"Highwayman--last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at hand his strength seemed to dwindle to nothing.

The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards and fell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an effort he crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case.

"The coat," he muttered. "The pocket--a flask."

The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting posture.

"'Galloping Hermit'--the brown mask--last night," he said.

"The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."

"It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"

"Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."

"Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was breathless from long running.

"There's the village over yonder, two miles away."

"Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn a guinea or two and help me to the village."

"Can you walk at all?" asked the man.

"The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Two miles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it's early. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!"

"Who?"

"Both of them, the man and the woman."

"The woman!"

"Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can't talk."

At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and while he did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case. There was a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyes brightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand with excitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea and purpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted a horse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. He was in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate that he had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought no more of Barbara Lanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day, to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself as he felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the game he had lost, but the winning trick was his.

It was dark when he reached the woods which lay on the opposite bank of the stream below Aylingford. He tethered his horse to a tree and went on foot towards one of the bridges which led to the terrace, and there he waited, leaning against the stone wall, looking at the house. Lights shone from a few of the windows, but the Abbey did not look as if it were full of guests. There was, perhaps, the more need to exercise caution. The balmy air of the night might tempt visitors on to the terrace if the play did not prove exciting, and if the talk became stale and wearisome. So Rosmore waited. He did not intend to enter the house, and a little delay was of no consequence. Only one man besides himself could know the secret which the leather case held, and that other man was far away from Aylingford.

Most of the windows in the Abbey were dark when Rosmore crossed the bridge to the terrace and walked lightly towards the ruins, careful to let the shadows hide him as much as possible. Entering the ruins, he drew the case from his pocket and took out the key. By Martin's tower he stood for a moment to listen, but no sound came to startle him, and he fitted the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and Rosmore entered, closing it again and locking it on the inside. Gently as he did it, the sound echoed weirdly up the winding stairs. The door at the top, and that of Martin's room, hung broken on their hinges. Nothing had been done to them since the night they were forced open in the attempt to capture Gilbert Crosby; nor did it appear that Martin had occupied his room since then. The piece of candle was still upon the shelf, fastened to it with its own grease, and Lord Rosmore lit it. Then he drew the papers from the case, and turned to one portion of the writing. He had already studied it carefully, but he read it once again, and, bending down to the hearth, felt eagerly along the coping which surrounded it.

His fingers touched a slight projection, which he pressed inwards and downwards. It moved a little, but some few moments elapsed before he succeeded in making the exact motion necessary, when the front portion of the hearth was depressed and slid back silently.--Taking the piece of candle in his hand, Rosmore stepped into the opening and went cautiously down the narrow twisting stairs, without attempting to shut the secret entrance. The instructions contained in the leather case were exact, even to a rough calculation of the value of the treasure hidden below the Abbey ruins. Rosmore came at last to a wide chamber, bare wall on one side, but on the other three sides were a series of arches, some of them framing recesses merely which were not uniform in depth, some of them forming entrances into other rooms. The corner arch at the further end was the one mentioned in the papers, and Rosmore went slowly across the stone floor, the feeble light of the candle casting weird shadows about him. For the first time the eeriness of the place forced itself upon him. These stone walls must have sheltered many a secret besides the one he had come to solve. Unholy deeds might well have happened here, and into his memory came crowding many a legend he had heard of Aylingford Abbey. Phantoms of the past might yet haunt these dark places, and to the man breaking into this silence alone ghosts were easy to believe in. Phantoms of the present might be there, too, for to-day vice was the ruling spirit of the Abbey, and there were those who declared that evil might take shape and in an appointed hour deal out punishment to its votaries.

Rosmore found an effort necessary to retain his courage as he went towards the opposite corner. The light, held above his head, fell quivering into the recess there, and touched a great oak coffer, ma.s.sively made, and heavily bound with iron. It was exactly as the papers said, and therein lay the treasure, gold and jewels--the wealth of the Indies, as the writing called it. He stood for a moment looking at the recess, and then, as he took a hasty step forward, he started, and a sharp hiss of indrawn breath came from his lips. A sudden sound had struck upon his ear, a grating noise, then silence, then light footsteps. In a moment Rosmore had blown out the candle, his one idea being to hide himself; fear caught him, the darkness was so great. Who was it? What was it coming towards him with those stealthy steps? Nearer they came, and from one of the arches a faint glimmer of light, as though the old walls were growing luminous, and a man carrying a lantern entered the chamber and stood there, raising the lantern above his head.

It was Sir John Lanison. A little sigh of relief escaped from Rosmore.

He had only flesh and blood to deal with, a man full of foolish superst.i.tion. He, too, must have come seeking treasure, but which way had he come, and how had he found the courage to embark on such an adventure? Must two partic.i.p.ate in this treasure after all! No, however great it might be, Rosmore wanted it all. He would not share it with any man. A word growled in the darkness would terrify the superst.i.tious Sir John; he would flee as though ten thousand devils were at his heels, or perchance the sudden terror might kill him. The alternative did not trouble Lord Rosmore, and he smiled as Sir John came slowly towards him, holding the lantern close to the floor that he might not step into some hole. As the light came close to his motionless figure, Rosmore uttered a low cry, weird enough to startle the bravest man. It may have startled Sir John, but he did not shriek out in fear nor turn to flee. He raised the lantern sharply, and it hardly trembled in his hand.

"Rosmore!" he exclaimed.

Rosmore was so taken back by this strange courage that he did not answer at once, and the two men stood with the raised lantern lighting both their faces.

When Martin Fairley had left him down in the Nun's Room, Sir John had been terrified. He had shouted for help to no purpose, and he was not released until early on the following morning. How he came to be there he did not explain. He went to his own room, and gave instructions that he was not to be disturbed. Once alone, his mind became active, and he shook himself free from his fear. Wealth was within his grasp. That Martin had run away and left him did not shake his belief. Martin was a madman, not responsible for his actions from one moment to another, but in his trance he had seen this treasure, therefore it was there, Sir John argued. More, the entrance to it lay behind the Nun's hard couch; only a stone slab blocked the entrance. Greed took the place of fear, and it may be that Sir John was a little off his mental balance, and forgot to think of fear. He was certainly cunning enough to make plans and to carry them out secretly. He left his room unseen, and the Abbey by a small door seldom used; and, having secured a pick and a length of rope while the stable men were at their dinner, he went to the Nun's Room. He would chance anyone coming into the ruins and hearing him at work, and n.o.body did come. He fastened the rope round a piece of fallen masonry which was firmly embedded in the ground and lowered himself. He worked all the afternoon, and the stone slab was loose before he climbed out of the Nun's Room again. Then he went back and mixed with his guests for an hour or two, so that they might not grow anxious about him and come to look for him. Escaping from them with an excuse that he could not play to-night, and must retire early, he went again to the ruins and resumed his work by the light of a lantern. He had succeeded in gaining an entrance, the hidden treasure was a fact; his one idea was to get possession of it, and, absorbed in this thought, other sensations were dormant for the time being. He was so savage that anyone else should know the secret that he forgot to be afraid. When the lantern showed him who his rival was, there was no need to be afraid, for Lord Rosmore would a.s.sume that they could be partners in this as they had been in much else, and Sir John smiled, for he intended to free himself from such a partnership. He had a pistol with him, and since Rosmore had evidently come to the Abbey secretly, no one would be likely to look for him there.

"There are evidently two ways to the treasure, Sir John?" said Rosmore after a pause.

"And we have found them," was the answer. "It is lucky that no one else forestalled us. The treasure first. We may count it, and tell each other how we found it afterwards."

Lord Rosmore turned to the recess, and Sir John went eagerly forward with the lantern. The exact position of the treasure he had not known, but catching sight of the iron-bound box, he determined that no one should share its contents with him. He set down the lantern.

"The key in the lock!" he exclaimed. "It was foolish to leave it in the lock."

"Who would come to this infernal tomb?" said Rosmore.

"Two of us have come," said Sir John, as he turned the key and raised the heavy lid.

A few crumpled pieces of paper, one or two torn pieces of cloth, an empty canvas bag, half of a broken jewel case, and in one corner the glitter of two or three links of a gold chain. This was all the great chest contained!

"You forgot that bit of chain when you removed the treasure, Sir John,"

said Rosmore, pointing to it.

"Liar! Robber! Where is it?"

Rosmore laughed; perhaps he was unconscious that he did so.

The empty chest seemed to have paralysed his brain for a moment. He could not think. He could not devise a scheme for forcing the truth from his rival.

Sir John had only one idea--revenge. This man had robbed him. The treasure was gone, but the thief was before him. With an oath he sprang forward, there was a flash in Rosmore's face, and a report which echoed back from every side sharply. The bullet missed its mark, chipping the stone wall behind. Then the two men were locked together in a silent, deadly struggle. Lord Rosmore was the stronger and the younger man, but he had not recovered from the cramped position in which he had spent the long hours of last night, and perhaps Sir John was mad and had something of a madman's strength. Neither could throw the other off, nor gain the advantage. Fingers found throats, and gripped and pressed inwards with deadly meaning. Never a word was spoken. The lamp was overturned and went out, each man holding to his adversary the tighter lest he should escape in the darkness. Shuffling feet and gasping breaths, then a heavy fall, then silence.

Daylight crept down into the Nun's Room and into Martin's room, with its gaping hearth, but no one came out through the hole behind the Nun's hard bed, nor climbed the narrow stairs into the tower room. The day pa.s.sed, and the night, and another dawn came. The door of the tower was still locked on the inside, and the rope was still hanging into the sunken room. That morning the rope was seen when the ruins were searched, and presently two of the guests climbed down and entered the underground chamber, carrying lanterns and walking carefully.

Sir John Lanison and Lord Rosmore were both dead. Both faces were discoloured and told of a horrible struggle. It looked as if Rosmore had succ.u.mbed first, for he lay on his back, his arms flung out. Sir John was lying partly across his body; it seemed as though his fingers had just relaxed their hold on Rosmore's throat.

Why this awful tragedy? One of the guests noticed the iron-bound chest, and, looking in, saw the broken gold chain gleaming in the lantern light.

"A treasure!" he exclaimed, holding it up. "All that is left of it!"

Then they looked at the dead men, so suggestive in their ghastly att.i.tude, and they thought they understood. Those old monks, thinking perhaps that they would one day return to their old home, must certainly have buried a treasure under the walls of Aylingford.

CHAPTER XXIX

SAFETY

The door of "The Jolly Farmers" had only just been opened to the business of a new day when Gilbert Crosby came by a narrow track through the woods on to the road. His horse was jaded, and bore evidences of having been hard ridden.