As has been seen, Durgo was no ordinary man, and even had he been white instead of black, would have passed for a clever member of the Aryan race. Undoubtedly the strain of Arab blood in him sharpened his intellectual faculties, and made him ambitious to play a leading part in the history of his tribe. That the members of it were savages mattered very little, since he had been educated in the lore of the ruling race, and could raise them sooner or later almost to his own level. Almost, that is, but not quite, for Durgo had no notion that any individual of his tribe should be as clever as himself. He wished to be a despot, and rule from an autocratic throne.

The one weak point in his character—if gratitude can be called weakness—was his adoration of Edwin Lister. That gentleman had undoubtedly saved his life, and assuredly had aided him to attain to his present position of culture by inducing the old chief to send his clever son to England. But Cyril knew, what Durgo in his blind idolatry did not—that Edwin Lister was not a man to work for nothing, and wanted much more than he ever gave. There was every chance that he would abuse the gratitude of Durgo, when the negro's ambition was achieved, and if his protÉgÉ revolted from complying with the exorbitant demands which would surely be made on his generosity, he would speedily be reminded of what had been done for him. With an ordinary man this would have mattered little as such a one would decline unreasonable exactions. But Durgo's strongest trait was gratitude, and it was probable that in spite of his clever brain and European education, he would become the mere puppet of his benefactor. Thus the very nobility of Durgo's nature would reduce him to slavery, and he would be ruined because he possessed the rarest of all virtues.

Little as Cyril had seen of his father, he knew his character thoroughly, being able to read by intuition, as well as by observation. Edwin had only one god to worship, and that was himself—a deity so congenial that the egotist was most devout in his religion. Of course, Durgo's enslavement and Edwin Lister's tyranny had nothing to do with Cyril, as father and son had long since gone on their several ways. But Cyril liked the negro, and swore to himself that if Durgo aided him to marry Bella, he would stand by him when Edwin Lister played the tyrant. As yet—so much Cyril gathered—the trader had not shown the cloven foot, but he would do so sooner or later, and then Cyril hoped to open Durgo's eyes to the fact that his gratitude was being abused.

But there was much to be done before affairs arrived at this point, and the first necessary step to take was to discover the whereabouts of Edwin Lister. Durgo had learned much from Cyril, and something from Granny Tunks; now it was necessary that he should be informed by Bella of the accusation of Pence, and of her doubts about the preacher. She resolved to see Durgo for herself, and when Dora was at school, she watched at the window of the cottage for the coming of the negro. She did not even tell Cyril of her intention, as he disbelieved her statement that Pence had stolen certain papers and was connected in some way with the murder. That she had absolutely no grounds for such a belief troubled Bella very little, since she was very much the woman. All she knew was, that Pence could not have heard the truth about her not being Huxham's daughter from Huxham himself and it was necessary to find out how he came to know, let alone the necessity of making certain of its truth. Cyril would have scruples in assaulting Pence, and learning the truth at the sword's point, as it were. Durgo, being uncivilised, for all his education would have no such scruples, and therefore was the best person to apply to. He would undoubtedly twist Pence's slender neck as he would that of a rabbit, if he could force from him any information likely to forward his aims. And unless some such brutal course was taken Bella felt sure that Pence would hold his tongue. In her exasperation against the troublesome preacher, all the girl's worst traits came uppermost.

Durgo did not pass along the road in the morning, and Bella almost despaired of seeing him. She nearly decided to go to "The Chequers Inn," but a memory of Mrs. Giles' gossiping tongue prevented her risking so much. In the afternoon, however, Durgo lounged along the road, in his lazy, heavy, massive fashion, arrayed in his rough tweed clothes, and looking very much like a burly prize-fighter. Luckily there was no one in sight, as Miss Ankers' cottage was in a solitary corner on the outskirts of Marshely, so Bella ran hatless into the garden to beckon the negro into the cottage.

"Come in! come in! I wish to speak to you," she said hurriedly, when he stepped up to the white palings; and she glanced right and left, to be sure that no curious eyes were on her.

Durgo stared and frowned, as education in a world-famous University had not quite eradicated his contempt for women. However, when Bella ran inside again, and stood beckoning him in the passage, he resolved to enter, if only to learn why she acted in this bold way. So tall was Durgo, and so low the door, that he had to stoop considerably to enter, and when in the little drawing-room he bulked hugely as Gulliver in the Lilliputian temple.

"What is it, missy?" asked Durgo roughly, for he was not inclined to waste his time in saying pretty nothings to this Englishwoman, when so much was at stake. "I cannot stay here; I am busy."

"I wish to help you," said Bella, going straight to the point.

"In what way?" Durgo stared at her peremptory tone.

"I wish to help you on condition that you help me."

"In what way?" he asked again, and sat down on a chair, which creaked under his mighty weight.

"Listen," said Bella, speaking very slowly, and with her eyes on his strong, black face. "You are not of my colour or race, yet I am going to trust you, as Cyril told me all about you. Besides, we are both working for the same end—that is, we both wish to find Edwin Lister. Cyril told me what Mrs. Tunks discovered."

"He had no right," frowned Durgo; "I want no women——"

"Don't despise women," said Bella drily, "for you may need the help of one woman, and she is my own self. You know that I am supposed to be Captain Huxham's daughter?"

"Supposed to be?" Durgo noted the way she placed her words at once, which said much for his powers of observation, and the quick working of his brain.

"Yes, Silas Pence, the preacher——"

"I know him, missy. Go on."

"Loves me," continued Bella, with a blush; "and to marry me he would stop at nothing. Last night he declared that I was not the daughter of Captain Huxham, and that Captain Huxham had told him as much."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yes. That is, I believe I am not Captain Huxham's daughter, since the money was not left to me. But I do not believe that Captain Huxham told this to Silas Pence. I believe," Bella bent forward, "that Mr. Pence is concerned in this murder, and stole certain papers, which revealed the truth."

Durgo's eyes flashed. He saw at once the value of such information. "Can you prove this?" he asked in his throaty tones.

"That's just where it is," she answered quickly. "I wish you to prove it."

"How can I do that?"

"Question Mr. Pence, and make him answer. Force him, in whatever way you like, to show how he actually obtained the information. If he stole the papers stating the fact—and this I believe—he must have been in the room where the murder was committed some hour during that night. If so, he must have seen Edwin Lister, and must know where he is."

"Hai!" Durgo leaped to his feet. "That is true: that is probable. Perhaps he can say if my master got the jewels."

"Perhaps he can, but I am certain that he will not."

"Oh, I think he will! I think he will," said Durgo significantly.

"Don't hurt him," cried Bella, alarmed, for much as she disliked the preacher she did not wish him to come to harm at the hands of this African semi-savage. As a matter of fact, she was sorry to enlist Durgo's services at all; but, under the circumstances, there seemed to be no help for it.

"I shall not hurt him more than is necessary," said Durgo, catching up his bowler hat and placing it on his woolly head; "if he speaks plainly I won't hurt him at all. You have helped me, missy, and you will find that I am not ungrateful. When you marry the son of my master, you will be rich. I, Durgo, the king, will make you rich," he ended arrogantly.

"One moment," said Bella, detaining him; "these jewels belong to Captain Huxham. Have you any right to take them?"

"Every right, since they never belonged to Captain Huxham," said the negro decisively. "My father, the great chief Kawal, gave them to Maxwell Faith, and from Maxwell Faith they were stolen by Huxham. If Faith were alive I would return the jewels to him, and ask him to help me with my expedition. But he is dead; Huxham murdered him, and stole the jewels. Edwin Lister came to get back what belongs to me, and I think he has them."

"Supposing you find Mr. Lister, and learn that he has not the jewels?"

Durgo rolled his eyes ferociously. "I shall then enter the Manor-house by force, and learn where they are hidden."

"You would only be handed over to the police by Mrs. Vand and her husband, Henry. It will be better for me to search."

"How can you, since you are not friendly with Mrs. Vand?"

Bella laughed. "I know much more about the Manor-house than Mrs. Vand does, I assure you," she said significantly. "There are all manner of secret passages and unknown chambers in that ancient mansion. If I desired to enter, I could do so in the night-time by a secret door hidden behind the ivy at the back of the house."

"Then do so," said Durgo eagerly, "and search for the jewels."

"Not yet. Wait until you see Edwin Lister, and learn if he procured the jewels. By the way, where did your father get them?"

Durgo reflected for a few minutes. "I have heard much talk of my father's treasure, of which these jewels were part. You know how rich the Northern part of Africa was in the time of the Romans?"

"Yes. Cyril made me read Gibbons' History."

"Well, when the Arabs swept across Northern Africa, they looted the Roman cities, then possessed more or less by the Goths and Vandals. Many of the Arabs came South to Nigeria, and brought their plunder with them. I think that these jewels, which my father gave to Maxwell Faith, came into his possession from some remote ancestor, who so brought them. But I cannot say. Still, that is my opinion."

"It is a feasible idea, certainly," said Bella musingly, and astonished at the knowledge of the negro, quite forgetting that he had been educated at Oxford; "but where the jewels came from, matters little. What we have to find out, is where they are, and Mr. Pence——"

"I shall see this man," interrupted Durgo quietly; "he may lie to others: he will tell the truth to me."

"No violence," warned Bella anxiously.

Durgo nodded. "I fear your police too much," said he, with an ironical grin, and strode out of the house, looking more burly and defiant than ever. Bella had regretted her employment of his services, but what else could she do when so much was at stake? Bella wished to marry Cyril, and, to do so, desired to be certain that she was not Captain Huxham's daughter. The papers—if her wild surmise was correct—would prove if what Pence said was true. Then, since Cyril's father had not murdered her father—she put it in this confused way—she would be able to marry her lover with a clear conscience. That he might be the son of an assassin troubled her very little. To get her way after the manner of a woman deeply in love, she would have set the world on fire, or would have wrecked the solar system. And in placing the safety of Pence in the hands of a semi-civilised negro, she undoubtedly was risking his life. But she did not care, so long as she attained to the knowledge which she was confident he possessed.

It will be seen that Bella Huxham was no Sunday-school angel, or even the amiable heroine of a Family Herald novelette, who never by any chance does wrong. She was simply an average girl, with good instincts, brought up so far as school-training was concerned in a conventional way. At home no one had taught her to discern right from wrong, and, like the ordinary healthy young animal of the human race, she had not passed through sufficient sorrow to make her inquire into the truths of religion. Bella needed trouble to train her into a good, brave woman, and she was certainly getting the training now. But she made mistakes, as was natural, considering her inexperience.

That same evening, Mr. Silas Pence was seated in his shabby sitting-room, making notes for his next Sunday sermon. He occupied lodgings in a lonely cottage on the verge of the common, and did so because his landlady was a member of the Little Bethel congregation, who boarded and lodged him cheaply in order to have the glory of entertaining the minister. The landlady was a heavy-footed, heavy-faced woman, with two great hulking sons, and occupied the back part of the premises. Silas inhabited the best sitting-room and the most comfortable bedroom. There was no fence round the front of the cottage, although there was a garden of vegetables at the back, so the sitting-room window looked straight out on to the purple heather and golden gorse of the waste land. An artist would have delighted in the view, but Silas had no eye for anything beautiful in nature, and paid very little attention to the changing glories of the year. The lodging was cheap, and the situation healthy, so he was perfectly satisfied.

On this especial evening, the young preacher sat at the red-repp covered table, reading his Bible and making his notes. It was after ten o'clock, and his landlady was asleep, as were her two sons, both agricultural labourers worn out with the heavy toils of the day. The sitting-room window was wide open, and the blind was up, so that the cool night breeze was wafted faintly into the somewhat stuffy room, which was crowded with unnecessary furniture. Silas made a few notes, then threw down his pencil and sighed, resting his weary head on his hand.

Pence was by no means a bad man, but he was weak and excitable. The pursuit of Bella aroused the worst part of his nature, and made him think, say, and do much which he condemned. The better part of him objected to a great deal which he did, but the tide of his passion hurried him away and could not be checked by the dykes of common-sense. At times—and this was one of them—he bitterly blamed himself for giving way to the desire for Hepzibah, as he called Bella Huxham, in his own weak mind. But, sane in all other ways, he was insane on this one point, and felt that he would jeopardise his chance of salvation to call her wife. Nevertheless he was sane enough to know his insanity, and would have given much to root out the fierce love which was destroying his life.

But the insane passion which he cherished for a woman who would have nothing to do with him led him deeper and deeper into the mire of sin, and in spite of his prayers and cries for help, the Unseen would do nothing to extricate him from the morass of difficulties into which he had plunged himself. At times Silas even doubted if God existed, so futile were his attempts to gain comfort and guidance. Much as he loved Bella, he desired to win clear of the unwilling influence which she exercised on his nature, and vainly prayed for light whereby to know the necessary means to get rid of the tormenting demon. But no answer came, and he relapsed into despair, wondering what his congregation would say if any member knew the unmastered temptations of his inner life. The struggle made him weak and ill and thin and nervous, and but that deep in his heart he knew vaguely that God was watching over him, and would aid at the proper time, he would have taken his own miserable life.

With his head buried in his hands, Silas thought thus, with many groans and with many bitter tears, the shedding of which made his eyes burn. Occupied with his misery, he did not see a dark, massive form glide towards the open window, nor did he hear a sound, for Durgo stepped as light-footed as a cat. The sill of the window was no great distance from the ground, and the big negro flung his leg over the sill and into the room. But in getting hastily through, he was so large and the window so small, that he made a sliding noise as the window slipped still further up. Silas started to his feet, but only to see Durgo completely in the room, facing him with a grim smile.

"I have come to speak with you, sir," said the negro.

Silas turned white, being haunted by a fear known only to himself. But he read in the eyes of this black burglar—or, rather, he guessed by some wonderful intuition, that his fear and the cause of his fear were known to this man. Durgo saw the look in the preacher's eyes, and read his thoughts in his turn. The negro was not boasting when he hinted that he possessed certain psychic power. "Yes," he said, keeping his burning gaze directly on the miserable white man; "you stole papers from Captain Huxham's room, and I——"

"I did not," interrupted Pence wildly, and making a clutch at his breast coat-pocket. "How dare you—"

"The papers are in your pocket," interrupted Durgo, advancing, as he noted the unconscious action and guessed its significance. "Give me those papers."

"I have no papers. I will alarm the house——"

"Do so, and you shall be arrested."

"What do you mean?"

"You saw my master, Edwin Lister, enter the Manor-house, and thought that he was his son. Cyril Lister told me as much. From what you said to Miss Huxham about her not being the daughter of the sailor, I believe that you followed my master into the house. What took place?"

"Nothing! nothing! I swear that I did not——"

"Those papers," said Durgo, pointing to the white hand which still clutched feebly at the breast-pocket, "say that the girl is not Captain Huxham's daughter. I want to know whose daughter she is."

"You are talking rubbish. I have no papers."

"I am making a guess, and I believe my guess is a true one. Will you give up those papers, or must I wring your neck?"

With widely-open eyes, the preacher flung himself against the mantel-piece and clutched at a handbell. Just as he managed to ring this feebly, for his hands were shaking, and he was utterly unnerved, Durgo, seeing that there was no time to be lost, sprang forward and laid a heavy grasp on the miserable man's throat, ripping open his jacket with the other hand. In less than a minute he had the papers in his hand.

"No! no! no!" shouted Silas, and made a clutch at them.

Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket, and raising Pence up shoulder high, dashed him down furiously. His head struck the edge of the fender, and he lay unconscious. But Durgo did not wait to see further. He glided out of the window like a snake—swift, silent, stealthy, and dangerous.