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The Mystery of the Ravenspurs

by Fred M. White · English · Gutenberg #48882 · 515,130 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mystery of the Ravenspurs

Author: Fred M. White

Illustrator: André C. De Takacs


        
Release date: May 5, 2015 [eBook #48882]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS ***

THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS


A ROMANCE AND DETECTIVE STORY OF THIBET AND ENGLAND.

BY
FRED M. WHITE,

Author of "The Crimson Blind," "The Corner House," Etc.

ILLUSTRATIONS AND COVER DESIGN BY
ANDRE CH. DE TAKACS.

NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 ROSE STREET.


COPYRIGHT 1911, BY
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY.


[Illustration: And inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark
Eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain.
--Page 110.]




THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS




CHAPTER I

THE SHADOW OF A FEAR


A grand old castle looks out across the North Sea, and fishermen toiling
on the deep catch the red flash from Ravenspur Point, as their
forefathers have done for many generations.

The Ravenspurs and their great granite fortress have made history
between them. Every quadrangle and watch-tower and turret has its legend
of brave deeds and bloody deeds, of fights for the king and the glory of
the flag. And for five hundred years there has been no Ravenspur who has
not acquitted himself like a man. Theirs is a record to be proud of.

Time has dealt lightly with the home of the Ravenspurs. It is probably
the most perfect mediæval castle in the country. The moat and the
drawbridge are still intact; the portcullis might be worked by a child.
And landwards the castle looks over a fair domain of broad acres where
the orchards bloom and flourish and the red beeves wax fat in the
pastures.

A quiet family, a handsome family, a family passing rich in the world's
goods, they are strong and brave--a glorious chronicle behind them and
no carking cares ahead.

Surely, then, the Ravenspurs should be happy and contented beyond most
men. Excepting the beat of the wings of the Angel of Death, that comes
to all sooner or later, surely no sorrow dwelt there that the hand of
time could fail to soothe.

And yet over them hung the shadow of a fear.

No Ravenspur had ever slunk away from any danger, however great, so long
as it was tangible; but there was something here that turned the
stoutest heart to water, and caused strong men to start at their own
shadows.

For five years now the curse had lain heavy on the house of Ravenspur.

It had come down upon them without warning; at first in the guise of a
series of accidents and misfortunes, until gradually it became evident
that some cunning and remorseless enemy was bent upon exterminating the
Ravenspurs root and branch.

There had been no warning given, but one by one the Ravenspurs died
mysteriously, horribly, until at last no more than seven of the family
remained. The North-country shuddered in speaking of the ill-starred
family. The story had found its way into print.

Scotland Yard had taken the case in hand; but still the hapless
Ravenspurs died, mysteriously murdered, and even some of those who
survived had tales to unfold of marvelous escapes from destruction.

The fear grew on them like a hunting madness. From first to last not one
single clue, however small, had the murderers left behind. Family
archives were ransacked and personal histories explored with a view to
finding some forgotten enemy who had originated this vengeance. But the
Ravenspurs had ever been generous and kind, honorable to men and true to
women, and none could lay a finger on the blot.

In the whole history of crime no such weird story had ever been told
before. Why should this blow fall after the lapse of all these years?
What could the mysterious foe hope to gain by this merciless slaughter?
And to struggle against the unseen enemy was in vain.

As the maddening terror deepened, the most extraordinary precautions
were taken to baffle the assassin. Eighteen months ago the word had
gone out for the gathering of the family at the castle. They had come
without followers or retainers of any kind; every servant had been
housed outside the castle at nightfall, and the grim old fortress had
been placed in a state of siege.

They waited upon themselves, they superintended the cooking of their own
food, no strange feet crossed the drawbridge. When the portcullis was
raised, the most ingenious burglar would have failed to find entrance.
At last the foe was baffled; at last the family was safe. There were no
secret passages, no means of entry; and here salvation lay.

Alas for fond hopes! Within the last year and a half three of the family
had perished in the same strange and horrible fashion.

There was Richard Ravenspur, a younger son of Rupert, the head of the
house, with his wife and boy. Richard Ravenspur had been found dead in
his bed, poisoned by some lemonade; his wife had walked into the moat in
the darkness; the boy had fallen from one of the towers into a stone
quadrangle and been instantly killed.

The thing was dreadful, inexplicable to a degree. The enemy who was
doing this thing was in the midst of them. And yet no stranger passed
those iron gates; none but Ravenspurs dwelt within the walls. Eye looked
into eye and fell again, ashamed that the other should know the
suspicions racking each poor distracted brain.

And there were only seven of them now--seven pallid, hollow-cheeked
wretches, almost longing for the death they dreaded.

There was Rupert Ravenspur, the head of the family, a fine, handsome,
white-headed man, who had distinguished himself in the Crimea and the
Indian Mutiny. There was his son Gordon who some day might succeed him;
there was Gordon's wife and his daughter Vera. Then there was Geoffrey
Ravenspur, the orphan son of one Jasper Ravenspur, who had fallen under
the scourge two years before.

And also there was Marion Ravenspur, the orphan daughter of Charles
Ravenspur, another son who had died in India five years before of
cholera. Mrs. Charles was there, the child of an Indian prince, and from
her Marion had inherited the dark beauty and soft glorious eyes that
made her beloved of the whole family.

A strange tale surely, a hideous nightmare, and yet so painfully
realistic. One by one they were being cut off by the malignant
destroyer, and ere long the family would be extinct. It seemed
impossible to fight against the desolation that always struck in the
darkness, and never struck in vain.

Rupert Ravenspur looked out from the leads above the castle to the open
sea, and from thence to the trim lawns and flower beds away to the park,
where the deer stood knee-deep in the bracken.

It was a fair and perfect picture of a noble English homestead, far
enough removed apparently from crime and violence. And yet!

A deep sigh burst from the old man's breast; his lips quivered. The
shadow of that awful fear was in his eyes. Not that he feared for
himself, for the snows of seventy years lay upon his head, and his
life's work was done.

It was others he was thinking of. The bright bars of the setting sun
shone on a young and graceful couple below coming towards the moat. A
tender light filled old Ravenspur's eyes.

Then he started as a gay laugh reached his ears. The sound caught him
almost like a blow. Where had he heard a laugh like that before? It
seemed strangely out of place. And yet those two were young, and they
loved one another. Under happier auspices, Geoffrey Ravenspur would some
day come into the wide acres and noble revenues, and take his cousin
Vera to wife.

"May God spare them!" Ravenspur cried aloud. "Surely the curse must burn
itself out some time, or the truth must come to light. If I could only
live to know that they were happy!"

The words were a fervent prayer. The dying sun that turned the towers
and turrets of the castle to a golden glory fell on his white, quivering
face. It lit up the agony of the strong man with despair upon him. He
turned as a hand lay light as thistledown on his arm.

"Amen with all my heart, dear grandfather," a gentle voice murmured. "I
could not help hearing what you said."

Ravenspur smiled mournfully. He looked down into a pure young face,
gentle and placid, like that of a madonna, and yet full of strength. The
dark brown eyes were so clear that the white soul seemed to gleam behind
them. There was Hindoo blood in Marion Ravenspur's veins, but she bore
no trace of the fact. And, out of the seven surviving members of that
ill-fated race, Marion was the most beloved. All relied upon her, all
trusted her. In the blackest hour her courage never faltered; she never
bowed before the unseen terror.

Ravenspur turned upon her almost fiercely.

"We must save Vera and Geoffrey," he said. "They must be preserved. The
rest of us are as nothing by comparison. The whole future of our race
lies with those two young people. Watch over them, Marion; shield Vera
from every harm. I know that she loves you. Swear that you will protect
her from every evil!"

"There is no occasion to swear anything," Marion said, in her clear,
sweet voice. "Dear, don't you know that I am devoted heart and soul to
your interests? When my parents died, and I elected to come here in
preference to returning to my mother's people, you received me with open
arms. Do you suppose that I could ever forget the love and affection
that have been poured upon me? If I can save Vera she is already saved.
But why do you speak like this to-day?"

Ravenspur gave a quick glance around him.

"Because my time has come," he whispered hoarsely. "Keep this to
yourself, Marion, for I have told nobody but you. The black assassin is
upon me. I wake at nights with fearful pains at my heart--I cannot
breathe. I have to fight for my life, as my brother Charles fought for
his two years ago. To-morrow morning I may be found dead in my bed--as
Charles was. Then there will be an inquest, and the doctors will be
puzzled, as they were before."

"Grandfather! You are not afraid?"

"Afraid! I am glad--glad, I tell you. I am old and careworn, and the
suspense is gradually sapping my senses. Better death, swift and
terrible, than that. But not a word of this to the rest, as you love
me!"




CHAPTER II

THE WANDERER RETURNS


The hour was growing late, and the family were dining in the great hall.
Rupert Ravenspur sat at the head of the table, with Gordon's wife
opposite him. The lovers sat smiling and happy side by side. Across the
table Marion beamed gently upon the company. Nothing ever seemed to
eclipse her quiet gaiety; she was the life and soul of the party. There
was something angelic about the girl as she sat there clad in soft
diaphanous white.

Lamps gleamed on the fair damask, on the feathery daintiness of flowers,
and on the lush purple and gold and russet of grapes and peaches. From
the walls long lines of bygone Ravenspurs looked down--fair women in
hoops and farthingale, men in armor. There was a flash of color from the
painted roof.

Presently the soft-footed servants would quit the castle for the night,
for under the new order of things nobody slept in the castle excepting
the family. Also, it was the solemn duty of each servitor to taste every
dish as it came to table. A strange precaution, but necessary in the
circumstances.

For the moment the haunting terror was forgotten. Wines red and white
gleamed and sparkled in crystal glasses. Rupert Ravenspur's worn, white
face relaxed. They were a doomed race and they knew it; yet laughter was
there, a little saddened, but eyes brightened as they looked from one to
another.

By and by the servants began to withdraw. The cloth was drawn in the
old-fashioned way, a long row of decanters stood before the head of the
house and was reflected in the shining, brown pool of mahogany. Big log
fires danced and glowed from the deep ingle nooks; from outside came the
sense of the silence.

An aged butler stood before Ravenspur with a key on a salver.

"I fancy that is all, sir," he said.

Ravenspur rose and made his way along the corridor to the outer doorway.
Here he counted the whole of the domestic staff, carefully passed the
drawbridge and then the portcullis was raised. Ravenspur Castle and its
inhabitants were cut off from the outer world. Nobody could molest them
till morning.

And yet the curl of a bitter smile was on Ravenspur's face as he
returned to the dining-hall. Even in the face of these precautions two
of the garrison had gone down before the unseen hand of the assassin.
There was some comfort in the reflection that the outer world was barred
off, but it was futile, childish, in vain.

The young people, with Mrs. Charles, had risen from the table and had
gathered on the pile of skins and cushions in one of the ingle nooks.
Gordon Ravenspur was sipping his claret and holding a cigar with a hand
that trembled.

Hardy man as he was, the shadow lay upon him also; indeed, it lay upon
them all. If the black death failed to strike, then madness would come
creeping in its track. Thus it was that evening generally found the
family all together. There was something soothing in the presence of
numbers.

They were talking quietly, almost in whispers. Occasionally a laugh
would break from Vera, only to be suppressed with a smile of apology.
Ravenspur looked fondly into the blue eyes of the dainty little beauty
whom they all loved so dearly.

"I hope I didn't offend you, grandfather," she said.

In that big hall voices sounded strained and loud. Ravenspur smiled.

"Nothing you could do would offend me," he said. "It may be possible
that a kindly Providence will permit me to hear the old roof ringing
with laughter again. It may be, perhaps, that that is reserved for
strangers when we are all gone."

"Only seven left," Gordon murmured.

"Eight, father," Vera suggested. She looked up from the lounge on the
floor with the flicker of the wood fire in her violet eyes. "Do you know
I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that Uncle Ralph came home
again. He had a great black bundle in his arms, and when the bundle
burst open it filled the hall with a gleaming light, and in the center
of that light was the clue to the mystery."

Ravenspur's face clouded. Nobody but Vera would have dared to allude to
his son Ralph in his presence.

For over Ralph Ravenspur hung the shadow of disgrace--a disgrace he had
tried to shift on to the shoulders of his dead brother Charles, Marion's
father. Of that dark business none knew the truth but the head of the
family. For twenty years he had never mentioned his erring son's name.

"It is to be hoped that Ralph is dead," he said harshly.

A somber light gleamed in his eyes. Vera glanced at him half timidly.
But she knew how deeply her grandfather loved her, and this gave her
courage to proceed. "I don't like to hear you talk like that," she said.
"It is no time to be harsh or hard on anybody. I don't know what he did,
but I have always been sorry for Uncle Ralph. And something tells me he
is coming home again. Grandfather, you would not turn him away?"

"If he were ill, if he were dying, if he suffered from some grave
physical affliction, perhaps not. Otherwise----"

Ravenspur ceased to talk. The brooding look was still in his eyes; his
white head was bent low on his breast.

Marion's white fingers touched his hand caressingly. The deepest bond
of sympathy existed between these two. And at the smile in Marion's eye
Ravenspur's face cleared.

"You would do all that is good and kind," Marion said. "You cannot
deceive me: oh, I know you too well for that. And if Uncle Ralph came
now!"

Marion paused, and the whole group looked one to the other with startled
eyes. With nerves strung tightly like theirs, the slightest deviation
from the established order of things was followed by a feeling of dread
and alarm. And now, on the heavy silence of the night, the great bell
gave clamorous and brazen tongue.

Ravenspur started to his feet.

"Strange that anyone should come at this time of night," he said. "No,
Gordon, I will go. There can be no danger, for this is tangible."

He passed along the halls and passages till he came to the outer oak. He
let down the portcullis.

"Come into the light," he cried, "and let me see who you are."

A halting, shuffling step advanced, and presently the gleam of the hall
lantern shone down upon the face of a man whose features were strangely
seamed and scarred. It seemed as if the whole of his visage had been
scored and carved in criss-cross lines until not one inch of
uncontaminated flesh remained.

His eyes were closed; he came forward with fumbling, outstretched hands
as if searching for some familiar object. The features were
expressionless, but this might have been the result of those cruel
scars. But the whole aspect of the man spoke of dogged, almost pathetic,
determination.

"You look strange and yet familiar to me," said Ravenspur. "Who are you
and whence do you come?"

"I know you," the stranger replied in a strangled whisper. "I could
recognize your voice anywhere. You are my father."

"And you are Ralph, Ralph, come back again!"

There was horror, indignation, surprise in the cry. The words rang loud
and clear, so loud and clear that they reached the dining-hall and
brought the rest of the party hurrying out into the hall.

Vera came forward with swift, elastic stride. With a glance of
shuddering pity at the scarred face she laid a hand on Ravenspur's arm.

"My dream," she whispered. "It may be the hand of God. Oh, let him
stay!"

"There is no place here for Ralph Ravenspur," the old man cried.

The outcast still fumbled his way forward. A sudden light of
intelligence flashed over Gordon as he looked curiously at his brother.

"I think, sir," he said, "that my brother is suffering from some great
affliction. Ralph, what is it? Why do you feel for things in that way?"

"I must," the wanderer replied. "I know every inch of the castle. I
could find my way in the darkest night over every nook and corner.
Father, I have come back to you. I was only to come back to you if I
were in sore need or if I was deeply afflicted. Look at me! Does my face
tell you nothing?"

"Your face is--is dreadful. And, as for your eyes, I cannot see them."

"You cannot see them," Ralph said in that dreadful, thrilling, strangled
whisper, "because I have no sight; because I am blind."

Without a word Ravenspur caught his unhappy son by the hand and led him
to the dining-hall, the family following in awed silence.




CHAPTER III

THE CRY IN THE NIGHT


The close clutch of the silence lay over the castle like the restless
horror that it was. The caressing drowsiness of healthy slumber was
never for the hapless Ravenspurs now. They clung round the ingle nook
till the last moment; they parted with a sigh and a shudder, knowing
that the morrow might find one face missing, one voice silenced for
ever.

Marion alone was really cheerful; her smiling face, her gentle courage
were as the cool breath of the north wind to the others. But for her,
they would have gone mad with the haunting horror long since.

She was one of the last to go. She still sat pensive in the ingle, her
hands clasped behind her head, her eyes gazing with fascinated
astonishment at Ralph Ravenspur.

In some strange, half-defined fashion it seemed to her that she had seen
a face scarred and barred like that before. And in the same vague way
the face reminded her of her native India.

It was a strong face, despite the blight that suffering had laid upon
it. The lips were firm and straight, the sightless eyes seemed to be
seeking for something, hunting as a blind wolf might have done. The
long, slim, damp fingers twitched convulsively; feeling upwards and
around as if in search of something.

Marion shuddered as she imagined those hooks of steel pressed about her
throat, choking the life out of her.

"Where are you going to sleep?" Ravenspur asked abruptly.

"In my old room," Ralph replied. "Nobody need trouble about me. I can
find my way about the castle as well as if I had my eyes. After all I
have endured, a blanket on the floor will be a couch of down."

"You are not afraid of the family terror?"

Ralph laughed. He laughed hard down in his throat, chuckling horribly.

"I am afraid of nothing," he said; "if you only knew what I know you
would not wish to live. I tell you I would sit and see my right arm
burnt off with slow fire if I could wipe out the things I have seen in
the last five years! I heard of the family fetish at Bombay, and that
was why I came home. I prefer a slumbering hell to a roaring one."

He spoke as if half to himself. His words were enigmas to the interested
listeners; yet, wild as they seemed, they were cool and collected.

"Some day you shall tell us your adventures," Ravenspur said not
unkindly, "how you lost your sight, and whence came those strange
disfigurements."

"That you will never know," Ralph replied. "Ah, there are more things in
heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our narrow and specious
philosophy. There are some things it is impossible to speak of, and my
trouble is one of them. Only to one man could I mention it, and whether
he is alive or dead I do not know."

Marion rose. The strangely uttered words made her feel slightly
hysterical. She bent over Ravenspur and kissed him fondly. Moved by a
strong impulse of pity, she would have done the same by her uncle Ralph,
but that he seemed to divine her presence and her intention. The long,
slim hands went up.

"You must not kiss me, my child," he said. "I am not fit to be touched
by pure lips like yours. Good-night."

Marion turned away, chilled and disappointed. She wondered why Ralph
spoke like that, why he shuddered at her approach as if she had been an
unclean thing. But in that house of singular happenings one strange
matter more or less was nothing.

"The light of my eyes," Ravenspur murmured. "After Vera, the creature I
love best on earth. What should we do without her?"

"What, indeed?" Ralph said quietly. "I cannot see, but I can feel what
she is to all of you. Good-night, father, and thank you."

Ravenspur strode off with a not unkindly nod. As a matter of fact, he
was more moved by the return of the wanderer and his evident sufferings
and misfortunes than he cared to confess. He brooded over these strange
things till at length he lapsed into troubled and uneasy slumber.

The intense gripping silence deepened. Ralph Ravenspur still sat in the
ingle with his face bent upon the glowing logs as if he could see, and
as if he was seeking for some inspiration in the sparkling crocus flame.

Then without making the slightest noise, he crept across the hall,
feeling his way along with his finger-tips to the landing above.

He had made no idle boast. He knew every inch of the castle. Like a cat
he crept to his own room, and there, merely discarding his coat and
boots, he took a blanket from the bed.

Into the corridor he stepped and then, lying down under the hangings of
Cordova leather, wrapped himself up cocoon fashion in his blanket and
dropped into a sound sleep. The mournful silence brooded, the rats
scratched behind the oaken paneled walls.

Then out of the throat of the darkness came a stifled cry. It was the
fighting rattle made by the strong man suddenly deprived of the power to
breathe.

Again it came, and this time more loudly, with a ring of despair in it.
In the dead silence it seemed to fill the whole house, but the walls
were thick, and beyond the corridor there was no cognizance of anything
being in the least wrong.

But the man in the blanket against the arras heard it and struggled to
his feet. A long period of vivid personal danger had sharpened his
senses. His knowledge of woodcraft enabled him to locate the cry to a
yard.

"My father," he whispered; "I am only just in time."

He felt his way rapidly, yet noiselessly, along the few feet between his
resting-place and Ravenspur's room. Imminent as the peril was, he yet
paused to push his blanket out of sight. As he came to the door of
Ravenspur's room the cry rose higher. He stooped and then his fingers
touched something warm.

"Marion," he said; "I can catch the subtle fragrance of your hair."

The girl swallowed a scream. She was trembling from head to foot with
fear and excitement. It was dark, the cry from within was despairing,
the intense horror of it was dreadful.

"Yes, yes," she whispered hoarsely. "I was lying awake and I heard it.
And that good old man told me to-day that his time was coming. I--I was
going to rouse the house. The door is locked."

"Do nothing of the sort. Stand aside."

The voice was low but commanding. Marion obeyed mechanically. With great
strength and determination Ralph flung himself against the door. At the
second assault the rusty iron bolt gave and the door flew open.

Inside, Ravenspur lay on his bed. By his bedside a nightlight cast a
feeble pallid ray. There was nobody in the room besides Ravenspur
himself. He lay back absolutely rigid, a yellow hue was over his face
like a painted mask, his eyes were wide open, his lips twitched
convulsively. Evidently he was in some kind of cataleptic fit and his
senses had not deserted him.

He was powerless to move and made no attempt to do so. The man was
choking to death and yet his limbs were rigid. A sickly sweet odor
filled the room and caused Ralph to double up and gasp for breath. It
was as if the whole atmosphere was drenched with a fine spray of
chloroform. Marion stood in the doorway like a fascinated white statue
of fear and despair.

"What is it?" she whispered. "What is that choking smell?"

Ralph made no reply; he was holding his breath hard. There was a queer
grinning smile on his face as he turned toward the window.

The fumbling clutching long hands rested for a moment on Ravenspur's
forehead, and the next moment there was a sound of smashing glass, as
with his naked fists Ralph beat in the lozenge-shaped windows.

A quick cool draught of air rushed through the room, and the figure on
the bed ceased to struggle.

"Come in," said Ralph. "There is no danger now."

Marion entered. She was trembling from head to foot; her face was like
death.

"What is it, what is it?" she cried. "Uncle Ralph, do you know what it
is?"

"That is a mystery," Ralph replied. "There is some fiend at work here. I
only guessed that the sickly odor was the cause of the mischief. You are
better, sir?"

Ravenspur was sitting up in bed. The color had come back to his lips; he
no longer struggled to breathe.

"I am all right," he said. His eyes beamed affectionately on Marion.
"Ever ready and ever quick, child, you saved my life from that nameless
horror."

"It was Uncle Ralph," said Marion. "I heard your cry, but Uncle Ralph
was here as soon as I was. And it was a happy idea of his to break the
window."

"It was that overpowering drug," said Ravenspur. "What it is and where
it came from must always remain a mystery. This is a new horror to haunt
me--and yet there were others who died in their beds mysteriously. I
awoke to find myself choking; I was stifled by that sweet-smelling
stuff; I could feel that my heart was growing weaker. But go, my child;
you will catch your death of cold. Go to bed."

With an unsteady smile Marion disappeared. As she closed the door
behind her, Ravenspur turned and grasped his son's wrist fiercely.

"Do you know anything of this?" he demanded. "You are blind, helpless;
yet you were on the spot instantly. Do you know anything of this, I
say?"

Ralph shook his head.

"It was good luck," he said. "And how should I know anything? Ah, a
blind man is but a poor detective."

Yet as Ralph passed to his strange quarters, there was a queer look on
his face. The long lean claws were crooked as if they were fastened
about the neck of some enemy, some foe to the death.

"The hem of the mystery," he muttered. "Patience and prudence, and the
day shall come when I shall have it by the throat, and such a lovely
throat, too!"




CHAPTER IV

101 BRANT STREET


There was nothing about the house to distinguish it from its stolid and
respectable neighbors. It had a dingy face, woodwork painted a dark red
with the traditional brass knocker and bell-pull. The windows were hung
with curtains of the ordinary type, the Venetian blinds were half down,
which in itself is a sign of middle-class respectability. In the center
of the red door was a small brass plate bearing the name of Dr. Sergius
Tchigorsky.

Not that Dr. Tchigorsky was a medical practitioner in the ordinary sense
of the word. No neatly appointed "pillbox" ever stood before 101; no
patient ever passed the threshold.

Tchigorsky was a savant and a traveler to boot; a man who dealt in
strange out-of-the-way things, and the interior of his house would have
been a revelation to the top-hatted, frock-coated doctors and lawyers
and City men who elected to make their home in Brant Street, W.

The house was crammed with curiosities and souvenirs of travel from
basement to garret. A large sky-lighted billiard-room at the back of the
house had been turned into a library and laboratory combined.

And here, when not traveling, Tchigorsky spent all his time, seeing
strange visitors from time to time, Mongolians, Hindoos, natives of
Tibet--for Tchigorsky was one of the three men who had penetrated to the
holy city of Lassa, and returned to tell the tale.

The doctor came into his study from his breakfast, and stood ruminating,
rubbing his hands before the fire. In ordinary circumstances he would
have been a fine man of over six feet in height.

But a cruel misfortune had curved his spine, while his left leg dragged
almost helplessly behind him, his hands were drawn up as if the muscles
had been cut and then knotted up again.

Tchigorsky had entered Lassa five years ago as a god who walks upright.
When he reached the frontier six months later he was the wreck he still
remained. And of those privations and sufferings Tchigorsky said
nothing. But there were times when his eyes gleamed and his breath came
short and he pined for the vengeance yet to be his.

As to his face, it was singularly strong and intellectual. Yet it was
disfigured with deep seams checkered like a chessboard. We have seen
something like it before, for the marks were identical with those that
disfigured Ralph Ravenspur and made his face a horror to look upon.

A young man rose from the table where he was making some kind of an
experiment. He was a fresh-colored Englishman, George Abell by name, and
he esteemed it a privilege to call himself Tchigorsky's secretary.

"Always early and always busy," Tchigorsky said. "Is there anything in
the morning papers that is likely to interest me, Abell?"

"I fancy so," Abell replied thoughtfully. "You are interested in the
Ravenspur case?"

A lurid light leapt into the Russian's eyes. He seemed to be strangely
moved. He paced up and down the room, dragging his maimed limb after
him.

"Never more interested in anything in my life," he said. "You know as
much of my past as any man, but there are matters, experiences
unspeakable. My face, my ruined frame! Whence come these cruel
misfortunes? That secret will go down with me to the grave. Of that I
could speak to one man alone, and I know not whether that man is alive
or dead."

Tchigorsky's words trailed off into a rambling incoherent murmur. He
was far away with his own gloomy and painful thoughts. Then he came back
to earth with a start. He stood with his back to the fireplace,
contemplating Abell.

"I am deeply interested in the Ravenspur case, as you know," he said. "A
malignant fiend is at work yonder--a fiend with knowledge absolutely
supernatural. You smile! I myself have seen the powers of darkness doing
the bidding of mortal man. All the detectives in Europe will never lay
hands upon the destroyer of the Ravenspurs. And yet, in certain
circumstances, I could."

"Then, in that case, sir, why don't you?"

"Do it? I said in certain circumstances. I have part of a devilish
puzzle; the other part is in the hands of a man who may be dead. I hold
half of the bank-note; somebody else has the other moiety. Until we can
come together, we are both paupers. If I can find that other man, and he
has the nerve and the pluck he used to possess, the curse of the
Ravenspurs will cease. But, then, I shall never see my friend again."

"But you might solve the problem alone."

"Impossible. That man and myself made a most hazardous expedition in
search of dreadful knowledge. That formula we found. For the purposes of
safety, we divided it. And then we were discovered. Of what followed I
dare not speak. I dare not even think.

"I escaped from my dire peril, but I cannot hope that my comrade was so
fortunate. He must be dead. And, without him, I am as powerless as if I
knew nothing. I have no proof. Yet I know quite well who is responsible
for those murders at Ravenspur."

Abell stared at his chief in astonishment. He knew Tchigorsky too well
to doubt the evidence of his simple word. The Russian was too strong a
man to boast.

"You cannot understand," he said. "It is impossible to understand
without the inner knowledge that I possess, and even my knowledge is not
perfect. Were I to tell the part I know I should be hailed from one end
of England to the other as a madman. I should be imprisoned for
malignant slander. But if the other man turned up--if only the other man
should turn up!"

Tchigorsky broke into a rambling reverie again. When he emerged to
mundane matters once more he ordered Abell to read the paragraph
relating to the latest phase of the tragedy of the lost Ravenspur.

"It runs," said Abell, "'Another Strange Affair at Ravenspur Castle. The
mystery of this remarkable case still thickens. Late on Wednesday night
Mr. Rupert Ravenspur, the head of the family, was awakened by a choking
sensation and a total loss of breath. On attempting to leave his bed,
the unfortunate gentleman found himself unable to move.

"'He states that the room appeared to be filled with a fine spray of
some sickly, sweet drug or liquid that seemed to act upon him as
chloroform does on a subject with a weak heart. Mr. Ravenspur managed to
cry out, but the vapor held him down, and was slowly stifling him----'"

"Ah," Tchigorsky cried. "Ah, I thought so. Go on!"

His eyes were gleaming; his whole face glistened with excitement.

"'Providentially the cry reached the ears of another of the Ravenspurs.
This gentleman burst open his father's door, and noticing the peculiar,
pungent odor, had the good sense to break a window and admit air into
the room.

"'This prompt action was the means of saving the life of the victim, and
it is all the more remarkable because it was carried out by a Mr. Ralph
Ravenspur, a blind gentleman, who had just returned from foreign
parts.'"

A cry--a scream broke from Tchigorsky's lips. He danced about the room
like a madman. For the time being it was impossible for the astonished
secretary to determine whether this was joy or anguish.

"You are upset about something, sir," he said.

Tchigorsky recovered himself by a violent effort that left him
trembling like a reed swept in the wind. He gasped for breath.

"It was the madness of an overwhelming joy!" he cried. "I would
cheerfully have given ten years of my life for this information. Abell,
you will have to go to Ravenspur for me to-day."

Abell said nothing. He was used to these swift surprises.

"You are to see this Ralph Ravenspur, Abell," continued Tchigorsky. "You
are not to call at the castle; you are to hang about till you get a
chance of delivering my message unseen. The mere fact that Ralph
Ravenspur is blind will suffice for a clue to his identity. Look up the
time-table!"

Abell did so. He found a train to land him at Biston Junction, some ten
miles from his destination. Half an hour later he was ready to start.
From an iron safe Tchigorsky took a small object and laid it in Abell's
hand.

"Give him that," he said. "You are simply to say: 'Tchigorsky--Danger,'
and come away, unless Ralph Ravenspur desires speech with you. Now, go.
And as you value your life, do not lose that casket."

It was a small brass box no larger than a cigarette case, rusty and
tarnished, and covered with strange characters, evidently culled from
some long-forgotten tongue.




CHAPTER V

A RAY OF LIGHT


A sense of expectation, an uneasy feeling of momentous events about to
happen, hung over the doomed Ravenspurs. For once, Marion appeared to
feel the strain. Her face was pale, and, though she strove hard to
regain the old gentle gaiety, her eyes were red and swollen with
weeping.

All through breakfast she watched Ravenspur in strange fascination. He
seemed to have obtained some kind of hold over her. Yet nothing could be
more patient, dull, and stolid than the way in which he proceeded with
the meal. He appeared to dwell in an unseen world of his own; the
stirring events of the previous night had left no impression on him
whatever.

For the most part, they were a sad and silent party. The terror that
walked by night and day was stealing closer to them; it was coming in a
new and still more dreadful form. Accident or the intervention of
Providence had averted a dire tragedy; but it would come again.

Ravenspur made light of the matter. He spoke of the danger as something
past. Yet it was impossible wholly to conceal the agitation that filled
him. He saw Marion's pale, sympathetic face; he saw the heavy tears in
Vera's eyes, and a dreadful sense of his absolute impotence came upon
him.

"Let us forget it," he said almost cheerfully. "Let us think no more of
the matter. No doubt, science can explain this new mystery."

The speaker's sightless eyes were turned upwards; he seemed to be
thinking aloud rather than addressing the company generally. Marion
turned as if something had stung her.

"Uncle Ralph knows something that he conceals from us," she cried.

Ralph smiled. Yet he had the air of one who is displeased with himself.

"I know many things that are mercifully concealed from pure natures like
yours," he said. "But as to what happened last night I am as much in the
dark as any of you. Ah, if I were not blind!"

A strained silence followed. One by one the company rose until the room
was deserted, save for Ralph Ravenspur and his nephew Geoffrey. The
handsome lad's face was pale, his lips quivered.

"I am dreadfully disappointed, uncle," he observed.

"Meaning from your tone that you are disappointed with me, Geoff. Why?"

"Because you spoke at first as if you understood things. And then you
professed to be as ignorant as the rest of us. Oh, it is awful! I--I
would not care so much if I were less fond of Vera than I am. I love
her; I love her with my whole heart and soul. If you could only see the
beauty of her face you would understand.

"And yet when she kisses me good-night I am never sure that it is not
for the last time. I feel that I must wake up presently to find that all
is an evil dream. And we can do nothing, nothing, nothing but wait and
tremble and--die."

Ralph had no reply; indeed there was no reply to this passionate
outburst. The blind man rose from the table and groped his way to the
door with those long hands that seemed to be always feeling for
something like the tentacles of an octopus.

"Come with me to your grandfather's room," he said. "I want you to lend
me your eyes for a time."

Geoffrey followed willingly. The bed room was exactly as Ravenspur had
quitted it, for as yet the housemaid had not been there.

"Now look round you carefully," said Ralph. "Look for something out of
the common. It may be a piece of rag, a scrap of paper, a spot of
grease, or a dab of some foreign substance on the carpet. Is there a
fire laid here?"

"No," Geoffrey replied. "The grate is a large open one. I will see what
I can find."

The young fellow searched minutely. For some time no reward awaited his
pains. Then his eyes fell upon the hearthstone.

"I can only see one little thing," he said.

"In a business like this, there are no such matters as little things,"
Ralph replied. "A clue that might stand on a pin's point often leads to
great results. Tell me what it is that attracts your attention."

"A bronze stain on the hearthstone. It is about the size of the palm of
one's hand. It looks very like a piece of glue dabbed down."

"Take a knife and scrape it up," said Ralph. He spoke slowly and
evidently under excitement well repressed. "Wrap it in your handkerchief
and give it to me. Has the stuff any particular smell?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey. "It has a sickly sweet odor. I am sure that I
never smelt anything like it before."

"Probably not. There, I have no further need of your services, and I
know that Vera is waiting for you. One word before you go--you are not
to say a single word to a soul about this matter; not a single soul,
mind. And now I do not propose to detain you any longer."

Geoffrey retired with a puzzled air. When the echo of his footsteps had
died away, Ralph rose and crept out upon the leads. He was shivering
with excitement; there was a look of eager expectation, almost of
triumph, on his face.

He felt his way along the leads until he came to a group of chimneys,
about the center one of which he fumbled with his hands for some time.

Then the look of triumph on his face grew more marked and stronger.

"Assurance doubly sure," he whispered. His voice croaked hoarsely with
excitement. "If I had only somebody here whom I could trust! If I told
anybody here whom I suspected they would rise like one person, and hurl
me into the moat. And I can do no more than suspect. Patience, patience,
and yet patience."

From the terrace came the sound of fresh young voices. They were those
of Vera and Geoffrey talking almost gaily as they turned their steps
toward the granite cliffs. For the nerves of youth are elastic and they
throw off the strain easily.

They walked along side by side until they came to the cliffs. Here the
rugged ramparts rose high with jagged indentations and rough hollows.
There were deep cups and fissures in the rocks where a regiment of
soldiers might lie securely hidden. For miles the gorse was flushed with
its golden glory.

"Let us sit down and forget our troubles," said Geoffrey. "How restful
the time if we could sail away in a ship, Vera, away to the ends of the
earth, where we could hide ourselves from this cruel vendetta and be at
peace. What use is the Ravenspur property to us when we are doomed to
die?"

Vera shuddered slightly and the exquisite face grew pale.

"They might spare us," she said plaintively. "We are young and we have
done no harm to anybody. And yet I have not lost all faith. I feel
certain that Heaven above us will not permit this hideous slaughter to
continue."

She laid her trembling fingers in Geoffrey's hand, and he drew her close
to him and kissed her.

"It seems hard to look into your face and doubt it, dearest," he said.
"Even the fiend who pursues us would hesitate to destroy you. But I
dare not, I must not, think of that. If you are taken away I do not want
to live."

"Nor I either, Geoff. Oh, my feelings are similar to yours!"

The dark violet eyes filled with tears, the fresh breeze from the sea
ruffled Vera's fair hair and carried her sailor hat away up the cliff.
It rested, perched upon a gorse bush overhanging one of the ravines or
cups in the rock. As Geoffrey ran to fetch the hat he looked over.

A strange sight met his astonished gaze. The hollow might have been a
small stone quarry at some time. Now it was lined with grass and moss,
and in the center of the cup, which had no fissure or passage of any
kind, two men were seated bending down over a small shell or gourd
placed on a fire of sticks.

In ordinary circumstances there would have been nothing strange in this,
for the sight of peripatetic hawkers and tinkers along the cliffs was
not unusual.

But these men did not belong to that class. They were tall and spare;
they were clad in dingy robes; on their heads were turbans of the same
sad color. They were dark of feature, with thin faces and ragged beards.
In appearance they were singularly alike; indeed, they might have been
twin brothers some time past the prime of life.

From the shell on the ground a thick vapor was rising. The smell of it
floated on the air to Geoffrey's nostrils. He reeled back almost sick
and faint with the perfume and the discovery he had made. For that
infernal stuff had exactly the same smell as the pungent drug which had
come so near to destroying the life of Rupert Ravenspur only a few hours
before.

Here was something to set the blood tingling in the veins and the pulses
leaping with a mad excitement. From over the top of the gorse Geoffrey
watched with all his eyes. He saw the smoke gradually die away; he saw
a small mass taken from the gourd and carefully stowed away in a metal
box. Then the fire was kicked out and all traces of it were obliterated.

Geoffrey crept back again to Vera, trembling from head to foot. He had
made up his mind what to do. He would say nothing of this strange
discovery to Vera; he would keep it for Ralph Ravenspur's ears alone.
Ralph had been in foreign parts and might understand the enigma.

Meanwhile it became necessary to get out of the Asiatics' way. It was
not prudent for them to know that a Ravenspur was so close. Vera looked
into Geoffrey's face, wondering.

"How pale you are!" she said. "And how long you have been!"

"Come and let us walk," said Geoffrey. "I--I twisted my ankle on a stone
and it gave me a twinge or two. It's all right now. Shall we see if we
can get as far as Sprawl Point and back before luncheon?"

Vera rose to the challenge. She rather prided herself on her powers as a
walker. The exercise caused her to glow and tingle, and all the way it
never occurred to her how silent and abstracted Geoffrey had become.




CHAPTER VI

ABELL CARRIES OUT HIS ERRAND


When Ralph Ravenspur reached the basement, his whole aspect had changed.
For the next day or two he brooded about the house, mainly with his own
thoughts for company. He was ubiquitous. His silent, cat-like tread
carried him noiselessly everywhere. He seemed to be looking for
something with those sightless eyes of his; those long fingers were
crooked as if about the throat of the great mystery.

He came into the library where Rupert Ravenspur and Marion were talking
earnestly. He dropped in upon them as if he had fallen from the clouds.
Marion started and laughed.

"I declare you frighten me," she said. "You are like a shadow--the
shadow of one's conscience."

"There can be no shadow on yours," Ralph replied. "You are too pure and
good for that. Never, never will you have cause to fear me."

"All the same, I wish you were less like a cat," Ravenspur exclaimed
petulantly, as Marion walked smilingly away. "Anybody would imagine that
you were part of the family mystery. Ralph, do you know anything?"

"I am blind," Ralph replied doggedly. "Of what use is a blind man?"

"I don't know; they say that when one sense is lost the others are
sharpened. And you came home so mysteriously, you arrived at a critical
moment for me, you were at my door at the time when help was sorely
needed. Again, when you burst my door open you did the only thing that
could have saved me."

"Common sense, sir. You were stifling and I gave you air."

Ravenspur shook his head. He was by no means satisfied.

"It was the common sense that is based upon practical experience. And
you prowl about in dark corners; you wander about the house in the dead
of the night. You hint at a strange past, but as to that past you are
dumb. For Heaven's sake, if you know anything tell me. The suspense is
maddening."

"I know nothing and I am blind," Ralph repeated. "As to my past, that is
between me and my Maker. I dare not speak of it. Let me go my own way
and do not interfere with me. And whatever you do or say, tell
nobody--nobody, mind--that you suspect me of knowledge of the family
trouble."

Ralph turned away abruptly and refused to say more. He passed from the
castle across the park slowly, but with the confidence of a man who is
assured of every step. The recollection of his boyhood's days stood him
in good stead. He could not see, but he knew where he was and even the
grim cliffs held no terrors for him.

He came at length to a certain spot where he paused. It was here years
ago that he had scaled the cliffs at the peril of his neck and found the
raven's nest. He caught the perfume of the heather and the crushed
fragrance of the wild thyme, but their scents were as nothing to his
nostrils.

For he had caught another scent that had brought him up all standing
with his head in the air. The odor was almost exhausted; there was
merely a faint suspicion of it, but at the same time it spoke to Ralph
as plainly as words.

He was standing near the hollow where Geoffrey had been two days ago. In
his mind's eye Ralph could see into this hollow. Years before he had
been used to lie there winter evenings when the brent and ducks were
coming in from the sea. He scrambled down, sure-footed as a goat.

Then he proceeded to grope upon the grass with those long restless
fingers. He picked up a charred stick or two, smelt it, and shook his
head. Presently his hand closed upon the burnt fragments of a gourd. As
Ralph raised this to his nostrils his eyes gleamed.

"I was certain of it," he muttered. "Two of the Bonzes have been here,
and they have been making the pi. If I could only see!"

As yet he had not heard of Geoffrey's singular discovery. There had been
no favorable opportunity of disclosing the secret.

Ralph retraced his steps moodily. For the present he was helpless. He
had come across the clue to the enigma, but only he knew of the
tremendous difficulties and dangers to be encountered before the heart
of the mystery could be revealed. He felt cast down and discouraged.
There was bitterness in his heart for those who had deprived him of his
precious sight.

"Oh, if I could only see!" he cried. "A week or month to look from one
eye into another, to strip off the mask and lay the black soul bare. And
yet if the one only guessed what I know, my life would not be worth an
hour's purchase! And if those people at the castle only knew that the
powers of hell--living, raging hell--were arrayed against them! But they
would not believe."

An impotent sigh escaped the speaker. Just for the moment his resolution
had failed him. It was some time before he became conscious of the fact
that some one was dogging his footsteps.

"Do you want to see me?" he demanded.

There was no reply for a moment. Abell came up cautiously. He looked
around him, but so far as he could see he and Ravenspur were alone. As
he caught sight of the latter's face he had no ground for further doubt.

"I did want to see you and see you alone, sir," Abell replied. "I
believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Ralph Ravenspur?"

"The same, sir," Ralph said coldly. "You are a stranger to me."

"A stranger who brings a message from a friend. I was to see you alone
and for two days I have been waiting for this opportunity. My employer
asks me to deliver this box into your hands."

At the same time Abell passed the little brass case into Ralph's hand.
As his fingers closed upon it a great light swept over his face; a
hoarse shout came from lips that turned from red to blue, and then to
white and red again. So Tchigorsky had behaved when he discovered that
this man still lived.

"Who gave you this, and what is your message?" Ravenspur panted.

"The message," said Abell, "was merely this. I was to give you the box
and say: 'Tchigorsky--Danger,' and walk away, unless you detained me."

"Then my friend Tchigorsky is alive?"

"Yes, sir; it is my privilege to be his private secretary."

"A wonderful man," Ralph cried; "perhaps the most wonderful man in
Europe. And to think that he is alive! If an angel had come down from
heaven and asked me to crave a boon, I should have asked to have
Tchigorsky in the flesh before me. You have given me new heart of grace;
you are like water in a dry land. This is the happiest day I have known
since----"

The speaker paused and mumbled something incoherent. But the stolid
expression had gone from his scarred face, and a strange, triumphant
happiness reigned in its stead. He seemed years younger, his step had
grown more elastic; there was a fresh, broad ring in his voice.

"Tchigorsky will desire to see me," he said. "Indeed, it is absolutely
essential that we should meet and that without delay. A time of danger
lies before us--danger that the mere mortal does not dream of. Take this
to Tchigorsky and be careful of it."

He drew from a chain inside his vest a small case, almost identical to
the one that Abell had just handed to him, save that it was silver,
while the other was brass. On it were the same queer signs and symbols.

"That will convince my friend that the puzzle is intact," he continued.
"We hold the key to the enigma--nay, the key to the past and future. But
all this is so much Greek to you. I will come and see my friend on
Friday; but not in the guise of Ralph Ravenspur."

"What am I to understand by that, sir?" Abell asked.

"It matters nothing what you understand," Ralph cried. "Tchigorsky will
know. Tell him 7:15 at Euston on Friday, not in the guise of Ravenspur
or Tchigorsky. He will read between the lines. Go and be seen with me no
more."

Ralph strode off with his head in the air. His blood was singing in his
ears; his pulse was leaping with a new life.

"At last," he murmured; "after all these years for myself and my kin! At
last!"




CHAPTER VII

MORE LIGHT


There was a curious, eager flush on Ralph Ravenspur's face. He rose from
his seat and paced the room restlessly. Those long fingers were
incessantly clutching at something vague and unseen. And, at the same
time, he was following the story that Geoffrey had to tell with the
deepest attention.

"What does it mean, uncle?" the young man asked at length.

"I cannot tell you," Ralph replied. His tones were hard and cold. "There
are certain things no mortal can understand unless----; but I must not
go into that. It may be that you have touched the fringe of the
mystery----"

"I am certain that we are on the verge of a discovery!" Geoffrey cried
eagerly. "I am sure that stuff those strangers were making was the same
as the drug or whatever it was that came so near to making an end of my
grandfather. If I knew what to do!"

"Nothing--do nothing, as you hope for the future!"

The words came hissing from Ralph's lips. He felt his way across to
Geoffrey and laid a grip on his arm that seemed to cut like a knife.

"Forget it!" he whispered. "Fight down the recollection of the whole
thing; do nothing based upon your discovery. I cannot say more, but I am
going to give you advice worth much gold. Promise me that you will
forget this matter; that you will not mention it to a soul. Promise!"

Geoffrey promised, somewhat puzzled and dazed. Did Ralph know
everything, or was he as ignorant as the rest?

"I will do what you like," said Geoffrey. "But it is very hard. Can't
you tell me a little more? I am brave and strong."

"Courage and strength have nothing to do with it. A nation could do
nothing in this case. I am going to London to-day."

"You are going to London alone?"

"Why not? I came here from the other side of the world alone. I have to
see a doctor about my eyes. No, there is no hope that I can ever recover
my sight again; but it is possible to allay the pain they give me."

Ralph departed. A dogcart deposited him at Biston Junction, and then the
servant saw him safely into the London train. But presently Ralph
alighted and a porter guided him to a cab. A little later and the blind
man was knocking at the door of a cottage in the poorer portion of the
town.

A short, stocky man, with a seafaring air, opened the door.

"Is it you, Elphick?" Ralph asked.

The short man with the resolute face and keen, gray eyes exclaimed with
pleasure:

"So you've got back at last, sir. Come in, sir. I am alone here as you
know. I knew you'd want me before long."

Ralph Ravenspur felt his way to a chair. James Elphick stood watching
him with something more than pleasure in his eyes.

"We have no time to spare," Ralph exclaimed. "We must be in London
to-night, James. I am going up to see Dr. Tchigorsky."

"Dr. Tchigorsky!" Elphick exclaimed. "Didn't I always say as how he'd
get through? The man who'd get the best of him ain't born yet. But it
means danger, sir. Nothing we ever carried out with the doctor was
anything else."

"Danger you do not dream of," Ralph said impressively. "But I cannot
discuss this with you, James. You are coming with me to London. Get the
disguise out and let me see if your hand still retains its cunning."

Apparently it had, for an hour later there walked from the cottage
toward the station an elderly, stout man, with white hair and beard and
whiskers. His eyes were guarded by tinted glasses; the complexion of the
face was singularly clear and ruddy. All trace of those cruel
criss-cross lines had gone. Wherever Elphick had learned his art, he had
not failed to learn it thoroughly.

"It's perfect; though I say it as shouldn't," he remarked. "It's no use,
sir; you can't get on without me. If I'd gone with you to Lassa, all
that horrible torture business would never have happened."

Ralph Ravenspur smiled cautiously. The stiff dressing on his face made a
smile difficult in any case.

"At all events, I shall want you now," he said.

It was nearly seven when the express tram reached Euston. Ralph stood on
the great bustling, echoing, platform as if waiting for something. An
exclamation from Elphick attracted his attention.

"There's the doctor as large as life!" he said.

"Tchigorsky!" Ralph cried. "Surely not in his natural guise. Oh, this is
reckless folly! Does he court defeat at the outset of our enterprise?"

Tchigorsky bustled up. For some reason or other he chose to appear in
his natural guise. Not till they were in the cab did Ravenspur venture
to expostulate.

"Much learning has made you mad," he said bitterly.

"Not a bit of it," the Russian responded. "Unfortunately for me the
priests of Lassa have discovered that I am deeply versed in their
secrets. Not that they believe for a moment that Tchigorsky and the
Russian who walked the valley of the Red Death are one and the same.
They deem me to be the recipient of that unhappy man's early
discoveries. But your identity remains a secret. The cleverest eyes in
the world could never penetrate your disguise."

"It comforts me to hear that," Ralph replied. "Everything depends upon
my identity being concealed. Once it is discovered, every Ravenspur is
doomed. But I cannot understand why you escape recognition at the hands
of the foe."

A bitter smile came over Tchigorsky's face.

"Can you not?" he said. "If you had your eyes you would understand. Man,
I have been actually in the company of those who flung me into the
valley of the Red Death and they have not known me. After that I stood
in the presence of my own mother, and she asked who I was.

"The marks on my face? Well, there are plenty of explorers who have been
victims to the wire helmet and have never dreamt of entering Lassa. I am
a broken, decrepit wreck, I who was once so proud of my inches. The
horrors of that one day have changed me beyond recognition. But you
know."

Ralph shuddered from head to foot. A cold moisture stood on his
forehead.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't speak of it. When the recollection comes
over me I have to hold on to my senses as a shipwrecked sailor clings to
a plank. Never mind the past--the future has peril and danger enough.
You know why I am here?"

"To save your house from the curse upon it. To bring the East and West
together, and tell of the vilest conspiracy the world has ever seen. Do
you know who the guilty creature is, whose hand is actually striking the
blow?"

"I think so; in fact I am sure of it. But who would believe my
accusation?"

"Who, indeed! But we shall be in a position to prove our case, now that
the secrets of the prison-house lie before us. We have three to fear."

"Yes, yes," said Ralph. "The two Bonzes--who have actually been seen
near Ravenspur--and the Princess Zara. Could she recognize me?"

Ralph asked the question in almost passionate entreaty.

"I am certain she could not," Tchigorsky replied. "Come, victory shall
be ours yet. Here we are at my house at last. By the way, you must have
a name. You shall be my cousin Nicholas Tchigorsky, a clever savant,
who, by reason of a deplorable accident, has become both blind and dumb.
Allons."




CHAPTER VIII

A MASTER OF FENCE


Lady Mallowbloom's reception rooms were more than usually crowded. And
every other man or woman in the glittering salon was a celebrity. There
was a strong sprinkling of the aristocracy to leaven the lump; here and
there the flash of red cloth and gold could be seen.

In his quiet, masterly style Tchigorsky pushed his way up the stairs.
Ralph Ravenspur followed, his hand upon the Russian's arm. He could feel
the swish of satin draperies go by him; he caught the perfume on the
warm air.

"Why do you drag me here?" he grumbled. "I can see nothing; it only
bewilders me. I should have been far happier in your study."

"You mope too much," Tchigorsky said gaily. "To mingle with one's
fellows is good at times. I know so many people who are here to-night."

"And I know nobody; add to which circumstances compel me to be dumb.
Place me in some secluded spot with my back to the wall, and then enjoy
yourself for an hour. I dare say I shall manage to kill the time."

There were many celebrities in the brilliantly-lighted room, and
Tchigorsky indicated a few. A popular lady novelist passed on the arm of
a poet on her way to the buffet.

"A wonderful woman," the fair authoress was saying. "Eastern and full of
mystery, you know. Did you notice the eyes of the Princess?"

"Who could fail to?" was the reply. "They say that she is quite five and
forty, and yet she would easily pass for eighteen, but for her
knowledge of the world. Your Eastern Princess is one of the most
fascinating women I have even seen."

Others passed, and had the same theme. Ralph stirred to a faint
curiosity.

"Who is the new marvel?" he asked.

"I don't know," Tchigorsky admitted. "The last new lion, I suppose. Some
pretty Begum or the wife of some Oriental whose dark eyes appear to have
fired society. By the crowd of people coming this way I presume the
dusky beauty is among them. If so, she has an excellent knowledge of
English."

A clear, sweet voice arose. At the first sound of it, Ralph jumped to
his feet and clutched at his throat as if something choked him. He shook
with a great agitation; a nameless fear had him in a close grip.

"Do you recognize the voice?" Ralph gasped.

The Russian was not unmoved. But his agitation was quickly suppressed.
He forced Ralph down in his seat again.

"You will have to behave better than that if you are to be a trusty ally
of mine," he said. "Come, that is better! Sit still; she is coming this
way."

"I'm all right now," Ralph replied. "The shock of finding myself in the
presence of Princess Zara was overpowering. Have no fear for me."

A tall woman, magnificently dressed, was making her way towards
Tchigorsky. Her face was the hue of old ivory, and as fine; her great
lustrous eyes gleamed brightly; a mass of hair was piled high on a
daintily poised head. The woman might have been extremely young so far
as the touch of time was concerned, but the easy self-possession told
another tale.

The red lips tightened for an instant, a strange gleam came into the
dark magnetic eyes as they fell upon Tchigorsky. Then the Indian
Princess advanced with a smile, and held out her hand to the Russian.

"So you are still here!" she said.

There was the suggestion of a challenge in her tones. Her eyes met
those of Tchigorsky as the eyes of two swordsmen might meet. There was a
tigerish playfulness underlying the words, a call-note of significant
warning.

"I still take the liberty of existing," said Tchigorsky.

"You are a brave man, doctor. Your friend here?"

"Is my cousin Nicholas Tchigorsky? The poor fellow is blind and dumb, as
the result of a terrible accident. Best not to notice him."

The Princess shrugged her beautiful shoulders as she dropped gracefully
into a seat.

"I heard you were in London," she said, "and something told me that we
should meet sooner or later. You are still interested in occult
matters?"

Again Ralph detected the note of warning in the speech. He could see
nothing of the expression on that perfect face; but he could judge it
fairly well.

"I am more interested in occult matters than ever," Tchigorsky said
gravely, "especially in certain discoveries placed in my hands by a
traveler in Tibet."

[Illustration: "I am more interested in occult matters than ever,"
Tchigorsky said gravely, "especially in certain discoveries placed in my
hands by a traveler in Thibet."--Page 43.]

"Ah, that was your fellow-countryman. He died, you know!"

"He was murdered in the vilest manner. But before the end, he managed to
convey important information to me."

"Useless information unless you had the key."

"There was one traveler who found the key, you remember?"

"True, doctor. He also, I fancy, met with an accident that,
unfortunately, resulted in his death."

Ralph shuddered slightly. Princess Zara's tones were hard as steel. If
she had spoken openly and callously of this man being murdered, she
could not have expressed the same thing more plainly. A beautiful woman,
a fascinating one; but a woman with no heart and no feeling where her
hatreds were concerned.

"It is just possible I have the key," said Tchigorsky.

The eyes of the Princess blazed for a moment. Then she smiled.

"Dare you use it?" she asked. "If you dare, then all the secrets of
heaven and hell are yours. For four thousand years the priests of the
temple at Lassa and the heads of my family have solved the future. You
know what we can do. We are all powerful for evil. We can strike down
our foes by means unknown to your boasted Western science. They are all
the same to us, proud potentate, ex-meddling doctor."

There was a menace in the last words. Tchigorsky smiled:

"The meddling doctor has already had personal experience," he said. "I
carry the marks of my suffering to the grave. I remember how your
peasants treated me and this does not tend to relax my efforts."

"And yet you might die at any moment. If you persist in your studies you
will have to die. The eyes of Western men must not look upon the secrets
of the priests of Lassa and live. Be warned, Dr. Tchigorsky, be warned
in time. You are brave and clever, and as such command respect. If you
know everything and proclaim it to the world----"

"Civilization will come as one man, and no stone in Lassa shall stand on
another. Your priests will be butchered like wild beasts; an infernal
plague spot will be wiped off the face of the outraged earth!"

The Princess caught her breath swiftly. Just for one moment there was
murder in her eyes. She held her fan as if it were a dagger ready for
the Russian's heart.

"Why should you do this thing?" she asked.

"Because your knowledge is diabolical," Tchigorsky replied. "In the
first place, all who are in the secret can commit murder with impunity.
As the Anglo-Saxon pushes on to the four corners of the earth that
knowledge must become public property. I am going to stop that if I
can."

"And if you die in the meantime? You are bold to rashness. And yet
there are many things that you do not know."

"The longer I live, the more glaring my ignorance becomes. I do not know
whence you derive your perfect mastery of the English tongue. But I do
know that I am going to see this business through."

"Man proposes, but the arm of the priests is long."

"Ah, I understand. I may die to-night. I should not mind. Still, let us
argue the matter out. Say that I have already solved the problem. I
write a detailed account of the whole weird business. I write twenty
detailed statements; I enclose the key in each. These statements I
address to a score of the leading savants in Europe.

"Then I place them in, say, a safe deposit until my death. I write to
each of those wise men a letter with an enclosure not to be opened till
I die. That enclosure contains a key to my safe, and presently in that
safe all those savants find a packet addressed to themselves. In a week
all Europe would ring with my wonderful discoveries. Think of the
outcry, the wrath, the indignation!"

The Princess smiled. She could appreciate a stratagem like this. With
dull, stolid and averted face, Ralph Ravenspur listened and wondered. He
heard the laugh that came from the lips of the Princess; he detected the
vexation underlying it. Tchigorsky was a foeman worthy of her steel.

"That you propose to do?" she asked.

"A question you will pardon me for not answering," said Tchigorsky. "You
have made your move and I have made mine. Whether I am going to do the
thing, or whether I have done so, remains to be seen. Whether you dare
risk my death now is a matter for you to decide. Check to your king."

Again the Princess smiled. She looked searchingly into Tchigorsky's
face, as if she would fain read his very soul. But she saw nothing there
but the dull eyes of a man who keeps his feelings behind a mask. Then,
with a flirt of her fan and a more or less mocking curtsey, she turned
to go.

"You are a fine antagonist," she said; "but I do not admit yet that you
are a check to my king. I shall find a way. Good-night!"

She turned and plunged into the glittering crowd, and was seen no more.
A strange fit of trembling came over Ravenspur as Tchigorsky led him
out.

"That woman stifles me," he said. "If she had only guessed who had been
seated so near to her! Tchigorsky, you played your cards well."

Tchigorsky smiled.

"I was glad of that opportunity," he said. "She meant to have me
murdered; but she will hesitate for a time. We have one great
advantage--we know what we have to face and she does not. The men are on
the board, the cards are on the table. It is you and I against Princess
Zara and the two priests of the temple of Lassa. And we play for the
lives of a good and innocent family."

"We do," Ralph said grimly. "But why--why does this fascinating Asiatic
come all those miles to destroy one by one a race that she can scarcely
have heard of? Why does she do it, Tchigorsky?"

"You have not guessed who the Princess is, then?"

Tchigorsky bent down and whispered three words in Ralph's ear. And not
until Brant Street was reached had Ralph come back from his amazement to
the land of speech.




CHAPTER IX

APRIL DAYS


The terror never lifted now from the old house. There were days and
weeks when nothing happened, but the garrison did not permit itself to
believe that the unseen enemy had abandoned the unequal contest.

The old people were prepared for the end which they believed to be
inevitable. A settled melancholy was upon them, and it was only when
they were together that anything like a sense of security prevailed. For
the moment they were safe--there was always safety in numbers.

But when they parted for the night they parted as comrades on the eve of
a bloody battle. They might meet again, but the chances were strong
against it. For themselves they cared nothing; for the younger people,
everything.

It was fortunate that the fine constitutions and strong nerves of
Geoffrey and Vera and Marion kept them going. A really imaginative man
or woman would have been driven mad by the awful suspense. But Geoffrey
was bright and sunny; he always felt that the truth would come to light
some day. And his buoyant, sanguine nature reacted on the others.

Nearly a month had elapsed since the weird attempt on the life of Rupert
Ravenspur; four weeks since Geoffrey's strange experience on the cliffs;
and nothing had happened. The family had lapsed once more into their
ordinary mode of living; blind Ralph was back again, feeling his way
about the castle as usual, silent, moody, in the habit of gliding in
upon people as a snake comes through the grass.

Ralph came into breakfast, creeping to his chair without touching
anything, dropping into it as if he had fallen from the clouds. Marion,
next to him, shuddered. They were quite good friends, these two, but
Marion was slightly afraid of her uncle. His secret ways repelled her;
he had a way of talking with his sightless eyes upturned; he seemed to
understand the unspoken thoughts of others.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

Marion laughed. None of the others had come down yet.

"What should be the matter?" she replied.

"Well, you shuddered. You should be sorry for me, my dear. Some of these
days I mean to tell you the story of my life. Oh, yes, it will be a
story--what a story! And you will never forget it as long as you live."

There was something uncanny in the words--a veiled threat, the
suggestion of one who had waited for a full revenge, with the knowledge
that the time would come. Yet the scarred face was without expression;
the eyes were vacant.

"Won't you tell me now?" Marion asked softly. "I am so sorry for you?"

The sweet, thrilling sympathy would have moved a stone, but it had no
effect upon Ralph. He merely caressed Marion's slim fingers and smiled.
It was significant of his extraordinary power that he found Marion's
hand without feeling for it. He was given to touch those slim fingers.
And yet he never allowed Marion to kiss him.

"All in good time," he said; "but not yet, not yet."

Before Marion could reply, Mrs. Gordon Ravenspur came into the room.
Marion seemed to divine more than see that something had happened. She
jumped to her feet and crossed the room.

"Dear aunt," she said quickly. "What is it?"

"Vera," Mrs. Gordon replied. "She called me into her room just now
saying she was feeling far from well. I had hardly got into her room
before she fainted. I have never known Vera do such a thing before."

Ralph was sitting and drumming his fingers on the table as if the
subject had not the slightest interest for him. But, with the swiftness
of lightning, a strange, hard, cunning expression flashed across his
face and was gone. When Marion turned to him he had vanished also. It
almost seemed as if he had the gift of fernseed.

"A mere passing weakness," Marion said soothingly.

"I should like to think so," Mrs. Gordon replied. "In normal
circumstances I should think so. But not now; not now, Marion."

Marion sighed deeply. There were times when even she was oppressed.

"I'll go and see Vera," she said. "I am sure there is no cause for
alarm."

Marion slipped rapidly away up the stone stairs and along the echoing
corridor toward Vera's room. She was smiling now, and she kissed her
hand to the dead and gone Ravenspurs frowning upon her from the walls.
Then she burst gaily into Vera's room.

"My dear child," she cried, "you really must not alarm us by----"

She paused suddenly. Vera, fully dressed, was seated in a chair, whilst
Ralph was by her side. He seemed more alive than usual; he had been
saying something to Vera that had brought the color to her face. As
Marion entered he grew grave and self-contained; like a snail retreating
into its shell, Marion thought. He sat down and tattooed with his
fingers on the dressing-table.

"I had no idea you had company," Marion smiled.

"I intruded," Ralph said gravely. There was a sardonic inflection in his
voice. "Yet I flatter myself that Vera is the better for my attention."

Marion looked swiftly from one to the other. She was puzzled. Almost
flawless as she was, she had her minor weaknesses, or she had been less
charming than he was, and she hated to be puzzled. Vera was no longer
pale and all signs of languor had departed, yet she looked confused and
there was the trace of a blush on her cheeks.

"Sometimes I fancy that Uncle Ralph is laughing at us all," she said,
with a laugh that was not altogether natural. "But I am all right now,
dear Marion. Save for a racking headache, I am myself again."

Marion, solicitous for others always, flew for her smelling salts. In
three strides Ralph was across the floor, and had closed the door behind
her. His manner had instantly changed; he was full of energy and action.

"Take this," he whispered. "Take it and the cure will be complete. Crush
it up between your teeth and drink a glass of water afterwards."

He forced a small white pellet between Vera's teeth; he heard her teeth
crushing it. With his peculiar gift for finding things, he crossed over
to the washstand and returned with a glass of water.

"You are better?" he asked, as Vera gulped the water down.

"Oh, yes, uncle; are you a wizard or what? My headache seems to have
lifted from me as one takes off a hat. The stuff you gave me----"

"Say no more about it; think no more about it. But whenever the same
feeling comes over you again let me know at once. And you are not to
mention this to anybody."

"But my mother and Geoffrey and----"

"Ah, you love Geoffrey? But there is no need to ask you the question.
You want to rid the house of its nameless terror; you want to be free,
to marry Geoffrey and be happy. Dear child, all these things will come
if you listen to me. I swear it. And now will you promise me that you
will say nothing of this to a soul?"

"Dear uncle, I promise."

Ralph had grown cold and moody again. When Marion returned with her
salts he slipped out of the room as callously as if he were not in the
least interested And while many anxious eyes followed Vera at breakfast
time, Ralph alone was indifferent, brutally indifferent, Marion thought.

"Are you thinking of the same thing that we are?" she asked.

"No," Ralph said shortly. "I was thinking what poor bacon this is."




CHAPTER X

A LITTLE SUNSHINE


After luncheon, Geoffrey was leaning over the stone balustrade of the
terrace waiting for Vera. Beyond a slight restlessness and extra
brilliancy of the eye she was better. She had proposed a ramble along
the cliffs and Geoffrey had assented eagerly.

His anxiety was fading away like the ashes of his cigarette. At first he
had been inclined to imagine that Vera's indisposition had been a move
on the part of the unseen foe. But he put this idea from him as
illogical. The enemy was not in the habit of using the gloved hand like
this. He struck down fiercely and remorselessly.

"No," Geoffrey murmured aloud; "Vera could not have been spared!"

A gentle hand was laid upon his arm. Marion stood beside him. They were
alone at that angle of the terrace and unseen from the house.

"You are right," said Marion. "Don't worry about that any more."

Geoffrey nodded approvingly. He slipped his arm round Marion's waist and
kissed her in a brotherly fashion. Marion inclined toward him with
half-closed eyes and a brightened color. Her limbs trembled; the
pressure of her lips was warm and sweet.

"Dear little sister," Geoffrey murmured. "What should we do without
you?"

Marion drew herself away abruptly. She rested her clasped hands over the
stone balcony so that Geoffrey should not see their unsteadiness; her
flushed face was half averted. It was a taking, a perfect picture.

"What would Vera say?" she asked.

"As if Vera would mind! Don't we all love you the same? And how many
times has Vera seen me kiss you? If there were no Vera, little sister,
then you may be sure that I should have kissed you in a different way!"

Marion laughed at the easy impertinence. That Geoffrey had no real love
or passion for anybody but Vera she knew perfectly well. She laughed
again, but there was nothing spontaneous in it; indeed, anybody but a
youthful egotist in love could have detected a certain jarring note of
pain.

"Here is Vera," said Geoffrey. "Let us ask her."

They put it to her merrily. They might have been in a world beyond all
sorrow or suffering. The music of their fresh young voices floated in
the air. Then Marion bent over the balustrade and watched the lovers out
of sight. Her face grew hard; a veil of heavy years seemed to have
fallen over it.

"If he only knew!" she said; "if he only knew! Why are clever people
often so foolish? And why do they commit follies with their eyes wide
open? Well, it doesn't matter, for you will never know, dear Geoffrey,
how passionately and devotedly I love you. And you never, never know
when temptation and inclination and opportunity go together. And I don't
believe that anybody could resist temptation if he or she were certain
not to be found out!"

"I am perfectly sure they wouldn't."

Marion turned with a stifled cry on her lips. Ralph Ravenspur was behind
her. The expression on his face was wooden and emotionless.

"I hope you have not been listening to me," she said reproachfully.

"I have been watching you, or rather feeling your presence for some
time." Ralph admitted. "I have been here since those young people went
away. But you said nothing; at least nothing I heard until that bit of
worldly wisdom dropped from your lips."

"It was an unworthy thought, Uncle Ralph."

"It might be unworthy of you, my dear, but I fancy it is true. Even the
very best of people give way to temptation. Put it away from you; don't
dwell upon your temptation, or it may get you into trouble."

"My temptation! Do you mean to say you know what it is?"

"I do," said Ralph. "You are deeply in love with your cousin Geoffrey.
There is wild blood in your veins, and that blood will out unless you
keep your feelings well under control. Ah, you may stare and look
dismayed, which I am sure you are doing although I cannot see you. Yes,
there is always the temptation to pray that the family foe might remove
Vera from your path."

A piteous cry came from Marion's lips. Who was this man who knew so much
and could probe her secret soul? Yet he was blind; he could not see. Was
it possible that some such horrible thoughts had crossed Marion's mind?
Atrocious thoughts will come to the best of us unasked for, unsought.

"Oh, you are cruel!" she said.

"Perhaps I am," Ralph admitted. "You see, I live in a dark world of my
own and I have small belief in the virtues of my fellow-creatures. But
you are an angel and I have amused myself by searing your wings."

"Is that because you think my secret is a shameful one?"

"Not in the least. Who can help the wayward driftings of a woman's
heart? And, anyway, your secret is safe with me."

He felt for Marion's fingers and put them to his lips. Before the girl
could reply he had drifted away, apparently feeling his way into space.
And for a long time Marion stood there gazing out to sea.

Meanwhile the lovers had forgotten everything but the beauty of the day,
and that the world was for themselves alone. The sun shone for them,
for them the blue sea thundered in white battalions against the cliffs;
for them the lark poured out its song at the gate of heaven, and the
heather bloomed on moor and headland.

They strolled along until they came to a favored spot where the gorse
flowered in yellow fires, and the crushed wild thyme was pungent under
their feet. Here Geoffrey threw himself on the turf and Vera reclined by
his side.

He could touch her hands and toy with the little ripples of her hair. To
watch the play of those pretty features and look back the love he saw in
those great starry eyes was a thing without alloy.

"Ah, me, if we could always be like this!" Vera said.

"You and I would be happy in any circumstances," said Geoffrey
thoughtfully. "Only I should like to see something of the world."

"What, go away and leave me all alone, dearest?"

Geoffrey smiled at this innocent coquetry. He touched the smooth satin
cheek caressingly. Vera only wanted him to disclaim any such intention
and he knew it, too. There was no deception about the matter, but they
were none the less happy for that.

"Of course not," Geoffrey declared. "I should take you with me wherever
I went. If we could only get the bar removed I should like to travel. I
should like to see men and cities, and measure my strength with my
fellows. I should like to go into Parliament. Ah, if we could only get
the bar removed!"

"If we only could," Vera sighed. "But I can't imagine that they will
touch us. We are so young and so innocent of wrong-doing. And yet this
morning----"

Vera paused, half afraid of betraying Ralph Ravenspur's confidence.

"Only this morning you were a bit afraid. Confess it."

"I was, Geoff. I felt strange when I awoke in the night. I felt cold and
like death when I awoke to-day, and then I fainted."

"But you are all right now, darling," Geoff said anxiously.

"Yes, dear, I never felt better. Still, it was a strange thing
altogether. I was well when I went to bed, but in the night I had a
curious dream. It seemed to me that I was lying half asleep with a
singular pricking sensation of my lips and face. And then an angel came
down and laid some white powder on my pillow, a white powder that looked
like a mixture of salt and powdered glass. Almost immediately the pain
ceased and I slept again. Then I awoke finally and had that fainting
fit. Don't you think it was a queer thing?"

"Yes, but what had the dream and the powder to do with it, little girl?"

"I was coming to that, Geoff. After I got better I remembered my dream
and looked at the pillow. You smile, thinking that only a woman would do
that. Sure enough there was some trace of gritty powder there, and I
collected it in a tissue paper. Directly I got it to the light half of
it melted; it seemed to dissolve in light like water. And here it is."

Vera produced a tiny packet from her pocket and opened it. There were
several grains of some sharp powder there which, as Geoffrey held them
in his hand, dissolved to nothingness. His face was very pale.

"Darling, this is a dreadful thing," he murmured. "I fancy----"

He paused, fearful of alarming Vera. He saw the hand of fate in this; he
saw the sword that was hanging over that beloved young life.

A passion of anger and despair filled him, but for Vera's sake he
checked the feeling. And it seemed to him as if he had passed in a
minute down a decade of years; as if in that brief space he had left his
boyhood behind and become a man.

"This must be looked into," he said sternly. "Every precaution----"

"Has been taken," Vera said quietly. "We have a protector among us,
dearest. One who is worth all the precautions put together. Do not fear
for me and do not ask me any questions, because I must not answer them.
But I am safe."

Geoffrey nodded. The cloud slowly lifted from his forehead. Vera was
speaking of her uncle Ralph and there was no reason to ask any
questions. Was it possible, Geoffrey wondered, that Ralph Ravenspur had
gone to the heart of the mystery, that it was wrapped up in his life,
and that he had come home to solve it?

But of this he said nothing. He resolved to render every assistance.
This vile thing was the work of earthly hands and earthly ingenuity
could solve it. Never was there cipher invented that was incapable of
solution.

Geoffrey drew Vera to his side and kissed her passionately. For a little
time she lay in his arms in absolute content. Her smiling eyes were
clear, her features placid. In any case she feared no unseen danger.
There must be some great sheltering power behind her, or she had never
looked so sweet and placid as that.

"I could not do without you, darling," Geoffrey said.

"And you are not going to do without me," Vera smiled. "There is much
yet to be done, but it is going to be accomplished, dearest. Something
tells me that the hour of our freedom is at hand. And something also
tells me, Geoff, that you are going to have a great deal to do with it."

They came back at length up the slope leading to the castle. And there
Ralph came upon them in his own noiseless, mysterious fashion. He clung
to them until Vera had entered the house and then led Geoffrey to the
terrace.

"There is nobody within earshot of us?" he demanded.

Geoffrey assured him that there was not. He was impressed with the
earnestness of his uncle's manner. He had never seen him so moved
before.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"Much," was the whispered reply. "If you are bold and resolute."

"I am, I am. I would lay down my life as the martyrs of old did to solve
the mystery."

"Ah," Ralph said, in a dry, croaking whisper. "I felt sure I could trust
you. There is a great danger and it is near. In that danger I want a
pair of eyes. Lend me yours."

"Dear uncle, I will do anything you please."

"Good. I like the ring in your voice. At half-past eleven to-night I
will come to your room. There I will confide in you. Till then, absolute
silence."




CHAPTER XI

ANOTHER STROKE IN THE DARKNESS


Contrary to the usual custom, there was almost a marked cheerfulness at
Ravenspur the same evening. The dread seemed to have lifted slightly,
though nobody could say why, even if they cared to analyze, which they
certainly did not. And all this because it had seemed to the doomed race
that Vera was marked down for destruction, and that the tragedy, the
pitiful tragedy, had been averted.

It is hardly possible to imagine a state of mind like this. And Vera
half divined the reason for this gentle gaiety. She might have told them
differently had she chosen to do so, but for many reasons she refrained.

She did not even tell her mother. Why draw the veil aside when even a
few hours' peace stood between them and the terror which sooner or later
must sap the reason of every one there? Besides, Uncle Ralph had pledged
her to the utmost secrecy.

For once Rupert Ravenspur had abandoned his stony air. He sat at the
head of the long table in the dining-room, where the lamplight streamed
upon fruit and flowers and crystal, upon priceless china, and silver
from the finest workshops in the world.

Grinling Gibbons and Inigo Jones had toiled in that dining-hall as a
labor of love; a famous master had painted the loves of the angels on
the roof. Between the oak panels were paintings by Van Dyck, Cuyp and
the rest of them. And over the floor servants in livery moved swiftly.
Rupert Ravenspur might have been a monarch entertaining some of his
favored subjects.

It was almost impossible to believe that a great sorrow could be
brooding here. There was everything that the heart of the most luxurious
could demand. Strangers might have looked on and envied. But the stately
old man who called all this his own would gladly have changed lots with
the humblest hind on the estate.

Now and then Rupert came out of his reverie and smiled. But his
tenderest smile and his warmest word were for Vera, who he had placed on
his right hand. Now and again he stroked her hair or touched her fingers
gently. Marion watched the scene with a tender smile on her lips.

Only Ralph Ravenspur was silent. He sat with his sightless eyes fixed on
space; he seemed to be listening intently, listening to something far
away that could be heard by his ears alone. Geoffrey touched him.

"A penny for your thoughts, uncle," he said.

"They are worth nothing," Ralph replied. "And if I sold them to you for
a penny you would give all Ravenspur Castle and your coming fortune to
be rid of them."

He croaked this out in a fierce whisper. There was a ring of pain in his
voice, that pain which is the suffering of the soul rather than the
body. Yet he did not relax his rigid listening attitude. He might have
been waiting for the unseen foe.

The conversation proceeded fitfully, sometimes almost lively, anon
lapsing into silence. It was hard for these people to speak. They had no
interests outside the castle; they found it impossible to follow social
or political life. Daily papers arrived, but it was seldom that they
were looked into.

The dinner came to an end at length, and then the family circle drew
round the fire. Ravenspur was one of those big cold places where fires
are always needed. Mrs. Gordon rose and walked to the door. Her
husband's eyes followed her. These two were gray and old before their
time, but the flame of love still burned bright and clear.

"You will not be long, dear," Gordon Ravenspur said. A somewhat
sentimental remark in the ordinary way, but not in this place where the
parting of a minute might mean parting for all time. Mrs. Gordon smiled
back upon her husband.

"I am going to bed," she said. "Never mind me. I feel sleepy."

Gordon Ravenspur nodded sympathetically. He knew what his wife meant as
if she had put her thoughts into words. She had been terribly upset over
Vera and now that the danger was past a heavy reaction set in.

"Why should we sit here like this?" Geoffrey exclaimed. "Vera and
Marion, I'll play you two a game at billiards. Come along."

Marion smilingly declined. She touched the back of Ravenspur's wasted
hand.

"I am going to stay here just for a few minutes and take care of
grandfather," she said; "then I will go to bed. Give Vera twenty in a
hundred, and I will bet you a pair of gloves that she beats you easily."

The young people went off together and in the excitement of the game
other things were forgotten. Vera played well and Geoffrey had all his
work cut out to beat her. Finally Vera ran out with a succession of
brilliant flukes.

"Well, of all the luck!" Geoffrey cried. "Let's play another game, but
after that exhibition of yours I must have a cigarette. Wait a moment."

The cigarettes were not in their accustomed place. Geoffrey ran up the
stairs to his bedroom. He passed along the dusky corridor on his return.
In the gallery all was dark and still, save for something that sounded
like two figures in muffling velvet robes dancing together. It seemed to
Geoffrey that he could actually hear them breathing after their
exertions.

With a quickening of his heart he stopped to listen. Surely somebody
buried under many thick folds of cloth was calling for assistance.

"Who is there?" Geoffrey called. "Where are you?"

"Just under the Lely portrait," came a stifled response. "If you
don't----"

The voice ceased. In that instant Geoffrey had recognized it as Aunt
Gordon's voice.

Heedless of danger to himself he raced down the corridor, his thin
evening pumps making little or no noise on the polished floor. Nor had
Geoffrey lived here all these years for nothing. He could have found the
spot indicated blindfolded.

He could see nothing, but he could hear the struggle going on; then he
caught the flash of something that looked like a blue diamond. It must
have been attached to a hand, but no hand was to be seen. Geoffrey
caught at nothingness and grasped something warm and palpitating. He had
the mysterious assailant in his grip; perhaps he held the whole mystery
here. He heard footsteps pattering along the corridor as Mrs. Gordon ran
for assistance. He called out to her and she answered him.

She was safe. There was no doubt about that. No longer was there any
need for caution on Geoffrey's part. His fingers closed on a thin
scraggy throat from which the flesh seemed to hang like strips of dried
leather. At the same time the throat was cold and clammy and slippery as
if with some horrible slime. It was almost impossible to keep a grip on
it. Moreover, the mysterious visitor, if slight, was possessed of
marvelous agility and vitality.

But Geoffrey fought on with the tenacity of one who plays for a great
end. He closed in again and bore the foe backwards. He had him at last.
If he could only hold on till assistance came, the dread secret might be
unfolded.

Then the figure took something from his pocket; the air was filled with
a pungent, sickly sweet odor, and Geoffrey felt his strength going from
him. He was powerless to move a limb. One of those greasy hands gripped
his throat.

In a vague, intangible way Geoffrey knew that that overpowering blinding
odor was the same stuff that had come so near to ending the head of the
family. If he breathed it much longer, his own end was come.

He made one other futile struggle and heard approaching footsteps; he
caught the gleaming circle of a knife blade swiftly uplifted, and his
antagonist gave a whimper of pain as a frightened animal might do. The
grip relaxed and Geoffrey staggered to the floor.

"That was a narrow escape," a hoarse voice said.

"Uncle Ralph!" Geoffrey panted. "How did you get here? And where has the
fellow gone?"

"I was close at hand," Ralph said coolly. "A minute or two sooner and I
might have saved Gordon's wife, instead of your doing it. See, is there
blood on this knife?"

He handed a box of matches to Geoffrey. The long, carved Malay blade was
dripping with crimson. But there were no signs of it on the floor.

"Let us follow him," Geoffrey cried eagerly. "He can't be far away!"

But Ralph did not move. His face was expressionless once more. He did
not appear to be in the least interested or excited.

"It is useless," he said, in his dull mechanical tones. "For in this
matter you are as blind as I am. There are things beyond your
comprehension. I am going down to see what is happening below."

He began to feel his way to the staircase, Geoffrey following.

"Are we never going to do anything?" the younger man exclaimed
passionately.

"Yes, yes. Patience, lad! The day of reckoning is coming as sure as I
stand before you. But to follow your late antagonist is futile. You
might as well try to beat the wind that carries away your hat on a
stormy day."

Mrs. Gordon sat in the dining-hall, pale, ashen, and trembling from
head to foot. It seemed as if an ague had fallen upon her. Every now and
then a short hysterical laugh escaped her lips, more horrible and more
impressive than any outbreak of fear or passion.

And yet there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; they could
only look at her with moist eyes and a yearning sympathy that was beyond
all words.

"It will pass," Mrs. Gordon said faintly. "We all have our trials; and
mine are no worse than the rest. Gordon, take me to bed."

She passed up the stairs leaning on the arm of her husband. Time was
when these things demanded vivid explanations. They were too significant
now. Ralph crept fumblingly over the floor till he stood by Marion's
side. He touched her hand; he seemed to know where to find it. The hand
was wet. Ralph touched her cheek.

"You are crying," he said, gently for him.

"Yes," Marion admitted, softly. "Oh, if I could only do anything to
help. If you only knew how my heart goes out to these poor people!"

"And yet it may be your turn next, Marion. But I hope not--I hope not.
We could not lose the only sunshine in the house!"

Marion choked down a sob. When she turned to Ralph again he was far off
feeling his way along the room--feeling, feeling always for the clue to
the secret.




CHAPTER XII

GEOFFREY IS PUT TO THE TEST


The house was quiet at last. When these mysterious things had first
happened, fear and alarm had driven sleep from every eye, and many was
the long night the whole family had spent, huddled round the fire till
gray morn chased their fears away.

But as the inhabitants of a beleaguered city learn to sleep through a
heavy bombardment, so had the Ravenspurs come to meet these horrors with
grim tenacity. They were all upstairs now, behind locked doors, with a
hope that they might meet again on the morrow. Only Geoffrey was up
waiting for his uncle Ralph.

He came at length so noiselessly that Geoffrey was startled, and
motioned to him that he should follow him without a word.

They crept like ghosts along the corridor until they reached a room with
double doors at the end of the picture gallery. Generations ago this
room had been built for a Ravenspur who had developed dangerous
homicidal mania, and in this room he had lived virtually a prisoner for
many years.

After they had closed the two doors, a heavy curtain was drawn over the
inner one, and Ralph fumbled his way to the table and lighted a candle.

"Now we can talk," he said quietly, "but not loud. Understand that the
matter is to be a profound secret between us and that not a soul is to
know of it; not even Vera."

"I have already given my promise," said Geoffrey.

"I know. Still there is no harm in again impressing the fact on your
mind. Geoffrey, you are about to see strange things, things that will
test your pluck and courage to the uttermost."

Geoffrey nodded. With the eagerness of youth he was ready.

"I will do anything you ask me," he replied. "I could face any danger to
get at the bottom of this business."

"You are a good lad. Turn the lamp down very low and then open the
window. Have you done that?"

"Yes, I can feel the cold air on my face."

Ralph crossed to the window and, putting out his hand, gave the quaint
mournful call of the owl. There was a minute's pause and then came the
answering signal. A minute or two later and a man's head and shoulders
were framed in the open window. Geoffrey would have dashed forward, but
Ralph held him back.

"Not so impatient," he said. "This is a friend."

Geoffrey asked no questions, though he was puzzled to know why the
visitor did not enter the castle by the usual way. At Ralph's request he
closed the window and drew the heavy curtains and the lamp was turned up
again.

"My nephew," said Ralph. "A fine young fellow, and one that you and I
can trust. Geoffrey, this is my old friend, Sergius Tchigorsky."

Geoffrey shook hands with Tchigorsky. To his intense surprise he saw the
face of the stranger was disfigured in the same way as that of his
uncle. Conscious that his gaze was somewhat rude he looked down.
Tchigorsky smiled. Very little escaped him and to him the young man's
mind was as clear as a brook.

"My appearance startles you," he said. "Some day you will learn how your
uncle and myself came to be both disfigured in this terrible way. That
secret will be disclosed when the horror that haunts this house is
lifted."

"Will it ever be lifted, sir?" Geoffrey asked.

"We can do so at any time," Tchigorsky replied in his deep voice. "You
may be surprised to hear that we can place our hand on the guilty party
at a moment's notice and bring the offender to justice. Your eyes ask me
why we do not do so instantly. We refrain, as the detectives refrain
from arresting one or two of a big gang of swindlers, preferring to
spread their nets till they have them all in their meshes. There are
four people in this business, and we must take the lot of them, or there
will be no peace for the house of Ravenspur. You follow me?"

"Perfectly," Geoffrey replied. "An enemy so marvelously clever must not
be treated lightly. Do you propose to make the capture to-night?"

Ralph Ravenspur laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh and was mirthless.
His scarred face was full of scornful amusement.

"Not to-night or to-morrow night, or for many nights," he said. "We have
all the serpent wisdom of the Old World against us, the occult knowledge
of the East allied to the slippery cunning that Western education gives.
There will be many dangers before we have finished, and the worst of
these dangers will fall upon you."

Ralph brought his hand down with a sudden clap on his nephew's
shoulders. Tchigorsky regarded him long and earnestly as if he would
read his very soul.

"You will do," he said curtly. "I am satisfied you will do and I never
made a mistake in my estimate of a man yet. Ravenspur, are you ready?"

"Ay, ay. I have been ready this long time."

The lamp was extinguished and list slippers were donned, and with no
more provision than a box of wax matches they left the room. Instructed
by Ralph Ravenspur, they fell behind him, each holding by the coat-tail
of the other. Down the corridor they went, down the stairs, along
stone-flagged passages until they reached the vast series of cellars and
vaults over which the castle was built.

There were many of these with twists and turns and low passages; the
place was large enough to conceal a big force of troops. And yet, though
it was pitchy dark and intricate as a labyrinth, the blind man made no
error; he did not hesitate for a moment.

Well as Geoffrey imagined that he knew the castle, he was fain to
confess his utter ignorance alongside the knowledge displayed by the
blind guide.

Ralph pulled up suddenly and began to speak.

"I brought you here to-night, Geoffrey," he said, "so that you might
have the first lesson in the task that lies before you. Listen! can you
hear anything?"

"I hear the roar of the sea, the waves grating on the shingle."

"Yes, because we are on a level with the sea. There are deeper vaults
yet, which you will see presently, and they are below the level of the
sea. Our ancestors used to place their prisoners there, and, by removing
a kind of sluice, allowed the tide to come in and drown them. You see,
those walls are damp."

They were, indeed. As a wax vesta flared up, the dripping stones and the
long white fungi gave the place a weird appearance. Then Ralph dropped
suddenly, extinguished his match, and drew his companions behind a row
of cupboard-like timbers.

"Somebody is coming," he whispered.

The others could hear nothing. But the blind man's powers of hearing
were abnormal. It seemed a long time before the sound of footsteps could
be heard. Then a figure in white, a fair figure with long shining hair
hanging down her back and carrying a taper, crept down the steps.

An exclamation trembled on Geoffrey's lips--an exclamation of alarm, of
admiration, of the utmost astonishment. But Ralph laid a hand on his
mouth. The figure passed into the vault beyond.

"It was Marion!" said Geoffrey in a thrilling whisper. "And yet it did
not look like Marion. She seemed so dreamy; so far off."

"She was walking in her sleep," Ralph said quietly.

"But the danger of it, the danger!"

"My dear boy, there is no danger at all. Blind as I am, I found out this
peculiarity of Marion's directly I returned. Danger to her! I would not
have a hair of her head injured to save Ravenspur from destruction.
Geoffrey, it is through Marion and Marion alone, that we are going to
solve the mystery."

"Ay," Tchigorsky muttered, "that is so."

Ralph raised his hand to impose silence. The soft returning footfalls
were clear to the ears. Then, rigid, unbending, with dilated eyes,
Marion passed, the flash of the lantern behind her.

"Come," said Ralph, "let us return. A good night's work, Tchigorsky!"

"Ay," Tchigorsky murmured; "a good night's work, indeed."




CHAPTER XIII

REELING OFF THE THREAD


It was fortunate for all parties that Geoffrey was possessed of strong
nerves, or he would have been certain to betray himself and them.

Since he had left school at the time when the unseen terror first began
to oppress Ravenspur, he had known nothing of the world; he had learnt
nothing beyond the power to suffer silently and the power of love.

To confide in him was, perhaps, a daring thing on the part of Ralph
Ravenspur. But, then, Ralph knew his world only too deeply and too well,
and he rarely made a mistake in a man. All the same, he followed as
closely as possible the meeting between Marion and Geoffrey the
following morning.

Marion came down a little pale, a little quieter and more subdued than
usual. Geoffrey rallied her in the spirit of mingled amusement and
affection that he always assumed to Marion. His voice was natural and
unaffected. Ralph was grimly satisfied. He knew now that his ally had
brains as well as courage.

"I believe you have been sitting up writing poetry," Geoffrey laughed.

"Indeed, I had a very long night's rest," Marion responded. "And I can't
imagine why I look so pale and washed-out this morning!"

"Bad dreams and an evil conscience," Vera suggested demurely.

Marion laughed. Usually at meal times the young people had the
conversation entirely to themselves. Sometimes the elders joined in;
sometimes they listened and smiled at the empty badinage; usually they
were wrapped in their gloomy thoughts. Ralph's face had the expression
of a stone idol, yet he followed every word that was said with intense
and vivid interest.

"Bad dreams, indeed," Marion admitted. "They were with me all night. It
seemed to me that I was wandering about all night looking for something.
And I had nothing on but my nightdress. In India as a child I used to
walk in my sleep. I hope I am not going to do that again."

Marion laughed and passed on to another subject. Curiously enough, she
seemed to shrink from speaking of her life in India. Of her dead parents
she would discourse freely; of her own early life she said nothing. It
had always seemed to Geoffrey that Marion's childhood had been unhappy.
There was an air of gentle melancholy when her features were in repose,
an air far older than her years.

Meanwhile Ralph had been following all this keenly. He appeared to be
interested in his breakfast. The streaming sunshine filtered through the
great stained glass windows full upon his scarred face; his head was
bent down upon his plate.

But the man's mind was at work. He had his opportunity to speak to
Geoffrey presently.

"You will do," he said approvingly. "Keep up that easy, cheerful manner
of yours. Whatever happens, try to ignore it; try to keep up that
irresponsible boyish manner. You will find it invaluable in disarming
suspicion later, when one false move may dash all our delicate plans to
the ground."

"I will do anything you require of me, uncle."

"That is right; that is the spirit in which to approach the problem.
And, remember, that what may appear to you to be the most trivial detail
may prove to be of the utmost importance to our case. For instance, I am
going to ask you to do something now that may produce big results. I
want you to get your grandfather's permission to use the top room over
the tower."

"But what can I want it for? It is useless to me."

"At present, yes; but later it will be useful. You require it for an
observatory. You are going to try to repair the big telescope. You are
enthusiastic on the subject, you are hot-foot to get to work at once.
There is nothing but lumber there."

"Boxes belonging to Marion, uncle. Cases that have remained unpacked
ever since she came over from India."

Ralph smiled in his most inscrutable manner.

"Mere trifles," he croaked. "But, there, I am one of the men who deny
there are such things as trifles. You may lose a pin out of your watch,
a trifle hardly visible to the eye a yard off. And yet your costly
watch, with its marvelous mechanism, is useless without that 'trifle.'
Now go."

An hour later and Geoffrey was busy in the corridor with the big
telescope, the telescope that nobody had troubled about at Ravenspur for
many years. Geoffrey, in his shirt sleeves, was polishing up the
brasses. Vera was with her mother somewhere.

There had been no trouble in getting permission from Rupert Ravenspur.
It was doubtful if he even heard Geoffrey's request. Everything the
young people asked they got, as a rule. Why not, when a day might cut
off their lives and their little pleasures for all time! The head of the
family was fast becoming a fatalist. So far as he was concerned, there
was no hope that the terror would ever lift. He had escaped once; the
next time the foe would not fail. But there would be rest in the grave.

Marion found Geoffrey in the corridor. The yellow and purple lights from
the leaded windows filled the place with a soft, warm glow. Marion's
dark hair was shot with purple; her white dress, as she lounged in a
window seat, was turned to gold. She formed a wonderfully fair and
attractive picture, if Geoffrey had only heeded it. But, then, Geoffrey
had no eyes for any one but Vera.

"What are you going to do?" Marion asked. "Read your fortune in the
stars? Get inspiration from the heavenly bodies to combat the power of
darkness?"

"I'm going to have a shot at astronomy again," Geoffrey replied, in his
most boyish and most enthusiastic manner. "I was considered a bit of
swell at it at school. And when I saw this jolly old telescope lying
neglected here, I made up my mind to polish my knowledge. I'm going to
set it up in the tower turret."

"But it is packed full of boxes--my boxes."

"Well, there is plenty of room for those boxes elsewhere--in fact, we've
got space enough to give every box a room to itself. There is an empty
bedroom just below. Presently I'm going to shunt all your lumber in
there."

Marion nodded approvingly. Of course if Geoffrey said a thing it was
done. He might have turned the castle upside down and the girls would
have aided and abetted him.

"I should like to be present when those boxes are moved," she said.
"There are hundreds of rare and curious things that belonged to my
mother--things that the British Museum would long to possess. Remember,
my ancestors were rulers in Tibet for thousands of years. Some day I'll
show you my curios. But don't begin to move those boxes till I am ready
to assist."

"I shall not be ready for an hour, Marion."

"Very well, then, I shall be back in an hour, astronomer."

Geoffrey finished his work presently. Then he ran up to the turret-room
and opened the door. The place was dusty and dirty to a degree, and
filled with packing-cases. Apparently they were all of foreign
make--wooden boxes, with queer inscriptions, lacquered boxes, and one
fragile wooden box clamped and decorated in filigree brass.

"A queer thing," Geoffrey murmured. "And old, very old, too."

"Over a thousand years. There is only one more like it in the world, and
no Christian eyes save four have ever looked upon it. When you take that
box from the room, see that it is the last, Geoffrey. You hear?"

It was Ralph who spoke. He had appeared silently and mysteriously as
usual. He spoke calmly, but his twitching lips were eloquent of
suppressed excitement.

"Very well," Geoffrey said carelessly. He was getting used to these
strange quick appearances and these equally strange requests. "It shall
be as you desire, uncle."

Ralph nodded. He gave a swift turn of his head as if looking for some
one unconsciously, then he crossed the room and stooped down beside the
brass-bound box, which was at the bottom of a pile of packages. His long
fingers felt over the quaint brasses.

"A most remarkable-looking pattern," said Geoffrey.

"It is not a pattern at all," Ralph replied.

"The quaint filigree work is a language--the written signs of old Tibet,
only you are not supposed to know that; indeed, I only found it out
myself a few days ago. It had been a long search; but, as I can only see
with my fingers, you can understand that. But this is part of the
secret."

Geoffrey was profoundly interested.

"Tell me what the language says?" he asked.

"Not now--perhaps not at all. It is a ghastly and terrible thing, and
even your nerves are not fireproof. There is only one thing I have to
ask you before I efface myself for the present. When you take up that
box to carry it down stairs it is to slip through your fingers. You are
to drop it."

"I am to drop that box. Is there anything else?"

"Not for the present. You are smiling; I feel that you are smiling. For
Heaven's sake take this seriously; take everything that I say seriously,
boy. Oh, I know what is in your mind--I am going in a clumsy way to get
something. I might so easily get what I require by a little judicious
burglary. That is what your unsophisticated mind tells you. Later you
will know better."

Ralph turned cheerfully round and left the room. He paused in the
doorway. "Don't forget," he said, "that my visit here is a secret. In
fact, everything is a secret until I give you permission to make it
public."

This time he left. Geoffrey had managed to drag one or two of the boxes
away before Marion appeared. She reproached him gently that he had not
waited for her. There might be spooks and bogies in those packages
capable of harm.

"I dare say there are," Geoffrey laughed. "But you were such a long
time. Every girl seems to imagine that an hour is like a piece of
elastic--you can stretch it out as long as you like. At any rate I have
done no harm. As far as I can judge there's only one good thing here."

"And what is that?" Marion asked.

Geoffrey pointed to the floor.

"That one," he said. "The queer brass-bound box at the bottom."




CHAPTER XIV

"IT MIGHT BE YOU"


Marion caught her breath quickly. The marble pallor of her face showed
up more strongly against her dark hair. Geoffrey caught the look and his
eyes grew sympathetic.

"What's the matter, little girl?" he asked. "It isn't like you to
faint."

"Neither am I going to faint, Geoff. But I had forgotten all about that
box. I cannot go into details, for there are some things that we don't
talk about to anybody. But that box is connected with rather an unhappy
time in my youth."

"Hundreds of years ago," Geoffrey said flippantly.

"Oh, but it is no laughing matter, I assure you. When my mother was a
child she was surrounded by all the craft and superstition of her race
and religion. That was long before she got converted and married my
father. I don't know how it was managed, but my mother never quite broke
with her people, and once or twice, when she went to stay in Tibet, I
accompanied her.

"My mother used to get restless at times, and then nothing would do but
a visit to Tibet. And yet, at other times, nobody could possibly have
told her from a European with foreign blood in her veins. For months and
months she would be as English as you and I. Then the old fit would come
over her.

"There was not a cleverer or more brilliant woman in India than my
mother. When she died she gave me these things, and I was not to part
with them. And, much as I should like to disobey, I cannot break that
promise."

It seemed to Geoffrey that Marion spoke more regretfully than feelingly.
He had never heard her say so much regarding her mother before.
Affectionate and tender as Marion was, there was not the least trace of
these characteristics in her tone now.

"Did you really love your mother?" Geoffrey asked suddenly.

"I always obeyed her," Marion stammered. "And I'd rather not discuss the
subject, Geoff. Oh, they were bad people, my mother's ancestors. They
possessed occult knowledge far beyond anything known or dreamt of by the
wisest Western savants. They could remove people mysteriously, they
could strike at a long distance, they could wield unseen terrors. Such
is the terror that hangs over Ravenspur, for instance."

Marion smiled sadly. Her manner changed suddenly and she was her old
self again.

"Enough of horrors," she said. "I came here to help you. Come along."

The boxes were carried below until only the brass-bound one remained.
Geoffrey stooped to lift it. The wood was light and thin, the brass-work
was the merest tracing.

A sudden guilty feeling came over Geoffrey as he raised it
shoulder-high. He felt half inclined to defy his uncle Ralph and take
the consequences. It seemed a mean advantage, a paltry gratifying of
what, after all, might be mere curiosity.

But the vivid recollection of those strained, sightless eyes rose before
him. Ralph Ravenspur was not the man to possess the petty vice of
irrepressible curiosity. Had it not been a woman he had to deal with,
and Marion at that, Geoffrey would not have hesitated for a moment. Down
below in the hall he heard the hollow rasp of Ralph's voice.

Geoffrey made up his mind grimly. He seemed to stumble forward, and the
box fell from his shoulder, crashing down on the stone floor. The force
of the shock simply shivered it in pieces, a great nest of grass and
feathers dropped out, and from the inside a large mass of strange
objects appeared.

[Illustration: The force of the shock simply shivered it in pieces, and
from inside a large mass of strange objects appeared.--Page 78.]

"I am very sorry," Geoffrey stammered after the box had fallen.

"Never mind," she said, "accidents will happen."

But Geoffrey was rapt in the contemplation of what he saw before
him--some score or more of ivory discs, each of which contained some
painting; many of them appeared to be portraits.

Geoffrey picked up one of them and examined it curiously. He was
regarding an ivory circle with a dark face upon it, the face of a
beautiful fury.

"Why, this is you," Geoffrey cried. "If you could only give way to a
furious passion, it is you to the life."

"I had forgotten that," Marion gasped. "Of course, it is not me. See how
old and stained the ivory is; hundreds of years old, it must be. Don't
ask any more questions, but go and throw that thing in the sea. Never
speak of the subject again."

Geoffrey promised. He strode out of the house and along the terrace. As
he was descending the steps, a hand touched his arm. Ralph stood there.

"Give it me," he said, "at once."

"Give you what, uncle?"

"That ivory thing you have in your pocket. I felt certain it was there.
Give it to me. Assume you have cast it over the cliffs. Marion will be
satisfied."

"But I promised Marion that----"

"Oh, I know. And if you knew everything, you would not hesitate for a
moment to comply with my request."

"Uncle, I cannot do this thing."

A hard expression came over Ralph's face.

"Listen," he said in his rasping voice. "The lives and happiness of us
all are at stake. The very existence of the woman you love is in your
hands."

"I have schemed for this," he said. "I expected it. And now you are
going to balk me. It is not as if I did not know what you possess."

"That is because you must have overheard my conversation with Marion."

"I admit it," Ralph said coolly. "I listened, of course. But you found
it and I heard what I expected. It is for you to say whether the truth
comes out or not."

"The truth, the truth," Geoffrey cried passionately. "It must out."

"Then give me that miniature. I'll ask you on my knees if you like."

There was an imploring ring in the speaker's voice. Geoffrey hesitated.

"If no harm is to come to Marion," he said, "I might break my word."

Ralph gripped him by the arm convulsively.

"I swear it," he whispered. "On my honor be it. Have I not told you
before that not for all Ravenspur would I have a hair of that girl's
head injured! If ever a man in this world meant anything, I mean that.
The miniature, come!"

And Geoffrey, with a sigh, handed the ivory disc to Ralph.




CHAPTER XV

RALPH RAVENSPUR'S CONCEIT


"I should like to know why you wanted the ivory picture?"

It was Geoffrey who asked the question. He and Ralph Ravenspur were
moving along the lanes that led up to the cliffs. They were deep lanes,
with overhanging edges on either side--lanes where it was not easy for
two conveyances to pass.

"I dare say you would," Ralph replied. "But not at present. In due
course you must know everything. Geoffrey, you are fond of novel
reading?"

"Yes, especially books of the Gaboriau type. And yet, in all my reading,
I never knew a more thrilling mystery than that of the ivory portrait."

"You had a good look at it, then?"

"Of course I did. The likeness to Marion was amazing. It might have been
her own photograph on the ivory. It was the same, yet not the
same--Marion transformed to an avenging fury."

"An ancestress of hers, no doubt?"

"Of course. The idea of it being Marion herself is out of the question."

"That you may dismiss at once," Ralph said. "The age of the medallion
proves that and Marion is an angel."

"She is. Uncle Ralph, I am fearfully puzzled. What can Marion's queer
ancestors and all that kind of thing have to do with our family terror?"

Ralph declined to say, beyond the fact that there was a connection. A
horseman was coming pounding down the lane and he stepped aside
instinctively.

"Jessop," he murmured, "I can tell by the trot of his horse."

Jessop, one of the farmers on the estate, it was. Geoffrey regarded his
companion admiringly. He seemed to be able to dispense with eyes
altogether. A long course of training in woodcraft stood him in good
stead now. The apple-cheeked farmer pulled up so as to pass the squires
at a walking pace.

"Morning, Jessop," Geoffrey cried cheerfully. "Where are you going
dressed in your best. And what are you doing with that feminine-looking
box?"

The big man grinned sheepishly.

"Riding into town," he explained. "Fact is, missus and myself have got a
lodger, a great lady, who's taken our drawing-room and two bedrooms.
They do say it's going to be the fashion for the 'quality' to spend
their holidays right in t'country. It's a rare help to us these hard
times."

Ralph Ravenspur turned round suddenly upon his nephew.

"Is it a fact?" he demanded. "Is it as Jessop says?"

"I believe so," Geoffrey replied. "I know that for the last five years
the influx of visitors along this lonely coast has been steadily
growing. It seems to have become quite the thing for good-class people
to take cottages and farmhouses miles away from everywhere, but I have
not heard of any of our tenants having them before."

"I be the first here, sir," Jessop replied. "The lady came over and said
she had been recommended to come to us. Not as I wanted her at first,
but six guineas a week for two months ain't to be despised. But the lady
has a power of parcels to be fetched and carried, surely. That's why I'm
off to town."

Jessop touched his hat and rode on. For a time Ralph was silent.

"It's some time since I last visited an English watering-place," he
said, "and Scarborough was the spot in question. We had a furnished
house there one season, a good house, well furnished, and beautifully
situated. We paid eight pounds a week for it, and it was considered to
be a lot of money. Don't you think that Jessop's lodger must be a very
extravagant kind of woman?"

Geoffrey laughed. Like most young men born to the purple, he had a light
estimate of the value of money.

"Now you come to think of it, perhaps so," he said. "Over at Brigg, the
farmers fancy they do well if they get ten shillings a room for the
week."

Again Ralph was thoughtful. He and his companion came up out of the
lane, and then it dawned upon Geoffrey that the other had turned, not
towards the cliffs as arranged, but inland in the direction of Jessop's
farm.

There was a long, deep lane to the west side of the stone farmhouse,
into which Ralph turned. From a gap in the hedge a peep into the garden
could be obtained. There was a trim lawn bordered by old-fashioned
flowers, two bay windows led from the house to the garden. These bay
windows led from the show rooms of the house, rooms never opened except
on state occasions. The house might have been made fit for anybody with
very little alteration.

Ralph sat down on the grass and slowly filled an aged black pipe.

"I'm going to smoke here while you see Mrs. Jessop. I have a fancy to
find out all about this fashionable lady who buries herself in the
country like this. Call it curiosity if you like, but do as I ask you.
If you can see the lady so much the better."

Geoffrey agreed cheerfully. A moment or two later and he was gossiping
with the buxom farmer's wife in the kitchen, a glass of amber,
home-brewed ale before him. He was a favorite with the tenantry, and
none the less beloved because of the cloud that was hanging over him.

"It does one's eyes good to see you again, Mr. Geoffrey," Mrs. Jessop
cried. "And you so cheerful and bright, and all, dear, dear! I'm main
sorry I can't ask you in the parlor, but we've got a lodger."

"So Jessop told me. Not that I don't feel far more comfortable here. And
what may your distinguished visitor be like, Mrs. Jessop?"

"Dark and handsome. And dressed over so. Might be a princess, who had
just slipped off her throne. And clever. She had books and books, some
in languages that look like Chinese puzzles."

"Some great society dame, no doubt."

"I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Geoffrey. But not English, I should
fancy, though she speaks the language as well as you or I. And simple,
too. Just tea and toast for breakfast with a little meat and rice for
luncheon and dinner with stewed fruit. And she never drinks anything but
water. What she spends a week in food wouldn't keep one of our laborers.
And she had pounds' worth of hot-house flowers sent from York every
day."

Mrs. Jessop paused. There was a rustling of something rich, and a lady
entered the kitchen. Geoffrey rose instantly from the table upon which
he had been seated.

He saw a tall woman who might have been anything between thirty and
fifty years of age, a woman of great beauty. It was the hard, commanding
style of beauty that men call regal. She might have been a queen, but
for the faint suggestion of the adventuress about her. To Geoffrey's bow
she made the slightest possible haughty recognition.

"I'm going out, Mrs. Jessop," she said. "I shall be back to luncheon. If
a telegram should happen to come for me, I shall be along the cliffs
between here and Beauhaven."

She flashed out of the kitchen all rustling and gleaming, and leaving
the faint suggestion of some intoxicating perfume behind her. And yet,
notwithstanding her proud indifference, it seemed to Geoffrey that she
had regarded him with more than passing interest just for the moment.

"She is very beautiful," he said. "She is a total stranger to me, and
yet she reminds me of somebody else, somebody whose name I can't recall,
but who is totally different. It is a strange sort of feeling that I
cannot explain."

"She's interested for all her haughtiness," said Mrs. Jessop. "I'm sure
if she has asked me one question about your family, she has asked a
thousand."

Geoffrey strolled away round the house. There was a short cut to the
place where Ralph was seated, and this short cut lay along the lawn.
Geoffrey's feet made no noise. As he passed the window of the
sitting-room he looked in.

The place was full of flowers, white flowers everywhere. There were
azaleas and geraniums and carnations, with delicate foliage of tender
green, thousands of blooms, arranged wherever a specimen glass or a bowl
could go.

Standing with his back to the window, a man was arranging them. And the
man was a Hindoo, or other Eastern, one of the men Geoffrey had seen
going through that queer incantation on the cliffs. Strange, more than
strange, that Mrs. Jessop had said nothing of him.

Geoffrey prudently slipped away before he had been seen. He found his
uncle doggedly smoking under the hedge. He looked like patience
personified.

"Well," he said, "have you anything wonderful to relate?"

"Pretty well," Geoffrey replied. "To begin with, I have actually seen
the lady."

"Ah! But go on. Tell me everything, everything mind, to the minutest
detail."

Geoffrey proceeded to explain. Whether he was interesting his listener
or not he could not tell, for Ralph had assumed his most wooden
expression; indeed, a casual spectator would have said that he was not
paying the slightest attention. Then he began to ask questions, in a
languid way, but Geoffrey could see that they were all to the point.

"I should not be surprised," he said, "if the man you saw in the house
was one of the men you saw on the cliffs. Mrs. Jessop said nothing about
him, because she knew nothing. So he was arranging the lady's flowers.
What flowers?"

"Azaleas and carnations and geraniums. Nothing else."

"Well, there may be worse taste, if there can be bad taste with flowers.
Any color?"

"Yes, they were all white. I was a little surprised at that, considering
that the lady was so dark and Eastern-looking."

"Of course you ascertained her name?"

"Indeed, I did nothing of the kind. I forgot all about it. But I had a
good look at her, and the description I gave you is quite correct.
Uncle, I don't want to seem unduly curious, but I fancy you expected to
find this lady here."

Ralph rose to his feet slowly, and knocked out the ashes of his pipe. He
turned his face toward the castle.

"I am not altogether surprised," he said.

Not another word was said for some time. Ralph appeared to be deeply
cogitating, so deeply that Geoffrey asked of what he was thinking.

"I was thinking," Ralph said slowly, yet drily, and with the same dense
manner, "that a pair of dark, gold-rimmed glasses would improve my
personal appearance."




CHAPTER XVI

THE WHITE FLOWERS


Surely enough, when Ralph Ravenspur came into the great hall, where tea
was being served, he was wearing a pair of dark glasses, with gold rims.
Slight as the alteration was in itself, it changed him almost beyond
recognition. He had been doing something to his face also, for the
disfiguring scar had practically disappeared. As he came feeling his way
to a chair, the slight thread of conversation snapped altogether.

"Don't mind me," he said quietly. "You will get used to the change, and
you cannot deny it is a change for the better. One of the causes leading
to this vanity was a remark I overheard on the part of one of the
servants. She expressed the opinion that I should look better in
glasses. That opinion I shared. I have no doubt the maid was correct."

All this was uttered in the dry, soft, caustic manner Ralph constantly
affected. Nobody answered, mostly because it was assumed that no reply
was expected. With a cup of tea in his hand Ralph began to speak of
other things.

Leading from the hall was a big conservatory. Here Marion was busy among
her flowers. She was singing gently as she snipped a bud here and there,
and Vera was helping her. Curled up in a leisure chair, Geoffrey was
absorbed in a book. The smoke from his cigarette circled round his head.

Ralph placed his cup down again and felt his way into the conservatory.
He stood in the doorway listening to the controversy going on beyond.

"I don't fancy I shall like it," said Vera. "It will be too cold, too
funereal."

"My dear child," Marion cried, "then we will abandon the idea. Only
don't forget that it was your own suggestion. You said it would look
chaste."

"Did I really! Then I had forgotten about it. And we are not going to
abandon the idea. It shall not be said that I change my mind like a
weathercock. The flowers on the dinner table to-night are all going to
be white."

Marion paused in the act of cutting a lily.

"I don't fancy I would," she urged. "After all, second thoughts are
best. White flowers on a table do suggest a funeral, that is if they are
all white. And in an unfortunate house like this anything melancholy is
to be discouraged. I think I will throw these blooms away----"

"You will do nothing of the kind," Vera cried. "White it shall be, and
you and I shall arrange them in the best possible style. Why, you have
enough already. Come along and we'll 'fix' up the table at once. Uncle
Ralph, how you startled me."

"Did I?" Ralph said coolly. "I fancy it is my mission in life to startle
people. What have you two been quarreling about?"

"We were not quarreling," Vera replied. "Marion insists that white
flowers on a dinner-table are cold and chilly, not to say funereal. I
say they are chaste and elegant. And, to prove that I am right, the
table to-night will be decorated with white flowers."

"Not with my consent," Marion laughed. "I have set my face dead against
the whole business. But spoilt Vera always gets her own way."

Vera smiled as she passed on with an armful of the nodding white
flowers. Ralph passed slowly into the conservatory and closed the
stained-glass door behind him.

Then he crossed the tiled floor rapidly as if his eyes were all that
could be desired, and slipped up a glass panel at the far end of the
conservatory. From this point there was a sheer fall down the cliffs on
to a hard sandy beach below.

"Just the same," Ralph muttered. "Nothing altered. And just as easy."

He crossed the tiles again and passed into the great stone flagged hall
in his slow way. Then he proceeded to light his pipe and strolled into
the grounds. Past the terrace he went until he came to the cliffs where
he was out of sight of the house.

Then with the confidence of the mountain goat he made his way to the
beach, the hard strip of beach that lay under the shadow of the castle.
Here he fumbled for some time among the damp slippery rocks, feeling for
something with infinite care and patience.

His perseverance was rewarded at last. His hands lay on a mass of
flowers, damp and sodden and yet comparatively fresh. He lifted one to
his nostrils and sniffed it.

"As I thought," he said, "as I expected. How cunning it all is, how
beautifully worked out! And nothing, however small, is left to chance.
Well, I came home in the nick of time, and I have found an ally I can
depend upon. Only it was just as well not to let Geoffrey know that I
knew of Jessop's lodger before to-day. I wonder if my lady guesses how
carefully she is being watched."

Half an hour later Ralph was in the castle again, wandering about in his
restless way and appearing to be interested in nothing, as usual.
Presently the great bell began to clang in the turret, and the family
partly gathered in the dining room before dinner. Vera was the last to
arrive.

"How lovely you look," Geoffrey whispered.

Vera laughed and colored. She had a white dress without ornament and
without flowers, save a deep red rose in her hair.

"That red rose is the crowning touch," said Geoffrey.

"I thought it was to be all white to-night," Ralph said. He had caught
the whispered words, as he seemed to catch everything. "Was that not so,
Vera?"

"Not for me, sir," Vera replied. "I am in white."

"I wish you could see her," Geoffrey said tenderly, "she looks lovely.
Her eyes are so blue, her skin is like the sunny side of a peach."

"And your tongue is like that of a goose," Vera laughed. "Never mind,
Uncle Ralph. Never mind. If you can't have the inestimable advantage of
gazing on my perfect beauty, you shall have the privilege of sitting by
me at dinner."

Geoffrey pleaded with comic despair, but Vera was obdurate. As the bell
clanged again, she laid a hand light as thistledown on Ralph's arm. She
was brighter and more gay than usual this evening and Marion played up
to her, as she always did.

The elders were silent. Perhaps the white flowers on the table checked
them. They were so suggestive of the wreaths on a coffin.

When once the cloth was drawn in the good old-fashioned way, and the
decanters and lamps and glasses stood mirrored in the shining dark
mahogany, the resemblance was more marked than ever. The long strip of
white damask, whereon lamps and flowers and decanters rested, might have
been a winding sheet. Rupert Ravenspur protested moodily.

"It's dreadful in a house like this," he said. "Who did it?"

"I am the culprit, dearest," Vera admitted prettily. "Marion did all in
her power to prevent me, but I would have my own foolish way. If you
will forgive me I will promise that it shall not occur again."

Rupert Ravenspur smiled. It was only when he was looking at Vera that
the tender relaxation came over his stern old face. Then his eyes fixed
on the flowers and they seemed to draw him forward.

"You are forgiven," he said. "Marion was right, as she always is. What
should we do without your cheerfulness and good advice? Upon my word I
feel as if those flowers were drawing all the reason out of me."

Nobody replied. It was a strange and curious thing that everybody seemed
to be regarding the waxen blossoms in the same dull, sleepy, fascinating
way. All eyes were turned upon them as eyes are turned upon some
thrilling, repulsive performance. The silence was growing oppressive and
painful.

Geoffrey gave a little gasp and laid his hand upon his chest.

"What is it?" he said. "There is a pain here like a knife. I am
burning."

Nobody took the faintest notice. Only Ralph seemed to be alive, and yet
there was no kind of expression on his face. Heads were drawing nearer
and nearer to the vases where the graceful flowers were grouped--those
innocent looking blooms which were the emblems of all that was fair and
fine and beautiful.

What did it mean, what strange mystery was here? Nobody could speak,
nobody wanted to speak; all were sinking, lulled and soothed into a
poppyland sleep, even Geoffrey who seemed to be fighting for something
he knew not what.

Then Ralph reached out his hand to the foot of the table. His long, lean
fingers were tangled in the strip of damask down the mahogany table on
which lamps and decanters and glasses and dishes of fruit were placed.

With a vigorous pull he brought the whole thing crashing on the polished
floor, where two pools of paraffin made a blaze of the wreck that Ralph
had caused. Then he slid over the floor and opened one of the windows,
letting in the pure air fresh from the North Sea.




CHAPTER XVII

WHENCE DID THEY COME?


In the darkness nobody spoke for a moment. Not one of them could have
said anything for a king's ransom. Apart from the feeling of
suffocation, the gradual poppy sleep of death that filled the room as a
great wave suddenly engulfs some rocky cave, the dramatic horror of the
darkness held them fast.

At the same time there was something of a shock, a healthy shock in the
plunge from light to gloom. A fitful purple gleam still flickered where
the blazing paraffin had licked the hard oak polished floor; the breath
of the sea breeze was bracing. It was Marion who first came to herself
as one comes out of a horrid nightmare.

"Oh, oh," she shuddered. "Who opened the window?"

Nobody responded for a moment. Ralph had crept to Geoffrey's side. It
was marvelous how he found his way in the intense darkness.

"Say you did it," he whispered. "You must say you did it. Speak."

"I suppose I did," Geoffrey murmured. "I seem to recollect something of
the kind."

"You have saved our lives," said Marion. "Will somebody ring the bell?"

Servants came without much dismay or surprise. They were used to amazing
things at Ravenspur. It would have caused no more than a painful
sensation to come in some night after dinner and find the whole family
murdered.

"Bring more lamps," Ralph Ravenspur said quietly.

Lamps were brought. The disordered litter on the floor was swept up,
the broken globes, the dainty china, the glass and silver. The white
flowers were no longer there. This was a puzzle to everybody but Ralph,
who had gathered them at the first distraction, and thrown them out of
the window.

There was silence for a minute or two after the servants had withdrawn.
Then Rupert Ravenspur dashed his fist on the table in a passion of
despair.

"Great Heaven!" he said. "How long, how long? How much more of this is
it possible to bear and still retain the powers of reason? What was it?"

"Could it have been the flowers?" Vera suggested. "It was my fault."

"No, no," Marion cried. "Why your fault? Those white blossoms were
innocent enough; we packed them ourselves, we arranged them together."

"Still, I believe it was the flowers," Geoffrey observed. "Why should
they have fascinated us in that strange way? It was horrible!"

Horrible indeed, and not the less so because the horrible was not
conspicuous by its absence. That innocent flowers, pure white blossoms,
could lend themselves to a dark mystery like this was almost maddening.

And yet it must have been so, for no sooner had the flowers been removed
and the air of heaven had entered the room than the grip and bitterness
of death were past.

"I am sure we were near the end," Marion cried. "Geoff, was it you who
snatched the cloth from the table?"

Geoffrey was about to deny the suggestion when his eyes fell upon
Ralph's face. It was eager, almost pleading in its aspect. Like a flash
the changing expression was gone.

"It must have been mechanical," Geoffrey murmured. "One does those
things and calls them impulses. Inspiration would be a better
expression, I fancy."

They crowded round him and gave him their thanks, all save Ralph, who
sat drumming his fingers on the table as if nothing out of the ordinary
had happened. Nothing seemed to draw him out of his environment.

Still, it was another man who came creeping to Geoffrey's room when the
lights were extinguished and the castle was wrapped in slumber. There
was an inner room lying out over the sea, which Geoffrey used
indifferently for a smoking room and study.

"I can smoke my pipe here without a chance of our being overheard," he
said. "Well, was the adventure this evening creepy enough for you?"

Geoffrey shuddered slightly. Flagrant, rioting dangers would have had no
terrors for him. It was the unseen that played on the nerves of
imagination.

"Horrible," he said, "but why this mystery?"

"As far as I am concerned, you mean? My dear Geoffrey, it is imperative
that I should be regarded by everybody as a poor blind worm who is
incapable for good or evil. I want people to pity me, to make way for
me, to treat me as if I were of no account, a needless cumberer of the
ground. I want to see that you prevent these tragedies by sheer chance.
I will strike when the time comes!"

The hoarse voice had sunk to a whisper, the sightless eyes rolled, the
thin fingers crooked as if dragging down an unseen foe to destruction.
As suddenly Ralph changed his mood and laughed noiselessly.

"Let us not prophesy," he said. "What did you think of the episode?"

"I don't know what to think about it."

"Then you have no theory to offer?"

"No, uncle. I am in the dark. That is where the keen edge of the terror
comes in. I should say it was the flowers. As the atmosphere of the room
grew warmer, as the heat from the lamps drew out the fragrance of the
blooms, the perfume seemed to become overpowering. The perfume riveted
attention, arrested the senses, and gradually sense and feeling appeared
to go altogether."

"Perfectly right, Geoffrey. Still, there is nothing very wonderful
about it. Lucretia Borgia used the same means to despatch her victims. A
poisoned bouquet was a favorite weapon of hers, you remember."

"But the poison there was conveyed through the palms of the hands. Why
do we never hear of that sort of poison nowadays?"

Ralph smiled as he refilled his pipe.

"I've got some of it myself," he said, "or at least Tchigorsky has. It
is poor, inartistic stuff, compared to some of the poisons known to
Tchigorsky and myself. There are Eastern poisons unknown to science;
toxicology little dreams of the drugs that Tchigorsky and your poor
uncle wot of.

"You are right. Those flowers were impregnated with the deadly drug that
comes out with warmth. It comes as quickly as a breath of wind and does
its work and vanishes almost immediately, leaving no trace behind.
Another minute and the whole family of Ravenspur had been no more. There
would have been a fearful sensation: doctors would have discoursed
learnedly--and vaguely--and there would have been an end to the matter.
Not a soul in England would have had the remotest idea of the source of
the tragedy. Look here."

From under his coat Ralph produced a single white carnation.

"That was on the table to-night," he said. "Take it in your hands. Smell
it. Do you recognize anything beyond the legitimate perfume?"

Geoffrey held the perfect bloom to his nostrils. He could detect nothing
further.

"It seems to me to be as innocent as beautiful," he said.

"So it is, so it is--at present. Give it me back again. See, I have here
a little white, dull powder. In it is the one-thousandth part of a grain
of the deadly drug. I dust the powder on the carnation, thus. The
natural moisture in the leaves absorbs it and the flower presents a
normal aspect. Smell it."

"I smell nothing at all," said Geoffrey.

"Not yet. Hold it to the lamp for ten seconds."

Geoffrey did so. At the end of the brief space he placed it to his
nostrils as Ralph suggested. Immediately a drowsy feeling came over him,
a desire for sleep, a desire to be at rest in body and mind, in heart
and pulses. Indeed, it seemed to him as if his heart had stopped
already.

Through a yellow scented mist he seemed to see his uncle and hear the
latter's voice commanding him to drop the carnation. He could not have
done it to save himself from destruction. Then the flower was plucked
away.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, suddenly opening his eyes.

"You have been across the Styx and back in exactly fifty seconds," Ralph
said gravely. "Now you see the effect of that stuff. Wonderfully
artistic, isn't it?"

Geoffrey gazed at the flower with sickening horror. Ralph seemed to
divine this, for he picked it up, sniffed it coolly and placed it in his
button-hole.

"The evil effect has gone, believe me," he said. "The dose was very
small, and I did not mix it with water, which makes a difference."

"Still, I don't follow," Geoffrey said. "We know those flowers were cut
and arranged by Vera and Marion. It would have been impossible for any
one to have entered the dining-room and replaced them with other white
flowers. And for anybody to have had the time to impregnate them one by
one--oh, it is impossible!"

"Not at all, Geoffrey. A mystery is like a conjuring trick--seemingly
insoluble, but you know how it is done, and then it becomes bald and
commonplace. Suppose the stuff is mixed with water and the mixture
placed in a small spray worked by an india-rubber ball. Then one goes
into the dining hall for half a minute, gives two or three rapid motions
of the hand, and the thing is accomplished."

"Yes, that sounds easy. You speak as if you knew who did it."

"Yes," Ralph said, with one of his spasmodic smiles, "I do."

"You know the author of this dastardly thing. Tell me."

"Not yet. I dare not tell you, because you are young and might betray
yourself. I could not confide my secret to any one, even the best
detective in England. It is only known to Tchigorsky and myself. You
shall help me in drawing the net around the miscreants, but you must not
ask me that."

"And to-night's doings are to remain a secret?"

"Of course. Nobody is to know anything. They may conjecture as much as
they like. Good heavens, if any one in the house were to know what I
have told you to-night, all my work would be undone. You are my
instrument, by which I ward off danger without attracting attention to
myself. You are the unsuspecting boy, who by sheer good luck foils the
enemy. Keep it up, keep it up; for so long as you appear young and
unsophisticated, there is less of the deadly danger."




CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. MONA MAY


Geoffrey was slightly puzzled but, like a good soldier, he asked no
questions. More and more he was coming to recognize that it was Ralph's
to command and his to obey. Doubtless Ralph had some good reason when he
treated his nephew like a puppet, but then the puppet was a long way
from a fool, and as the days went on, it came home to him with an
increasing force that he had a master mind to deal with.

He had been told off this afternoon to lurk more or less concealed at
the top of the steep pitch leading to the village, and there wait until
something happened. It came at the end of a few minutes in the shape of
a lady in perfect cycling costume, wheeling a machine up the hill
towards Jessop's farm. As she came nearer to the spot where Geoffrey was
smoking, a ragged nomad sprang from the hedge and demanded alms. The man
was coarse and threatening, he was by no means sober, and his demands
took the by no means modest form of a shilling.

A second later there was a slight scream and Geoffrey darted forward.
The sight of a woman in distress sufficed for him; Ralph was forgotten
in an instant. There was a scuffle and a plunge, a rapid exit of the
nomad and, hat in hand, Geoffrey was receiving the thanks of a beautiful
woman, who was pleased to assure him that he was her preserver.

"It is nothing," Geoffrey stammered, "nothing, really."

It was not usual for him to be confused like this. But then he was
standing face to face with the handsome stranger who had taken Mr.
Jessop's rooms, the lady with the love of white flowers, the woman who
employed Oriental servants, who were given to strange incantations, the
creature in whom Ralph Ravenspur had taken so vivid an interest.

And Geoffrey's confusion grew none the less as it flashed upon him that
the intoxicated tramp had been the god in the car designed by Ralph to
bring this introduction about.

He steadied himself. There was work before him now.

"You exaggerate my poor services," he said.

"Not at all, I assure you," the lady said. Her eyes held a strange
fascination; her voice was low and sweetly sedative. She was years older
than Geoffrey, but just the kind of siren who drove young men mad, or
lured them to destruction. "Few strangers would have faced so formidable
an opponent for me."

"Most of my countrymen would," Geoffrey said. "I hope you have a better
opinion of Englishmen than that. But Englishmen are not favorites
abroad."

The dark eyes were dancing with amusement.

"You are under the impression that I am not English?" she asked.

"Well, there is a certain grace," Geoffrey stammered, "that spoke
of----"

"Foreign blood. Precisely. But all the same, I am proud to call myself
an Englishwoman. My name is Mrs. May--Mona May. You are Mr. Geoffrey
Ravenspur."

"At your service. I had the pleasure of seeing you the other morning in
Mrs. Jessop's kitchen. Meanwhile, to prevent any further trouble from
our predatory friend, I am going to walk with you as far as the farm."

Mrs. May raised no objection; on the contrary, she seemed pleased with
the idea. She was dangerous, she was mixed up in some way with the
conspiracy against the peace and happiness of the house of Ravenspur,
and yet Geoffrey found it hard to resist her fascinations.

She spoke almost perfect English, her dress, and style and manner were
insular, but there was a flashing grace about her, a suggestion of
something warm and Eastern, that gleamed and flashed in spite of her
cycling dress and the wheel she pushed along so skillfully.

She gave a sigh of regret as the farmhouse was reached.

"Well, I suppose we must part," she said. "Really, it seems years since
I spoke to a gentleman and I have only been here for days. I have been
ordered absolute rest and quietness for the benefit of my health and,
upon my word, I am getting it. Would you take pity upon my loneliness
and come to tea?"

Many an older man than Geoffrey had been excused from yielding to such a
request. Those eyes were so dark and pleading, and the man was young.
Besides, he had an excuse. Had not his uncle Ralph planned this thing
and was it not intended to bring about an introduction! Besides, once
inside that room, it might be possible to find something that in the
future would yield great results.

"I shall be only too pleased," Geoffrey murmured.

"Then come along," Mrs. May said gaily. "If you are fond of a good cup
of tea, then I have some of the most perfect in the world."

She led the way into the old-fashioned drawing-room, which she had
rendered beautiful with flowers. The stiff furniture looked stiff no
longer. The hand of an artistic woman had been here and the whole aspect
was changed.

"You should have seen it when I came here," Mrs. May smiled as she
followed Geoffrey's glance. "It was like a condemned cell. And yet there
are things of price here. A little alteration and a few flowers--ah,
what a difference flowers make!"

She pointed to her own floral decorations. The room was ablaze with
them. And they were all scarlet.

There was not a single bloom of any other kind to be seen.

"They match my style of beauty," Mrs. May laughed. "I never have any
other here."

"You do not care for white flowers?" Geoffrey asked.

"I abhor them. They suggest beautiful maidens cut off in their prime,
dead children, the tomb, and all kinds of horrors. I would not have one
in the house."

Geoffrey was discreetly silent. Remembering the hundreds of white
flowers he himself had seen in this very room not so long ago, this
speech staggered him. In a dazed kind of way he watched Mrs. May light a
spirit lamp under a silver kettle, after which she excused herself on
the score of fetching the famous tea.

Geoffrey picked up an album and turned the leaves over rapidly. There
were soldiers, one or two native Indian officials, a great number of
Society people, professional beauties, and the like and--and Marion!

Yes, her fair tender face smiled from the embossed, richly gilt page.
The picture had been taken some years ago, but there was no mistaking
those pure features. Geoffrey closed the book and walked over to the
window. Surprise upon surprise had come upon him lately, but this was
staggering.

When Mrs. May returned he was himself again. He could answer her
questions gaily and smoothly. It was only when he was on his way home
again that he recollected how much information he had imparted and how
little he had got in return.

"You must come and see me again," Mrs. May said. "Now, can't you come up
some evening and dine with me? Say Thursday. Unless I hear from you to
the contrary I shall see you on Thursday at seven. A primitive time, but
then we are in the country."

"You may be certain," Geoffrey said carelessly, "that I shall come if
possible. Good-bye, Mrs. May. In ordinary circumstances my people would
have called upon you. You will know why it is impossible."

Mrs. May pressed Geoffrey's hand with gentle sympathy.

"You have my real regrets," she said. "What a horrible thing it is to
think that you are all powerless to help it. Good-bye."

Geoffrey found Ralph at the entrance to the castle gate. There was a
queer smile on his face, a smile of amused expectation.

"You found her charming?" he asked.

"And clever," said Geoffrey. "I guessed your plot, uncle. She is very
clever."

"The cleverest woman in the world, the most wicked, the most
unscrupulous. Of course she asked you to dinner, and, of course, you
will go. Nobody is to know of it, mind."

"Uncle, how did you guess that?"

"I'll tell you presently. And I'll tell you many things you will have to
say and leave unsaid to--Mrs. May."

"Tell me why Marion's photograph is in her album."

"So she showed you that!"

"No, I found it out by accident. Is Marion connected with her?"

"Very closely, indeed. She is Marion's evil genius. And yet through that
pure and innocent girl we are going to strike at the heart of the
mystery. Ask me no questions, now; to-night we will go carefully into
the matter."




CHAPTER XIX

VERA IS NOT PLEASED


Any stranger looking along the terrace at Ravenspur would have been
inclined to envy the lot of those who had their habitation there. It
looked so grand, so dignified, so peaceful. Brilliant sunshine shone
upon the terrace; against the grey stone of the grand old façade, the
emerald green of the lawns rose refreshing to the eyes, those old lawns
like velvet that only come with the passing of centuries.

People from the rush and fret of cities, excursionists, who had their
sordid, humdrum life in towns, turned longing eyes to Ravenspur. Anybody
who lived in a place like that must be happy.

And some of them looked it. Geoffrey, for instance, as he lounged on the
terrace with a cigarette between his strong white teeth. He was seated
with a cap over his eyes and appeared to be given over to a pleasant
reverie. A rod and an empty fishing basket stood by his side.

Ralph Ravenspur lounged up to him. Perhaps he had been waiting for his
nephew. At any rate, he always knew where to find him. He sat with the
sunshine full upon his sightless eyes and smoked his pipe placidly.

"There is nobody about?" he asked.

"Nobody," Geoffrey replied. "Do you want to say anything to me?"

Ralph made no reply. Geoffrey watched him curiously.

"Do you know you seem to be a long way off to me this afternoon?" he
said presently. "I can't quite explain my meaning. Since you have worn
those glasses you look a different man. There, now you are yourself
again."

Ralph had taken off the glasses for a moment.

"Is the difference very marked?" Ralph asked.

"Very marked, indeed. Honestly, I should not have known you."

Ralph gave a sigh, whether of sorrow or satisfaction Geoffrey could not
say.

"Time will prove whether the disguise is of any value or not," he said.
"I came to ask you about this evening. Are you going?"

"Of course I am. Mrs. Mona May fascinates me. On the whole, I have
deemed it advisable to say nothing to the others. We cannot call upon
Mrs. May and they need not know that I have had any intercourse with
her."

Ralph nodded. Perhaps he alone knew the real need for secrecy in this
matter.

"Quite right," he said. "The less said the better. She wrote to you, of
course?"

"Oh, yes. I had the letter yesterday."

"And destroyed it, of course?"

"Upon my word, I've forgotten. I see you are angry with me. Well, I will
try not to make a similar mistake again."

From the expression of his face Ralph was greatly moved. His features
flamed with anger, he was trembling with passion to his finger-tips.
Then his mood suddenly changed. He laid a kindly hand on Geoffrey's
knee.

"My boy," he said, earnestly. "There are reasons, weighty reasons why I
cannot take you entirely into my confidence. If I did so, you would see
the vital necessity of caution even in the most minute matters. You will
see that Mrs. May's letter is destroyed at once."

"I will, uncle. The rest of the family believe I am going to Alton
to-night."

Ralph nodded. He seemed already to have forgotten the circumstances. He
had fallen into one of those waking reveries that were deep as sleep to
most men. Geoffrey spoke to him more than once, but failed to gain the
slightest attention. Then Ralph rose and moved away like a man in a
dream.

Geoffrey lounged about till he had finished his cigarette. He tossed the
end away and then proceeded towards the house. He would get that letter
and destroy it without further delay. But this was easier said than
done, for the simple reason that the letter was nowhere to be found.
High and low Geoffrey searched for it, but all to no purpose.

Had he left it in the dining-room or the library? Possibly in the latter
place, seeing that he had written a couple of notes there earlier in the
day. It was dim, not to say gloomy in the library, and for a moment
Geoffrey failed to see that Vera was seated at the table.

He crossed over and touched her caressingly on the cheek. She looked up
coldly.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"A letter, dearest," Geoffrey replied. "But why do you look so
strange----"

"Oh, you ask me that! It is a letter you are looking for. Then perhaps I
may be so fortunate as to assist you. I have just found a letter lying
here addressed to you. As it lay with face open I could not but read it.
See here!"

A square of thick scented notepaper filled with a dashing black
caligraphy shook before Geoffrey's eyes. It was Mrs. May's writing
beyond a doubt. Geoffrey flushed slightly as he took the note.

"Read it," Vera said quietly, "read it aloud."

Geoffrey did so. It struck him now--it had never occurred to him
before--that the writer was slightly caressing in her manner of
phrasing. There was a suggestion of something warmer and more personal
than the stereotyped lines implied.

"So this is the Alton where you are going to-night?" Vera went on. "Who
is the woman? How long have you known her?"

The quick blood came flaming to Geoffrey's face. He had never seen Vera
hard and cold like this before. It was a woman and not a girl who was
speaking now. Geoffrey resented the questions; they came as a teacher
addresses a child.

"I cannot tell you," he said. "It has to do with the family secret."

"And you expect me to believe this, Geoffrey?"

"Of course I do," Geoffrey cried. "Did you ever know me tell you a lie?
And, after all the years we have been together, you are going to be
jealous of the first woman who comes along! Have I been mistaken in you,
Vera?"

The girl's beautiful eyes filled with tears. She had been sorely vexed
and hurt, far more hurt than she cared Geoffrey to know. For it seemed
to her that he had wilfully deceived her, that he was going to see this
creature of whom he was secretly ashamed, that he had lied so that he
could seek her company without suspicion in the minds of others.

"If you give me your word of honor," Vera faltered, "that you----"

"No, no," Geoffrey cried. "I merely state the facts and you may believe
them or not as you please. Who Mrs. May is I decline to say. How I
became, acquainted with her I also decline to explain. Suffice it that
she is Mrs. May, and that she has rooms at Jessop's farm."

"And that is all you are going to tell me, Geoffrey?"

"Yes, Vera. If you have lost faith in me----"

"Oh, no, no! Don't say such cruel things, Geoff. Whom have I beyond my
parents and you in the whole world! And when I found that letter, when I
knew what you said about Alton was--was not true----"

She paused unable to proceed. Her little hands went out imploringly and
Geoffrey caught them in his own. He drew her to his side and gazed into
her eyes.

"Darling," he whispered, "you know that I love you?"

"Yes, dear, it was foolish of me to doubt it."

"I love you now and always. I can never change. I did not intend to
tell you about this woman because it was all part of the secret. The
wise man among us has said it, and his word is law. I am speaking of
Uncle Ralph."

Vera nodded with a brighter glance. Had not she a secret in common with
Ralph?

"Say no more," she whispered. "I am ashamed of myself."

Geoffrey kissed the quivering red lips passionately.

"Spoken like my own, Vera," he said. "Now I will give you my word of
honor----"

"No, no. It is not necessary, Geoff. I was foolish. I might have known
better. Not another thought will I give to Mrs. Mona May."

Vera spoke in all sincerity. But our thoughts are often our masters and
they were so in this case. Mona May was a name graven on Vera's mind,
and the time was coming when with fervent gratitude she blessed the hour
when she had found that letter.




CHAPTER XX

A FASCINATING WOMAN


Mrs. Jessop's simple parlor had been transformed beyond recognition. The
fine Chippendale furniture had been brought forward; the gaudy settees
and sofas had been covered with fine, Eastern silks and tapestries. A
pair of old Dresden candlesticks stood on the table, and under pink
shades the candles cast a glamor of subdued light upon damask and silver
and china.

As Geoffrey was ushered in Mrs. May came forward. She was dressed
entirely in black, her wonderfully fine arms and shoulders gleamed
dazzling almost as the diamonds that were as frosty stars in the
glorious night of her hair. One great red bloom of some flower unknown
to Geoffrey was in her breast. As to the rest, the flowers were all
scarlet. The effect was slightly dazzling.

Mrs. May came forward with a smile.

"So you have managed to elude the Philistines," she said. "Ah, I guessed
that you would say nothing to your friends about our little dinner."

There was an eager note in the words that conveyed a half question.
Geoffrey smiled.

"May I venture to suggest that the knowledge is not displeasing to you?"
he said.

"Well, I admit it. In the circumstances to explain would have been a
bore. Your people cannot call on me and, being old-fashioned, they might
not care for you to come here alone. Therefore, being a man of the
world, you told them nothing about it."

Geoffrey smiled, as he took the proffered cigarette. Had he not been
warned against this woman by Ralph, her subtle flattery would have put
him off his guard. It is always so sweet and soothing for a youngster to
be taken for a man of the world.

"You have guessed it all," he said. "My grandfather is a grand seigneur.
He has no toleration for anything that is not _en règle_. What an
exquisite cigarette!"

Mrs. May nodded. They were excellent cigarettes, as also was the liqueur
she insisted upon pouring out for Geoffrey with her own hands. He had
never tasted anything like it before.

And the dinner when it came was a perfect little poem in its way. Not a
flask of wine on the table that had not a history. Long before the meal
was over Geoffrey found himself forgetting his caution.

Not that Geoffrey had anything to be afraid of. He knew that in some way
this woman was connected with the tragedy of his race; for all that he
knew to the contrary, she might be the spirit directing the tragedies.

She was his enemy, though she smiled upon him with a dazzling
fascination calculated to turn cooler heads than his. But, at any rate,
she had not asked him here to poison him at her own table. Mrs. Mona May
was too fine an artist for that.

Presently Geoffrey came out of his dream to find himself talking. Mrs.
May seemed to be putting all the questions and he was giving all the
answers. And yet, directly, she asked no questions at all. She was
sympathetic and interested in the family, as she explained with kindness
and feeling.

"And there is that poor blind gentleman," she said sweetly.

Her eyes were bent over her dessert plate. She was peeling a peach
daintily. There was just for the fraction of a second a ring in her
voice that acted on Geoffrey as a cold douche does to a man whose senses
are blurred with liquor. Some instinct told him that they were
approaching the crux of the interview.

"My uncle Ralph," he said carelessly. "He is a mystery. He keeps
himself to himself and says nothing to anybody. Sometimes I fancy he is
a clever man, who despises us, and at other times I regard him as a man
whose misfortunes have dulled his brain and that he strives to conceal
the fact."

Mrs. May smiled. But she returned to the charge again. But strive as she
would, she could get no more on this head out of Geoffrey. She wanted to
know who the man was and all about him. And she learned nothing beyond
the fact that he was a poor nonentity, despised by his relations.
Geoffrey's open sincerity puzzled her. Perhaps there was nothing to
learn after all.

"Strange that he did not stay away," she murmured, "knowing that the
family curse must overtake him."

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"What can an unfortunate like that have to live for?" he asked. "He is
broken in mind and in body and has no money of his own. It is just like
the old fox who crawls to the hole to die. And we are getting used to
the curse by this time."

"You have no hope, no expectation of the truth coming to light?"

It was on the tip of Geoffrey's tongue to speak freely of his hopes for
the future. Instead he bent his head over the table, saying nothing till
he felt he had full control of his voice once more. Then he spoke in the
same hopeless tones.

"I have become a fatalist," he said. "Please change the subject."

Mrs. May did so discreetly and easily. And yet in a few moments the
doings of the Ravenspurs were on her tongue again and, almost
unconsciously, Geoffrey found himself talking about Marion, Mrs. May
listening quietly.

"I have seen the young lady," she said. "She has a nice face."

"Marion is an angel," Geoffrey cried. "Her face is perfect. You have
only to look at her to see what she is. Nobody with a countenance like
that could do wrong, even if she wished it. No matter who and what it is
everybody comes under Marion's sway. Men, women, children, dogs, all
turn to her with the same implicit confidence."

"Marion seems to be a warm favorite," Mrs. May smiled. "And yet I rather
gather that she does not hold first place in your affections?"

"I am engaged to my cousin Vera," Geoffrey explained. "We were boy and
girl lovers before Marion came to us. Otherwise--well, we need not go
into that. But I never saw any one like Marion till to-night."

Mrs. May looked up swiftly.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked.

"I mean exactly what I say. In certain ways, in certain lights, under
certain conditions your face is marvelously like that of Marion."

As Geoffrey spoke he saw that the blood had left the cheek of his
companion. Her face was deadly pale, so pale that the crimson flower in
her breast seemed to grow vivid. There was a motion of the elbow and a
wine glass went crashing to the floor. The woman stooped to raise the
fragments.

"How clumsy of me!" she said. "And why are you regarding me so intently?
My heart is a little wrong, the doctors tell me--nothing serious,
however. There!"

She looked up again. She had recovered and her face was tinged with the
red flush of health again. But her hands still shook.

But Geoffrey was taking no heed.

He had dropped the match he was about to apply to his cigarette and was
staring out of the window. The blind had not been drawn; the panes were
framed with flowers.

And inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark Eastern face, with
awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain. Across the dusky
forehead was a cut from which blood streamed freely.

"You are not listening to me," Mrs. May cried. "What is the matter?"

"The face, a face at the window," Geoffrey gasped. "A horrible-looking
man, not of this country at all; a man with a gash in his forehead. He
seemed to be looking for something. When he caught sight of me he
disappeared."

Mrs. May had risen and crossed to the long French window opening on to
the lawn. Her back was towards Geoffrey and she seemed determined, or so
he imagined, to keep her face concealed from him.

"Strange," she said, carelessly, though she was obviously disturbed.
"Surely you were mistaken. Some trick of the brain, a freak of
imagination."

Geoffrey laughed. Young men at his time of life, men, who follow healthy
pursuits, are not given to tricks of the imagination. His pulse was
beating steadily; his skin was moist and cool.

"I am certain of it," he said. "What is that noise?"

Something was calling down the garden. Long before this time the good
people of the farm had gone to bed.

"Shall I go and see what it is?" Geoffrey asked.

"No, no," Mrs. May whispered. "Stay here, I implore you. I would not
have had this happen for anything. What am I saying?"

She passed her hand cross her face and laughed unsteadily.

"There are secrets in everybody's life and there are in mine," she said.
"Stay till I return. There will be no danger for me, I assure you."

She slipped out into the darkness and was gone. Geoffrey stooped and
bent over a dark blot or two that lay on the stone still at the bottom
of the window.

"Blood," he muttered, "blood beyond a doubt. It was no delusion of
mine."

From outside came the swish of silken drapery. It was Mrs. May
returning. She seemed herself again by this time.

"The danger is past," she said, "if danger you choose to call it. The
next time we meet we shall laugh together over this comedy. I assure you
it is a comedy. And now I am going to ask you to leave me."

The woman was playing a part and playing it extremely well. With less
innate knowledge, Geoffrey would have been thoroughly deceived. As it
was, he affected to make light of the matter. He held out his hand with
a smile.

"I am glad of that," he said. "You must let me come again, when,
perhaps, you may be disposed to allow me to assist you. Good-night and
thank you for one of the pleasantest evenings of my life."

The door closed behind Geoffrey, and he stumbled along in the darkness
until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Out in the road some one
crept up to him and laid a hand on his arm. Like a flash Geoffrey had
him by the throat.

"Speak, or I will kill you," he whispered. "Who are you?"

"Come with me at once," came the hoarse reply. "And release that grip of
my throat. I am Sergius Tchigorsky."




CHAPTER XXI

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS


Geoffrey recognized the deep rasping tones of Tchigorsky directly. His
hand dropped to his side. No need to tell him that danger was in the
air. It was the thick, still kind of night that goes with adventure.

"Something has happened?" Geoffrey asked.

"Something is going to happen unless we prevent it," Tchigorsky replied.
"The enemy has been foiled three times lately and is getting uneasy. He
begins to realize that he has to cope with somebody who understands the
game. It is no use to work in this deadly mysterious fashion as long as
certain people can read the danger signals and act upon them, and
therefore it has been decided to fall back upon more vulgar methods. You
are not afraid of danger?"

"Not in the least. Try me."

"The danger is great. You are dealing with some of the cleverest people
on earth. If you are discovered you will be put away. Your courage will
be tested to the utmost. Are you ready?"

Geoffrey hesitated but for a moment. His senses seemed to be braced and
strengthened. He seemed to hear better all at once; his eyes penetrated
farther into the gloom. There was a feeling of eagerness, of exultation
upon him. He took Tchigorsky's lean claw and laid it upon his left
wrist.

"Feel that," he said. "Is not my pulse steady? I am longing to go
forward. Only give me a chance to find the truth."

Tchigorsky chuckled. This was the kind of grit he admired.

"You will do," he said. "And you will go alone on your expedition. You
are acquainted with all the vaults and passages of the castle by this
time; every inch of the ground is known to you. Give me your coat and
shoes."

Geoffrey handed them over, getting a pair of rubber-soled shoes and a
rough pea jacket in exchange. In the pocket of the latter he found a
revolver.

"Now what am I to do?" he demanded.

"Stand here," Tchigorsky explained. "Presently you will see a figure or
two, perhaps more. You will not understand what they are saying, but
that makes no difference. You are to follow them, stick to them. If
nothing happens by dawn you can afford to leave them to their own
devices. If circumstances place you in dire peril, be brave, for help is
not far off."

Geoffrey might have asked another question or two. But Tchigorsky turned
away abruptly and was speedily lost in the darkness. And then followed
for Geoffrey the most trying part of the business, waiting for the first
sign of the foe.

Half an hour passed and still no sign. Had the affair miscarried and the
miscreants got away in some other direction? Strain his ears as he
would, Geoffrey could catch nothing. Then at length something soft and
rustling seemed to be creeping along on the lawn on the other side of
the hedge.

Geoffrey crept through the gate into the garden. Almost instantly he
dropped on his face, for somebody carrying a lantern was softly creeping
in his direction. It was the figure of a woman, a woman who had a black
lace shawl so wrapped about her that in the feeble light it was
impossible to make out her features. She paused and made a hissing sound
between her teeth.

As if they had been evolved out of Geoffrey's inner consciousness, there
appeared two men upon the lawn One was lying on his back, his head
supported on the arm of his companion. They were Indian natives of some
kind, but of what race precisely Geoffrey could not say. The prostrate
man had an ugly cut across his forehead; it was the same man that
Geoffrey had seen looking through the window.

A crafty, ugly, sinister face it was, full of cunning malignity. The
eyes were dull, but the fires of hate were still in them. The woman
stooped down and produced cool bandages soaked in some pungent liquid,
which she proceeded to bind round the brows of the injured man. Even at
his respectful distance Geoffrey could catch the odor of the bandages.

He watched the weird midnight scene with breathless interest. There was
something creepy about the whole business. If these people had nothing
to conceal, all this surgical work might have taken place indoor; they
might have called assistance. Geoffrey tried to catch sight of the
woman's features.

But that was impossible. Still, there was something familiar about her.
Geoffrey felt quite sure that he had seen that graceful figure before.
She stood up presently and Geoffrey no longer had any doubt.

It was Mrs. Mona May.

The injured man rose also. He staggered along on the arm of his
companion and Geoffrey could with some difficulty see them enter the
sitting room. He paused in some doubt as to his next move, but before he
was called upon to decide, Mrs. May and the other native came out again.

Evidently they had left the injured man behind. Then they emerged into
the road and started off rapidly toward the cliffs.

"Going some way by the pace they are walking," Geoffrey muttered, "and
at the same time they must be back before daylight, or they would never
have dared to leave that fellow at Jessop's. What a good thing I know
the country."

Geoffrey followed at a respectful distance, his rubber shoes making no
sound. For the time of year the night was intensely dark, which was in
Geoffrey's favor. Also, with his close knowledge of the locality, he had
no fear of making mistakes.

The couple were not more than fifty yards ahead of him. They had not the
slightest idea they were being followed, seeing that they were talking
earnestly and none too quietly in a language that was Greek to Geoffrey.
Now and again he caught the low laugh that came from the woman's lips.

By and by the cliffs were reached, and here the two began to descend a
path that would have been dangerous to unaccustomed feet even in the
broad daylight. But the man seemed to know the way perfectly and the
woman followed without hesitation. They came presently to the firm sand,
fringed by the ebbing tide.

Then they turned to the right, pausing at length before a solid-looking
expanse of cliff that stood right under Ravenspur Castle. One moment
they loomed darkly against the brown rocks, the next minute they seemed
to be swallowed up by the cliffs. They had entered the mouth of a cave.

Geoffrey followed still more cautiously. On and on they went, until at
length they paused. Then the light from the lantern grew stronger. From
behind a ledge of seaweed-clad granite Geoffrey watched them furtively.
They were waiting for something--a signal, probably--before going
farther.

The signal seemed to come at last, from where it was impossible for
Geoffrey to judge, and then the advance was resumed. Presently they
emerged into the deep below-tide level vault under the castle, where
Geoffrey had seen Marion walking in her sleep.

Mrs. May turned to her companion and gave him some sharp command. She
had lost all her levity and Geoffrey could see that her dark eyes were
glowing. The native salaamed and laid his hand upon the lantern. The
next instant the place was plunged into pitchy darkness. Five, ten
minutes passed, and nothing was heard but the lap of the ebbing tide on
the shore. Then a hand was gently laid on Geoffrey's arm.




CHAPTER XXII

DEEPER STILL


So startled was Geoffrey that he felt the moisture spurt from every pore
like a rash. But, fully conscious of his danger, he suppressed the cry
that rose to his lips, nor did he move as he felt a thick cloak thrown
over his head. He slipped his revolver into his hand and fumbled it
against the cold cheek of his antagonist.

But the antagonist took it coolly. A pair of lips were close to
Geoffrey's ear and the smallest, faintest voice spelt out the letters,
T-c-h-i-g-o-r-s-k-y. Geoffrey put the weapon back in his pocket. At the
same time he felt about till his fingers touched the hand of his
companion. No doubt about it. The other was Tchigorsky beyond question.
Perhaps he had been testing Geoffrey's courage and resolution; perhaps
the danger had deepened unexpectedly.

Presently the light of the lantern popped up again, in response to some
subtle signal, and once more the conspirators moved on to the vault
above. Tchigorsky lifted his head.

"Where are they going?" Geoffrey asked.

Tchigorsky responded with one of his diabolical chuckles.

"They imagine that they are going into the castle," he said. "But they
are not going to accomplish that part of the program."

"But what do they want there?"

"What should they want? You know something of those now whose business
it is to wipe you out root and branch. More artistic methods having
failed, they may deem it necessary to fall back on more vulgar plans.
There are five people sleeping in the castle--six with your Uncle
Ralph--who stand in the way. It is possible if the fiends are lucky that
the castle may be devoid of life by daybreak."

Geoffrey could not repress a shudder.

"Fiends, indeed!" he said. "But why not stop it? Why not let them enter
and then take them all red-handed?"

"What could we gain by that? We could not connect them with past crimes!
At worst they would get a few months in gaol as suspects. When the time
comes we must smash them all. And the time is coming."

Tchigorsky rose as if to go.

"I follow them," he said, "you remain here, in the darkness. And if any
one attempts to pass you do not let him do so. Don't forget this thing.
At all hazards you are not to let any one pass."

Geoffrey nodded as Tchigorsky passed on his way. For a long time all was
quiet, and then from above there came a startled cry followed by the
sound of strife and a scream of pain and terror. It was all that
Geoffrey could do to restrain himself from yelling in response and
rushing to the spot. Then he became conscious that somebody was coming
rapidly through the cave. He reached out his hand and grabbed at and
caught a sinewy, slippery brown ankle.

It only needed that touch to tell Geoffrey that he was at grips with the
native. Down the fellow came on the slippery rocks, and the next instant
the two were engaged in a life or death struggle.

Young, strong, vigorous as he was, his muscle knitted like iron with
healthy exercise, Geoffrey knew that he had met his match. The native
had a slight advantage of him in point of years; he was greased from
head to foot, rendering a grip difficult, and his flying robe came
asunder like cobwebs at the first strain. He fought with the _abandon_
of a man who is reckless of life.

Over and over on the slippery rocks they rolled, each striving to get
the other by the throat. By this time they were both breathing thick and
fast, and Geoffrey's mind began to wander toward his revolver. But to
release his grip to get that might be fatal. He could hear his
antagonist gasping as he rolled off a ledge of rock, and then Geoffrey
lifted his opponent's head and brought it down with a bang on the
granite.

In the very instant of his triumph something whistled behind him, and a
jagged piece of stone came smashing on to his temple.

He had a confused view of a native on his feet again, fast hurrying
away, heard the rustle of garments and a further rustle of more
garments, and then his arm was closed upon a female figure whom he
pulled to the ground by his side.

He felt the woman open her lips to scream, but he clapped his hand over
her mouth.

"No, you don't," he said grimly. "One of you has escaped and my friend
the nigger has had a narrow escape, but I've got you, my lady. I've got
you safe and I don't mean to let you go."

He felt the slight figure in his arms tremble and palpitate; he heard
voices above. Once more the slim figure shivered. His hand was torn from
her mouth and the woman spoke.

"They are calling you," she said; "for God's sake let me go, Geoffrey."

For an instant Geoffrey was too dazed and stunned to speak.

"Marion?" he gasped presently. "Marion?"

Marion cowered down, sobbing bitterly.

"You are surprised," she said. "No wonder. You wonder what I am doing
here and I will tell you presently. But not now; I will place my secret
in your hands; I will disguise nothing from you. For the present leave
me."

"Leave you here! Impossible!"

"But I am safe, quite safe, Geoffrey. Oh, if you have any feeling for
one of the most miserable creatures in the world, leave me. Tell them
above that those abandoned wretches have gone, that no sign of them
remains. Consider what I have suffered and am suffering for your family,
and try to help me."

Conscious of his own weakness, Geoffrey pondered. He might be doing a
serious injury to the delicate plans formed by Ralph Ravenspur, but he
had given the promise and there was an end of the matter.

Marion was in some way bound up with these people, but Marion was pure
as the angels and Marion would do no wrong. Why, then, should her good
name be dragged in the mire?

"You are so good, so good to me," Marion murmured. "Go before they
become alarmed at your silence and leave me here. Say that you saw
nothing. And when the house is quiet I shall make my way back again."

Geoffrey retired upwards without further words. In the basement of the
castle he found Tchigorsky and Ralph Ravenspur.

"They managed to elude you?" asked the former.

Geoffrey pointed to the ugly bruise on the side of his head.

"Yes," he said, "they both got away. But for this bit of an accident
fighting in the dark I might have captured the dusky conspirator."

"Rather you had not, on the whole," Ralph said. "Something gave them the
alarm as they reached the passages. Of course their idea was to murder
some or all of us in our beds, and our idea was to take them in the act.
But they got the alarm and vanished. One of the fellows attacked me in
the shrubbery just before dark, but I fancy he will not do it again."

"I saw him," said Geoffrey. "He came to Mrs. May's for assistance. She
pretended that I was mistaken, but she had to give in at last when
circumstances became too strong for her. How did you manage to deal him
that blow on the head, uncle?"

Ralph smiled grimly.

"I have my own means of protection," he said. "What became of the
fellow?"

Geoffrey explained all that had happened during and after the dinner at
Jessop's farm. His two listeners followed his statement with flattering
interest. Yet all the time Geoffrey was listening intently for signs of
Marion. Was she still in the vaults or had she managed to slip away to
her bedroom? The thought of the delicate girl down there in the darkness
and cold was by no means pleasant.

"We have managed to make a mess of it to-night," said Ralph. "How those
people contrived to discover that there was danger afoot I can't
understand. But one thing is certain, they will not be content to leave
things as they are. They may try the same thing again or their efforts
may take a new and more ingenious direction."

"Which direction we shall discover," said Tchigorsky. "Can you let me
out here, or shall I go by the same means that I entered?"

To Geoffrey's relief Ralph volunteered to open the hall door for his
friend.

"Come this way," he said. "All the bolts and bars have been oiled and
will make no noise."

They slipped away quietly together. Geoffrey listened intently. He
fancied that he could hear footsteps creeping up the stairs, and in the
corridor a door softly closed. Then Ralph Ravenspur came back again.

"Tchigorsky has gone," he said. "After this it will be necessary for us
to vary our plan of campaign a little. You have learned something
to-night. You know now that our antagonists are two Indians and a woman
who is dangerous as she is lovely and fascinating. Ah, what a woman she
is!"

"Who is she?" Geoffrey asked.

"Ah, that I cannot tell you. You must be content to wait. I do not want
you to know too much, and then there is no chance of your being taken
off your guard. When the surprise comes it will be a dramatic one. The
more you see of that woman and the more you cultivate her the more you
will find to wonder at."

"But can I cultivate her after to-night?"

"Why not? She does not know the extent of your knowledge; she has not
the remotest idea that you have been helping to foil her schemes. Next
time she will meet you as if nothing had happened."

Geoffrey thought of Marion and was silent. That one so pure and sweet
should be mixed up with a creature like that was horrible. Ralph
Ravenspur rose with a yawn. He seemed to have lapsed into his wooden
state. He felt his way down the big flagged hall toward the staircase.

"We can do nothing more," he said. "I am going to bed. Good-night."

The door closed and then Geoffrey was free to act. He could go down into
the vault and bring Marion up. But first he would try to ascertain if
she was in her room. He passed up the stairs and along the corridor.
Outside Marion's door he coughed gently.

The door opened and Marion stood there clad in a fair white wrap, with
her glorious hair hanging free over her shoulders. Her eyes were full of
tears.

"Geoff," she whispered. "Geoff, dear Geoff."

She fell into his arms, and pressed her lips long and clingingly to his.
Her hole frame was quivering with mingled love and emotion. Then she
snatched herself away from his embrace and, with the single whispered
word, "To-morrow," closed the door behind her.




CHAPTER XXIII

MARION EXPLAINS


A brilliant sunshine poured into the terrace room where the Ravenspurs
usually breakfasted. An innovation in the way of French windows led on
to a tessellated pavement bordered with flowers on either side and
ending in the terrace overlooking the sea.

A fresh breeze came from the ocean; the thunder of the surf was subdued
to a drone. In the flowers a number of bees were busy, bees whose hives
were placed against the side of the house. They were Vera's bees and
there were two hives of them. Vera attended to them herself; they knew
her and she was wont to declare that in no circumstances would they do
her any harm. That was why, as Geoffrey dryly put it, she never got
stung more than once a week.

"I believe one has been arguing with you now," Geoffrey laughed.

He was standing in the window as he spoke. He and Vera were the first
two down. The girl was on the pavement gravely contemplating the palm of
her right hand.

"No, indeed," she said. "And, anyway, it was my own fault."

"Irish," Geoffrey cried. "That makes the second since Monday. Let me
see."

He took the little pink palm in his own brown hands.

"I can't see the spot," he said. "Does it hurt much?"

"A mere pin prick, dear. I suppose you can get innoculated against that
sort of thing. I mean that you can be stung and stung until it has no
effect at all."

"Even by bees that know you and never do you any harm," Geoffrey
laughed. "But I dare say you are right. Five years ago when we had that
plague of wasps Stenmore, the keeper, and myself destroyed over a
hundred wasps' nests in one season. I must have been stung nearly a
thousand times. After the first score I never noticed it; was not so bad
as the touch of a nettle."

"What! Has Vera been arguing with the bees again?"

The question came fresh and clear from behind the hives. Marion stood
there, making a fair picture indeed in her white cotton dress. There was
no shade of trouble in her eyes. She met Geoffrey's glance squarely.

Her hand rested on his shoulder with a palpably tender squeeze.

It was the only kind of allusion she made to last night's doings. She
might not have had a single care or sorrow in the world. She seemed to
take almost a childlike interest in the bees, the simple interest of one
who has yet to be awakened to the knowledge of a conscience. Geoffrey
had never admired Marion more than he did at this moment.

"Marion is afraid of my bees," Vera said.

Marion drew away shuddering from one of the velvety brown insects.

"I admit it," she said. "They get on one's clothes and sting for pure
mischief. And I am a sight after a bee has been operating upon me. If I
had my own way, there would be a fire here some day and then there would
be no more bees."

They trooped into breakfast, disputing the point cheerfully. It was
impossible to be downcast on so perfect a morning. Even the elders had
discarded their gloom. Ralph Ravenspur mildly astonished everybody by
relating an Eastern experience _apropos_ of bees.

"But they were not like these," he concluded. "They were big black bees
and their honey is poisonous. It is gathered from noxious swamp flowers
and, of course, is only intended for their own food. Even those
bees----"

The speaker paused, as if conscious that he was talking too much. He
proceeded with his breakfast slowly.

"Go on," said Marion. "I am interested."

"I was going to say," Ralph remarked in his croaking voice, "that even
those bees know how to protect themselves."

It was a lame conclusion and Marion said so. Geoffrey glanced at his
uncle. As plainly as possible he read on the latter's face a desire to
change the conversation.

It was sufficiently easy to turn the talk into another channel, and
during the rest of the meal not another word came from Ralph Ravenspur.
Once more he was watching, watching for something with his sightless
eyes.

And Geoffrey was watching Marion most of the time. She was gentle and
gay and sweet as ever, as if strong emotions and herself had always been
strangers. It seemed hard to recall the stirring events of the night
before and believe that this was the same girl. How wonderfully she bore
up for the sake of others; how bravely she crushed her almost
overwhelming sorrow.

She stood chatting on the pavement after breakfast. She was prattling
gayly to Geoffrey, as the other gradually vanished on some mission or
another. Then her face suddenly changed; her grasp on Geoffrey's arm was
almost convulsive.

"Now then," she whispered. "Let us get it over."

Geoffrey strolled by her side along the terrace. They came at length to
a spot where they could not be seen from the house. Marion turned almost
defiantly.

"Now I am going to speak," she whispered.

"Not if it gives you any pain," said Geoffrey.

"My dear Geoffrey, you don't want to hear my explanation!"

"Not if it causes you the least pain or annoyance. I couldn't do it."

Marion laughed. But there was little of the music of mirth in her voice.

"Never be it said again that man is a curious creature," she said. "You
find me down in the vaults of the castle at midnight mixed up with
murderers and worse; you compel me to disclose my identity and take me
prisoner; you force me to plead for mercy and silence. And now you
calmly say you don't want to know anything about it! Geoffrey, are you
indifferent to myself and my future that you speak like this?"

Geoffrey laid his hand on the speaker's arm tenderly.

"Marion," he said, "it is because I think so highly of you and trust you
so implicitly that I am going to ask no questions. Can you be any the
worse because you are bound by some tie to that woman yonder? Certainly
not. Rest assured that your secret is safe in my hands."

"But I must tell you certain things, Geoff. There is some one who comes
to the castle, a friend of Uncle Ralph's, who is an enemy of this--of
Mrs. May's. I don't know whether you know the man--his name is
Tchigorsky?"

No muscle of Geoffrey's face moved.

"I fancy I have heard the name," he said. "When does he come here?"

"I--I don't know. Secretly and at night, I expect. Oh, if I could only
tell you everything! But I cannot, I dare not. If this Mr. Tchigorsky
would only go away! I fear that his presence here will eventually
endanger Uncle Ralph's life. You may, perhaps, give him a hint to that
effect. Between Mrs. May and Tchigorsky there is a blood feud. It has
been imported from Tibet. I can't say any more."

"And you interfered to save the life of others?"

"Yes, yes. Some day you may know everything, but not yet. I am
endangering my own safety, but I cannot sit down

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