"Come on, let me out, quick!" he exclaimed, horrified to find that the janitor had gripped his shoulders with the strength of a vice.

"All in good time, my pretty," replied the other, and in the darkness, which corresponded to the biblical description of that which "could be felt," the young man thought he had never heard words p.r.o.nounced in such a diabolical tone. "What would you say if I refused to let you go, my son? Ha, ha, you're in my power. Struggle as you may, I have got you as safe as if you were in Dartmoor, and, what's more, I shan't let you go until you make it worth my while."

He laughed coa.r.s.ely and brutally. In the black gloom, and judging by his voice, he might have been some fiend from the nether world. Was there ever such a strange house and such strange inhabitants, thought Laurence, as he struggled to free his hand for one moment, so that he might seize the pistol with which to silence the man's demands and to a.s.sist his own departure to the home where he was so greatly needed.

There was no denying that Laurence Carrington was a fairly strong man, yet in the hands of this strange guide he seemed as helpless as a rat.

With anything but good grace he offered the servant half a sovereign if he would instantly open the front door for him and offer no further molestation.

"Make it a thick 'un," whispered the man, with something like a leer; "make it a sov., mister, and you shall go free."

"You scoundrel!" cried Laurence, "I shall report your conduct to your master."

"Ha, ha! D'yer think I care?" replied the rascal; "he's no more to me than that." He snapped his fingers loudly.

"All right, let me out of the door, and I'll give you a sovereign."

"That I won't, unless you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you don't produce any firearms," replied the man, with a dig at Laurence's ribs which caused the latter to lounge out with his knee at where he imagined the other to be.

"All right, I promise."

"There you are, then. Fork out the gold boy."

Laurence fumbled in his pocket on his arms being released, and produced a coin from his pocket--the first he laid hands on--and pa.s.sed it to Smith. As he did so, a sound broke upon the grave-like stillness of this house of mystery--a sound that seemed to rise from the bas.e.m.e.nt or cellars, a long-drawn, terrible cry--the unnatural, nay, fiendish shriek of a person in the agonies of death.

And simultaneously the door opened, and Laurence found himself thrust hurriedly out into the night.

Before he could turn, or could realise the meaning of that awful sound, the door clanged upon him.

Then once more there was silence, unbroken save by the sudden hoot of an owl in a distant tree.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FIGURE IN THE MOONLIGHT

At last he was free from the horrors of that strange house--Durley Dene--and Laurence Carrington felt that for the moment he could breathe again. Then he remembered the cause of his hasty departure from Doctor Meadows' handsome sitting-room.

Running like mad down the dark drive and up the avenue that led to his home, he at length reached the front door of the Manse, opened it with his latch-key, and pa.s.sed through at the height of his speed.

No one was about. The pa.s.sages were deserted. But from upstairs came the sound of loud weeping. He leaped up the staircase, never stopping until he reached the Squire's bedroom, the door of which was open.

On the floor just inside the room sat Mrs. Knox crying loudly. A female servant stood by her in an equally hysterical state.

Laurence brushed past them, entered the room, and approached the old-fashioned bed, round which stood the butler, the housekeeper, and Lena.

On the bed, fully dressed, lay the body of his father, the Squire, stretched out in death. The face was a ghastly colour--a slaty shade of blue. The veins in it stood out like strips of whalebone. The chest protruded in an unnatural manner. The eyes were yet half opened. The fingers clutched tightly at the bedclothes. There was no sign that any breath remained in the old gentleman's body.

"Have you sent for Bathurst?" Laurence asked hoa.r.s.ely, addressing the butler.

"Yes, sir, I sent Head for the doctor and expect him every moment, but I'm afeard it's all up with the master. He was dead when I found him."

"Silence! He is not dead--he cannot be dead." And Laurence threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and laid his hand gently over his father's heart. But there was no perceptible movement.

The doctor, a big, powerful-looking man in a tweed suit, entered the room a moment later.

"This is indeed terrible," he said to Laurence as he made his way to the bedside. Then he leant down and ripped open the Squire's shirt at the neck, and in his turn felt for any movement of the heart. He shook his head ominously as he drew his hand away, and searching in his pocket produced a small mirror, which he held for a moment before the prostrate man's mouth.

"No, he's not dead," he said quietly, after a short pause, "but in a very bad way indeed." Next he commenced giving his orders in an imperative tone to the servants who were waiting in the doorway. One of the first was that Mrs. Knox and the hysterical housemaid should be at once removed. Laurence whispered to Lena to take her aunt away, for the poor woman was incapable of understanding what was said to her.

The girl seized his hand and pressed it as she went to do as he had asked her. "Thank G.o.d," she murmured, "that you are safe," and the young man knew that this was something of an answer to the question he had put a few brief hours before.

Dr. Bathurst was an able physician. He had all his wits about him and did not lose them at the critical moment. Silently the butler and housekeeper, as well as Laurence, carried out his instructions. In a few moments the Squire's evening clothes had been removed and he had been placed between the sheets. Then the struggle between death and medical skill began, and so bravely did the doctor fight for the life of his patient that after two long hours of watching and unceasing attendance he was able to turn to Laurence, who had stood by his side throughout the vigil, and say, "He will live."

Then, at Bathurst's request, young Carrington left the sick-room to inform those who were waiting outside that the crisis was past.

"What had happened?" Laurence had asked himself time after time as he stood by the bedside. It must surely be that the second attempt on the helpless old man's life had been made by his terrible foe--the attempt that he had been dreading since that night on the moor.

Lena met him in the pa.s.sage. She had prevailed upon her aunt to go to bed, and now was returning for news.

"Oh, isn't it awful to think of the fiend who has done this!" she cried, after learning that the Squire might yet live. "To think that your father is encompa.s.sed by a fearful, lurking danger, more horrible than that of the battle-field. What has he done? What does it all mean?"

But Laurence could not answer the question any better than she was able to. Had he not been striving ever since the attack on the carriage to discover what his father's secret was and why he stood in such mortal danger? But he had failed. He was no nearer the solution of the mystery after his visit to Durley Dene than he had been before.

"How did it happen? Do you know?" he asked. They had moved along the unlighted corridor until an open landing window, looking upon the lawn at the rear of the house, was reached.

"I know practically nothing at all about the sad event. The Squire went up to bed about an hour after you left, complaining of a headache. He had not been gone long when Kingsford appeared in a great state of alarm, excitedly exclaiming that he had entered Mr. Carrington's bedroom to a.s.sist him in undressing and had found what he believed to be your father's murdered corpse lying on the floor."

"On the floor! Then we might have known he was not dead, for he was clutching the sheets of the bed."

"Yes, he was laid on the bed directly I could get the butler to help me.

Then I scribbled that note to you and sent Kingsford with it, much to his surprise on learning where you were. The rest you know. But you--you escaped, then?"

"Yes, indeed, but I know no more than I did before I started."

"And Major Farnell?"

"Is a gentleman--a man of mystery. His real name is Meadows, or at least he says it is. He has a villain of a servant, who tried to frighten me, and, lastly, he has a secret. But whether he is the real enemy of my poor father I do not know. His certainly was not the hand that was raised against the Squire to-day, for I was with him when this second attack must have been made."

"And the servant, was he in the room the whole time?" asked Lena, breathlessly.

"Great goodness, no! Why, who knows but that he is the man who wages such warfare against my father? And Meadows' secret is his knowledge of his man's mysterious connection with poor old dad! You're right; it must be so, Miss Scott. But," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "I have returned from Durley Dene, and once again I ask you the question to which you postponed your answer this morning."

"Hush!" replied the girl. "I cannot answer now, when death has come so near to the house, and this dreadful mystery is yet unsolved. But----"