"No, no!" cried the old man. "I must watch."

"Nonsense, man. Don't think that every one who comes means to rob."

"But I do," cried the old Indian, in a whisper. "They think of what we know--you and I only. Those foreign men--the servants."

"You must not be so suspicious, Ramo. It will be all right."

"It will not be all right, Sahib," cried the old Indian. "Think of what there is in yonder."

"But we have the secret, Ramo."

"Yes--yes; but suppose there were others who knew the secret--who had heard of it. Sahib, I will be faithful to the dead."

The old Indian drew himself up with dignity, and took his place once more before the door.

"It has been shocking," whispered the Indian. "I have been driven away, while those foreign men did what they pleased in there. It was maddening. Ah!"

He clapped his hands to his head.

"What now, Ramo?"

"Those three men! Suppose--"

He caught at his companion's arm, whispered a few words, and they entered the darkened room, from which, as the door opened and closed, a peculiar aromatic odour floated out.

As the door was closed the sound of a bolt being shot inside was heard, and directly after the face of Charles, the footman, appeared from the gloom below. He came up the stairs rapidly, glanced round and stepped softly to the closed door, where he bent down, listening.

As he stood in the recess the gloom was so great that he was almost invisible, save his face, while just beyond him a large group in bronze, of a club-armed centaur, seemed to have the crouching man as part of the artist's design, the centaur being, apparently, about to strike him down, while, to give realism to the scene, a dull red glow from the stained-gla.s.s window fell across his forehead.

As he listened there, his ear to the key-hole and his eyes watchfully wandering up and down the staircase, a dull and smothered clang was heard as if in the distance, like the closing of some heavy iron door.

Then there was a louder sound, with a quick, short report, as if a powerful spring had been set in motion and shot home. Then a door seemed to be closed and locked, and the man glided quickly over the soft, thick carpet--melting away, as it were, in the gloom.

The door opened and, from the darkness within, Mr Girtle and the old Indian stepped slowly out, bringing with them a soft, warm puff of the aromatic odour, and, as they grew more distinct in the faint light of the stained-gla.s.s window, everything was so still in the great house that there was a strange unreality about them, fostered by the silence of their tread.

"There, now you are satisfied," said the old lawyer, gently. "Go and change your robe."

The Indian shook his head.

"I will stay till your return inside the room."

"Inside?" said the Indian.

"Yes--why not? You and I have reached the time of life when death has ceased to have terrors. He is only taking the sleep that comes to all."

There was a gentle sadness in the lawyer's voice, and then, turning the handle of the door, he opened it and stood looking back.

"You will not be long," he said. "They are waiting for me in the drawing-room."

The door closed just as the old Indian made a step forward to follow.

Then he stood with his hands clenched and eyes starting listening intently, while the centaur's club seemed to be quivering in the gloom, ready to crush him down.

The old man raised his hand to the door--let it fall--raised it again-- let it fall--turned to go--started back--and then, as if fighting hard with himself, he turned once more, and with an activity not to be expected in one of his years, bounded up the staircase and disappeared.

Ten minutes had not elapsed before he seemed to come silently out of the gloom again, and was half-way to the door, when there was a faint creak from below, as if from a rusty hinge.

The old man stopped short, crouching down by the bal.u.s.trade, listening, his eyes shining in the dim twilight; but no other sound was heard, and he rose quickly, ran softly down, and with trembling hands opened the door.

Mr Girtle came slowly out, looking sad and depressed, and laid his hand upon the Indian's shoulder.

"You mean to watch, then," he said.

The Indian nodded quickly, his eyes gazing searchingly at the lawyer the while.

"Are you going in, or here?"

"My place was at the Sahib's door."

"Good!" said the solicitor, bowing his head; and he returned to the drawing-room, Ramo watching him suspiciously till the door closed.

As he stood there, the dusky tint of the robe he now wore seemed to lend itself to the surrounding gloom, being almost invisible against the portal, as he remained there with his fingers nervously quivering, and his face drawn by the agitation of his breast.

He shook his head violently the next moment, clasped his hands together, and sank down once more upon the lion-skin mat, bent to the very floor, more like some rounded ma.s.s than a human being: while the great centaur was indistinctly seen, with his raised club, as if about to repeat the blow that had crushed the old Indian into a motionless heap.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE LAWYER'S TIN BOX.

"This has been a terrible week, Katrine," said Lydia Lawrence, taking her cousin's hand.

"Do you think so?"

"Oh, yes. I have not your _sang froid_. I would give anything to go back to the country."

"I have been curious to know all about the will. That old man has been maddening. He might have spoken."

"But his instructions, clear. The will was to be read after he had lain there a week."

"Lain in state," said Katrine, with a curl of her lip. "With a savage crouching on a lion-skin at his door like some dog. Pah! It is absurd.

More like a scent in a French play than a bit of nineteenth century life."

Lydia sighed.

"I felt greatly relieved when those dreadful men had gone."

"What, the Italian professors? Pooh! what a child you are. I did not mind."

Lydia gazed at her with a feeling of shrinking wonder, and there was something almost fierce in the beautiful eyes, as Katrine sat there by one of the tables of the ill-lit drawing-room, the two pairs of wax candles in old-fashioned silver sticks seeming to emit but a feeble light, and but for the warm glow of the fire, the great room would have been sombre in the extreme.