The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 28, 1902, Page 11

THE SUNDAY CALIL. 11 e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e ] &if were 2’ signal or not, at all events it bad apparently roused the dog's ire.. as Berkeley had prophesied. He broke into & fury of barking, and as Carrismoyle a&nd his companion took a turn in the road which brought them close to the side of the house, which alone was lighted, a man s shadow appeared on the pale, h biind that covered the window. he!” ejaculated Berkeley, in a voice of horror. “For heaven's sake, let me go, or youll be my murderer! I've done what you demanded of me—I've brought u to the one place on this earth where you can find out all about Miss Grant, whether she .ives or is dead, and I can help you no more bv staying. I'm going 10 run for it. You'll be a traitor to your word if you shoot.” It was true, in a sense, that Carrismoyle had promised to let the man go in cer- tain circumstances. And though he was sure now that this was but a ruse, part of a plan by which he was to be tricked in some way, he~could not use the only unanswerable argument he had at hang to detain Berkeley. Quick as the passing of a thought, the tall, dark figure slipped away and was swallowed up in the night, the continued baying of the dog so deadening the sound of footfalls that it was impossible to be sure after the first instant even of the direction in which they had gone. After all, perhaps, there was little to regret in Berkeley's absence. He could not have been counted on as an advocate, even under fear of death. and as the oc- cupants of the house had already beea warned of the approach of strangers, if Berkeley joined the enemy instead of run- ning away, he could tell them little more than they knew now. ‘When Carrismoyle’s first sharp anger at his own mistake had died down he re- called the fact that what was done cou.d not be undone and promptly applied his mind to the question of what was to be done next. It seemed to him that since, thanks to the dog, he could not take the household unawares, the next best thing was to storm the citadel, and, if possible, take it by assault He did not know how formid- able might be the defense he would have to encounter, but he was well armed, with his own revolver and Berkeley's knife, and he thought he was equal to tacking half & dozen men less well equipped. Be- sides, it was unlikely that there were more than two or three at most in such a plot &s this, which was work for prin- cipals, not supers. It would be worse than useless to knock for admittance, and hardly sixty seconds hed passed after Berkeley disappeared in- to the darkness before Carrismoyle had Gecided what to do, and was at the light- ed window which had shown the flitting shhdow three minutes ago. It was a small window, with little square, old-fashioned panes. Carrismoyle sttempted to lift the lower sash, but it was fastened down. He had expected that this would be so, and with the butt end of his revolver he broke one of the panes. The glass fell in with a clear, jingling noise, and the baying of the great dog was louder than ever, but there was no other sound. The aperture he had made was just large enough to allow his arm to force fteelf in, and, thrusting in his hand, he soon found the old-fashioned lock which fastened down the window. He lifted :t, and pushed up the sash. The blind stiil hid the room beyond, and pressing it back with his open palm, Carrismoyle looked in, his revolver ready for any work that might be needed. He saw & quaint, low-ceiled room, which might have been made charming, if Deep- chine Farm had had a mistress who un- derstood and loved such ancient yet un- pretentious houses. But at present noth- ing could have been more bare and unat- tractive than the picture lit up by the common parafiin lamp which stood on a table littered with unwashed dishes. There was little furniture, the floor was bare, and the man whose shadow had passed across the window had taken him- self elsewhere. Not a corner of the room offered a place of concealment, and it was certain that the room was untenanted. A minute more and the young man was s There was only one door, and he went straight to it, half expecting to find it locked on the other side. But, so far, fortune seemed bent on making the way easy for him. The door opened out into & dark passage. He returned for the lamp, listening always for some sound, but none came. The old house was as still as if no one inhabited it, save the ghosts who were reported to have taken possession of it 50 many years 2go. Carrying the lamp he went out into the passage and looked up and down, but tould see nobody. The formidable person whom Berkeley had so dreaded, or pre- tended to dread, apparently did not in- tend to act on the offensive, but seemed inclined to await developments. Suddenly the fear that even at this mo- ment Cissy might be spirited away from the house from under his very ears and eyes made his heart jump up to his throat. “If she’s here she shall know that help has come,” he sald to himself. And he cried her name sloud, once, twice, thrice. The third time he was answered, not in- deed by & voice, but by & muffling knocking, s if on wood. He listened in- tently, and was sure that the sound came from somewhere above. Certain of this, there was nothing to wait for, end with his revolver in his right hand, the lamp in his left, he sprang up the stairs at the end of the long pas- sage. Still the knocking continued, growing Jouder as Carrismoyle reached the floor sbove. “Cecily!” he called again. “If it is you who knocks, rap three times and I shall know. 1 em coming to you. You shall be safe. Suddenly the character of the knock- ing changed. Instead of going on con- tinuously it stopped for an instant, and then followed three distinct and separate raps. Cvurllmoyle was almost intoxicated with the joy of receiving & message, as he be- lieved now that he had, from the girl he loved. Already success seemed attained, for, once he had found her, nothing under heaven should take her away from him again. He hurried down the passage, which re- sembled the one below, and almost at the end arrived at the door from behind which came the knocking. To his well-nigh incredulous delight there was a key in the lock. He did not doubt now that Cecily was a prisoner in the room beyond, and that in another mo- ment he should have her in his arms. Half mad between joy and impatience, he slipped his revolver in his pocket, set the lamp on the floor, and turned the key in the lock. There was a faint rust- Iing in the room, where the knocking bad now ceased, and as he touched the handle it was grasped on the other side and the door thrown open. Something sprang out at him from the dark. B B W I When the cabman had waited at the farm gates for about three-quarters of an our his excitement had reached a very Mgh pitch. Like most persons of his class who lead more or less monotonous lives, be battened on sensations and he was deeply thrilled by the conviction that he Lumself was now intimately concerned in one which bade far to be particularly umysterious. Deepchine Farm was the sort of house where anything might happen. One mur- wer had certawnly taken place there, and though that was a great many vears go thut was no reason why something else of the. sort, or, at events, equaliy excd- ing. might not occur. The cabman wished no harm to his em- ployer, who was a civil and generous.y disposed young man; still, in his inmost soul he knew that he would be disap- puinted if the 1wo gentlemen returned before the end of the hour, Should they do this-it would mean the bursting of the brilliant bubble of sensa- tion. He would probably hear nothing more of the mystery, and even the pieas- ure to be found in relating to his friends the events of to-night would be nothing at all compared to the delirious delight of driving furiously back to Southampton and alarming the police. He would be of importance. -If there were a ‘“case,” he would be called as a witness. He saw it all. He saw himself a man much envied by his acquaintances and pointed at by strangers, who would engage his cab that they might hear the exciting tale from his cwn lips. Every few minutes he looked at his big Waterbury watch, and was just telling himself rapturously at last that in ten minutes more the time would be up and it would be his duty to go, when he heard footsteps coming down the farm road: It was so dark that, straining his eyes as he might, he had been able to see nothing save the yellow spark in the win- dow of the farm house which had disap- peared to appear again later In another piace. He had listened, too. with almost painful eagerness, but aftgr the first flerce barking of a big dog had ceased there had been no sound audible save the wash of the sea on the shore unseen. And now, having all but Ziven up expect- ing his employer's return. the approach- iLg foutfails struck his ear with a shock of surprise. He would have been asham- ed to confess it, but he was bitterly dis- zppointed. Still, he hoped that there might yet be some interesting develop- ments. As he peered through the darkness two men came down to the farm gates and paused inside, six or seven yards from the cab. The carriage lamps showed their figures. and though the light scarce- ¥ touched their faces the cabman did not doubt that they were the pair whom he had driven from Southampton. There were two tall figures, one erect, slender and young. smartly dressed, the other slightly stooped and shabby. “Were you getting tired of cabby laugh. !,m'e “;:;]gust saying to myself that the 1 soon be up,” he replied. “In another ten minutes I should have been Ooff. T suppose vou are ready to go, and— and everything's all right, sir?" He addressed himself to the other man. who had previously seemed to take the management of affairs, though he ap- p;a:‘?h:"mmn;‘n:h :he younger of the two. nt the latter was engaged In lighting a cigar which he held.in his mouth, therefore his voice came indis- e s e i o, S St - . had not the cab- man been sure because of the figure, the hat and overcoat, and even the neat, }:g::t;rlo::e gvl:ves' which showed in the X vesta, he would hardly have recognized the voice. N\ “Oh. ves, .it’s all right,” the young man responded. cigar in mouth. “That was (puff, puff) only a little joke I was having with you. Of course (puff, puff— this beastly cigar won't light!)—of course it's all right. And, after all, we're both going (puff, puff) to stop the night at the farm, so we won’t want you any longer. Here's a little something more for you, though. Here, Berkeley, vou give it to him if you'ye the change.” ¢ Thus instructed it was the elder_man who openeg the gate and tendered the cabdriver a further present of five shil- lings, while the other remained in the farm road, his face slightly turned away because of the wind which Interfered with the lighting of his cigar, and had already cost him three or four matches. To hear that his feelings had been play- ed with and all his excitement in vain was a’'blow to the cabman. But he had been well. paid for his evening’s work, and had nothing to complain of, so with thanks and a civil “Good night to you both, sirs,” he drove off, somewhat sad- der and wiser. After all his hopes there was_nothing to tell his pals. It would only make him look small in their eyes to-repeat a story with such a tame, al- most ignominious ending. The two men whom he had left did not wait to watch the departing cab out of sight, but turned and began to walk briskly back toward the house. “I told you you could do it all right,” said Berkeley, “and, you see, you did. “You don’t think the chap suspected?’ asked the other, rather nervously. “You don’t think he just pretended to be taken in and means to set the police on us?” “What rot!” exclaimed the elder man. “He swallowed it ke a lamb. I knew he would. You're about the same height, and in his coat and hat and gloves the fellow's best " friend wouid hardly have spotted the difference in the dark and at that distance, keeping your face half turned away and out of the light as you did. You played your part very well, my boy. I was proud of you. And now our troubles are over. By Jove! I feel like another man. I can tell you I haven't passed an agreeable evening. and up to five minutes ago I was never quite sure how it was likely to turn out;" “What are we going to do with him? ed the younger. ’"fi:ll-rm: Tha);'a the question,” muttered Berkeley. “He knows too much. We can’t afford to let him go.” “That's easy enough to say, and easy to manage, too, perhaps, if he were a no- body. But if the cards in that case are his own, which ten to one they are, as there are so many all of the one name, be's not the sort of man to disappeir without making- talk. I should have thought one job of the sort at a time was enough for us, governor.” “Fhis last wasn’t by my choice,’ pro- tested Berkeley. ‘“‘Something had to be done. The man would have shot me, I believe, if he hadn't hoped to get some- thing. I was in his power—in Alberta street. Here I hoped he'd be in ours. And I didn’t hope in vain.” “It was nip and tuck.” “You guessed something was wrong from the signal? Lucky we'd arranged it. He suspected a trick when I whistled, But the thing was done and he couldn’t help himself. It was fortunate, too, you'd left the back door open.” “In another ten minutes it would have been locked. I was going out to take Bounder his supper.” “I counted on your habits. Jove! we hadn’t long to plan our campaign before we were in the thick of the battle.” “Smart idea of yours that knocking business. minnows. “Well, it certainly simplified matters. But if your shadow hadn’t crossed, the lighted window when I whistled I Should have been stuck for a chance of giving him the slip without risking a -buliet tn my back. The story I had cooked up about the master whom I feared at Deep- chime Farm was all a bid to get away from him when the time should come, of course, and I hoped to work the schemie somehow or other. But you played into my hand as if you knew what cards I held.” “Well, you were pretty sure where I'd be sitting at about that time of night, if things were going as usual.” R “Ah, yes. But do things ever go as usual when you have a particular reason for wanting them to? They haven't always done so in our experience, my dear boy.” “No. Not that we've anything ‘much to complain of lately. So far, we're In luck m! The old man isn’t dead.” “Will he last long, do you think?’ “Not if wishes can send him into the next world.” ! “Something a good deal stronger than wishes seems to have W 3 “It gave him a start ard the grave, anyhow. And now the hill.is steep, As for this Lord Carrismoyle, after all, I don’t see that we've much to. fear. Not a soul on earth knew where he went to- night.” “Perhaps he left the Alberta street ad- dress at home.” “Pcrhaps, though I didn’t think it prob- able -that he did. But, anyhow, it's im- possible for him to have told dny one what he would do or where he would go e waiting, asked the older man, with a It caught him as bait catches afterward, as he’d not the remotest idea himself. The Dawson woman tricked me, of course, by using the warning, but she only had the Woking address to telegraph, and knows nothing about Southampton or this place. She couldn’t do us any harm if she would. And as she must have got that letter all right, she's no cause to trouble the police about her daughter. She wasn’t at home when this chap and I left the house—she’d taken good care to be out of the way, of course—and it isn't likely that she was expecting to find him there, anyway, when she came back. So far as I can see, he won't be looked for for several days, and then—well, perhaps if suspicion should come slowly limping along on this track after that, we could afford to laugh at it.” “I hope so, governor, I'm sure. You're a good manager, there's no denying that. You intend to—er—finish the business thoroughly, then?" “With him, you mean? I don't see any- thing else for it. But it occurs to me that we might bleed him a little first. I don't like waste.” By this time they were at the doer of the farmhouse again. The dog, knowing them well, did not bark, and dead silence reigned as they entered the dark passage. CHAPTER XL HALF A LEMON. It was a curious thing and yet Carris- moyle was consclous of no curiosity. He was not quite sure whether he were alive or dead, but it was certain that he-did not care in the least. He lay with eyes half open; might as well have been shut, for there was nothing to see. Darkness held him as If in a sealed casket; but after a time a ghostly glimmer of gray broke the black monotony. It was like a small square cut out of a dark curtain, high up above Carrismoyle’s eyes. Before this, he had lain like a log, ab- solutely without thought, but the patch of gray caught his eyes. He wondered what it was. Then he went on to wonder who he was. When he had remembered that, he wondered what had happened to him, and how on earth he had come into this place. - Suddenly, with the thought of Cecily Grant, everything came back. Life ran warmly through bis veins once more. He saw all that had passed, as if he read the pages of a book, with each scene wvividly illustrated. He had come with the man who called himself Berke- ley, to. Southampton, had driven out to Deepchine Farm, had got into the house, had heard a knocking, had unlocked the door, expecting in another moment to hold Cissy dn_ his arms, and then—then had come a tremendous blow on the head, and he could recall no more. Still a deadly lassitude oppressed him. When he moved his head, it was like moving & weight of iron; but he could think; he could guess at what had hap- pened. Berkeley and an accomplice had been too sharp for him. He had been trapped. But ail ‘was not over yet. He was not dead, and he_ did not mean to die. He meant still to find Cissy. His first thought, after having re- viewed the past and its probabilities, was that Berkeley and Berkeley's pal sup- posed him to be dead, and had disposed of him as if he were already a corpse. But the gray square cut out of that cur- tain of black gave the lie to this sup- position. Light grew; the gray square was a small window set very high up in 2 wall. He was then merely imprisoned, not buried. It cost him a desperate effort to sit up, but when he had made the effort and waited for the shower of sparks to stop falling before his eyes he felt better and stronger in body and brain. He staggered to his feet, and though there was not yet light enough to see anything save the gray square he began groping about with but of iron. Groping farther, he came in contact with the wall. - It did not feel like an ordinary wall The touch of it sent a chill through him, 80 icy cold and damp it was. “I'm in a cellar of some sort,” he sald to himself, “This wall is of bare stone.” Having satisfied himself of this fact he groped on until he came, as he had hoped to do, upon a door. He passed his hand over it, but could find no knob or means of opening. The door was as cold, though not as damp, as the wall, and Cafris- moyle decided that it was not of wood, but of iron. Groping further, he came upon a recess filled up with another door, much lower and narrower than the other, and it, too, was apparently of iron. Carrismoyle was puzzled, for this seemed a strange room to find in a farm- house, even so old a farmhouse as Deep- chine, but then he remembered the story of the miser. Perhaps the old man who had been murdered for his money had had a strongroom, and the new tenants had utilized it for their own purposes. The thought was not a hopeful one. A rcom difficult to break into might be equally difficult to break out of. Still the light grew, and Carrismoyle could see at last that the gray square was, as he had supposed, a tiny window in the wall of rough stone—a mere con- trivance for ventilation, too high and too small to offer the least chance of escape, even if it had not been fitted with three bars of iron. The second door, in the re- cess, might be that of a safe§ but Carris- moyle smiled grimly as he told himself how often every inch of space on the oth- er side must have been greedily exam- ined. “I wonder if those brutes mean to starve me to death here as the easiest means of getting rid of me?”’ he asked himself. The thought was a cold one, for if he were given a chance for his life— above all, now that it might be valuable to Cissy—he would sell it dearly. And it would be hard to die in this den, caught like a rat in a trap. Unfortunately for Carrismoyle, it was apparently very much to the advantage of Berkeley and any others concerned in this mysterious plot against Cecily Grant and her father to rid themselves of the man whom they had most to fear—rid themselves of him now, once for all, when they had so excellent an opportu- nity. ~ It did not seem that there was much hope of escape, yet somehow, even with the dull pain‘in his head, left by the blow which had stunned him, Carrismoyle could not.make himself feel that he was to_die. Suddenly, into the midst of his grim reflections, broke a voice. It came while he was examining the door, and he looked up instinctively to the little barred window. e voice was like Berkeley's, or so he thought at first, and it was Berkeley .whom he. expected to see. But in the dim light, he beheld the face of a stranger—a femarKably handsome face, yeirs younker . thdy . Berkeley’s, yet vaguely resembling his. “Good-mornihg. How do you find your- self?” said the voice that was like Berke- ley’s. b The mocking note-in it pierced Carris- moyle’'s pride, and he answered in the same light tone. “As well as could be expected, thank you, after a night in such & room as yours.” “You're hard to suit. It's burglar-proof. Ha, hal!” “Burglars aren’t the worst pests in the world. Theré are such animals as kid- napers.” e i ““Why, don’t you say murderers at once, and be sincere?” “Because, I'm thinking of Miss Grant, not how many victims you and your pre- clous pal may huve had in the past.”” “You don’t share the opinion of that young lady’s father, then? You don't think she’s dead?” “I'm sure‘she isn’t.” ‘“Well, you're right.. She’s dead to you. She's my wife.” “You lie!” cried Carrismoyle. The handsome face at the barred win- dow smiled. *“You've got the cou of your convictions, haven’t you? = All the same, you're mistaken. Or, at least, she's but they as good as my wife. We are going to be married at once. I'd ask you to be best man; only the ceremony is to be very quiet.” “You villain!” exclaimed Carrismoyle. “Do you dream that anything you could do would force Miss Grant to marry you?” “I know she will marry me. Not that I flatter myself I'm her first love (you and I are hated rivals, aren’'t we?), but she can't help herself. We've got the parson handy; and though there may be a few little legal irregularities, the bride her- self will be glad enough to have them straightened up afterward. In fact, though we fegred some trouble with her at first, you have been good enough to show us a way out of that. She has only to be told that you are in the house, in a position of some danger (I can’t con- ceal that from you, you see), to recover from her obstinate fit. (We knew from the first there was some one in the way of her—er—forming a new, attachment. Now we know who it is. But it's an ill wind blows nobody luck. Her affection for you will do us a good turn.” “You scoundrel!” ejaculated Carris- moyle, with clenched hands.' / The man at the grating ldughed. “It's cheap to call names,” he sald. “You do look rather comic down there, you know. It was the miser's strongrdom. His ghost’s supposed to haunt it. Hope you had no trouble with it in the night.” Carrismoyle scorned to answer this sally. But the other presently went on. “My father sends you his compliments,” he sald. “He's resting this morning, is the governor. You gave him rather a ‘do- ing’ last night, you know. He isn't as young as he was. But he’forgives you, and I was to say that if you could see your way to laying your hand on five thousand pounds, and would swear to keep your mouth shut, we might think of letting you off after the wedding.” ““I can get you twice that, if you'll send Miss Grant home to her father!” ex- claimed Carrismoyle, rashly. “Thanks,” drawled the young man at the window. *“But as the lady’'s is her father's heiress, and by this time her father’s dead or dying, she’s worth a good deal more than ten thousand pounds to us. She’d pay ten times ten for a separa- tion from me after we're married. You needn’t think of any one but yourself. And five thousand is a cheap price to pay for liberty.” A sudden idea flashed Into Carrismoyle’s head—a queer thing that he had heard and might make use of. “What do you want me to do?” asked. “Copy a letter the governor will Write out for you, either to your bank, or to some friend who sets value on your life and can afford to pay for it."” “I haven't five hundred pounds in the bank, let alone five thousand. But—well, I have a friend who might lend me som: thing—for a purpose.” “It must be a simple letter, you know, Just asking your friend to get you out of 2 scrape. But the governor would know how to word it.” “Let him word it as he likes,” said Car- rismoyle, still with the queer idea in his brain, which might or might not mean all the difference between life and death—or worse—for Cecily. He did not for a moment suppose that Berkeley and his son—if this were really his son—meant o deal fairly with him. What they wunted was somehow to ob- tain the money for his ransom, and still to take his life for their own protection. He was sure of that. But it did not affect the question in his mind, and the last thing ne wanted now was to speak out his suspicion. “When the letter is ready, let me have it and I'll give you my decision,” Carris- moyle went on. “Meanwhile, I should not be sorry to have something to eat and drink. I am very thirsty. Have you such a thing as a lemon in the house?” “A lemon?”’ repeated the other, in sur- prise. “That’s. a queer thing to want.at breakfast time.” ., Nothing better to quench the ‘thirst ‘when one is inclined to be feverish, I as- sure you.” Carrismoyle insisted. *“And there's nothing I should fancy as much this morning,” which was true, though for a very different reason than the one he in- tended to convey. “The governor likes a little lemon juice in his tipple at night, and there may be one left since his last visit,”” responded the man at the window. ‘‘When I bring you the letter to copy I'll see what can be done about your breakfast.”” A lemon was a strange thing on which to pin one’s hope in matters of life and death, yet it seemed to Carrismoyle that Cecily Grant’s safety and hik own might depend upon the presence of a lemon in the cupboard at Deepchine farm. He had other hopes, also, for if Berkeley or his son were rash enough to open the dour of the strongroem he meant to make a dash for freedom, and in case of success he could afford to despise expedients. But Berkeley was not willirig to run any risks, and it was doubtless a compliment to Carrismoyle’s strength of body and, fer- tility of mind that instead of opening the door the younger of the twu men presently appeared once more at the little window. He held up a small parcel wrapped in paper and tied with knotted string. “I'm going to lower this down to you,” he said. “It will save trouble to do that. (There was no doubt that it would save much trouble.) You'll ind something to keep you from being hungry in this pack- age, and there’s pen and ink and paper as well. You can copy the letter you'll find there after you've had'your break- fast, and send it up the same way that I shall send it down.” 8 So saying he pushed the parcel between the bars of the window and slowly low- ered it within reach of Carrismoyle's lift- ed hand. “Have you put In matches and a can- dle? I can't possibly see to' read or write without a light,” remarked the prisoner, as he caught the bundle, which came dangling ‘and twirling down. His state- ment was slightly exaggerated, for if he had wished to write in the semi-dusk of the strongroom he might have contrived to do so at a pinch. But next:to his desire for the all-important lemon came his wish to obtain a candle. ey v “No; we didn't think of thém,” returned the man at the window. “Buyf there's po re; why you shouldn't have both. You can't”—and he laughed carelessly—*"you can't set your room on fire. All the matches and candles in ,Southampton could hardly help you t¢ do that.” % The, face at the -Wwindow. . disappeared, and Carrismoyle began eagerly to un. wrap the parcel. -He.had not asked whether or no the lemon had been re- mentbered; for he lrad ot WIShEa" to shbw his anxiety, lest his real motive in mak- ing the request might by an unlucky chance be suspected. But to his intense relief the first thing he saw on untying the paper in which his bréakfast and writing material were wrapped was half a lemon. Now, of all times, was the moment to accomplish his object, before the younger of his two jailers should return, and perhaps remain to Spy upon (s move- ments. A blank sheet of paper had been folded and slipped into an envelope, to- gether with another sheet partly covered with writing. This latter, no doubt, was the original which he was expected to copy and send to the rich friend in whose existence he had vaguely led the Berie- leys to believe. But his curiosity did not impel him .to waste these precious moments in studying the document. He laid the blank sheet on his knee, and, dipping the new pen, which was among the things provided, deeply into the lem- on, he began hastily to write as if the nib were wet with ink: “Come immedi- ately with two or three policemen to Deepchine Farm, about six miles from Southampton. She is here, and in great danger.” he At every other word he dipped the pen once more into the lemon. The writing when finished was invisible, but he re- membered that the man to whom he in- tended sending the letter, had told him how, when paper so written upon was held near the fire, every word would come out as if the juice of the lemon had been faded brown ink. He had just set down the last word, when the voice of his jailer spoke once more at the window, “Here’s. what you wanted. Catch them, will you?"’, 5 A box of matches and a stump of candle were pushed bétween the bars, ands Car- rismoyle caught first one and then the other, before they could touch the floor. The candle had‘been- half burnt, and the end that was left was scarcely as long ad his finger. Still, he regarded it‘as a treasure; and a glance into the box show- ed him that there were at least a dozen matches. : - He did not actually require the candle at present, now that his eyes had become accustomed to the gray twilight, which mednt that it ‘was bright morning some- where up above; and he would gladly have husbanded every quarter inch for the time when he should need it. But he had asked for the candle, and the man outside was lingering at the window to hear the prisoner’s comments on the let- ter which was now to be copled. He struck a match, therefore, and, lighting the candle, made it stand on the floor in a few hardening drops of its own grease. Blanks had been left in the letter for Carrismoyle to fill in, but it formulated a request, to whom it might concern, to send without fail a check for £5000 with- in the next two days, addressing him, Poste Restante, Southampton. “You can say yowll pay your friend back, if you like,” remarked the younger Berkeley. “The only thing that matters to us is getting the money. We shall be able to cash a check if it's good, and the worse for you if it isn’t. The moment we find out it's all right and you've taken a certain oath, which we'll trust you not to break, you shall be free.” “Thank you,” returned Carrismoyle, aryly, wondering if the man thought him fcol enough to believe the promise. The letter which was to be copied had been carefully worded. The reciplent would be led to suppose that the sender had got into the hands of money-lenders and needed immediate assistance If he were to be saved from bankruptcy and disgrace. The friend who was requested to hold out a helping hand (with £5060 in it) need not suspect more than met the eye; yet that more should be suspected was precisely ' Carrismoyle’'s object. He began this letter “Dear Lester,” not that he dreamed for a moment that Dr. Lester would have £5000 to lend or give, but because Lester was already so deep in the mystery that his suspicions would be on the alert and because he might be depended upon, once they were roused, to send the help that was wanted. Lester had explained to him what might be done with a lemon in the way of invisible writ- ing, and it was very possible therefore that when the doctor received so strange a letter it would occur to him to hold the paper near a fire, seeking further devel- opments. Carrismoyle faithfully copied the orig- inal which Berkeley had prepared and signed his name boldly. When he had addressed the envelope he left it unsealed and tied it to the string, which was still dangling from the window: If the letter were posted at once and expressed, as he suggested to his jailer that it should be. Lester ought to receive it that evening at Waycross. An answer could not reach Southampton 'until next morning at earliest, and, therefore, as the Berkeleys would not for obvious reasons attempt'to get rid of him until the hoped for check had arrived, or failed to arrive, as eX- pected, Carrismoyle might calculate that his life was safe for-at least twenty-four hours. His own life—but danger to him- self was little in his thoughts compared to that which he feared for Cissy. She loved him, and if these men made her believe that his life depended on her sacrifice, ft might well be that she would consent to make it.- The man at the win- dow had said that they had ‘‘a parsdn handy,” who would do all they wanted. If he had spoken the‘truth, or-a part of the truth,” even to-day Cissy might be made the wife of that young brute who was one of her kidnapers, and if Lester sent help it would be already too laté to save her. * i 3 4 There was madness in the thought of - being so near to her yet able to do noth- ing, and when the man at the window had - taken the letter and gone away, Carrfs- moyle carried his bit of candle to the door and examined it as carefully with his eyes as he had previously done with his hands. But it was only to assure himself without a shadow of doubt that:the door was of iron, and tbat, it must be bolted or fast- ened by some patent lock on the outside. It would be, impossible for, him to break out of his prison unless he could have blown the door down with an explosive., ‘When he was certain of this fact he ent to the smaller door in the corner, ich he had -preyiously felt with his hands in the darkness. On the way he glanced, up, at the window and saw- that to any one watching behind the bars this second door would not be visible. It was low and set back in a shallow ni¢he. Now that he could dimly see it in the flickering light of the candle, Carris- moyle found that it was fitted with an old-fashioned time lock of somewhat cride design and ‘'manufacture, and in- stead of being on the door itself the ap- paratus was set into the wall close by! It was for this reason that he had missed finding it in the dark. e "Long ago, no doubt, the poor lock on which the miser of Deepchine Farm had depinded had been broken by curious ones who became tenants of the house, pe haps’in the hope of finding his lost treas- ure. The intricate key, which no doubt the murdered man had once jealously car- ried’ about this person, was not now neéded. The spring which by its means had 'been lifted at the hour he had de- clded -upon in_setting the lock had but fo bé pushed up and the door opened. Carris- moyle had been right in his conjecture, for it revealed an empty safe four or five feet indepth and rdther more in width. The place afforded no hope of exit, and was.rather.a cellwithin a-cell.but €ar- rismoyle, with a faint impulse of curios- ity, went in, finding an unexpected step down below the level of the stone pave- ment in the room beyond. ¥ The stump of tallow candle was in his hand, and. he pércelved that though the walls of the old safe were of iron the floor .was of wood. This struck him as peculiar. It must have beén made so for a special reason, and suddenly the thought went through- his mind that the slab of oak (for oak it seemed to be) looked more like the cover of a great box than the floor of a safe. Box covers lifted up. What if this should lift up and there should be something hidden under- neath, something which others had never found? % Carrismoyle was a poor man, but now all the gold of Klondike would have been worthless .t6 him compared with an open door. Here there was no open door, yet it was not of concealed treasure that he thought as he went down on his knees and began attentively to examine the junction of the wooden floor with the iron walis of the safe. - The oak was dark and old, and pitted ‘Into this unknown place it might be to with worm holes, some of which were much larger and deeper than others. As the candle light traveled slowly, inch by inch, something bright gleamed at the bottom of one of the deeper holes. It looked like a brass tack which had fallen in and been imbedded in the wood. Car- rismoyle tested-it with the tip of his fin- ger, but it did not move. of trying to uproot the small, firmly fixed object, he pressed it with all his force. Suddenly, as he did’ so, the floor fell away beneath him and he pitched down- _caused _him Then,’ instead - ward, the candle struck trom hh hand in the fall. CHAPTER XIL WHAT CARRISMOYLE FOUND UN- .DER THE SAFE. With the instinct of self-preservation Carrisémoyle flung out his hands when the ‘wooden floor of the safe gave way under him, and caught at something as he feil. ‘What the'something was he did not know at the instant, but it' was round and solid, like a ‘bar, and by means of grasping it hé saved himself from a further plunge into darkness. X 3 2 How far he might have gone he could not ‘tell, but' hanging by his‘left hand from the bar, which he clutched tightly hé“felt about with'his right in hopes of ascertalnifig what gave him support. To his surprise, almost humiliation (since there had come a second of un- pleasant émotion with the giving way of the floor), he discovered that he was hold- ing desperately to one of the cross pleces of a ladder, placed perpendicularly. A moment later he had planted both feet on one of the rounds, and was quietly descending into some unknown place un- der the- false bottom of the safe, which was, in redlity, nothing more ncr less than a trap-door. A When he had counted faur rounds he touched solid ground, and then, thankful that he had not neglected to put the box In' his pocket when he first lighted the candle-end, he lit one of his treasured matches. As the flame grew clear and steady he saw that he was in a small, roughly cemented chamber, like a room In a cel- lar designed for the ‘keeping of stores which would be destroyed by dampness. As Carrismoyle glanced about he sped the end of the candle which he had drop- ped in falling. It lay on the cemented floor, having rolled into an obscure cor- ner, and he thankfully retrieved the treasure, relighting it from the already expiring match. The ladder which descended from the safe overhead was in the middle of the room. In one corner stood a common deal table, which might have been home-made. On this lay several large books, like ledg- ers: and beneath was an iron-clamped mahogany chest about the size of an or- dinary traveling box. Behind - this table an archway leading Into some region unknown had been care- fully bricked up, ard at sight of it Carris- movle’'s heart leaped within him. To remove enough of the brickwork to enable a man to crawl through would be the work of several hours, even if he had any sharp instrument by means of Which he could loosen the first bricks. Supposing the thing accomplished, the chances were at least equal that all ‘he labor would prove vain, and that he would find himself at the end as hope- less of escape as before. Still, he was ready to move heaven and earth to make the effort, and he began searching his pockets to see whether his jailers had relieved him of all his possessions when they had appropriated for their own pur- poses his hat, his overcoat, and even the necktle which completed the make-up that had helped to deceive ‘the cabman. If they had been in too great haste to remember the bowle-knife he would be in luck; but he soon discovered that they Lad, not' been guilty of this negligence. Even 'his own pocket-knife ‘'had been re- mboved, and there was nothing left to do save to shrug hts shoulders and search the room for some-object ‘e could put to use in his hour of need. 2 It was not difficult’ to guess the raison d'etre of this queer 'place. The miser's morbid feéars of losing his treasures had to lose trust even in his strongroom. - He had feared, perhaps, that the’very workmen called in to make it might rob him, or, at all events, betray his secret;' and he had later inclosed a spacé undérneath 'in the cellar, arranging 2 means of communication with the strongroom above. 'The man might eas- ily have bricked up the archway leading out into a larger cellar without assistance ‘and t6 cover the walls and floor with ce- ment would have been a less difficult ‘task. THe chances were'that no one save the miser who had been murdered had ¢ver been acquainted with the existence of . this “strongroom within a strong- room. It might even be that the bulk of ‘the money for which the man had been murdered still lay, undisturbed in that iron-bound chest ‘under the table filled with old ledgers. - s . _An impulse of curiosity bade Carris- moyle stoop and try to open the box, but, as he expected, it was locked. One thing ke "discovered, however, which' sent the blood flowin.; faster thréugh his veins. ‘Where the cover of the' chest fitted into place one of, the ‘iron bands' was loose; and it was not with any-thought of break- ing into.the secret. of the box that the young mian set himself to loosen it still further. , . e Slowly the strip of iron ylelded, and when. he bad succeeded in pushing his fingers underneath he put .all his strength info the task of bending it back with the idea of preaking. it at last. Sudderily, as he worked, he thought that he heard a slight sound, and leaving the chest, and the candle burning on the table, he went quickly up the ladder, listening intently with his head and shouiders . thrust. through the aperture once filled by the floor of the safe. All ‘was silent, and he supposed that he had been deceived. Nevertheless, he told him- self, it would: be:well to take precau- tions which, in the excitement of his explorations, had not occurred to him be- fore. “ ¥ It was clearly the prudent course to pre- vent the two Berkeleys from prematurely discovering what he was doing. If they ‘came again to the barred window and called, as might easily happen after a time, they would suppose, perhaps, that he was asleep or sutking when he did not answer. Perhaps, assured as they must be that their prisoner could not pos- sibly escape while the door was locked on the outside, they might not choose to risk playing “into his hunds by coming Into the room and seeing for themseives why hé remained silent; but if they did come, it was far better for Carrismoyle’s inter- ests that they should be dumfounded by the mystery of his absence than that they should instantly be able to solve the puz- zle.....With. these .thoughts_in_his mind Carrismoyle pushed the door of the safe almost shut, again descended a few rounds of the ladder, fixed the oaken slab in place so that it formed a floor for the safe once more, and then, hurry- ing down into the room beneath, he set'to work at his interrupted task. Only a strong hand could have accom- plished it; but Carrismoyle had a stong hand and a strong heart. So much de- pended upon success that force of deter- mination came to the help of sheer physi- cal strength, and together they conquer- ed. The iron band broke in two, and with the strip which he had separated from the chest Carrismoyle attacked the mor- tar between the bricks which filled up the narrow archway. He had more hope now than at first, for he had observed a series of small holes at the juncture of the wall at which he was working, with the celling above. These afforded ventilation, and the fact that a certain amount of air did assuredly “penetrate into this underground room ar- gued that there must be a large open space beyond. Of course, if he escaped find himself still & prisoner; but at least matters could not possibly be worse than they were at present, and might be bet- ter.. % what remained of the stump into his _pocket. He had gone so far now that he was able to proceed in the dark, though slewly and with difficulty. The thought came into his mind that, by breaking the table and tearing up the ledgers he might make a brave illumination; but he remem- bered that as there would be practically no outlet for the smoke he would soon be half choked and blinded, and decided te let we'l enough alone. Presently, by persistent digging In the rough mortar, he had loosened one brick and with the thrill of joy which came as he jerked it out of place it seemed as it the worst part of the labor was over. He > thrust his hand into the hole, hoping that there had been no more than the one layer of bricks filiing*up. the archway. But the man who had blocked up the opening had evidently had plenty of time and patience, as well as material, for Carrismoyle’s ex- ploring fingers touched something solid. He would not yield to discouragement, however, but set his teeth and went dog- gedly on with his work. Brick after brick came sut of the place where they had lain for so many years, and when a dozen or more had been flung on the floor at his feet Carrismoyle began to try loosening cthers in the layer beyond. He worked cut the mortar around one and gave it a push forward with his strip of iron. It would not move at first, but presently Carrismoyle heard a muffled sound as it dropped out and fell on the other side. “Thank heaven!” he muttered, half aloud; for he knew by this sign that the archway had only been filled in with these two layers of bricks instead of many, as he had begun to fear might be the case. So far he was succeeding, but the end was still very distant. His watch had gune with the rest of his' belongings, therefore he had no means of ascertain- Ing the hour, but he guessed that by the time he had spent on his present task it must already be afternoon, and he feared that hours must pass by before he had enlarged the hole enough to wriggle through. Meanwhile he dared not dwell upon what might be happening to Cissy. The thought that the Berkeleys might have worked upon her fears for his Safety and brought in their “handy par- son” at the critical moment was so un- nerving that he put it from him, saying, “Not yet; it can't have been yet! God help me to help her, and save my darling from those devils.” * By this time the hole was large enough for Carrismoyle to thrust his arm through up to the shoulder. He did so, and was encouraged by feeling nothing but empti- ness on the other side. After that he worked desperately, tearing the skin om his hands but feeling no pain. Often, as the opening grew, he tried to squeeze m3 shoulders through, and at last it was large enough to let them pass. The first part of the task was done. What was ‘o come after remained still to be seen. Somehow he writhed his body through and came out on the other side. Now, with a fast-beating heart, he again light- ed the remaining bit of candle which he had saved for this. He was in a disused wine cellar, with empty bins, bits of broken glass on the ground catching the candle light, and the skeletons of two dilapidated casks. The door hung on broken hinges, and in an instant Carrismoyle had opened it to pass into a great open cellar. Close by was a stone staircase, evident- 1y not in use, for several steps had fallen away; but at the top was a tiny star of light, so yellow that Carrismoyle knew it could not be the light of day. Already the winter twilight had fallen, and in a room communicating with the cellar by a Goor lamps had been lit. The young man began cautlously to mount the tumble- down staircase, and he had not climbed far when he heard the murmur of voices. ‘There was no doubt now that the rcom overhead was occupled, and it occurred to Carrismoyle that possibly the sound he had heard_ or fancled some time ago, had been made there, and not in the re- glon of the strongroom as he had at first supposed. Voices, no matter how loud, would not have been audible to him be- fore removing the brickwork, but some heavy object might have fallen or been moved across the floor. He went noiselessly on to the top of the stairs and put his eye to the keyhole. Nothing could be seen, except light, but suddenly he found himself able to distin- guish words which were being spoken on the other side of the door. “Pretty good half-sovereign that, eh?” exclaimed a voice, which Carrismoyle recognized as Berkeley's. “It's the best die I have done yet. You're all right, my boy, at keeping the pencils pointed and the burins and needles ground, but you'll never be an artist like your father.” I shan't need to be, after to-night,” laughed Berkeley the younger. “I mean to live on my rich wife."” “The wife I got for you. I thank my stars I shall be able to chuck work, too. The few of these things I've been able to get rid of In town since we came here and took to making "em have hardly pald for the wear and tear of nerve and brain tissue. If we could have worked it all alone it wouldn’t have been so bad, but when others have to be let in one doesn’t get many easy moments in this sort of business. Even if the old man doesn’t dle we're all right now—"" “If that box and what came out of the sea didn’t kill him, he’s made of marble.” “I've had good reason to know for many a year that he was made of stone. But, anyhow, we've got the girl. And in an hour from now, if all goes well, she ought to be your wife.” The younger man laughed. “If our par- son friend keeps his appointment.” “He will, no fear. Needs must, when somebody drives. A man with a past like his is easy to manage. He knows that a word from us would ruin him. And though, of course, the marriage won't legal, the girl will think it is, the only matter of importance, she’ll be thankful enough for her rep: tion’s sake to have everything straight. You must manage her carefully at first, though, and get all that's to be got before you give her a chance to make known what she will call her wrongs.” “‘Sne will buy her freedom dear, I prom- ise you,” sald Berkeley the younger. “And, by Jove! she won't get it without a little love-making first. It's the money we want. But she’s the handsomest crea- ture living, even with that little cropped curly head of hers, and I would be a fish if my blood didn’t run a bit faster when I'm with her. If it hadn’t been for you—" “Oh, I know well enough you'd have acted the fool and perhaps have ruined everything. She'd have killed herself if you hadn’t obeyed me, and then where ‘would be the money we've risked so much for?" Carrismoyle’s blood was like fire in his veins. He could bear no more, and his candle being spent, the last hot drops of «&rease burning his fingers, he found and tried the handle of the door. It would not yleld. The door was doubtless locked on the other—had perhaps been fastened up for years. “What cried Berkeley, sharply. Carrismoyle heard the scraping of & chair along the floor. “I don't know,” the other answered. “But I certainly heard something. It sounded as if the nolse came from close bekind us.” 5 “It was a queer noise, too, as If some one were trying to opem a door.” “Rats, 1 suppose. They make noises queer enough for anything. especially in this beast of a ghost-ridden den.” “We'll be out of it before long. T hope. Yes, no doubt it must have been rats, for there’'s nothing more certain than that the girl is safe where we've put her, except that the man is still safer. And there's no one else about the place—now."” There was something curiously ant about the way in which he pro- nounced that added word—‘“new.” And only silence answered him. Presently Berkeley spoke again. “L think we might knock off work for to-day. I'm hungry. and, besides, we'd better shut up this part of the house be- fore the parson comes. We don't want was that?”