"That question, I think, you have yourself solved. I do not know how you came to reach that door"--pointing in the direction of the stone pa.s.sage--"but presumably you came from your own house. I told you I believed there must be some secret hiding-place. Well, if you came through this pa.s.sage, I suppose the Thug could do likewise. Only instead of coming in this direction he went in the other, and got into your house the same way you have got into this. The pa.s.sage, I have heard, was built in the troublous time of the Civil War, when Charles I. and Oliver Cromwell struggled for the mastery. No doubt it was arranged for the inhabitants of one house to escape into the other when besieged or attacked."

"But," said Laurence, "I entered that secret pa.s.sage from the barn. If the Thug got out that way--he has evidently been hiding in the secret loft over the barn--how did he get into the Manse when he tried to murder my father?"

"I do not know; but do you mean to tell me that the pa.s.sage leads only to the barn? I cannot believe it."

"Then don't, but--stay! There was another pa.s.sage leading from a room under the barn which as yet I have not explored. In this the Thug was probably hiding when I pa.s.sed the entrance, and, attracted by the light I struck, followed and sprang upon me from behind. That pa.s.sage may, for all I know, end in the Manse itself."

"Rest a.s.sured that such is the case," replied Meadows; and he added, "I should not be surprised if you were to find that that other pa.s.sage led into the Squire's bedroom!"

Laurence gasped. If so, the affair was well-nigh solved. The thought of the mystery reminded the young man that here he was conversing amicably with the "doctor" in the very bas.e.m.e.nt which he believed to contain the old gentleman's secret.

"Now," said Laurence, laying his hand on Meadows' arm, "tell me your secret and there will no longer be any mystery."

"No, no," cried the old man; "go away. You take advantage of my kindness. I have cleared up the mystery of your father's enemy as far as I am permitted to do so, and you treat me so. But," he said slowly, "in a day or two I may be able to tell you all. Then I will renew my acquaintance with your father, Major Harold Lester Carrington, late of Madras. Until then I can do nothing."

So saying, and in spite of his protests, Laurence was conducted by the "doctor" to the front door of the old house. As the door closed upon him, after he had bidden Meadows a more or less cordial farewell, he fancied he heard another cry from the lower part of the house of strange secrets. This time he thought the weird sound seemed less awe-inspiring, more pathetic, than before. And it was so low that the listener could not be sure whether his imagination had played a trick upon him, or if what he fancied he had heard was reality.

With his head throbbing with the sickly pains caused by his injury, he turned and hurried away to the Manse.

Lena met him in the hall. She was deadly pale. At the sight of her lover she sprang forward, and, unconscious of the fact that Mrs. Knox was peering inquisitively over the banisters, flung her arms round his neck.

"Oh, thank G.o.d," she cried almost hysterically, "that you are safe! I thought you were killed. I had a presentiment that 'it' had attacked and murdered you in the dark loft. Where have you been; why were you away so long?"

And then, suddenly realising how forward she had been, she darted back as quickly as she had come. It was not because her aunt made her presence known by clearing her throat with unnecessary vehemence, but because she remembered that she had not yet confessed her love for Laurence, and because it seemed to her that her anxiety for his safety had triumphed over her natural modesty.

Then, without another word, without waiting to hear what Laurence had to tell her, she hastened away to her own room, and, locking the door, flung herself upon her bed, where she calmed herself in the orthodox feminine manner--she had a good cry, but the tears were tears of joy!

She already knew that he loved her--now he knew that she loved him. And he was safe!

Meanwhile Laurence, wondering at Lena's--to him--strange behaviour, proceeded to his father's bedroom, where he dismissed the housekeeper and sat down by the Squire's bedside.

"Father," he said, after he had inquired how the sick man felt, "I have learned all."

Mr. Carrington lay motionless. He could not reply. The announcement had overcome him. His face grew very pale.

"What do you mean?" he muttered, raising himself, at length, upon his elbow, and peering into his son's face.

"I mean that I know who and WHAT your enemy is--your enemy who is trying to avenge that which happened over twenty years ago!"

"Who has told you?" asked the Squire excitedly--"not--not 'it'?"

"No, someone who says he died years ago!"

"What do you mean?"

"I hardly know myself. Next door--I mean at the Dene--lives an old man who says he knew you more than twenty years ago."

"Don't believe it, Laurence. But-t-t how does he know my secret? You are sure that he--he is not the--the----"

"No, he is not the Thug."

At the mention of the last word the Squire fell back upon his pillows with a shudder.

"And you've not caught him?"

"No, but I know where he is hiding, and," he added, "if you won't tell me what I don't know, he will!"

"I cannot tell you. Yet, if I don't he will. Here, go to the desk in my sanctum, press the k.n.o.b of the dummy drawer on the right-hand side, and bring me down the book that will fall out of the slit underneath."

With rising hopes the young man did as he was told. He returned to the sick-room shortly after, carrying a small red pocket-book, fastened with a piece of parchment sealed on the back and front of the Volume.

"Take it," said the Squire, "and read it, only not here. I cannot bear to think of it all. Go, now; you mean well, my boy, but you don't know the pain it causes me to hear you speak of my secret. When you know all you will see that your poor old dad is not such a sinner as you think he is." And the Squire lay back on the pillows again, and closed his eyes, and, making a suitable reply, Laurence left the room.

He met a very shamefaced Lena in the drawing-room, and told her of all his afternoon adventures, not forgetting to offer a very sincere apology for leaving her in the barn. Then he produced from his pocket the little red note-book and pointed to the notice endorsed on it: "For my son, Laurence. Not to be opened until after my death." Then, a.s.suring her that he had permission to read it, he broke the seals and opened the book, which was full of thin, straggling writing.

"Shall I read it aloud?" asked Laurence temptingly.

"Oh, please do."

"Sure you wouldn't like to read it aloud yourself?"

"Oh, no. I'm a terribly bad reader."

"Well, so am I."

"I'm sure you're better than I am," responded Lena.

"I'll tell you how we can settle it."

"How?"

"By each reading it separately."

"But I want to hear the story now. And don't you, too?"

"Yes, we both can. That is--if you don't mind sitting on this sofa and looking over at the same time?"

Lena rose with a blush on her cheeks, that, in Laurence's opinion, made her look prettier than ever.

Then she settled herself by his side. He turned to the front page, and satisfied himself that his companion could see the writing and read it, then they commenced the perusal of the contents of the little red note-book.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SQUIRE'S STORY

(_Being the commencement of the narrative in the little red note-book_)