lingered an air of respectability and the marks of a prosperity not wholly decayed. He was stout, rubicund of countenance, and he wheezed like a sick grampus. Watery gray eyes and a strawberry nose revealed the seasoned toper; thick lips and a slack mouth the sensualist. As a begging friar of medÆval times he would have been altogether admirable; as a modern tramp he was out of the picture.
Clothed in a broadcloth frock-coat considerably the worse for wear, he wore--oddly enough for a tramp--gaiters over his gouty-looking boots. His black gloves were darned at the finger-tips, and his battered silk hat had been ironed and brushed with sedulous care. This rook-like plumage was now plentifully sprinkled with the white dust of travel. His gait, in spite of his blistered feet, was dignified, and his manners were imposing.
The road was lonely, likewise the heath. There was no one in sight, not even a returning plowman; but the recumbent wayfarer could hear, mellowed by distance, the bells of homing cows. Beasts as they were, he envied them. They at least had a place to sleep in for the night; he was without a home, without even the necessary money to procure shelter. Luckily it was summer-time, dry and warm. Also the tramp affected the philosopher.
"This," he remarked, eying a sixpence extracted from the knotted corner of his handkerchief, "is a drink--two drinks if I take beer, which is gouty. But it is not a meal nor a bed. No! one drink, and a morsel of bread-and-cheese. But the bed! Ah!" He stared at the coin with a sigh, as though he hoped it would swell into a shilling. It did not, and he sighed again. "Shall I have good luck in this place?" cried he. "Heads I shall, tails I shan't." The coin spun and fell heads. "Ha!" said the tramp, getting on to his feet, "this must be seen to. I fly to good fortune on willing feet," and he resumed his trudging.
A quarter of an hour brought him to the encircling wood. He passed beyond pine and larch and elm into a cozy little village with one street. This was broken in the center by an expanse of green turf surrounded by red-roofed houses, amongst them--as he saw from the swinging sign--a public-house, called, quaintly enough, the Good Samaritan.
"Scriptural," said the stranger--"possibly charitable. Let us see." He strode forward into the taproom.
In the oiliest of tones he inquired for the landlord. But in this case, it appeared, there was no landlord, for a vixenish little woman, lean as a cricket and as shrill, bounced out with the information that she, Mrs. Timber, was the landlady. Her husband, she snapped out, was dead. To the tramp this hostess appeared less promising than the seductive sign, and he quailed somewhat at the sight of her. However, with a brazen assurance born of habit, he put a bold face on it, peremptorily demanding bread, cheese, and ale. The request for a bed he left in abeyance, for besides the vixenish Mrs. Timber there hovered around a stalwart pot-boy, whose rolled-up sleeves revealed a biceps both admirable and formidable.
"Bread, cheese, and ale," repeated the landlady, with a sharp glance at her guest's clerical dress, "for this. And who may you be, sir?" she asked, with a world of sarcasm expended on the "sir."
"My name is Cicero Gramp. I am a professor of elocution and eloquence."
"Ho! a play-actor?" Mrs. Timber became more disdainful than ever.
"Not at all; I am not on the boards. I recite to the best families. The Bishop of Idlechester has complimented me on my----"
"Here's the bread-and-cheese," interrupted the landlady, "likewise the beer. Sixpence!"
Very reluctantly Mr. Gramp produced his last remaining coin. She dropped it into a capacious pocket, and retired without vouchsafing him another word. Cicero, somewhat discouraged by this reception, congratulated himself that the night was fine for out-of-door slumber. He ensconced himself in a corner with his frugal supper, and listened to the chatter going on around him. It appeared to be concerned with the funeral of a local magnate. Despite the prophecy of the coin, now in Mrs. Timber's pocket, Cicero failed to see how he could extract good fortune out of his present position. However, he listened; some chance word might mean money.
"Ah! 'tis a fine dry airy vault," said a lean man who proved to be a stonemason. "Never built a finer, I didn't, nor my mates neither. An' Muster Marlow'll have it all to 'isself."
"Such a situation!" croaked another. "Bang opposite the Lady Chapel! An' the view from that there vault! I don't know as any corp 'ud require a finer."
"Mr. Marlow'll be lonely by himself," sighed a buxom woman; "there's room for twenty coffins, an' only one in the vault. 'Tain't natural-like."
"Well," chimed in the village schoolmaster, "'twill soon fill. There's Miss Marlow."
"Dratted nonsense!" cried Mrs. Timber, making a dash into the company with a tankard of beer in each hand. "Miss Sophy'll marry Mr. Thorold, won't she? An' he, as the Squire of Heathton, 'as a family vault, ain't he? She'll sleep beside him as his wife, lawfully begotten."
"The Thorolds' vault is crowded," objected the stonemason. "Why, there's three-hundred-year dead folk there! A very old gentry lot, the Thorolds."
"Older than your Marlows!" snapped Mrs. Timber. "Who was he afore he came to take the Moat House five year ago? Came from nowhere--a tree without a root."
The schoolmaster contradicted.
"Nay, he came from Africa, I know--from Mashonaland, which is said to be the Ophir of King Solomon. And Mr. Marlow was a millionaire!"
"Much good his money'll do him now," groaned the buxom woman, who was a Dissenter. "Ah! Dives in torment."
"You've no call to say that, Mrs. Berry. Mr. Marlow wasn't a bad man."
"He was charitable, I don't deny, an' went to church regular," assented Mrs. Berry; "but he died awful sudden. Seems like a judgment for something he'd done."
"He died quietly," said the schoolmaster. "Dr. Warrender told me all about it--a kind of fit at ten o'clock last Thursday, and on Friday night he passed away as a sleeping child. He was not even sufficiently conscious to say good-by to Miss Sophy."
"Ah, poor girl! she's gone to the seaside with Miss Parsh to nurse her sorrow."
"It will soon pass--soon pass," observed the schoolmaster, waving his pipe. "The young don't think much of death. Miss Sophy's rich, too--rich as the Queen of Sheba, and she will marry Mr. Thorold in a few months. Funeral knells will give way to wedding-bells, Mrs. Berry."
"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Berry, feeling she was called upon for an appropriate sentiment; "you may say so, Mr. Stack. Such is life!"
Cicero, munching his bread-and-cheese, felt that his imposing personality was being neglected, and seized upon what he deemed his opportunity.
"If this company will permit," he said, "I propose now to give a recitation apropos of the present melancholy event. Need I say I refer to the lamented death of Mr. Marlow?"
"I'll have no godless mumming here," said Mrs. Timber firmly. "Besides, what do you know about Mr. Marlow?"
Whereupon Cicero lied lustily to impress the bumpkins, basing his fiction upon such facts as his ears had enabled him to come by.
"Marlow!" he wailed, drawing forth his red bandana for effect. "Did I not know him as I know myself? Were we not boys together till he went to Africa?"
"Perhaps you can tell us about Mr. Marlow," said the schoolmaster eagerly. "None of us knows exactly who he was. He appeared here with his daughter some five years ago, and took the Moat House. He was rich, and people said he had made his riches in South Africa."
"He did! he did!" said Cicero, deeply affected. "Millions he was worth--millions! I came hither to see him, and I arrive to find the fond friend of my youth dead. Oh, Jonathan, my brother Jonathan!"
"His name was Richard," said Mrs. Timber suspiciously.
"I know it, I know it. I use the appellation Jonathan merely in illustration of the close friendship which was between us. I am David."
"H'm!" snorted Mrs. Timber, eying him closely, "and who was Mr. Marlow?"
This leading question perplexed Mr. Gramp not a little, for he knew nothing about the man.
"What!" he cried, with simulated horror. "Reveal the secrets of the dead? Never! never!"
"Secrets?" repeated the lean stonemason eagerly. "Ah! I always thought Mr. Marlow had 'em. He looked over his shoulder too often for my liking. An' there was a look on his face frequent which pointed, I may say, to a violent death."
"Ah! say not that my friend Dick Marlow came to an untimely end."
This outcry came from Cicero; it was answered by Mrs. Timber.
"He died of a fit," she said tartly, "and that quietly enough, considering as Dr. Warrender can testify. But now we've talked enough, an' I'm going to lock up; so get out, all of you!"
In a few minutes the taproom was cleared and the lights out. Cicero, greatly depressed, lingered in the porch, wondering how to circumvent the dragon.
"Well," snapped that amiable beast, "what are you waitin' for?"
"You couldn't give me a bed for the night?"
"Course I could, for a shillin'."
"I haven't a shilling, I regret to say."
"Then you'd best get one, or go without your bed," replied the lady, and banged the door in his face.
Under this last indignity even Cicero's philosophy gave way, and he launched an ecclesiastic curse at the inhospitable inn.
Fortunately the weather was warm and tranquil. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. The darkling earth was silent--silent as the watching stars. Even the sordid soul of the vagabond was stirred by the solemn majesty of the sky. He removed his battered hat and looked up.
"The heavens are telling the glory of God," he said; but, not recollecting the rest of the text, he resumed his search for a resting-place.
It was now only between nine and ten o'clock, yet, as he wandered down the silent street, he could see no glimmer of a light in any window. His feet took him, half unconsciously as it were, by the path leading towards the tapering spire. He went on through a belt of pines which surrounded the church, and came suddenly upon the graveyard, populous with the forgotten dead--at least, he judged they were forgotten by the state of the tombstones.
On the hither side he came upon a circular chapel, with lance-shaped windows and marvelous decoration wrought in gray-stone on the outer walls. Some distance off rose a low wall, encircling the graveyard, and beyond the belt of pines through which he had just passed stretched the league-long herbage of the moor. He guessed this must be the Lady Chapel.
Between the building and the low wall he noticed a large tomb of white marble, surmounted by a winged angel with a trumpet. "Dick Marlow's tomb," he surmised. Then he proceeded to walk round it as that of his own familiar friend, for he had already half persuaded himself into some such belief.
But he realized very soon that he had not come hither for sight-seeing, for his limbs ached, and his feet burned, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. He rolled along towards a secluded corner, where the round of the Lady Chapel curved into the main wall of the church. There he found a grassy nook, warm and dry. He removed his gloves with great care, placed them in his silk hat, and then took off his boots and loosened his clothes. Finally he settled himself down amid the grass, put a hand up either coat-sleeve for warmth, and was soon wrapped in a sound slumber.
He slept on undisturbed until one o'clock, when--as say out-of-door observers--the earth turns in her slumber. This vagrant, feeling as it were the stir of Nature, turned too. A lowing of cows came from the moor beyond the pines. A breath of cool air swept through the branches, and the somber boughs swayed like the plumes of a hearse. Across the face of the sky ran a shiver. He heard distinctly what he had not noticed before, the gush of running water. He roused himself and sat up alert, and strained his hearing. What was it he heard now? He listened and strained again. Voices surely! Men's voices!
There could be no mistake. Voices he heard, though he could not catch the words they said. A tremor shook his whole body. Then, curiosity getting the better of his fear, he wriggled forward flat on his stomach until he was in such a position that he could peer round the corner of the Lady Chapel. Here he saw a sight which scared him.
Against the white wall of the mausoleum bulked two figures, one tall, the other short. The shorter carried a lantern. They stood on the threshold of the iron door, and the tall man was listening. They were nearer now, so that he could hear their talk very plainly.
"All is quiet," said the taller man. "No one will suspect. We'll get him away easily."
Then Cicero heard the key grate in the lock, saw the door open and the men disappear into the tomb. He was sick with terror, and was minded to make a clean bolt of it; but with the greatest effort he controlled his fears and remained. There might be money in this adventure.
In ten minutes the men came out carrying a dark form between them, as Cicero guessed, the dead body of Richard Marlow. They set down their burden, made fast the door, and took up again the sinister load. He saw them carry it towards the low stone wall. Over this they lifted it, climbed over themselves, and disappeared into the pine-woods.
Cicero waited until he could no longer hear the rustle of their progress; then he crept cautiously forward and tried the door of the tomb. It was fast locked.
"Resurrection-men! body-snatchers!" he moaned.
He felt shaken to his very soul by the ghastliness of the whole proceeding. Then suddenly the awkwardness of his own position, if by chance any one should find him there, rushed in upon his mind, and, without so much as another glance, he made off as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER II.
THE HUT ON THE HEATH
"I'm glad it's all over," said the footman, waving a cigar stolen from the box of his master. "Funerals don't suit me."
"Yet we must all 'ave one of our own some day," said the cook, who was plainly under the influence of gin; "an' that pore Miss Sophy--me 'art bleeds for 'er!"
"An' she with 'er millions," growled a red-faced coachman. "Wot rot!"
"Come now, John, you know Miss Sophy was fond of her father"--this from a sprightly housemaid, who was trimming a hat.
"I dunno why," said John. "Master was as cold as ice, an' as silent as 'arf a dozen graves."
The scullery-maid shuddered, and spread out her grimy hands.
"Oh, Mr. John, don't talk of graves, please! I've 'ad the nightmare over 'em."
"Don't put on airs an' make out as 'ow you've got nerves, Cammelliar," put in the cook tearfully. "It's me as 'as 'em--I've a bundle of 'em--real shivers. Ah, well! we're cut down like green bay-trees, to be sure. Pass that bottle, Mr. Thomas."
This discussion took place in the kitchen of the Moat House. The heiress and Miss Parsh, the housekeeper, had departed for the seaside immediately after the funeral, and in the absence of control, the domestics were making merry. To be sure, Mr. Marlow's old and trusted servant, Joe Brill, had been told off to keep them in order, but just at present his grief was greater than his sense of duty. He was busy now sorting papers in the library--hence the domestic chaos.
It was, in truth, a cheerful kitchen, more especially at the present moment, with the noonday sun streaming in through the open casements. A vast apartment with a vast fireplace of the baronial hall kind; brown oaken walls and raftered roof; snow-white dresser and huge deal table, and a floor of shining white tiles.
There was a moment's silence after the last unanswerable observation of the cook. It was broken by a voice at the open door--a voice which boomed like the drone of a bumble-bee.
"Peace be unto this house," said the voice richly, "and plenty be its portion."
The women screeched, the men swore--since the funeral their nerves had not been quite in order--and all eyes turned towards the door. There, in the hot sunshine, stood an enormously fat old man, clothed in black, and perspiring profusely. It was, in fact, none other than Cicero Gramp, come in the guise of Autolycus to pick up news and unconsidered trifles. He smiled benignly, and raised his fat hand.
"Peace, maid-servants and men-servants," said he, after the manner of Chadband. "There is no need for alarm. I am a stranger, and you must take me in."
"Who the devil are you?" queried the coachman.
"We want no tramps here," growled the footman.
"I am no tramp," said Cicero mildly, stepping into the kitchen. "I am a professor of elocution and eloquence, and a friend of your late master's. He went up in the world, I dropped down. Now I come to him for assistance, and I find him occupying the narrow house; yes, my friends, Dick Marlow is as low as the worms whose prey he soon will be. Pax vobiscum!"
"Calls master 'Dick,'" said the footman.
"Sez 'e's an old friend," murmured the cook.
They looked at each other, and the thought in every mind was the same. The servants were one and all anxious to hear the genesis of their late master, who had dropped into the Moat House, as from the skies, some five years before. Mrs. Crammer, the cook, rose to the occasion with a curtsy.
"I'm sure, sir, I'm sorry the master ain't here to see you," she said, polishing a chair with her apron. "But as you says--or as I take it you means--'e's gone where we must all go. Take a seat, sir, and I'll tell Joe, who's in the library."
"Joe--my old friend Joe!" said Cicero, sitting down like a mountain. "Ah! the faithful fellow!"
This random remark brought forth information, which was Cicero's intention in making it.
"Faithful!" growled the coachman, "an' why not? Joe Brill was paid higher nor any of us, he was; just as of living all his life with an iceberg deserved it!"
"Poor Dick was an iceberg!" sighed Cicero pensively. "A cold, secretive man."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Crammer, wiping her eye, "you may well say that. He 'ad secrets, I'm sure, and guilty ones, too!"
"We all have our skeletons, ma'am. But would you mind giving me something to eat and to drink? for I have walked a long way. I am too poor," said Cicero, with a sweet smile, "to ride, as in the days of my infancy, but spero meliora."
"Talking about skeletons, sir," said the footman when Mr. Gramp's jaws were fully occupied, "what about the master's?"
"Ah!" said Gramp profoundly. "What indeed!"
"But whatever it is, it has to do with the West Indies," said the man.
"Lor'!" exclaimed the housemaid, "and how do you know that, Mr. Thomas?"
"From observation, Jane, my dear," Thomas smiled loftily. "A week or two afore master had the fit as took him, I brought in a letter with the West Indy stamp. He turned white as chalk when he saw it, and tore it open afore I could get out of the room. I 'ad to fetch a glass of whisky. He was struck all of a 'eap--gaspin', faintin', and cussin' orful."
"Did he show it to Miss Sophy?" asked Mrs. Crammer.
"Not as I knows of. He kept his business to hisself," replied Thomas.
Gramp was taking in all this with greedy ear's.
"Ha!" he said, "when you took in the letter, might you have looked at the postmark, my friend?"
With an access of color, the footman admitted that he had been curious enough to do so.
"And the postmark was Kingston, Jamaica," said he.
"It recalls my youth," said Cicero. "Ah! they were happy, happy days!"
"What was Mr. Marlow, sir?"
"A planter of--of--rice," hazarded Gramp. He knew that there were planters in the West Indies, but he was not quite sure what it was they planted. "Rice--acres of it!"
"Well, he didn't make his money out of that, sir," growled the coachman.
"No, he did not," admitted the professor of elocution. "He acquired his millions in Mashonaland--the Ophir of the Jews."
This last piece of knowledge had been acquired from Slack, the schoolmaster.
"He was precious careful not to part with none of it," said the footman.
"Except to Dr. Warrender," said the cook. "The doctor was always screwing money out of him. Not that it was so much 'im as 'is wife. I can't abear that doctor's wife--a stuck-up peacock, I call her. She fairly ruined her husband in clothes. Miss Sophy didn't like her, neither."
"Dick's child!" cried Gramp, who had by this time procured a cigar from the footman. "Ah! is little Sophy still alive?"
He lighted the cigar and puffed luxuriously.
"Still alive!" echoed Mrs. Crammer, "and as pretty as a picture. Dark 'air, dark eyes--not a bit like 'er father."
"No," said Cicero, grasping the idea. "Dick was fair when we were boys. I heard rumors that little Sophy was engaged--let me see--to a Mr. Thorold."
"Alan Thorold, Esquire," corrected the coachman gruffly; "one of the oldest families hereabouts, as lives at the Abbey farm. He's gone with her to the seaside."
"To the seaside? Not to Brighton?"
"Nothin' of the sort--to Bournemouth, if you know where that is."
"I know some things, my friend," said Cicero mildly. "It was Bournemouth I meant--not unlike Brighton, I think, since both names begin with a B. I know that Miss Marlow--dear little Sophy!--is staying at the Imperial Hotel, Bournemouth."
"You're just wrong!" cried Thomas, falling into the trap; "she is at the Soudan Hotel. I've got the address to send on letters."
"Can I take them?" asked Gramp, rising. "I am going to Bournemouth to see little Sophy and Mr. Thorold. I shall tell them of your hospitality."
Before the footman could reply to this generous offer, the page-boy of the establishment darted in much excited.
"Oh, here's a go!" he exclaimed. "Dr. Warrender's run away, an' the Quiet Gentleman's followed!"
"Wot d'ye mean, Billy?"
"Wot I say. The doctor ain't bin 'ome all night, nor all mornin', an' Mrs. Warrender's in hysterics over him. Their 'ousemaid I met shoppin' tole me."
The servants looked at one another. Here was more trouble, more excitement.
"And the Quiet Gentleman?" asked the cook with ghoulish interest.
"He's gone, too. Went out larst night, an' never come back. Mrs. Marry thinks he's bin murdered."
There was a babel of voices and cries, but after a moment quiet was restored. Then Cicero placed his hand on the boy's head.
"My boy," he said pompously, "who is the Quiet Gentleman? Let us be clear upon the point of the Quiet Gentleman."
"Don't you know, sir?" put in the eager cook. "He's a mystery, 'aving bin staying at Mrs. Marry's cottage, she a lone widder taking in boarders."
"I'll give a week's notice!" sobbed the scullery-maid. "These crimes is too much for me."
"I didn't say the Quiet Gentleman 'ad been murdered," said Billy, the page; "but Mrs. Marry only thinks so, cos 'e ain't come 'ome.'
"As like as not he's cold and stiff in some lonely grave!" groaned Mrs. Crammer hopefully.
"The Quiet Gentleman," said Cicero, bent upon acquiring further information--"tall, yellow-bearded, with a high forehead and a bald head?"
"Well, I never, sir!" cried Jane, the housemaid. "If you ain't describing Dr. Warrender! Did you know him, sir?"
Cicero was quite equal to the occasion.
"I knew him professionally. He attended me for a relaxed throat. I was vox et prÆterea nihil until he cured me. But what was this mysterious gentleman like? Short, eh?"
"No; tall and thin, with a stoop. Long white hair, longer beard and black eyes like gimblets," gabbled the cook. "I met 'im arter dark one evenin', and I declare as 'is eyes were glow-worms. Ugh! They looked me through and through. I've never bin the same woman since."
At this moment a raucous voice came from the inner doorway.
"What the devil's all this?" was the polite question.
Cicero turned, and saw a heavily-built man surveying the company in general, and himself in particular, anything but favorably. His face was a mahogany hue, and he had a veritable tangle of whiskers and hair. The whole cut of the man was distinctly nautical, his trousers being of the dungaree, and his pea-jacket plentifully sprinkled with brass buttons. In his ears he wore rings of gold, and his clenched fists hung by his side as though eager for any emergency, and "the sooner the better." That was how he impressed Cicero, who, in nowise fancying the expression on his face, edged towards the door.
"Oh, Joe!" shrieked the cook, "wot a turn you give me! an' sich news as we've 'ad!"
"News!" said Joe uneasily, his eyes still on Cicero.
"Mrs. Warrender's lost her husband, and the Quiet Gentleman's disappeared mysterious!"
"Rubbish! Get to your work, all of you!"
So saying, Joe drove the frightened crowd hither and thither to their respective duties, and Cicero, somewhat to his dismay, found himself alone with the buccaneer, as he had inwardly dubbed the newcomer.
"Who the devil are you?" asked Joe, advancing.
"Fellow," replied Cicero, getting into the doorway, "I am a friend of your late master. Cicero Gramp is my name. I came here to see Dick Marlow, but I find he's gone aloft."
Joe turned pale, even through his tan.
"A friend of Mr. Marlow," he repeated hoarsely. "That's a lie! I've been with him these thirty years, and I never saw you!"
"Not in Jamaica?" inquired Cicero sweetly.
"Jamaica? What do you mean?"
"What I wrote in that letter your master received before he died."
"Oh, you liar! I know the man who wrote it." Joe clenched his fists more tightly and swung forward. "You're a rank impostor, and I'll hand you over to the police, lest I smash you completely!"
Cicero saw he had made a mistake, but he did not flinch. Hardihood alone could carry him through now.
"Do," he said. "I'm particularly anxious to see the police, Mr. Joe Brill."
"Who are you, in Heaven's name?" shouted Joe, much agitated. "Do you come from him?"
"Perhaps I do," answered Cicero, wondering to whom the "him" might now refer.
"Then go back and tell him he's too late--too late, curse him! and you too, you lubber!"
"Very good." Cicero stepped out into the hot sunshine. "I'll deliver your message--for a sovereign."
Joe Brill tugged at his whiskers, and cast an uneasy glance around. Evidently, he was by no means astute, and the present situation was rather too much for him. His sole idea, for some reason best known to himself, was to get rid of Cicero. With a groan, he plunged his huge fist into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin.
"Here, take it and go to hell!" he said, throwing it to Cicero.
"Mariner, fata obstant," rolled Gramp in his deep voice.
Then he strode haughtily away. He looked round as he turned the corner of the house, and saw Joe clutching his iron-gray locks, still at the kitchen door.
So with a guinea in his pocket and a certain amount of knowledge which he hoped would bring him many more, Cicero departed, considerable uplifted. At the village grocery he bought bread, meat and a bottle of whisky, then he proceeded to shake the dust of Heathton off his feet. As he stepped out on to the moor he recalled the Latin words he had used, and he shuddered.
"Why did I say that?" he murmured. "The words came into my head somehow. Just when Joe was talking of my employer, too! Who is my employer? What has he to do with all this? I'm all in the dark! So Dr. Warrender's gone, and the Quiet Gentleman too. It must have been Dr. Warrender who helped to steal Marlow's body. The description tallies exactly--tall, fair beard and bald. I wonder if t'other chap was the Quiet Gentleman? And what on earth could they want with the body? Any way, the body's gone, and, as it's a millionaire corpse, I'll have some of its money or I'm a Dutchman!"
He stopped and placed his hand to his head.
"Bournemouth, Bournemouth!" he muttered. "Ah, that's it--the Soudan Hotel, Bournemouth!"
It was now the middle of the afternoon, and, as he plodded on, the moor glowed like a furnace. No vestige of shade was there beneath which to rest, not even a tree or a bush. Then, a short distance up the road, he espied a hut. It seemed to be in ruins. It was a shepherd's hut, no doubt. The grass roof was torn, the door was broken, though closed, and the mud walls were crumbling. Impatient of any obstacle, he shoved his back against it and burst it open. It had been fastened with a piece of rope. He fell in, headlong almost. But the gloom was grateful to him, though for the moment he could see but little.
When his eyes had become more accustomed to the half-light, the first object upon which they fell was a stiff human form stretched on the mud floor--a body with a handkerchief over the face. Yelling with terror, Cicero hurled himself out again.
"Marlow's body!" he gasped. "They've put it here!"
With feverish haste he produced a corkscrew knife, and opened his whisky bottle. A fiery draught gave him courage. He ventured back into the hut and knelt down beside the body. Over the heart gaped an ugly wound, and the clothes were caked with blood. He gasped again.
"No fit this, but murder! Stabbed to the heart! And Joe--what does Joe know about this--and my employer? Lord!"
He snatched the handkerchief from the face, and fell back on his knees with another cry, this time of wonderment rather than of terror. He beheld the dead man's fair beard and bald head.
"Dr. Warrender! And he was alive last night! This is murder indeed!"
Then his nerves gave way utterly, and he began to cry like a frightened child.
"Murder! Wilful and horrible murder!" wept the professor of elocution and eloquence.
CHAPTER III.
AN ELEGANT EPISTLE
On Bournemouth cliffs, where pine-trees cluster to the edge, sat an elderly spinster, knitting a homely stocking. She wore, in spite of the heat, a handsome cashmere shawl, pinned across her spare shoulders with a portrait brooch, and that hideous variety of Early Victorian head-gear known as the mushroom hat. From under this streamed a frizzy crop of gray curls, which framed a rosy, wrinkled face, brightened by twinkling eyes. These, sparkling as those of sweet seventeen, proved that their owner was still young in heart. This quaint survival of the last century knitted as assiduously as was possible under the circumstances, for at a discreet distance were two young people, towards whom she acted the part of chaperon. Doubtless such an office is somewhat out-of-date nowadays; but Miss Victoria Parsh would rather have died than have left a young girl alone in the company of a young man.
Yet she knew well enough that this young man was altogether above reproach, and, moreover, engaged by parental consent to the pretty girl to whom he was talking so earnestly. And no one could deny that Sophy Marlow was indeed charming. There was somewhat of the Andalusian about her. Not very tall, shaped delicately as a nymph, she well deserved Alan Thorold's name. He called her the "Midnight Fairy," and, indeed, she looked like a brunette Titania. Her complexion was dark, and faintly flushed with red; her mouth and nose were exquisitely shaped, while her eyes were wells of liquid light--glorious Spanish orbs. About her, too, was that peculiar charm of personality which defies description.
Alan her lover, was not tall, but uncommonly well-built and muscular, as fair as Sophy was dark--of that golden Saxon race which came before the Dane. Not that he could be called handsome. He was simply a clean, clear-skinned, well-groomed young Englishman, such as can be seen everywhere. Of a strong character, he exercised great control over his somewhat frivolous betrothed.
Miss Vicky, as the little spinster was usually called, cast romantic glances at the dark head and the fair one so close to one another. As a rule she would have been shocked at such a sight, but she knew how keenly Sophy grieved for the death of her father, and was only too willing that the girl should be comforted. And Miss Vicky occasionally touched the brooch, which contained the portrait of a red-coated officer. She also had lived in Arcady, but her Lieutenant had been shot in the Indian Mutiny, and Miss Vicky had left Arcady after a short sojourn, for a longer one in the work-a-day world. At once, she had lost her lover and her small income, and, like many another lonely woman, had had to turn to and work. But the memory of that short romance kept her heart young, hence her sympathy with this young couple.
"Poor dear father!" sighed Sophy, looking at the sea below, dotted with white sails. "I can hardly believe he is gone. Only two weeks ago and he was so well, and now--oh! I was so fond of him! We were so happy together! He was cold to everyone else, but kindly to me! How could he have died so suddenly, Alan?"
"Well, of course, dear, a fit is always sudden. But try and bear up, Sophy dear. Don't give way like this. Be comforted."
She looked up wistfully to the blue sky.
"At all events, he is at peace now," she said, her lip quivering. "I know he was often very unhappy, poor father! He used to sit for hours frowning and perplexed, as if there was something terrible on his mind."
Alan's face was turned away now, and his brow was wrinkled. He seemed absorbed in thought, as though striving to elucidate some problem suggested by her words.
Wrapped up in her own sorrow, the girl did not notice his momentary preoccupation, but continued:
"He never said good-bye to me. Dr. Warrender said he was insensible for so long before death that it was useless my seeing him. He kept me out of the room, so I only saw him--afterwards. I'll never forgive the doctor for it. It was cruel!"
She sobbed hysterically.
"Sophy," said Alan suddenly, "had your father any enemies?"
She looked round at him in astonishment.
"I don't know. I don't think so. Why should he? He was the kindest man in the world."
"I am sure he was," replied the young man warmly; "but even the kindest may have enemies."
"He might have made enemies in Africa," she said gravely. "It was there he made his money, and I suppose there are people mean enough to hate a man who is successful, especially if his success results in a fortune of some two millions. Father used to say he despised most people. That was why he lived so quietly at the Moat House."
"It was particularly quiet till you came, Sophy."
"I'm sure it was," she replied, with the glimmer of a smile. "Still, although he had not me, you had your profession."
"Ah! my poor profession! I always regret having given it up."
"Why did you?"
"You know, Sophy. I have told you a dozen times. I wanted to be a surgeon, but my father always objected to a Thorold being of service to his fellow-creatures. I could never understand why. The estate was not entailed, and by my father's will I was to lose it, or give up all hope of becoming a doctor. For my mother's sake I surrendered. But I would choose to be a struggling surgeon in London any day, if it were not for you, Sophy dear."
"Horrid!" ejaculated Miss Marlow, elevating her nose. "How can you enjoy cutting up people? But don't let us talk of these things; they remind me of poor dear father."
"My dear, you really should not be so morbid. Death is only natural. It is not as though you had been with him all your life, instead of merely three years."
"I know; but I loved him none the less for that. I often wonder why he was away so long."
"He was making his fortune. He could not have taken you into the rough life he was leading in Africa. You were quite happy in your convent."
"Quite," she agreed, with conviction. "I was sorry to leave it. The dear sisters were like mothers to me. I never knew my own mother. She died in Jamaica, father said, when I was only ten years old. He could not bear to remain in the West Indies after she died, so he brought me to England. While I was in the convent I saw him only now and again until I had finished my education. Then he took the Moat House--that was five years ago, and two years after that I came to live with him. That is all our history, Alan. But Joe Brill might know if he had any enemies."
"Yes, he might. He lived thirty years with your father, didn't he? But he can keep his own counsel--no one better."
"You are good at it too, Alan. Where were you last night? You did not come to see me."
He moved uneasily. He had his own reasons for not wishing to give a direct answer.
"I went for a long walk--to--to--to think out one or two things. When I got back it was too late to see you."
"What troubled you, Alan? You have looked very worried lately. I am sure you are in some trouble. Tell me, dear; I must share all you troubles."
"My dearest, I am in no trouble"--he kissed her hand--"but I am your trustee, you know and it is no sinecure to have the management of two millions."
"It's too much money," she said. "Let us dispose of some of it, then you need not be worried. Can I do what I like with it?"
"Most of it--there are certain legacies, will tell you about them later."
"I am afraid the estate will be troublesome to us, Alan. It's strange we should have so much money when we don't care about it. Now, there is Dr. Warrender, working his life out for that silly extravagant wife of his!"
"He is very much in love with her, nevertheless."
"I suppose that's why he works so hard. But she's a horrid woman, and cares not a snap of her fingers for him--not to speak of love! Love! why, she doesn't know the meaning of the word. We do!" And, bending over, Sophy kissed him.
Then promptly there came from Miss Parsh the reminder that it was time for tea.
"Very well, Vicky, I dare say Alan would like you to give him a cup," replied Sophy.
"Frivolous as ever, Sophia! I give up a hope of forming your character--now!"
"Alan is doing that," replied the girl.
In spite of her sorrow, Sophy became fairly cheerful on the way back to the hotel. Not so Alan. He was silent and thoughtful, and evidently meditating about the responsibilities of the Marlow estate. As they walked along the parade with their chaperon close behind, they came upon a crowd surrounding a fat man dressed in dingy black. He was reciting a poem, and his voice boomed out like a great organ. As they passed, Alan noticed that he darted a swift glance at them, and eyed Miss Marlow in a particularly curious manner. The recitation was just finished, and the hat was being sent round. Sophy, always kind-hearted, dropped in a shilling. The man chuckled.
"Thank you, lady," said he; "the first of many I hope."
Alan frowned, and drew his fiancÉe away. He took little heed of the remark at the time; but it occurred to him later, when circumstances had arisen which laid more stress on its meaning.
Miss Vicky presided over the tea--a gentle feminine employment in which she excelled. She did most of the talking; for Sophy was silent, and Alan inclined to monosyllables. The good lady announced that she was anxious to return to Heathton.
"The house weighs on my mind," said she, lifting her cup with the little finger curved. "The servants are not to be trusted. I fear Mrs. Crammer is addicted to ardent spirits. Thomas and Jane pay too much attention to one another. I feel a conviction that, during my absence, the bonds of authority will have loosened."
"Joe," said Alan, setting down his cup; "Joe is a great disciplinarian."
"On board a ship, no doubt," assented Miss Vicky; "but a rough sailor cannot possibly know how to control a household. Joseph is a fine, manly fellow, but boisterous--very boisterous. It needs my eye to make domestic matters go smoothly. When will you be ready to return, Sophy, my dear?"
"In a week--but Alan has suggested that we should go abroad."
"What! and leave the servants to wilful waste and extravagance? My love!"--Miss Vicky raised her two mittened hands--"think of the bills!"
"There is plenty of money, Vicky."
"No need there should be plenty of waste. No; if we go abroad, we must either shut up the house or let it."
"To the Quiet Gentleman?" said Sophy, with a laugh.
Alan looked up suddenly.
"No, not to him. He is a mysterious person," said Miss Vicky. "I do not like such people, though I dare say it is only village gossip which credits him with a strange story."
"Just so," put in Alan. "Don't trouble about him."
Miss Vicky was still discussing the possibility of a trip abroad, when the waiter entered with a note for Sophy.
"It was delivered three hours ago," said the man apologetically, "and I quite forgot to bring it up. So many visitors, miss," he added, with a sickly smile.
Sophy took the letter. The envelope was a thick creamy one, and the writing of the address elegant in the extreme.
"Who delivered it?" she asked.
"A fat man, miss, with a red face, and dressed in black."
Alan's expression grew somewhat anxious.
"Surely that describes the man we saw reciting?"
"So it does." Sophy eyed the letter dubiously. "Had he a loud voice, Simmonds?"
"As big as a bell, miss, and he spoke beautiful: but he wasn't gentry, for all that," finished Simmonds with conviction.
"You can go," said Alan. Then he turned to Sophy, who was opening the envelope. "Let me read that letter first," he said.
"Why, Alan? There is no need. It is only a begging letter. Come and read it with me."
He gave way, and looked over her shoulder the elaborate writing.
"Miss" (it began),
"The undersigned, if handsomely remunerated, can give valuable information regarding the removal of the body of the late Richard Marlow from its dwelling in Heathton Churchyard. Verbum dat sapienti! Forward £100 to the undersigned at Dixon's Rents, Lambeth, and the information will be forthcoming. If the minions of the law are invoked the undersigned with vanish, and his information lost.
"Faithfully yours, Miss Sophia Marlow,
"Cicero Gramp."
As she comprehended the meaning of this extraordinary letter, Sophy became paler and paler. The intelligence that her father's body had been stolen was too much for her, and she fainted.
Thorold called loudly to Miss Vicky.
"Look after her," he said, stuffing the letter into his pocket. "I shall be back soon."
"But what--what----" began Miss Vicky.
She spoke to thin air. Alan was running at top speed along the parade in search of the fat man.
But all search was vain. Cicero, the astute, had vanished.
CHAPTER IV.
ANOTHER SURPRISE
Heathton was only an hour's run by rail from Bournemouth, so that it was easy enough to get back on the same evening. On his return from his futile search for Cicero, Alan determined to go at once to the Moat House. He found Sophy recovered from her faint, and on hearing of his decision, she insisted upon accompanying him. She had told Miss Vicky the contents of the mysterious letter, and that lady agreed that they should leave as soon as their boxes could be packed.
"Don't talk to me, Alan!" cried Sophy, when her lover objected to this sudden move. "It would drive me mad to stay here doing nothing, with that on my mind."
"But, my dear girl, it may not be true."
"If it is not, why should that man have written? Did you see him?"
"No. He has left the parade, and no one seems to know anything about him. It is quite likely that when he saw us returning to the hotel he cleared out. By this time I dare say he is on his way to London."
"Did you see the police?" she asked anxiously.
"No," said Alan, taking out the letter which had caused all this trouble; "it would not be wise. Remember what he says here: If the police are called in he will vanish, and we shall lose the information he seems willing to supply."
"I don't think that, Mr. Thorold," said Miss Vicky. "This man evidently wants money, and is willing to tell the truth for the matter of a hundred pounds."
"On account," remarked Thorold grimly; "as plain a case of blackmail as I ever heard of. Well, I suppose it is best to wait until we can communicate with this--what does he call himself?--Cicero Gramp, at Dixon's Rents, Lambeth. He can be arrested there, if necessary. What I want to do now is to find out if his story is true. To do this I must go at once to Heathton, see the Rector, and get the coffin opened."
"I will come," insisted Sophy. "Oh, it is terrible to think that poor father was not allowed to rest quietly even in his grave."
"Of course, it may not be true," urged Alan again. "I don't see how this tramp could have got to know of it."
"Perhaps he helped to violate the secrets of the tomb?" suggested Miss Vicky.
"In that case he would hardly put himself within reach of the law," Alan said, after a pause. "Besides, if the vault had been broken into we should have heard of it from Joe."
"Why should it be broken into, Alan? The key----"
"I have one key, and the Rector has the other. My key is in my desk at the Abbey Farm, and no doubt Phelps has his safe enough."
"Your key may have been stolen."
"It might have been," admitted Alan. "That is one reason why I am so anxious to get back to-night. We must find out also if the coffin is empty."
"Yes, yes; let us go at once!" Sophy cried feverishly. "I shall never rest until I learn the truth. Come, Vicky, let us pack. When can we leave, Alan?"
Thorold glanced at his watch.
"In half an hour," he said. "We can catch the half-past six train. Can you be ready?"
"Yes, yes!" cried she, and rushed out of the room.
Miss Vicky was about to follow, but Alan detained her.
"Give her a sedative or something," he said, "or she will be ill."
"I will at once. Have a carriage at the door in a quarter of an hour, Mr. Thorold. We can be ready by then. I suppose it is best she should go?"
"Much better than to leave her here. We must set her mind at rest. At this rate she will work herself into a fever."
"But if this story should really be true?"
"I don't believe it for a moment," replied Alan. But he was evidently uneasy, and could not disguise the feeling. "Wait till we get to Heathton--wait," and he hastily left the room.
Miss Vicky was surprised at his agitation, for hitherto she had credited Alan with a will strong enough to conceal his emotions. The old lady hurried away to the packing, and shook her head as she went.
Shortly they were settled in a first-class carriage on the way to Heathton. Sophy was suffering acutely, but did all in her power to hide her feelings, and, contrary to Alan's expectations, hardly a word was spoken about the strange letter, and the greater part of the journey was passed in silence. At Heathton he put Sophy and Miss Vicky into a fly.
"Drive at once to the Moat House," he said. "To-morrow we shall consider what is to be done."
"And you, Alan?"
"I am going to see Mr. Phelps. He, if any one, will know what value to put upon that letter. Try and sleep, Sophy. I shall see you in the morning."
"Sleep?" echoed the poor girl, in a tone of anguish. "I feel as though I should never sleep again!"
When they had driven away, Alan took the nearest way to the Rectory. It was some way from the station, but Alan was a vigorous walker, and soon covered the distance. He arrived at the door with a beating heart and dry lips, feeling, he knew not why, that he was about to hear bad news. The gray-haired butler ushered him into his master's presence, and immediately the young man felt that his fears were confirmed. Phelps looked worried.
He was a plump little man, neat in his dress and cheerful in manner. He was a bachelor, and somewhat of a cynic. Alan had known him all his life, and could have found no better adviser in the dilemma in which he now found himself. Phelps came forward with outstretched hands.
"My dear boy, I am indeed glad! What good fairy sent you here? A glass of port? You look pale. I am delighted to see you. If you had not come I should have had to send for you."
"What do you wish to see me about, sir? asked Alan.
"About the disappearance of these two people."
"What two people?" asked the young man, suddenly alert. "You forget that I have been away from Heathton for the last three days."
"Of course, of course. Well, one is Brown, the stranger who stayed with Mrs. Marry."
"The Quiet Gentleman?"
"Yes. I heard them call him so in the village. A very doubtful character. He never came to church," said the Rector sadly. "However, it seems he has disappeared. Two nights ago--in fact, upon the evening of the day upon which poor Marlow's funeral took place, he left his lodgings for a walk. Since then," added the Rector impressively, "he has not returned."
"In plain words, he has taken French leave," said Thorold, filling his glass.
"Oh, I should not say that, Alan. He paid his weekly account the day before he vanished. He left his baggage behind him. No, I don't think he intended to run away. Mrs. Marry says he was a good lodger, although she knew very little about him. However, he has gone, and his box remains. No one saw him after he left the village about eight o'clock. He was last seen by Giles Hale passing the church in the direction of the moor. To-day we searched the moor, but could find no trace of him. Most mysterious," finished the Rector, and took some port.
"Who is the other man?" asked Alan abruptly.
"Ah! Now you must be prepared for a shock, Alan. Dr. Warrender!"
Thorold bounded out of his seat.
"Is he lost too?"
"Strangely enough, he is," answered Phelps gravely. "On the night of the funeral he went out at nine o'clock in the evening to see a patient. He never came back."
"Who was the patient?"
"That is the strangest part of it. Brown, the Quiet Gentleman, was the patient. Mrs. Warrender, who, as you may guess, is quite distracted, says that her husband told her so. Mrs. Marry declares that the doctor called after nine, and found Brown was absent."
"What happened then?" demanded Alan, who had been listening eagerly to this tale.
"Dr. Warrender, according to Mrs. Marry, asked in what direction her lodger had gone. She could not tell him, so, saying he would call again in an hour or so, he went. And, of course, he never returned."
"Did Brown send for him?"
"Mrs. Marry could not say. Certainly no message was sent through her."
"Was Brown ill?"
"Not at all, according to his landlady. We have been searching for both Brown and Warrender, but have found no traces of either."
"Humph!" said Thorold, after a pause. "I wonder if they met and went away together?"
"My dear lad, where would they go to?" objected the Rector.
"I don't know; I can't say. The whole business is most mysterious." Alan stopped, and looked sharply at Mr. Phelps. "Have you the key of the Marlow vault in your possession?"
"Yes, of course, locked in my safe. Your question is most extraordinary."
The other smiled grimly.
"My explanation is more extraordinary still." He took out Mr. Gramp's letter and handed it to the Rector. "What do you think of that, sir?"
"Most elegant caligraphy," said the good man. "Why, bless me!" He read on hurriedly, and finally dropped the letter with a bewildered air. "Bless me, Alan!" he stammered. "What--what--what----"
Thorold picked it up and smoothed it out on the table.
"You see, this man says the body has been stolen. Do you know if the door of the vault has been broken open?"
"No, no, certainly not!" cried the Rector, rising fussily. "Come to my study, Alan; we must see if it is all right. It must be," he added emphatically. "The key of the safe is on my watch-chain. No one can open it. Oh dear! Bless me!"
He bustled out of the room, followed by Alan.
A search into the interior of the safe resulted in the production of the key.
"You see," cried Phelps, waving it triumphantly, "it is safe. The door could not have been opened with this. Now your key."
"My key is in my desk at the Abbey Farm--locked up also," said the young man hastily. "I'll see about it to-night. In the meantime, sir, bring that key with you, and we will go into the vault."
"What for?" demanded the Rector sharply. "Why should we go there?"
"Can't you understand?" said Alan impatiently. "I want to find out if this letter is true or false--if the body of Mr. Marlow has been removed."
"But I--I--can't!" gasped the Rector. "I must apply to the bishop for----"
"Nonsense, sir! We are not going to exhume the body. It's not like digging up a grave. All that is necessary is to look at the coffin resting in its niche. We can tell from the screws and general appearance if it has been tampered with."
The clergyman sat down and wiped his bald head.
"I don't like it," he said. "I don't like it at all. Still, I don't suppose a look at the coffin can harm any one. We'll go, Alan, we'll go; but I must take Jarks."
"The sexton?"
"Yes. I want a witness--two witnesses; you are one, Jarks the other. It is a gruesome task that we have before us." He shuddered again. "I don't like it. Profanation!"
"If this letter is to be believed, the profanation has already been committed."
"Cicero Gramp," repeated Mr. Phelps as they went out. "Who is he?"
"A fat man--a tramp--a reciter. I saw him at Bournemouth. He delivered that letter at the hotel himself; the waiter described him, and as the creature is a perfect Falstaff, I recalled his face--I had seen him on the parade. I went at once to see if I could find him, but he was gone."
"A fat man," said the Rector. "Humph! He was at the Good Samaritan the other night. I'll tell you about him later."
The two trudged along in silence and knocked up Jarks, the sexton, on the way. They had no difficulty in rousing him. He came down at once with a lantern, and was much surprised to learn the errand of Rector and squire.
"Want to have a look at Muster Marlow's vault," said he in creaking tones. "Well, it ain't a bad night for a visit, I do say. But quiet comp'ny, Muster Phelps and Muster Thorold, very quiet. What do ye want to see Muster Marlow for?"
"We want to see if his body is in the vault," said Alan.
"Why, for sure it's there, sir. Muster Marlow don't go visiting."
"I had a letter at Bournemouth, Jarks, to say the body had been stolen."
Jarks stared.
"It ain't true!" he cried in a voice cracked with passion. "It's casting mud on my 'arning my bread. I've bin sexton here fifty year, man and boy--I never had no corp as was stolen. They all lies comfortable arter my tucking them in. Only Gabriel's trump will wake 'em."
By this time they were round the Lady Chapel, and within sight of the tomb. Phelps, too much agitated to speak, beckoned to Jarks to hold up the lantern, which he did, gram bling and muttering the while.
"I've buried hundreds of corps," he growled, "and not one of 'em's goed away. What 'ud they go for? I make 'em comfortable, I do."
"Hold the light steady, Jarks," said the Rector, whose own hand was just as unsteady. He could hardly get the key into the lock.
At last the door was open, and headed by Jarks with the lantern, they entered. The cold, earthy smell, the charnel-house feeling shook the nerves of both men. Jarks, accustomed as he was to the presence of the dead, hobbled along without showing any emotion other than wrath, and triumphantly swung the lantern towards a niche wherein reposed a coffin.
"Ain't he there quite comfortable?" wheezed he. "Don't I tell you they never goes from here! It's a lovely vault; no corp 'ud need a finer."
"Wait a bit!" said Alan, stepping forward. "Turn the light along the top of the coffin, Jarks. Hullo! the lid's loose!"
"An' unscrewed!" gasped the sexton. "He's bin getting out."
"Unscrewed--loose!" gasped the Rector in his turn. The poor man felt deadly sick. "There must be some mistake."
"No mistake," said Alan, slipping back the lid. "The body has been stolen."
"No 't'ain't!" cried Jarks, showering the light on the interior of the coffin. "There he is, quiet an'--why," the old man broke off with a cry, "the corp ain't in his winding-sheet!"
Phelps looked, Alan looked. The light shone on the face of the dead.
Phelps groaned.
"Merciful God!" he groaned, "it is Dr. Warrender's body!"