"Probably a week."

"Very good, sir."

"It is now half-past three, I must be back in Dapplemere at eight. Take your time--I'll go down to look at the machine. Just lock the place up, and--er--don't forget the black bag."

Some ten minutes later the great racing car set out on its journey, with Bellew at the wheel, and Baxter beside him with the black bag held firmly upon his knee.

Their process was, necessarily, slow at first, on account of the crowded thoroughfares. But, every now and then, the long, low car would shoot forward through some gap in the traffic, grazing the hubs of bus-wheels, dodging hansoms, shaving sudden corners in an apparently reckless manner. But Baxter, with his hand always upon the black leather bag, sat calm and unruffled, since he knew, by long experience, that Bellew's eye was quick and true, and his hand firm and sure upon the wheel.

Over Westminster Bridge, and along the Old Kent Road they sped, now fast, now slow,--threading a tortuous, and difficult way amid the myriad vehicles, and so, betimes, they reached Blackheath.

And now the powerful machine hummed over that ancient road that had aforetime, shaken to the tread of stalwart Roman Legionaries,--up Shooter's Hill, and down,--and so into the open country.

And, ever as they went, they talked. And not as master and servant but as "between man and man,"--wherefore Baxter the Valet became merged and lost in Baxter the Human,--the honest John of the old days,--a gray haired, kindly-eyed, middle-aged cosmopolitan who listened to, and looked at, Young Alcides beside him as if he had indeed been the Master George, of years ago.

"So you see, John, if all things _do_ go well with me, we should probably take a trip to the Mediterranean."

"In the--'Silvia,' of course, Master George?"

"Yes; though--er--I've decided to change her name, John."

"Ah!--very natural--under the circ.u.mstances, Master George," said honest John, his eyes twinkling slyly as he spoke, "Now, if I might suggest a new name it would be hard to find a more original one than 'The Haunting Spectre of the--"

"Bosh, John!--there never was such a thing, you were quite right, as I said before, and--by heaven,--potato sacks!"

"Eh,--what?--potato sacks, Master George?"

They had been climbing a long, winding ascent, but now, having reached the top of the hill, they overtook a great, lumbering market cart, or wain, piled high with sacks of potatoes, and driven by an extremely surly-faced man in a smock-frock.

"Hallo there!" cried Bellew, slowing up, "how much for one of your potato-sacks?"

"Get out, now!" growled the surly-faced man, in a tone as surly as his look, "can't ye see as they're all occipied?"

"Well,--empty one."

"Get out, now!" repeated the man, scowling blacker than ever.

"I'll give you a sovereign for one."

"Now, don't ye try to come none o' your jokes wi' me, young feller!"

growled the carter. "Sovereign!--bah!--Show us."

"Here it is," said Bellew, holding up the coin in question. "Catch!"

and, with the word, he tossed it up to the carter who caught it, very dexterously, looked at it, bit it, rubbed it on his sleeve, rang it upon the foot-board of his waggon, bit it again and finally pocketed it.

"It's a go, sir," he nodded, his scowl vanishing as by magic; and as he spoke, he turned, seized the nearest sack, and, forthwith sent a cascade of potatoes rolling, and bounding all over the road. Which done, he folded up the sack, and handed it down to Bellew who thrust it under the seat, nodded, and, throwing in the clutch, set off down the road. But, long after the car had hummed itself out of sight, and the dust of its going had subsided, the carter sat staring after it--open-mouthed.

If Baxter wondered at this purchase, he said nothing, only he bent his gaze thoughtfully upon the black leather bag that he held upon his knee.

On they sped between fragrant hedges, under whispering trees, past lonely cottages and farm-houses, past gate, and field, and wood, until the sun grew low.

At last, Bellew stopped the automobile at a place where a narrow lane, or cart track, branched off from the high road, and wound away between great trees.

"I leave you here," said he as he sprang from the car, "this is Dapplemere,--the farmhouse lies over the up-land, yonder, though you can't see it because of the trees."

"Is it far, Master George?"

"About half a mile."

"Here is the bag, sir; but--do you think it is--quite safe--?"

"Safe, John?"

"Under the circ.u.mstances, Master George, I think it would be advisable to--to take this with you." And he held out a small revolver. Bellew laughed, and shook his head.

"Such things aren't necessary--here in Arcadia, John,--besides, I have my stick. So good-bye, for the present, you'll stay at the 'King's Head,'--remember."

"Good-night, Master George, sir, goodnight! and good fortune go with you."

"Thank you!" said Bellew, and reached out his hand, "I think we'll shake on that, John!"

So they clasped hands, and Bellew turned, and set off along the gra.s.sy lane. And, presently, as he went, he heard the hum of the car grow rapidly fainter and fainter until it was lost in the quiet of the evening.

CHAPTER XXV

_The Conspirators_

The shadows were creeping down, and evening was approaching, as Bellew took his way along that winding lane that led to the House of Dapplemere.

Had there been anyone to see, (which there was not), they might have noticed something almost furtive in his manner of approach, for he walked always under the trees where the shadows lay thickest, and paused, once or twice, to look about him warily. Being come within sight of the house, he turned aside, and forcing his way through a gap in the hedge, came by a roundabout course to the farm-yard. Here, after some search, he discovered a spade, the which, (having discarded his stick), he took upon his shoulder, and with the black leather bag tucked under his arm, crossed the paddock with the same degree of caution, and so, at last, reached the orchard. On he went, always in the shadow until, at length, he paused beneath the mighty, knotted branches of "King Arthur."

Never did conspirator glance about him with sharper eyes, or hearken with keener ears, than did George Bellew,--or Conspirator No. One, where he now stood beneath the protecting shadow of "King Arthur,"--or Conspirator No. Two, as, having unfolded the potato sack, he opened the black leather bag.

The moon was rising broad, and yellow, but it was low as yet, and "King Arthur" stood in impenetrable gloom,--as any other thorough-going, self-respecting conspirator should; and now, all at once, from this particular patch of shadow, there came a sudden sound,--a rushing sound,--a c.h.i.n.king, clinking, metallic sound, and, thereafter, a crisp rustling that was not the rustling of ordinary paper.

And now Conspirator No. One rises, and ties the mouth of the sack with string he had brought with him for the purpose, and setting down the sack, bulky now and heavy, by Conspirator No. Two, takes up the spade and begins to dig. And, in a while, having made an excavation not very deep to be sure, but sufficient to his purpose, he deposits the sack within, covers it with soil, treads it down, and replacing the torn sod, carefully pats it down with the flat of his spade. Which thing accomplished, Conspirator No. One wipes his brow, and stepping forth of the shadow, consults his watch with anxious eye, and, thereupon, smiles,--surely a singularly pleasing smile for the lips of an arch-conspirator to wear. Thereafter he takes up the black bag, empty now, shoulders the spade, and sets off, keeping once more in the shadows, leaving Conspirator No. Two to guard their guilty secret.

Now, as Conspirator No. One goes his shady way, he keeps his look directed towards the rising moon, and thus he almost runs into one who also stands amid the shadows and whose gaze is likewise fixed upon the moon.

"Ah?--Mr. Bellew!" exclaims a drawling voice, and Squire Ca.s.silis turns to regard him with his usual supercilious smile. Indeed Squire Ca.s.silis seems to be even more self-satisfied, and smiling than ordinary, to-night,--or at least Bellew imagines so.

"You are still agriculturally inclined, I see," said Mr. Ca.s.silis, nodding towards the spade, "though it's rather a queer time to choose for digging, isn't it?"

"Not at all, sir--not at all," returned Bellew solemnly, "the moon is very nearly at the full, you will perceive."

"Well, sir,--and what of that?"

"When the moon is at the full, or nearly so, I generally dig, sir,--that is to say, circ.u.mstances permitting."