"There! Something like cellars, eh? Hold up the light."

Saul obeyed, and as the damp odour of sawdust fell upon his sense of smell, he saw that he had, right and left, bin after bin, formed in brickwork, whitewashed, and all nearly full of bottles, over each bin being the kind and age of the wine in black letters upon a white earthenware label.

"Why, I had no conception that you had such a cellar, old fellow."

"S'pose not. It isn't everybody who has. Needn't stint, eh? Cellar after cellar, all through beneath the house."

"But not all stocked?"

"Every one, and with the best of wine. Here we are."

He stopped before a bin, and took down a bottle of whiskey. "Don't want to see any more I suppose?"

"Oh yes, I do. Let's see it all."

"See it and taste too if you like. What shall it be?"

"Nothing," said Saul grimly, as he looked intently about him. "I shall have another drop of that whiskey when we get upstairs, and then go home."

"Good boy," was the bantering remark. "Capital whiskey, though. Like milk. You should taste some of the stuff they sell us out in the West.

Paraffin is honey to it!"

"No wish to try it, my dear sir," said Saul, as he followed his host from cellar to cellar, the feeble light of the candle casting curious shadows on the damp, whitewashed walls, and glinting from the round bottle ends which protruded from their sawdust beds.

"I'm astounded," said Saul, as they went on and on. "I'd no idea the old man had such a cellar of wine. He scarcely ever touched anything but a liqueur of brandy."

"Saving it all up for me, I suppose," said the other laughingly.

"Bring many people down here?"

"Here? n.o.body. You're the first who has been down. Place had been sealed up for years. Look at that?"

They were in the farthest cellar now, a small, low-arched, and groined place, with bins on two sides, the other being blank brick wall, whitewashed.

"Well, what is there to look at?"

"Wait till we get upstairs and I'll show you. Had enough of it?"

"Yes," said Saul, as he curiously scanned the liquid wealth about him, and noticed the various catacomb-like openings in which the rich amber, topaz, and ruby wine was stored.

"Come along, then. Can always give a friend a good gla.s.s of wine when he comes."

Saul followed, noting how silent and tomb-like the place was, and how his footsteps made not the slightest sound in the thick coating of sawdust on the stone floor. Then he remarked how grotesque and strange his companion looked in the darkness, with the light sending his shadow here and there, and a strange sensation attacked Saul Harrington,--the blood flew to his head, and he saw dimly, as through a mist in which various scenes were being enacted, and all connected with the man before him--the man who stood in his way, and without whom he would have been a rich man, perhaps a happy one.

"I could have made her love me," he muttered. "Eh?"

"I did not speak. Cleared my throat."

"Oh, I say! what's the matter? You look ghastly."

"The darkness and your candle," said Saul, smiling. "I don't know, though; I do feel a bit giddy. Is it the smell of the wine?"

"Perhaps. Come and have the whiskey. That will soon set you right."

The doors were carefully locked, and Saul Harrington shuddered, his brow contracted, and he seemed to be looking far away into futurity as he followed his host upstairs into the study, where the cork was drawn, fresh cigars lit, and, after placing the keys in the cabinet drawer, another was opened, and an oblong book taken out.

"Look at that, my lad. Cellar book. There you are--age and quant.i.ty of all the wines, and when laid down."

"Wonderful care he took of all these things."

"The old man was a trump. But look here, Saul, my lad: 'Cellar number seven entered by bricked-up archway from number six.' Remember number six?"

"No."

"Yes, you do; where I spoke when you were staring at the blank wall.

That's the way into number seven. And read here: 'Eight bins, four on each side. Three on the right, port; four on the left, sherry. The fourth bin on the right I shall fill with Madeira when I come across a good vintage. Bricked up, JH.'"

"Yes, my uncle's writing," said Saul, looking eagerly, and greatly attracted by the book. "That's a bricked-up cellar, then, beyond the others?"

"Yes, with the bins also bricked-up. We'll break through some day, Saul, and taste them."

"We will," said the latter, rising hastily, and giving his head a shake, as if to clear away some mist. "What, going?"

"Yes," said Saul huskily. "I must be off. Good-night, old fellow."

"Good-night, Saul, old chap. I'll let you out and lock up. Quite early. Only eleven. Better stop and have another gla.s.s."

"No, no," said Saul hurriedly. "Not to-night."

"Won't you come up and say good-night to Gertie and Mrs Hampton?"

"No. Say good-night for me."

Saul caught up his hat and hurried away out into the gloomy suburban road.

"If you miss your train, come back," shouted the young man.

"Yes, yes, all right," came back out of the darkness, and then, with bent head, Saul Harrington hurried on, making his way more by instinct than sight toward the station, as he kept on muttering to himself:

"It half maddens me to see them together. Him, the wretched, coa.r.s.e, drunken savage, wallowing in all that wealth. Will she marry him? I suppose so. No, no. I dared not stay. I felt as if--"

Saul Harrington looked stealthily round, and then shuddered, as he thought of the loneliness of the place, the hours they spent together, and then walked rapidly on to try and chase away the thoughts which seemed to be hunting him through the darkness of the night.

Meanwhile, George Harrington, Esq, of The Mynns, went back into the study, poured himself out another gla.s.s of the whiskey, tossed it off, and walked up into the drawing-room, where he met Gertrude, candle in hand, crossing to the door.

"Ah, Gertie, going to bed?"

"Yes, George. Good-night."