"No, Leo." Sybil was still obstinate. "I want to try this myself. If it fails it can do no harm, and if it succeeds I shall have the joy of knowing that it was I who got you out of this trouble. Now promise not to tell!"

At first Leo refused. He did not want Sybil to mix herself up in this disagreeable case even for his sake. But she used such endearments, and kept to her point with such pertinacity, that he gave in. It was useless to contend against Sybil when she set her heart on getting anything. She never would give in, however discouraged. Therefore, before she left the library, she had drawn out an advertis.e.m.e.nt with the a.s.sistance of Leo, in which the appearance of the cup and its Latin inscription were carefully set down. A reward of fifty pounds was offered, and the answers were to be sent to S. T., at the Colester Post-office.

"There!" said Sybil, when this doc.u.ment was completed, "I have set my trap. Now we shall see who will fall into it. I'll make a dozen copies at once, and have them sent off by to-morrow. Not a word, Leo, about this."

"I will be silent, as I have promised. All the same, I do not feel comfortable about your experiment. To tell you the truth, Sybil, I can't see the sense of it. Now, don't look angry, dear. I know it is all done out of love for me."

"I am not sure that you deserve my love," pouted Sybil as he escorted her to the door. "You place all kinds of obstacles in my way!"

She was rather angry, for her heart was fully taken up with the magnificence of her scheme. However, Leo managed to calm her, and gain her forgiveness. He was quite unaware of what he had done wrong. But Sybil said that he had behaved disgracefully, so he apologised. Then she said that she was a wicked girl, and after kissing him ran away. All this was very foolish, but very sweet. Leo often recalled that interview to her in after days, and they both agreed that they behaved like two most sensible people. But at present Leo was too sad to enjoy the stolen meeting as a true and loyal lover should have done.

That same night the sea-fog rolled up thick and white. Mr Pratt did not return home, at which non-arrival Adams was not surprised. Mr Pratt was too fond of his creature comforts to drive twenty miles through a damp and clinging mist. Leo had the whole house to himself, and Adam, who thought a good deal of him, did his best to make him comfortable. He consulted with the cook and gave Leo a capital little dinner, together with a bottle of superfine Burgundy. Then he supplied him with cigars of the best and coffee of the finest, and left him comfortably seated before the drawing-room fire. Under these circ.u.mstances Leo felt happier than he had expected, seeing at what a low ebb his fortunes were.

The position of the unfortunate young man was undeniably hard. Here he was, deserted by his aunt, Mrs Gabriel. She had taken him up, brought him up to expect a large fortune, and then, for no cause at all, had suddenly cast him out on the world to earn his own living as best he could. And in addition to this, although it was hardship enough, poor Leo's character was gone. He was accused of a sordid crime, and might have to answer for it to the law. He did not see what defence he could make. Certainly, if he acceded to Hale's terms, he could vindicate his position in some measure by accounting for the sum of money he had used to pay his debts. But in this case Sybil would be lost to him. And what would life be without Sybil? Altogether, Leo was in low spirits, in spite of the fire and the Burgundy, and the memory of that charming interview. But it was no use lamenting, as he very truly observed to himself, so he tried to shake off the feeling of depression and went to bed. He was young, the world was large, and he hoped in some way or another to sail out of these troubled waters into a peaceful haven. Hope was the silver lining to his cloud of black despair.

Meanwhile, Raston had written to his friend Marton a full account of the loss of the cup, of the accusation by Mrs Jeal of Leo, and of the suspicions entertained by the villagers concerning the probity of the young man. For some days he heard nothing. Then one evening Marton himself arrived unexpectedly at Colester. He went at once to the curate's lodgings and was received with great surprise.

"My dear Marton, this is an unexpected pleasure," said Raston, a.s.sisting his distinguished visitor to pull off his coat. "I thought you would have written to me about your visit to Penny."

"I didn't go there," replied Marton, with a laugh. "The fact is, Harold, I cannot quite understand this case. You have not explained matters clearly enough in your letter. I have set a detective to watch Penny and Penny's shop, and I have come down to hear all details from your own worshipful lips. But what a foggy sort of place you have here! I have been driving in your mail-coach through a kind of cotton-wool. The guard thought we would never reach Colester. I felt like a character of d.i.c.kens in that coach. You are a primitive people here. Do you know I rather like it!"

Marton was a tall, slim, black-haired man, neatly dressed in a tweed suit. He constantly smoked cigarettes, and maintained a perfectly calm demeanour. No one ever saw Marton excited. His face was clean-shaven, and his grey eyes were sharp and piercing. He looked what he was, a thorough gentleman, and a remarkably shrewd, clever man. His fame as a detective is so well known that it need hardly be mentioned.

"I must get you something to eat," said Raston.

"No. I dined at Portfront before I left. Give me a gla.s.s of port, and I can smoke a cigarette. This fire is comfortable after the fog."

"I have some excellent port, Marton. My dear mother is under the impression that I am delicate, and keeps me well supplied from my father's cellar. I don't know what he says to it."

"Being a clergyman, you had better not know," said Marton, dryly. "Your father had a vocabulary of--There, there, I'll say nothing more. I want my port, my cigarette, and a full account of this case. It seems to be an interesting one. I shouldn't have come down otherwise, even for your sake, my dear Harold. I have just twice as much business on hand as I can do with. The detective life is not a happy one."

Raston poured out a gla.s.s of port and placed it at Marton's elbow. He watched his friend light a cigarette, and himself filled his well-worn briar. Then, when they were comfortably established, he related all that he knew about the case. Marton listened with his eyes on the fire, but made no observation until the recital was finished. Indeed, even then he did not seem inclined to talk.

"Well?" said Raston, rather impatiently. "What do you think?"

"Wait a bit, my friend. It is a difficult case. I am not prepared to give you an opinion straight away. I must ask something about the people concerned in it first. This Leo Haverleigh? What about him?"

"He is a good man, and perfectly honest. I should as soon have suspected myself of stealing the cup as Leo. And I have known him for some time."

"Well, if anyone ought to know the truth about a man's character I should think a clergyman was the person," said Marton. "Is it not Balzac who says the clergy are all in black because they see the worst side of human nature? Humph! Have you had to put on mourning for this Haverleigh?"

"No. He has been a trifle wild, and has got into debt; but otherwise there is nothing wrong about him. Besides," added the curate, "Miss Tempest is in love with him, and they are engaged. She is a n.o.ble girl, and would not love a scoundrel."

"Ah!" said Marton, cynically, "I have seen a remark of that sort in novels, my good man. In real life--But that is neither here nor there. I should like to meet this young man."

"I can take you with me to-night. He is staying with Mr Pratt at The Nun's House. It is no very great distance away."

"I can wait till to-morrow, Harold. I have no very great desire to go out into this dense fog. By the way, who is this Mr Pratt?"

"A newcomer to Colester. He has been here off and on for the last few months, and has decided to settle here. He is well off, and has travelled a great deal. His house is beautifully furnished."

"Quite an acquisition to the neighbourhood!" said Marton, drowsily. "I must make the acquaintance of your people here to-morrow. Just now I feel inclined to go to bed."

"But tell me your opinion of this case?"

"Well," said Marton, thoughtfully, "from all the evidence you give me it seems that Haverleigh is guilty."

"No, Marton," replied the curate, "I'll never believe that. And you forget that he claims to have obtained the money from Sir Frank Hale."

"Well, then, his possession of three hundred pounds is easily proved. I shall see Sir Frank Hale and question him. With regard to this Mrs Jeal, her story seems credible enough. I don't suppose she has any enmity against Haverleigh?"

"No. But she is a woman I neither like nor trust. A demure, cat-like creature, with a pair of wicked eyes."

"You make me long to see her," said Marton, waking up. "That is just the sort of person I like to meet. Do you think she may have stolen this cup herself, and have invented this wild story to account for the loss? I have heard of stranger and even more daring things."

"No. That is out of the question, Marton. On the night the cup was stolen Mrs Jeal was watching beside this sick girl--the mad creature I have told you about. She is innocent."

"Then I can only say that young Haverleigh seems to be the most likely person. Only, the evidence against him is so plain that I believe him to be guiltless. I always mistrust too plain evidence, Raston. It shows signs of having been prepared. Well, I'll see this young man to-morrow, and have a chat. I go by the face a great deal. Have you a photograph of him?"

"No," said the curate on the spur of the moment. "Oh, yes, by the way! I took a group of our people at a picnic. It is not a bad picture, although small. You can see the whole lot at a glance."

Raston got out the photograph, and Marton went to the lamp to see it the more plainly. He glanced at first carelessly at it, then his eyes grew large, his attention became fixed. At that moment there was a ring at the door. Marton looked at the clock. "You have a late visitor," he said.

"A call to see some sick woman probably. Why do you look so closely at that picture, Marton?"

"There is a face here I know. Who is that?"

Raston looked. "That is the man with whom Haverleigh is staying. Pratt!"

"Pratt?" repeated Marton in a thoughtful tone. "Has he a tattooed star on his cheek just under the cheek bone?"

"Yes. And he is tattooed on the arm also--the right arm. I expect he had it done while he was a sailor."

"Oh!" said Marton, dryly, "he says he was a sailor."

"Not to my knowledge; but he has mentioned something of being an amateur one. Do you know him, Marton?"

"If he is the man I think he is, I know him better than you do, Raston!"

"Then who is--" Raston had just got thus far, when the landlady opened the door to announce Mr Pratt. "Here is the man himself, Marton."

"Marton!" echoed Pratt, who was standing in the doorway.

"Yes, Mr--Angel," said Marton, looking straight at him.

Pratt stood for just half a moment as though turned into stone. Then he turned on his heel, and went out of the door and down the stairs as swiftly as he was able. Without a word Marton darted after him. By the time he reached the street door Pratt had disappeared in the fog.