"Oh, do take care, Father!" Gladys pleaded, "you'll fall and break your neck. Do be sensible and come down now."

But John Martin paid no attention, he went on groping.

"I've found it," he suddenly shouted. "That bounder was right, the trunk is hollow." He was silent then, for some minutes, and Gladys could only see his boots. Then there was a m.u.f.fled oath, a sound of choking and gasping, which made Gladys's blood run cold, and then--a great cry. "There's something here, something hard and heavy. It's a box, an iron box! Take it from me." And leaning as far down as he dared, he placed in Gladys's outstretched hands, a rusty iron box.

Then there was the sound of sc.r.a.ping and tearing, and John Martin gradually lowered himself to the ground--his coat covered with green, and the knees of his trousers ripped to pieces.

Gladys ran indoors for a hammer and chisel, and, the hinges of the box being worn with age and exposure, it was but the work of a few seconds to break it open. It was full of gold and silver coins and jewellery; there were only a few gold pieces, the greater number of the coins were silver--the bulk Georgian--and their dates ranged from 1697 to 1750. The jewellery consisted of several ma.s.sive gold bracelets, (two or three of very fine workmanship); some dozen or so plain gold rings; two silver watches, and a varied a.s.sortment of silver trinkets. All were more or less antique, but none--apart from the gold bracelets--of any great value.

"Well!" John Martin exclaimed, as they concluded their examination of the articles, "what do you make of it?"

"Why that man put them there, of course," Gladys said, "can't you see the whole thing is nothing but a dodge to intimidate you into forming a friendship with him. I daresay he has heard that Mr. Davenport is dead, and thinks he sees an opportunity to be taken into partnership.

He had a horrid face--sly and cunning, and his way of looking at me was positively disgusting. It makes me feel sick and horrid even to think of it."

"What shall we do with these things?" John Martin asked, picking up one of the watches and eyeing it with curiosity.

"Are they ours?" Gladys replied.

"I certainly consider we've a right to keep them," her father said, "since we've found them ourselves on our own property, but I suppose, legally, they are treasure trove and ought to be given up."

"Then surely the Government would pay us something for them, wouldn't it?"

"I should think so, at least a decent Government would. Anyhow, I think to give them up will be our best course. I doubt if the whole lot is worth fifty pounds. Where was it he said there was water?"

"Good gracious!" Gladys exclaimed, "you don't mean to say you are going to bother about that now!"

"It was here, I think," John Martin went on, thrusting his stick in the ground, "to the best of my knowledge--and I had experts'

advice--there is no water any where near here. Had there been, I should not have gone to the expense of having pipes laid down to feed the pond."

"Oh, Father, how can you be so silly," Gladys cried, "of course there isn't any water here. It's only a trick, a trick to frighten you--and I'm beginning to think it has succeeded."

"I shall try here anyway to-morrow," John Martin said grimly. "Let us go in now."

When Gladys went into the garden on the following morning she beheld an extraordinary sight. Her father, the gardener, and a man whom she did not recognize at first, as his back was turned towards her, but who, to her utter astonishment, proved to be Shiel Davenport, were hard at work, digging a pit.

Her father paused every now and then, and rested; but he did not allow the others a moment's respite. Every time they were about to slack, he urged them on. It was all very well for the gardener who was accustomed to it, but it was obviously killing work for Shiel Davenport, and Gladys--as soon as she had overcome a preliminary outburst of laughter--gave vent to her sympathies.

"What a shame," she exclaimed, "Father how can you? Poor Mr. Davenport looks ready to drop. Take a rest, Mr. Davenport! Do--you have my permission."

Looking very hot and exhausted, Shiel Davenport threw down his spade and attempted to make himself presentable.

"His clothes will be ruined, Father," Gladys said, indignantly.

"They're not his clothes--he's wearing an old suit of mine," John Martin explained, trying to appear unconcerned.

Shiel forced a laugh. "I'm rather out of form, Miss Martin, I haven't had much exercise lately."

"You're getting it now anyway," John Martin chuckled.

"And it's blistered your hands horribly!" Gladys cried, pointing to several raw places. "I will fetch you a pair of father's gloves--he's a brute!"

"Please don't trouble," Shiel exclaimed, "I'll use my handkerchief instead. Digging is even harder work than painting--in one way."

"It's not fit work for you," Gladys replied with another reproachful glance at her father. "When did you arrive, I never heard you?"

"I 'phoned to him last night," John Martin said, looking rather sheepish. "I thought a day out here would do him good. He thought so too, and came on by the seven o'clock train. We've been digging ever since breakfast--but a bit of exercise won't hurt him, and I'll give him plenty of vaseline presently."

They resumed work again; and Gladys retired indoors. At eleven o'clock John Martin let Shiel go. "You can amuse yourself till luncheon with books and papers," he said, "you'll find plenty of them in my study.

I'll join you later."

But Shiel had other ideas of amusing himself, and as soon as he had washed and changed back into his own clothes, he followed the sounds of music until he reached the drawing-room.

"I'm sure you must feel dreadfully tired," Gladys said, leaving off playing. "It was too bad of Father to make you work like that."

"I'm afraid your father thinks me a very useless article," Shiel replied, seating himself in an easy chair, and trying his hardest not to look too ardently. "And an artist is not much good outside his profession."

"Who is?" Gladys smiled. "Shall you still go on painting?"

"Now that my uncle has died? It all depends--depends on whether he has been able to leave me anything in his will. From one or two things your father has said I fear he has not--in which case I don't quite know what I shall do. I could hardly expect Mr. Martin to take me into his firm."

"Aren't you any good at invention?" Gladys asked, "I know he wants some one who is--some one who can help him devise fresh tricks. This everlasting racking of the brains to think of something new is beginning to be too much for him."

"I wish I could be of some use," Shiel said, "both for his sake and mine, and may I add yours. Anyhow I'll try. I have a certain amount of imagination--I suppose most artists have, and henceforth I'll devote it to trickery."

"No, not to trickery!" Gladys said, "to conjuring!"

"Well, to conjuring then--to planning something novel and startling in the way of a trick. And as they say, two heads are better than one, perhaps, you will help me."

"I," Gladys laughed, "why I've never invented anything in my life, barring a song."

"Nevertheless I'm sure you would be of great help to me," Shiel said; "you would at least criticize my efforts, wouldn't you?"

"Oh! I should certainly do that," Gladys laughingly rejoined, "and probably do more harm than good."

"You could never do any harm!" Shiel said, with so much eagerness that Gladys got up and began searching for a piece of music. "I would give anything to paint you."

"I have been painted--twice," Gladys observed.

"For the R.A.?"

"Yes! I didn't much care about it, and I grew desperately tired of sitting."

"Who painted you?"

"Heniblow painted me once, and Darker painted me once."

"Then it's useless for me even to think of it. How did they treat you in their pictures?"

"Heniblow painted me in evening dress, and Darker painted me in the character of Enid--you know, the Enid in the 'Idylls of the King.'"