"Suppose it's some trap to--murder you," whispered Lena. "Look at that letter. It is sent in a most mysterious fashion by a man you've never seen. It tells you to come alone and after dark. Doesn't that look frightfully suspicious? Don't you see that if they have got some secret, or are carrying on, as I shrewdly guess, some illegal occupation, what, Heaven only knows, don't you see, if this is so, and they know that you suspect them and are making investigations, that it will be greatly to their advantage to have you out of the way? You know what I mean."

"Yes, I understand your argument, and appreciate your good sense, but I'm sorry that I cannot take your advice. The matter, I feel confident, is one of life and death to my poor father. Is it not only natural that I should risk my own life for his, particularly when I am a strong man and he old and getting infirm? Besides, there may be no risk after all.

We may be mistaken, though I can't see how. At any rate, it is my duty to go to-night----"

"To-night! Oh, not so soon, surely----"

"Procrastination, you know, Miss Scott, is the thief of time. To-morrow may be too late. Hourly, almost, I am dreading a second attempt on the poor old Squire's life, and if I keep my appointment to-night I may yet be in time to save him."

"But let me go with you. Do, please!" Lena cried, pleadingly.

"No, no, you must not endanger yourself. What would Mrs. Knox say?"

"I don't care what auntie says in the least, and----" she stopped short.

"Tell me," Laurence cried, as he turned to his young companion and, looking into her clear blue eyes, where he fancied he saw a glistening tear, forgot everything, his father, himself, and the mystery that was deepening around them, "tell me, why do you say this, why do you mind my going? What can it matter to you? Is it, tell me I am right, that you are urged by the same feelings that I am when I refuse to take you with me? Say 'yes,' and you will make me the happiest being on this earth, for the reason why I will not allow you to endanger your dear life is because I love you."

The effect of Laurence's confession of love on Lena in fiction would doubtless have been the dramatic and time-honoured remark on the "suddenness" of the declaration, but this was not the reception she gave to the young man's pa.s.sionate outburst.

"Laurence," she said, and the p.r.o.nunciation by her lips of his Christian name thrilled him with pleasure, "Laurence, when the mystery is solved, when you return safe from your interview to-day, then, and not till then, will I give you my answer."

She paused to catch her breath. With difficulty she had been able to p.r.o.nounce the words that in cold print appear more formal and unsatisfactory than they seemed to Laurence, intoned as they were by the gentle voice of the woman he loved.

For the moment she was transformed from a laughing, vivacious girl to a silent and thoughtful woman.

How much in her own opinion the coming visit to Durley Dene meant to her she alone knew. She dared not betray her love for her new companion, though it was manifest in her eyes as she glanced at him; then, looking down, interested herself in the progress of a worm on the turf. What was the secret that might--that probably would--be revealed in a few brief hours? Since it seemed that a woman was concerned, might not the grim skeleton in the cupboard prove to be a disgraceful as well as a gruesome one? And then? How often are not the sins of the fathers visited upon the innocent children?

And that was why she paused and refused her answer. Had not the lover been blind, as is the love-G.o.d himself, he would have read that answer as plainly as though it had been given in words. But Laurence, at any rate, felt he could not be discouraged. He had not been met with a blank refusal.

He caught Lena's little ungloved hand, bent down, and kissed it tenderly.

And as he did so the gong sounded for lunch, and they made their way back to the house, where they met the Squire for the first time that day in the dining-room. The old man's spirits contained something of their old joviality. At the meal he was once more, to some slight extent, the courteous, old-fashioned host and gentleman that he had been a few months back. Laurence heartily rejoiced at the change in his father's behaviour. Lena noticed it too. Mrs. Knox might perhaps have done so also had the viands been less palatable or her appet.i.te less hearty. The cause of the transformation was unknown to any of them, but Laurence guessed very rightly that the Squire's dread of his strange enemy had been lessened by the fact that no second attack had been attempted. As a matter of fact, Mr. Carrington was beginning to hope that his a.s.sailant of two days ago had departed under the impression that the victim had been killed by the cowardly shot fired into the coach as it crossed the moor.

Had he been able to glance into the mysterious future and learn what the events of the coming night were to be, it is possible that his behaviour would have been very different.

CHAPTER X

THE AFFAIR OF THE BICYCLE

To the amazement of the venerable butler, Mr. Carrington intimated his intention of taking a drive in the closed carriage that afternoon. Mrs.

Knox offered to accompany him. Lena, perforce, went too. For reasons that need not be explained to the reader who has followed this narrative, the Squire thought it fit to order that the footman should ride on the box of the carriage, an order which considerably annoyed that worthy, who, having never received similar instructions before, being an indoor servant, had planned a quiet perambulation with a certain young lady of his acquaintance.

Laurence did not accompany the party. He was not fond of driving in the closed carriage, and even though he deprived himself of the companionship of Lena by refusing the Squire's invitation, he did not greatly regret the fact, for at home there were many matters which required his attention.

The first of these was the barn itself, to which he repaired on the departure of the carriage. He was determined to make every effort possible to discover the manner of the disappearance of the creature whom he believed to be his father's intended murderer. In broad daylight it was difficult to imagine that his grotesque experience of the previous night was stern reality.

With the aid of a step-ladder he swung himself on to the ledge where first he had caught sight of the lurking creature. To further follow in the stranger's footsteps he found quite impossible, but by other means he managed to reach the spot whence the hay had been thrown down upon him in order to conceal the vanishing figure's disappearance. But, search as he might, he was unable to discover any clue to the manner of that disappearance. No hiding-place was apparent. Certainly there was no crack or crevice in the roof in which it was possible for even a child to conceal itself. So, perforce, Laurence had to set this down also as a mystery, when he gave up the search and disconsolately returned to the house.

His next step was to prepare himself for the interview with the occupant of Durley Dene. Lena's common sense had a.s.sured him that the ordeal of the coming night might in all probability be attended by a certain amount of personal danger, and he decided to arm himself to the best of his ability before setting out to interview Major Jones-Farnell. He had the small pistol found in the barn on the previous day, but, unfortunately, was not supplied with the necessary ammunition. There was, however, still plenty of time before dinner, so Laurence, not objecting to a little exercise, decided to ride over to East Cave, where he knew there was a gunsmith.

Carrington was a fairly accomplished cyclist, and the possessor of a machine, which he occasionally rode, though more usually his "mount" was a live one. His bicycle was kept in a shed adjoining the barn, and situated nearer the Dene boundary than the larger building.

Strolling down to this shed, he found the door unlocked. As he alone possessed a key to it he was somewhat astonished on making this discovery, but his astonishment gave place to a feeling of consternation when he entered the building to find that the machine was gone!

And then in an instant an idea flashed across his brain. The unknown man on the moor who had so desperately attacked his father in the carriage had ridden his (Laurence's) own bicycle on that memorable occasion!

Impossible as the idea seemed at first, on second thoughts Laurence realised how extremely probable it was that the mysterious creature who haunted Squire Carrington should borrow on the French leave system, or even steal, the machine which would enable him to follow his terrified victim. He had been compelled to steal a dish of food and an old ragged coat; it was hardly conceivable that he should nevertheless possess a safety bicycle. And certainly there could be no doubt but that the machine had been stolen, for every one of the servants, whom Laurence next proceeded to question, professed entire ignorance of even the whereabouts of a key that would fit the lock on the shed door.

Undoubtedly they had nothing to do with the disappearance of the "iron horse."

Since Carrington was anxious to procure the ammunition for his little pistol in time to be of use, if required, at the coming interview with Jones-Farnell, he ordered the stable-boy to saddle the Squire's mare, on which he would ride into East Cave. Until the animal should be ready he paid another visit to the cycle shed, and examined the lock on the door.

It had been tampered with. The thief had used that harmless little tool which a professional burglar finds so useful when following his "profession"--a bent piece of copper wire. Examination of the interior of the little erection revealed no trace of the unknown man who had entered the shed. Who was he? That was a question that Laurence could not answer until the approaching ordeal was a thing of the past.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE LION'S DEN

It was already dusk when Laurence Carrington stepped briskly out of the gate of the Manse, and turned into the dark drive that led to the neighbouring house.

He had been unable to wish Lena "good-bye," for both the Squire and Mrs.

Knox had adjourned with her to the drawing-room at the conclusion of dinner. He had muttered something about "having a smoke" when he left them, and looking to his loaded pistol, which was something more than a mere plaything, he had set out on his important errand, wearing an ulster which covered his dress suit.

On this occasion he was not left waiting long in the porch, for his pull at the rusty bell was almost immediately answered by a repet.i.tion of the incidents of the morning. The same shuffling footsteps sounded along the pa.s.sage, the same grating noise of bolts being drawn followed, and the door was opened ajar in order that the janitor might satisfy himself as to the ident.i.ty of his late visitor.

The scrutiny through the c.h.i.n.k of the door was apparently satisfactory, for the man inside proceeded to release the chain, after which Laurence was invited in a surly, gruff tone to "come in."

Pitch darkness reigned supreme within, and the young man found his hand grasping the small fire-arm in his overcoat pocket as he took one step into the house, and the door banged upon him.

What little light there had been from the outside world was now shut out. With a shudder, Laurence realised how completely he had placed himself in the power of the unknown inhabitants of Durley Dene. In the gross darkness, what was to prevent this sour-faced porter, who had, when disguised, encountered him on the previous evening, from plunging a knife into his back as he stood there unable even to catch a glimpse of the man's outline?

Even as he thought thus a hand clutched his arm. The young man's fingers closed simultaneously round the pistol in his pocket, but his companion only requested him to follow upstairs, and guided him by the arm with an accuracy that denoted familiarity with the ins and outs of the house, up several short flights of uncarpeted stairs, until, presumably halfway down a narrow pa.s.sage, which must have been on the highest floor in the house, he stopped short suddenly.

Then he fumbled about for what was evidently a door handle, and a moment later a flood of pale light burst out from a room on the threshold of which the two had been standing. The door had been flung wide open, and with the janitor still holding his arm, Laurence moved forward into the room, which appeared well furnished, and in the centre of which sat a man in an arm-chair.

Half-blinded by the glare, Carrington stood for a moment motionless.

Then the door closed behind him, and, turning, he saw that his late guide had withdrawn. He was in the presence of Major Jones-Farnell.

"A very good evening to you, sir!"

The man in the chair rose as he uttered these words. He was of more than middle age and height, was clad in a light-coloured shooting suit, and wore gla.s.ses and a grey moustache.

"Well, and so you have bearded the lion in his den?"