Bella looked from the astonished Durgo to the despairing Lister, and wondered what the scene meant. That the matter at issue was serious Cyril's demeanour gave her fully to understand. But what the matter might be she could not guess, save that it had something to do with this mysterious double who had caused all the commotion. The negro appeared to be as puzzled as herself, and stared at the seated figure with an open mouth, scratching his woolly head meanwhile.

"Not my master, but like my master," he muttered, staring hard, and speaking in his usual guttural manner but not in the usual negro dialect, so rude and clipped. "If you're not my master, Edwin Lister," he added, addressing himself to the young man, "who are you, sir?"

"Answer him, Cyril," said Bella, seeing that her lover did not speak. "Did you ever see this man before?"

Lister looked up, pale and hollow-eyed. "Never," he said briefly.

"Did you ever meet Mr. Lister before?" Bella asked the negro.

"Lister! Lister!" gasped Durgo, retreating a step. "Is this young gentleman called Lister?"

"Cyril Lister," said that young man.

"But my master had no son."

"I am his son. Edwin Lister is my father."

"Oh!" A sudden light broke over Bella's face, and she clapped her hands. "And your double?"

"Yes," said Cyril in low tones; "now you can guess how afraid I was to lay my suspicions before you."

"No," she said boldly. "Why you should be afraid I cannot guess."

Cyril rose slowly, laid two heavy hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. "My dear," he said in a hard voice, "can you not understand that this double was my father, who resembled me so closely that this man"—he jerked back his head towards the still staring negro—"mistook me for him."

"Well," said Bella, inquiringly.

"Well," repeated Lister, impatiently, "You thought that I had committed the murder, but now that you know the truth——"

Bella shook herself free and grew pale. "It was your father who struck the blow!" she said in a low, horrified tone.

"Yes. And if my father killed your father, how can we marry?"

There was a dead silence, and the unfortunate lovers looked at one another with white faces. If Cyril's surmise was true, a barrier had indeed been placed between them, and for the moment they saw no chance of over-leaping it. Quite oblivious of Durgo, they stared until the black man grew impatient of the silence.

"What does this mean?" he growled, looking from one to the other. "I come to find my master, Edwin Lister, and he is not here. But I find one who calls himself the son of my master, Edwin Lister." He peered into Cyril's face. "My master never told me that he had a son, and yet"—he looked again—"I believe that you are my master's son."

"Am I so like my father, then?" asked Cyril smiling faintly.

Durgo struck his huge hands together. "The same in every way," he said firmly; "figure and face and colour and walk. Even the clothes"—he ran his eyes over Cyril's grey suit—"yes, even the clothes."

"Oh!" It was Bella who spoke. "Cyril, do you remember that the grey clothes worn by your father on that night aided me to make a mistake?"

Lister nodded. "That was a suit of mine," he said, "made for me. When my father came home from Nigeria he had no ready-made clothes, so he borrowed that suit until he could get fitted out in civilised garments. Well?"

Cyril addressed this last question to Durgo, who had started violently when Nigeria was mentioned.

"I am a Nigerian," he said in reply to the inquiry. "I was with your father at Ogrude, on the Cross River, for years. I came with him to London three months ago; but my master never said that he had a son."

"He had his reasons for keeping silence, no doubt," said Cyril quietly; "but I never saw you, Durgo, nor did I hear my father mention you."

"Yet you know my name," said the man suspiciously.

"Only because Miss Huxham mentioned it when you appeared just now."

"And I mentioned it to you before," Bella reminded him. "I told you how Durgo entered the Bleacres drawing-room and took your photograph, frame and all, from his pocket, and handed it to the girl."

"I thought that it was one of my master, Edwin Lister, taken when he was younger," he said simply, "but I see——"

"Yes! yes!" broke in Cyril impatiently. "I know what you see. I am a younger edition of my father."

"Yes! yes! yes!" cried Durgo, staring again. "Never did I see two so alike."

Bella glanced at the photograph and slipped it into her pocket. Her face was pearly white, and she dreaded the full explanation of what was to come. "We are still perplexed," she said quietly, and controlling herself with great difficulty. "You know nothing of Durgo, and he knows nothing of you. I think it will be best for us to sit down and discuss the matter quietly."

"I agree with you," said Cyril, dropping down promptly. "Durgo, tell your story and then I shall tell mine. When we each know what the other knows, we may be able to arrive at some conclusion."

"Regarding the murder," said Bella. "Perhaps," she added hopefully, "perhaps your father did not kill mine after all."

"I fear he did," said Cyril heavily. "Remember what was said at the inquest about the West African knife with which the crime was committed. Nigeria is in West Africa."

"My master had no knife of that sort," said Durgo bluntly.

"Have you a description of the knife," asked Bella.

"I read it in the newspapers," said the negro. "When you told me of your father's death, I read the papers."

"You can read."

"I can read and write and do many things," said Durgo quietly. "I have a black skin, but my education has not been neglected."

"So I should think from the way in which you speak English."

"The missionaries taught me much, and Edwin Lister taught me the rest."

Cyril frowned. "I notice that you do not say 'Mister' when you speak of my father," he said pointedly.

"I am a chief and the son of a chief," said Durgo proudly. "And for love of your father, who saved my life, I left my tribe and came with him. I called him master as a title of honour because I loved him, so why should I not say Edwin Lister?"

Cyril, with the white man's inborn superiority, objected to this familiarity, and, but that Durgo's services were necessary to the unravelling of the mystery, would have pointed this out. As it was, he simply nodded and asked the black man to be more explicit. Durgo sat down and complied without any argument. His manners for a negro were singularly good.

"There is not much to tell," he said in his guttural tones. "Edwin Lister was my friend and a trader in Nigeria, my country. He saved my life from a lion and won my gratitude. I helped him with his trading and left my tribe to do so. We heard of a treasure in the wilds of my country, and wished to fit out an expedition to find that treasure. Edwin Lister did, that is, and I was glad to do as he desired. But we required money, and it could not be had. Edwin Lister then thought of an old friend of his, Captain Huxham, who had also been in Nigeria——"

"My father!" cried Bella, startled.

"Yes, missy," said Durgo, bending his head towards her with grave respect. "He was well known in Nigeria many years ago, as he had a river steamer there. Edwin Lister then came to London with me, and afterwards came to see Captain Huxham here. That was some weeks ago, and he promised me to return. As he did not, I came down and then heard of the murder of Captain Huxham. But where is my master, Edwin Lister?" and Durgo looked from one to the other.

"Have you not seen him since?" asked Cyril anxiously.

"No." Durgo shook his head profoundly.

"What do you think has become of him?" asked Cyril, still white.

Durgo reflected. "I think," he said gravely, "that Edwin Lister killed Captain Huxham and ran away. Soon he will write to me and I can join him. Then we can return to Nigeria and hunt for the treasure."

"But why should Mr. Lister kill my father?" asked Bella.

"He wanted money," said Durgo simply. "If Captain Huxham would not give the money, Edwin Lister would kill him. It is quite simple. But I wish," added the negro wisely, "that my master had let me kill Captain Huxham."

"Would you have done so?" cried Bella, horrified.

Durgo looked up in surprise. "Oh, yes, if Edwin Lister had wished it."

Cyril and the girl looked at one another. Durgo was still a savage, in spite of the veneer of education and civilisation, which the missionaries had given him. He would have killed Huxham as easily as he would have killed a fly. Perhaps also Edwin Lister had become de-civilised, and had acted in the same way.

"But what has become of my father?" asked Cyril.

"You do not know?" inquired Durgo politely.

Cyril shook his head. "I do not know," he said gloomily, "unless, as you say, he murdered Huxham to get money, and then ran away into hiding. He may be on the Continent—in Paris."

"In that case, I shall hear from him soon," said Durgo, rising. "When I do, I shall let you know."

"Come back," said Cyril, in an even tone, as Durgo was about to stalk away, "it is necessary for me to have your assistance."

"In what?" asked Durgo, looking over his huge shoulder.

"In finding my father."

"But if he is in Paris, I can go there."

"Have you the money?"

"I have plenty of money," said the negro with gravity. "I have my own money, so it is easy for me to search for my master."

"He may not be in Paris," said Cyril hastily; "that is only a guess on my part. Before searching for him over there, it will be best for you to assist me in looking for him in this district. He may be in hiding."

Durgo pondered, then returned to lie full-length on the grass. "I think that my master would have run further away after killing Captain Huxham," he said reflectively; "he is very cunning, is Edwin Lister. And, of course, he would have the money."

"What money?" asked Bella impatiently.

"The money for which he killed Captain Huxham."

"The sum stolen was only worth a trifle: one hundred pounds is the amount."

"Oh!" Durgo opened his eyes. "And my master wanted five thousand. It is a very difficult expedition right into the centre of Nigeria, and one hundred pounds is of no use. I could have lent that amount to Edwin Lister myself. Hai!"—he nursed his chin in his hand—"what you say, missy, makes me think that my master is waiting here to get the money for which he killed Captain Huxham."

"My aunt, Mrs. Rosamund Vand, has both the money and the estate."

"Then Edwin Lister will wait and see her," said Durgo gravely. "I must learn where he is hiding," and he half rose again.

Cyril put out one slim hand to prevent him. "Wait for one moment," he said quietly, "you must hear what I have to say, and then we can arrange what to do. Durgo, you loved my father?"

The negro nodded. "I would rather lose my life than see him dead."

Cyril looked at him curiously. "Strange! I did not think that my father was a man to inspire such devotion."

"He saved my life," said Durgo impressively.

"Humph!" murmured Cyril under his breath. "I'll be bound if he did so, that he took back the full value of his heroic act."

Bella looked pained. "Cyril, why do you speak in that tone of your father?"

"Because I know him better than Durgo," he retorted. "My father is a—but that is neither here nor there"—he waved his hand impatiently. "Durgo, I am about to speak plainly. I see that you love my father, so I don't wish to hurt your feelings. All the same, I must tell you something about my father which you will not like."

"Let me hear," said Durgo frowning, "and I can judge. But you are his son——"

"And therefore should speak well of him," ended Cyril bitterly. "I wish I could, but I have suffered too much at my father's hands to have any love for him. However, I shall be as brief as possible."

"And as kind," said Durgo meaningly.

"And as kind as I can be," retorted the young man cynically; "although my father will be the first to laugh at the idea of my talking kindly of him."

"He loves you," said the negro rebukingly.

"Did he ever tell you that?"

"No. He never mentioned your existence."

"Judge then how he loves me," said Cyril coolly.

"However, in spite of all, Edwin Lister is my father, so I shall speak as respectfully of him as I possibly can." He threw away a blade of grass he was chewing, and laughed ironically. Bella looked pained.

"Cyril! Cyril! your own father!"

"Quite so, dear. He is my father. I can say no more, and no less. As to what I know relative to this mystery, you shall hear."

The sky had clouded over, and the sun no longer shone. The lark was silent, and a chill wind seemed to breathe over the golden broom and the yellow blossoms of the gorze. Bella shivered, as the change of temperature seemed to suit with cruel exactitude the cynical tones of her lover. She had never heard him talk in this way before, but then she knew very little about him, and absolutely nothing of his past life. Now she was about to hear it, and, from the hard expression of his face, she judged that the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one. As for Durgo, he waited silently, and nothing could be read of his feelings from the dark mask of his face. Edwin Lister had saved his life, and no matter what was said, Durgo did not intend to change his opinion of his master, as the finest man in the wide world.

"My mother died when I was young," said Cyril, after a pause, "and I was brought up by a maiden aunt. My father I rarely saw, as he was always travelling round the world in search of a fortune which he never seemed to find. Sometimes he returned to England, and treated me with careless affection, but I saw very little of him. But for my aunt I should have been utterly neglected. Bless her! she is dead," and he raised his hat.

"Poor Cyril!" murmured Bella affected by this picture of a dull childhood.

"Thank you, dear!" he said, taking her hand. "My aunt did everything for me out of her small income, and I don't think my father gave one penny towards my education."

"But surely——"

"No, dear!" said Cyril, interrupting her; "my aunt told me, on her death-bed, that she had done everything, so you can see that my father was only one to me in name."

"He was working to make your fortune in Nigeria," said Durgo quickly.

"So he said when he came home, but I have not seen that fortune yet. Well, to continue; my aunt sent me to a public school, and afterwards to Oxford. I then became a journalist, and my aunt died, leaving me a trifle of money on which to live. My father came to London and borrowed that money—the principal of my small income—for one of his wild schemes, and I was left without one penny."

"It was your duty to assist your father," said Durgo uneasily.

"'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,'" quoted Cyril, with a side glance—"the missionaries have taught you well, Durgo."

"I am a Christian," said the negro proudly.

"So am I, in a way. However, I must get on with my confession. I saw my father at various intervals, and meanwhile earned my bread by reporting and writing articles, and all the rest of it. My father appeared at intervals, like the rolling stone which gathers no moss, and always borrowed. I did not grudge him the money, and he always said that he was about to make his fortune, which he never did."

"He will make it this time," said Durgo vigorously; "the treasure is certainly hidden in the Hinterland of Nigeria, and when we reach it——"

"Yes, when!" scoffed Cyril. "I don't believe in my father's schemes, I tell you. The last time he came home was five months ago."

"With me," said Durgo gravely; "but I remained near the docks, and my master, Edwin Lister, went to the grand part of the town, coming down to see me when he required my services."

Cyril nodded. "That sounds like my father," he said, with a shrug; "however, on this occasion he told me that he intended to hunt for buried treasure in Nigeria, and wanted money. He did not mention Captain Huxham, so I expect that he intended to keep that part of his business secret. But"—Cyril hesitated—"well, my father—that is, he—he—never mind," he broke off abruptly, "I can't tell you just now. But he wanted the sum of one thousand pounds, which I tried to get for him."

"Oh, Cyril! was that the money you mentioned?" asked Bella in dismay.

"Yes. The sum for which you thought I had killed your father," said Cyril, nodding; then seeing that she looked pained, he hastily added, "Never mind, dear, that is all over, and we understand one another thoroughly. I went to Paris, as you know, to get the money. When I returned I heard of the murder, and when I called at my father's lodgings in the West End could learn nothing of his whereabouts. When you mentioned the double, Bella, it was forced on my mind that my father must have been that person. But, as I could see no connection between my father and Captain Huxham, I refused to believe this. However, from what Durgo says, there seems to be no doubt but that my father did come by stealth to the Manor on that night, with the idea of getting the loan of money. Perhaps he and Captain Huxham quarreled, but it seems clear that my father did commit the murder with that sacrificial knife, since it came, as he did, from Nigeria."

"I never saw that knife," said Durgo abruptly.

"You did not see many things," said Cyril, rising, for he felt somewhat cramped. "My father was probably as secretive with you as he was with me. You are well educated, Durgo, and have your wits about you. Ask yourself if it is possible for two men to have come, on this particular occasion, from Nigeria, and——"

"Two did come," interrupted the negro—"myself and my master."

"Quite so; but if you are innocent, my father must be guilty."

Durgo shrugged his great shoulders. "For myself I think very little of killing anyone," said he gruffly, "but you white men think differently, so you should not believe your father guilty, unless——"

"Oh!" Cyril clenched his hand and grew pale. "Do you not think that I would give the world to believe him innocent? I love Miss Huxham, and this murder by my father places a barrier between us. If you knew all"—here Cyril broke off hastily, as he remembered that he was speaking to a black man. Already he regretted that he had said so much, but he had been carried away by the tide of his emotion. "The matter stands like this," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "My father has killed Captain Huxham, and has disappeared with one hundred pounds."

"But I thought that Mr. Pence——" began Bella, only to be interrupted.

"He is innocent," said Cyril hastily. "On the face of it, he is innocent. I go by the evidence of the knife from Nigeria, where Pence has never been, and by the fact that you saw my father, whom you mistook for me, enter the Manor about the time the crime was committed."

"I dare say you are right," said Bella vaguely, and regretted that she had so hastily condemned the preacher. After all, the truth of the legacy left by his aunt was not a fiction. "But what will you do now?"

"I ask the same question," remarked Durgo, sharply. "We are no nearer the truth than we have been."

Cyril looked in astonishment at the negro who spoke such excellent English, and so much to the point. Durgo, undoubtedly, in intellect was equal to, if not superior to, many Englishmen, and Lister saw in him a helpful coadjutor in solving the mystery. "We must work together to learn the whereabouts of my father," he said wearily, passing his hand across his forehead. "It will be necessary to get him out of the country, if what we believe is correct. But it may be, that my father has crossed the Channel."

"If that is so, he will write to me," commented the negro; he paused, and then asked abruptly, "If you learn that your father is guilty?"

"I shall do my best to get him away from England. Why do you ask?"

Durgo turned away, after a piercing glance. "I thought, from what you hinted, that you would not be sorry to see your father hanged."

"Don't talk rubbish, man," said Lister sharply. "My father is my father, when all is said and done. I only trust that we are mistaken, and that he is not guilty of this brutal crime."

Durgo shrugged his massive shoulders. "As to that, I care very little. From what I have heard of Captain Huxham in my own country, he was not a good man. He is better out of the world than in it."

Bella grew crimson. "You speak of my father," she said angrily.

The man bowed politely. "I ask your pardon, missy!" Then he turned to Cyril ceremoniously. "I am stopping at 'The Chequers Inn,' at Marshely," he informed him; "so if you will call there we can speak about this matter. Women should have nothing to do with such affairs. They are for men."

Lister frowned, as he did not approve of the superior way in which the negro talked. However, Durgo gave him no chance of making a remark, but swung off with a noiseless jungle step. Cyril watched him pass out of sight, and confessed that the man puzzled him. In spite of his barbaric origin and black skin and rough dress, Durgo spoke and acted like a gentleman, though he certainly had been somewhat rude regarding the feminine sex. "Yet I like him," commented Cyril half to himself; "he seems to be a square chap, and to have brains. He is not the usual Christy minstrel of Africa. Humph! After all, I dare say that if you scratched him you would find the savage. His devotion to my father does him credit. I wonder"—here he was interrupted by a low sob at his elbow, and turned to find Bella in tears. "My dearest, what is the matter?" he asked in dismay.

"Can you ask?" she moaned despairingly. "If what you think is true, we must part for ever."

"Don't look at the worst, but hope for the best," he entreated; "we can't be sure that my father is guilty!"

"You contradict yourself," she said, wiping her eyes.

"I wish I could; I am trying to think that my father is innocent. But I do not know. My father has been my evil genius all my life."

A thought occurred to Bella. "Why did your father require one thousand pounds?"

Cyril looked at her sideways. "I did not like to speak out before Durgo," he said hesitatingly, "but the fact is, my father forged a cheque for that sum."