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Title: Sweet Danger
Original US title: Kingdom of Death
Later US title: The Fear Sign
Author: Allingham, Margery [Youngman Carter, Margery Louise]
   (1904-1966)
Date of first publication: 1933
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Felony & Mayhem Press, 2007
Date first posted: 16 August 2020
Date last updated: 16 August 2020
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1659

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Jen Haines, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






SWEET DANGER

by Margery Allingham




    All the characters and events portrayed
    in this work are fictitious.




TABLE OF CONTENTS

    1. In Confidence
    2. H.R.H. Campion
    3. The Man Higher Up
    4. "Here's Mystery"
    5. The Miller
    6. Tongues in Trees
    7. Cain's Valley
    8. Unwelcome Stranger
    9. Question Time
    10. Big Business
    11. The Grand Manner
    12. Visitation
    13. 'Ware Amanda
    14. The Churchworkers
    15. The Stricken Drum
    16. Before the Storm
    17. The Crown
    18. Doctor Galley's Unusual Practice
    19. Pourboire
    20. To Meet Ashtaroth
    21. Truth in the Well
    22. The Millpool
    23. Late Extra




SWEET DANGER




CHAPTER ONE
IN CONFIDENCE


A small window in the sunlit, yellow side of the Htel Beauregard,
Mentone, opened slowly, and through it a hand appeared, which, after
depositing a compact brown suitcase upon the sill, speedily vanished.

Guffy Randall, who was allowing his car to roll in a leisurely fashion,
down the gentle slope, to the sharp right-angle turn which would bring
him to the front of the hotel and lunch, pulled up and observed the now
closed window and the bag with that air of polite yet careless interest,
which was his chief characteristic.

It seemed such a foolish thing to do, this leaving of a small brown
portmanteau upon the sill of a shut, first-floor window. Mr. Randall was
stolid, nordic, and logical. He also had the heaven-sent gift of
curiosity, and thus it was that he was still gazing idly at the hotel
wall when the sequel of the first incident occurred.

A glazed ground-floor window was opened cautiously, and a small man in a
brown suit began to climb out. It was a very small window, and the
unconventional departer seemed more anxious to watch what he was leaving
than to see where he was going, so that he came out feet first, his
knees resting upon the sill. He moved with remarkable agility, and as
Mr. Randall watched he saw to his astonishment a hand replace an
unmistakable revolver in a strained hip pocket.

The next moment the new-comer had closed the window, hoisted himself
carefully to his feet, and stepping on a pipe-bracket, pulled himself
far enough up to retrieve the bag. Then he dropped silently on to the
dusty path and set off down the road at a sprint.

The young man caught a glimpse of a small, pink, rat-like face and
scared red-rimmed eyes.

Naturally the obvious explanation occurred to him, but he felt all the
mistrust which the Englishman abroad feels towards any judicial system
he does not understand, coupled with a vigorous horror of becoming
involved in it in any way. Moreover, he was hungry. The day was as hot
and as lazy as only a day on the French Riviera out of season can be,
and he felt no personal animosity towards any impecunious hotel guest
who must resort to undignified methods of departure, so long as he
himself were not inconvenienced.

He turned the Lagonda gently into the palm-lined street, which ran round
the bay and drove slowly through the ornate iron gates to the hotel
entrance.

As he pulled up in the wide gravel parking place, he noted with relief
that the hotel was by no means crowded. Rugby, Oxford, and the shires
had produced in Guffy Randall at the age of twenty-eight an almost
perfect specimen of the younger diehard. He was amiable, well-mannered,
snobbish to the point of comedy and, in spite of his faults, a rather
delightful person. His cheerful round face was hardly distinguished, but
his very blue eyes were frank and kindly and his smile was disarming.

At the moment he was returning from the somewhat trying experience of
conducting an aged and valetudinarian dowager aunt to an Italian spa,
and having now deposited her safely at her villa was proceeding quietly
homeward along the coast.

As he set foot in the cool ornate vestibule of the Beauregard,
conscience smote him. He remembered the place well, and the benign face
of little M. Etinne Fleurey, the manager, returned to him.

It was one of Guffy's most charming peculiarities that he made friends
wherever he went and with all sorts of people. M. Fleurey, he remembered
now, had been the most estimable and obliging of hosts, whose small
stock of Napoleon brandy had been nobly produced at a farewell gathering
at the end of a hectic season some few years before. In the
circumstances, he reflected, the least thing he could have done was to
have given the alarm after the mysteriously departing stranger, or,
better still, to have chased and apprehended him.

Regretful, and annoyed with himself, the young man decided to do what he
could to remedy his omission, and, giving his card to the reception
clerk, desired that it might be taken immediately to the manager.

M. Fleurey was a person of great importance in the little world
encompassed by the walls of the Beauregard. Minor strangers spent whole
fortnights in the hotel without so much as setting eyes upon the august
cherub, who preferred to direct his minions from behind the scenes.

Nevertheless, within a few minutes young Mr. Randall found himself in
the little mahogany-lined sanctum on the sunny side of the forecourt,
with M. Fleurey himself pumping his hand and emitting birdlike chirrups
of welcome and regard.

M. Fleurey was definitely ovoid in figure. From the top of his shining
head he sloped gently outwards to a diameter on the level of his
coat-pockets, whence he receded gracefully to the heels of his
immaculate shoes.

Guffy was reminded of a witticism of the earlier season which had
related how M. Fleurey had been tapped on the soles of his feet so that,
like Columbus's egg, he should be able to stand.

For the rest, he was a discreet, affable soul, a connoisseur of wine and
a devout believer in the sanctity of the _noblesse_.

It began to dawn upon Guffy that M. Fleurey was more than ordinarily
delighted to see him. There was an element of relief in his welcome, as
though the young man had been a deliverer rather than a prospective
guest, and his first words put all recollection of the unconventional
departure he had just witnessed out of his mind.

"Name of a name of a little good man," said the manager in his own
language, "it is of an astonishing clarity to me that you, my dear
Monsieur Randall, have arrived by the express intervention of Providence
itself."

"Really?" said Guffy, whose French was by no means perfect and who had
only caught the sense of the latter part of the sentence. "Anything up?"

M. Fleurey spread out his hands deprecatingly and a frown ruffled for an
instant the tranquillity of his forehead.

"I don't know," he said. "When you came in I was in a quandary--as you
would say, in a flummox. And then, when your name appeared, I said to
myself, 'Here is my deliverer; here is the man of all others who will
most help me.' The _noblesse_ are as an open book to you, M. Randall.
There is no one with any pretension to title whom you have not met."

"Here, I say, don't pin your faith to that," said Guffy hastily.

"Well, shall we say no one of any importance?"

M. Fleurey turned to his desk and his visitor saw that this glistening
pantechnicon, usually so immaculate, was now littered with reference
books, most of them ancient volumes, greasy with much thumbing. _Burke_
and _Dod_ were well to the fore, and a large crested pocket-handkerchief
lay upon a square of tissue paper on top of a London telephone
directory.

"Imagine my perplexity!" said M. Fleurey. "But I will explain."

With the air of a man who is anxious to relate his troubles, but not
without paying due compensation to the feelings of his listener, he
produced two glasses and a decanter from a small cupboard in the
panelling, and a few seconds later Guffy found himself sipping rare
Amontillado while his host talked.

M. Fleurey had a flair for the dramatic. Opening an enormous register,
he pointed to three names half-way down the last page.

"Mr. Jones, Mr. Robinson, and Mr. Brown of London," he read. "Is not
that sinister? I am no cabbage. I was not born yesterday. As soon as
Lon pointed out these entities to me I said, 'Ah, there is mystery
here.'"

Guffy, while wishing to congratulate M. Fleurey on his powers of
detection, if only in gratitude for the sherry, was not very impressed.

"I've never heard of them," he said.

"Wait..." M. Fleurey lifted one finger to heaven. "I have observed
these visitors. They are all three young; unmistakably of the
_noblesse_. One of them has--how shall I say it?--the manner. The others
wait upon him with the care and the deference of courtiers. The
manservant is mysterious."

The Frenchman paused.

"Even this," he continued, raising his voice and adopting the throaty
murmur of the fashionable _diseur_, "even this would not be in itself of
interest. But this morning Lon, my _matre d'htel_, received a
complaint from a fourth visitor whose room backs the suite occupied by
Mr. Brown of London. This visitor--a negligible person--ninety francs a
day and _vin du pays_--declared that his room had been ransacked--how do
you say?--rendered to bubble and squeak. Nothing had been stolen, you
understand."

M. Fleurey lowered his voice on the past participle as though
apologizing for using it in the presence of his guest.

Guffy nodded, indicating that, as between one man of the world and
another, he was aware that such things did happen.

"I went up to the room myself," confessed the manager like one admitting
to a servile act. "It was indeed upsy-daisy. The miserable owner, while
he did not actually accuse anyone, indicated that he suspected the
manservant, W. Smith, of the affair. Now, my friend--" the manager set
down his glass--"you perceive my situation. There is nothing I desire
more in my hotel than the presence of royalty incognito, and nothing I
desire less than confidence tricksters, clever thieves, or the _hoi
polloi_ making game. Now this last is impossible; these people are the
_noblesse_. I am experienced. I served my apprenticeship. I know. But
which of the other alternatives is correct? I have here the handkerchief
of Mr. Brown. You see the crest. There is only one like it in all these
books of information."

He picked up a little battered leather-bound volume and, turning over
the yellow pages, pointed to a rudely drawn design with the single word
underneath it: _"Averna."_

"There is no account in this book of the owners of that crest, and the
book is lent to me by the Municipal Librarian. But you see, there it is.
The crest, usurped or not, is a genuine crest. What shall I do? If I am
unduly inquisitive my visitors will go. If they are confidence
tricksters I shall have been fortunate, but if they are not, then my
reputation, the reputation of my so beautiful hotel for courtesy,
intelligence, and, as you would say, 'wise guyishness,' will be done,
gone, exploded--pouf!--like a carnival balloon."

"I'd like to see these people," said Guffy. "Any chance of my getting a
squint at them without them seeing me?"

"My enchanting friend, the thing is no sooner said than done. Come
here."

The little plump man tiptoed across the thickly carpeted room as though
he feared the floor were unsafe.

Guffy swallowed the last drop of his sherry and followed.

M. Fleurey slid back a little hatch in the panelling, and, to his
complete astonishment, Guffy found himself looking through a small round
window high up in the north wall of the lounge. The ornate moulding on
the other side successfully hid the peep-hole, and the whole of the
lounge lay spread out beneath like a new-angle photograph.

"This," said M. Fleurey with pride, "is my quarterdeck. From here I can
see my passengers, my crew, the life of my whole establishment. Keep
back as much as possible--forgive me, but these subterfuges are
necessary."

Guffy moved obligingly and regarded the scene below with interest, now
that his first amazement had subsided. The huge cream-and-amber room
below was sparsely dotted with people, but there were enough to make his
task difficult had it not been for the excited little manager at his
side.

"Look, my friend," he said. "In the corner by the window. Ah, the palm
obliterates the head of Mr. Brown. Nevertheless, wait for a moment. We
can already see the others."

The young man peered down at the elegant little group round the corner
table. He saw one sleek brown head, one black one, and the third man
was, as M. Fleurey had said, hidden behind the palms.

As Guffy stared, one of the men turned and he caught sight of his face.
An exclamation escaped him.

M. Fleurey tugged his sleeve impatiently.

"You recognize them?" he demanded. "Are my fears at rest? I implore you,
my friend, to tell me!"

"Half a minute..." Guffy pressed his face against the glass of the
peep-hole in an effort to catch a glimpse of the man in the shadow.

The brown-headed "equerry" he had recognized immediately as Jonathan
Eager-Wright, probably the most daring amateur mountaineer in Europe and
a member of one of England's oldest families. He was a shy, retiring
person who was seldom in England, and who treated his place in Society
with a wholly unwarrantable contempt.

Guffy grew more and more curious. He had no doubt that he would
recognize the second man the moment he turned his head. Surely those
tremendously square shoulders and those tight brown-black curls, making
his head look like the back of a shorn lamb, could belong to only one
person in the world: Dicky Farquharson, the brilliant young son of old
Sir Joshua Farquharson, chairman of Farquharson & Co., the
Anglo-American mining engineers?

Having recognized two old friends, Guffy's first impulse was to reassure
M. Fleurey and hurry down to the lounge, but something odd in the
behaviour of the pair held his attention and his curiosity. It seemed to
him, watching from his place of vantage above them, that Messrs.
Farquharson and Eager-Wright were much more subdued than usual. There
was a strange formality about their dress and their manner.

The man in the corner appeared to be absorbing, not to say dominating,
them.

Although, of course, he could not hear what was being said, Randall
received the impression that they were listening deferentially to the
other's harangue; that their laughter was polite to the point of
affectation; and that, in fact, they were behaving like men in the
presence of royalty.

How two such unlikely persons could possibly have come together in such
a situation was beyond Guffy's powers of conjecture. As he watched, both
young men suddenly drew out pocket lighters and simultaneously offered
the third of the trio the flame.

Eager-Wright, it seemed, was the favoured one, and the third man bent
forward to light his cigarette.

As Guffy stared, a pale, somewhat vacant face came into view. Sleek
yellow hair was brushed back from a high forehead and pale blue eyes
were hidden behind enormous horn-rimmed spectacles. The expression upon
the face was languid and a little bored. The next instant he had leant
back again.

"By George!" said Mr. Randall. "Albert Campion!" The next moment his
shoulders began to heave and he turned a crimson, distorted face to the
startled manager.

"You weep!" the little man ejaculated. "You are alarmed--you are
amused--yes, no?"

Guffy clutched at the desk for support, while the little manager danced
round him like an excited Pekingese.

"My friend," he expostulated, "you keep me in suspense. You bewilder me.
Do I laugh or am I abased? Is my hotel honoured or is it degraded? Is it
the _noblesse_ or is it some racket of malefaction?"

Guffy controlled himself with an effort. "God only knows," he said. And
then, as the little man's face fell, he clapped him vigorously on the
shoulder. "But it's all right, Fleurey, it's all right. You know--_au
fait_--quite the thing. Nothing to get _distrait_ about."

And then, before the manager could press for further information, the
young man had flung himself out of the door and raced down the stairs,
still laughing, to the lounge.

As he went, Guffy reflected upon the beauties of the situation. Albert
Campion, of all people, being seriously mistaken by the good Fleurey for
minor royalty was a story too magnificent to be lightly dismissed. After
all, it might almost be true; that was the beauty of Campion; one never
knew where he was going to turn up next--at the Third Levee or swinging
from a chandelier, as someone once said.

As Guffy crossed the vestibule he had time to consider Campion. After
all, even he, probably one of that young man's oldest friends, knew
really very little about him. Campion was not his name; but then it is
not considered decent for the younger son of such a family to pursue
such a peculiar calling under his own title.

As to the precise nature of the calling Guffy was a little fogged.
Campion himself had once described it as "Universal Uncle and Deputy
Adventurer." All things considered, that probably summed him up.

Although what he could possibly be doing at the Beauregard playing
prince with two men like Farquharson and Eager-Wright to help him was
beyond the scope of Guffy's somewhat inelastic imagination.

He hurried across the lounge, his round face beaming, the pricelessness
of the joke still uppermost in his mind. He laid a hand on Farquharson's
shoulder and grinned at Campion.

"What ho, your Highness!" he said, and chuckled. His laughter died
suddenly, however. The pale vacuous face into which he stared did not
alter for an instant, and Eager-Wright's iron hand closed over his wrist
like a vice.

Farquharson rose hastily to his feet. His face betrayed nothing but
consternation. Eager-Wright had risen also, but his warning grip did not
slacken.

Farquharson bowed slightly to Campion. "Sir," he said, "may I present
the Honourable Augustus Randall, of Monewdon in Suffolk, England?"

Mr. Campion, not a muscle of his face betraying a trace of any emotion
save polite indifference, nodded.

"Mr. Randall and I have met before, I think," he said. "Perhaps you will
sit here, next to Mr. Robinson? Mr. Jones should have introduced you."
He smiled deprecatingly. "I am, at the moment, Mr. Brown of London."

Guffy looked round him in bewilderment, waiting for the explosion of
laughter which he felt must be coming at any moment. But on each of the
three faces he saw nothing but extreme gravity, and Mr. Campion's pale
eyes behind his spectacles were warning and severe.




CHAPTER TWO
H.R.H. CAMPION


"Now that the doors of my palatial suite are safely locked," said Mr.
Campion some sixty minutes later, "let us adjourn with all due pomp to
the state bedroom, and I will tell you in kingly confidence that 'uneasy
lies the head that wears a crown.'"

He linked his arm through Guffy's and they walked across the
sitting-room into the adjoining bedchamber, whither Eager-Wright and
Farquharson had preceded them.

"We're coming in here because the walls are practically sound-proof,"
Campion explained airily as he swept aside the mosquito net and seated
himself upon the great gilt rococo bed.

Guffy Randall, mystified and truculent, stood before him, Dicky
Farquharson lounged upon the dressing-table stool, a glass of beer in
his hand, the bottle on the floor at his feet, while Eager-Wright stood
by the window grinning broadly.

Guffy was frankly unamused. He felt he had been made to look an
ill-mannered ass and was prepared to accept only the most abject of
apologies.

Farquharson leant forward, his smile wrinkling his forehead until his
short, close-cropped curls almost met his eyebrows.

"It's rather a blessing Guffy has turned up at this particular
juncture," he said. "He'd never have stood the strain of playing the
courtier for long. It's damned hard work, old man," he added, grinning
at his friend, "His Majesty being rather a stickler for etiquette. You
haven't got the bearing at all, if I may say so. Bring the heels
together smartly and from the waist--bow!"

Guffy passed his hand over his forehead. "Look here," he said, "I'm
completely in the dark. I take it you have some purpose in careering
about the place behaving in this extraordinary fashion. I don't want to
intrude, of course, but if you could give me a clue it'd help
considerably."

Mr. Campion, sitting cross-legged on the bed, his pale eyes amused
behind his enormous spectacles, nodded affably.

"As a matter of fact, you ought to have been in it from the start," he
said. "The army of spies which reports to me daily scoured London for
you about three weeks ago."

"Really?" Guffy looked up with interest. "I was in Oslo with the Guv'nor
judging some new sort of dog they're breeding. I'm sorry about that.
Frankly, Campion, I feel this is going to take a bit of explaining. When
I dropped in here this morning I found old Fleurey black in the face
because he thinks he's got a pack of confidence tricksters in the place.
I took a squint at the suspects for him and I found it was you."

"Confidence tricksters!" said Eager-Wright, aghast. "I say, that
reflects on us rather badly, Farquharson."

"Oh, he thought also that you might be minor royalty," said Guffy with
due fairness. "He suspects you, Campion, of being the potentate of some
little tinpot Balkan state."

Farquharson and Eager-Wright exchanged glances, and a faint smile passed
over Mr. Campion's pale, foolish face.

"The good Fleurey is a man of perception," he said. "You can't fool a
hotel proprietor, Guffy. The man's absolutely right. You are now in the
presence of the Hereditary Paladin of Averna and his entire Court. Not
perhaps very impressive, but genuine. That's the chief charm about us in
this business: we're absolutely _bona fide_."

Guffy's blue eyes became dark and incredulous. Mr. Campion met them
gravely. Then he held out his hand.

"Meet Albert, Hereditary Paladin of Averna."

"Never heard of it," said Guffy stolidly.

"You will," said Mr. Campion. "It's a hell of a place: I'm the king.
Farquharson represents the Government of the country. Eager-Wright is
the Opposition. I suppose you wouldn't care for an order or two? The
Triple Star is natty without being bourgeois."

"It sounds mad," said Guffy. "But I'm with you, of course, if there's
anything I can do. I don't want to be offensive, but it sounds as though
you're collecting for a hospital."

Mr. Campion's pale eyes became momentarily grave. "Yes, well, there's
always that," he said. "And before you decide to join us I feel I ought
to point out that there's a distinct possibility that I and all my
immediate friends may have to die fighting for my country. I say,
Farquharson, have you got that coat?"

Dicky leant over the back of the stool and pulled a suitcase from under
the dressing-table. From its depths he drew out a light travelling
ulster and displayed a six-inch tear just under the shoulder.

"A bullet?" enquired Guffy with interest.

"As we got on the train at Brindisi," agreed Mr. Campion. "We Avernians
live dangerously."

"I'm in it," said Guffy stoutly. "I say, though, where is this place
Averna? Ought I to have heard of it?"

"Well, no. Its greatest asset is that very few people ever have heard of
it." Mr. Campion's precise tone was still light, but Guffy, who knew him
well, realized that he was now approaching the serious. "To be quite
honest," he went on, "it's not very hot, as kingdoms go. To begin with,
the area's about eight hundred, I should say."

"Square miles?" said Guffy, impressed.

"Acres," said Mr. Campion modestly. "That includes the castle, of
course, but not the rockery. I also hold dominion over the left half of
a beautiful mountain about four thousand feet high, and the right half
of a much loftier affair. Included in this not very desirable property
is running water, cold, five hundred yards of sea coast, a truffle
plantation, and quite half a dozen subjects, all of whom now have a
signed photograph of myself in court dress and five hundred cigarettes.
My levee was a stout affair. It was only my personal charm which
retained me my throne, although no doubt the uniforms helped. Our red
and gold ones are rather good; you must see them."

Guffy sat down. "I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but it just doesn't sound
true. Suppose you tell me about it plainly and simply, as though I were
a child."

"It's not a simple story," said Mr. Campion. "However, if you make your
mind receptive, put your trust in me and try to grasp one fact at a
time, I'll explain. First of all the history of Averna is important, and
it goes like this. It all began with a man called Peter the Hermit, who
went out to do a bit of crusading in 1090. He took a friend with him
called Walter the Moneyless, who seems to have been about as hopeless as
his name, and they went off with a rabble and had a frightful time
coming through Dalmatia. They expected to be fed miraculously--ravens,
and whatnot, you know--but the notion wasn't sound, and they finally
came to a sticky end on the plains of Asia Minor. You can find all that
in any history book, probably not so lucidly put.

"But now we come to more specialized information. With these two birds
was a fearfully tough egg called Lambert of Vincennes, who not
unnaturally got fed up at half-time and came back. He parted from the
other two enthusiasts in the mountains on the Dalmatian coast and had
rather a thin time at first. But he had the pioneer spirit all right,
furnished himself with a wife--some early Hungarian beauty, no
doubt--and with her took refuge in a sort of pocket in the mountains, a
pleasant valley with trees and a stream and large protecting walls of
rock all round. In fact, my present kingdom."

Guffy nodded understandingly. "All clear, so far," he said.

Mr. Campion continued with dignity. "These two and their followers
settled down in the valley for a bit and then the old boy made plans for
getting home. The only thing against the valley was, and is, for that
matter, that it's a most difficult place to get out of. Once you're in
it you're in it, and if the crops fail or the stream runs dry the
situation can be most unpleasant. Also, there's no social life.

"Mrs. Lambert and most of the others were left behind while Lambert and
a couple of friends set out from home. The extraordinary thing is that
they got there. But, home politics being what they were at the time, the
Lambert estates had been sequestered and the unfortunate fellow couldn't
raise enough money to get back to his valley again. He turned up in
England and was received kindly as a sort of holy man. But no one felt
like exploring at the time, and finally he died in despair, commending
his kingdom, in which no one quite believed, to the English Crown.

"It seems to have been a sort of standard anecdote until 1190, when
Richard the First set out to do his own bit of crusading, and then a
detachment under a delightful soul called Edward the Faithful left the
main expedition in Tuscia, cut across Romandiola to Ancona, and across
the Adriatic--whatever it was then called--to a place called Ragusa,
where the Dinaric Alps run down to the sea."

He paused and looked at his friend apologetically. "I'm sorry to trot
out all this history," he said, "but it's absolutely necessary if you're
going to get a clear idea of what we're up to. To carry on with Edward
the Faithful: he discovered Lambert's kingdom eventually, and wasn't
very impressed by it. There were no members of the original party alive,
and Edward seems to have taken a dislike to the place. But he set up the
royal standard and claimed it formally from two lizards and a bear, as
far as I can make out. Matters weren't improved when someone started a
rumour, based on abstruse and erroneous calculations, that the valley
was the scene of the incident between Cain and Abel. That settled it as
far as Edward was concerned. He christened it Averna and bunked back to
England. Later on, when he handed in his report to Richard, the king
appears to have been frightfully amused. He rewarded Edward, but
presented the kingdom as a kind of royal snub to a perfectly mad family
called Huntingforest, the ancestors of the Earls of Pontisbright. Two of
these lads died on expeditions to this kingdom, and I imagine that
Richard laughed like fun--or his heirs did--the humour of the period
tending that way.

"Finally, when any of the family became a little uppish the reigning
king used to suggest a trip out to see the old family possession."

Guffy grinned, and Mr. Campion heartened and went on with his harangue.

"No one got much out of it," he said, "until about 1400, when Giles, the
Fifth Earl, actually went out there, set up as Hereditary Paladin and
built a castle. To him we are indebted for most of the present palaver.
He had a crown made, drew up articles--the deeds of the place, as it
were, and had 'em signed and ratified by Henry the Fourth. After this
everything settled down normally; most of the Pontisbrights preferred to
stay at home, and the family, whose estates in the midlands had
dwindled, were given others in East Anglia and became quite important
people, in with the Governments and that sort of thing. A few
adventurous members of the family looked in at Averna when they made the
grand tour, and 'Hereditary Paladin' was mentioned in the family titles
on state occasions, but the place was not attractive and of no value,
and no one took much notice of it.

"The last time it came into any sort of prominence was in 1814, after
the rearrangement of Europe. Then the fifteenth Earl of Pontisbright was
quietly financed by the British Government to enable him to buy his
estate secretly from Metternich, the great real estate pedlar of that
time, so that no row over the little bit of land could lead to any
fighting which might possibly involve us.

"Then in the Crimea the last earl was killed, and the line came to an
end. There you have it in a nutshell, or at least most of it."

He rose from the bed as he finished speaking and wandered down the room,
his long thin figure looking somehow very modern and prosaic after his
story.

Guffy was still puzzled. "I've assimilated all that," he said, "and I
may be a complete fool, but I still don't see how you came into it. I
thought your family name was--" He hesitated. Mr. Campion's real name
was one of the few subjects which were taboo in his presence.

"All, well, now we come to the difficult bit." Campion regarded his
friend mildly from behind his spectacles. "About eight or nine months
ago you either do or you don't remember there was a minor earthquake in
that part of the world. Nothing much happened, but it shook up a bit of
Italy and broke a few windows in Belgrade. No one thought any exciting
damage had been done for a long time until Eager-Wright, holidaying in
the Bosnian Alps, discovered there had been a certain amount of recent
disturbance among the great ones. Chunks of rock had been hurled about,
and that sort of thing. Well, then, this is frightfully important and
the whole crux of the matter generally: he discovered on behalf of the
British Government that with very little help from a man like
Farquharson, Averna could be made a pretty useful spot. You see, roughly
it's like this. Until last year Averna was a small oval patch of land
entirely surrounded by rock, save for a single narrow tunnel through
which a mountain stream ran out to the sea. I believe one of the early
Pontisbrights attempted to shoot down this tunnel and never emerged at
the other end. But now, since the spot of bother last year, the tunnel
is no longer a tunnel, but an open cleft in the rocks, the sea has come
up, and Averna now has a minute coast line--quite five or six hundred
yards, I should say. Farquharson as the expert has had a look at it, and
in his opinion it would now be comparatively simple to carry on the good
work done by the earthquake and turn the place into a marvellous natural
harbour at a cost of approximately two and sixpence as the politician
thinks."

Guffy's round eyes grew rounder. The significance of the harangue was
beginning to dawn upon him.

Farquharson leant forward. "That isn't all, Randall," he said. "There's
every evidence that on the land behind the castle there's an untapped
oilfield. It was discovered, I imagine, years ago, but of course the
incredible difficulties of transport made it valueless. Even now I doubt
whether it's a commercial proposition to export; but who wants to export
it if ships can take it in on the spot? You see the situation now, don't
you?"

"Good Lord!" said Guffy. "A natural harbour with natural fuel."

"That seems to be the general opinion," said Farquharson, and Campion
cut in, his quiet, foolish voice sounding odd in conjunction with the
importance of his discourse:

"Only no one wants anyone else to have a natural harbour in the Adriatic
like that," he said. "There'll probably be a lot of international
litigation about it. Litigation is a tetchy business at the best of
times, but just now it might be rather awkward if there was much
argument or fuss. The European situation being what it is."

"I see," said Guffy slowly. "I suppose there's no doubt at all that the
place actually belonged to the Earls of Pontisbright?"

"Oh, none at all. They had it by right of conquest first, and then, to
be on the safe side, they bought it from Metternich. They hold, or at
least they once held, the deeds, the charter, the regalia--the receipts,
in fact--and if the family hadn't disappeared in the Crimea things would
be simple. As it is, however, the family was in low water at the time of
its disappearance, and there seems to have been a general mix up at the
finish, and, frankly, everything belonging to Averna has been lost.
That's where we come in. That's what we're doing. We're on a sort of
fantastic treasure hunt with rather a lot at stake. The Powers-That-Be
got wind of the affair, first through Eager-Wright and then from their
own expert, and, deciding that the matter was one of those complicated
slightly underhand pieces of business which go so well with my
personality, they did me the honour of calling me in, giving me a free
hand, and there you are. Rather pretty, isn't it?"

Guffy Randall sat silent for some minutes reflecting upon what he had
heard. His slow methodical mind went over the story inch by inch, and
finally he looked up, a suggestion of alarm in his eyes.

"Rather a tall order, isn't it?" he said. "I mean, these proofs may be
anywhere."

"That's just it," said Eager-Wright from his corner. "However, we've
been more hopeful since someone took the trouble to shoot at us."

Campion nodded. "The good folk in authority have an idea based upon
certain enquiries that part of these papers, documents, crowns, and
whatnot may be about to fall into the hands of some unscrupulous private
agent, who will hold them until the right moment to make a deal. As the
feeling in London is that the moment for safety is almost past, they are
anxious to make him come out into the open if he really does exist. Our
somewhat spectacular descent into Averna and our leisurely return
through Europe is a self-advertising stunt. We had intended to wait
until we received an offer to purchase and then to freeze on to the
vendor with the tenacity of bull-pups. I understand the intention at
present is even to revive the Pontisbright title if necessary. But even
so, our employers won't cut much ice at the Court of The Hague if they
can't produce the documents. So far no one's tried to sell us anything.
But someone tried to kill us, and we've been followed most thoroughly
ever since we left the kingdom; so it looks as if our good work has not
been completely wasted. It's only the delay that is alarming, because,
as you can gather, the whole thing is rather serious. As far as I can
see, we might have all Europe flaring up if a certain Power thought it
worth while to fight for Averna. It is just important enough to make a
good excuse."

"I see. Did you catch a glimpse of the man who fired at you?"

"Just a glimpse," said Farquharson. "There were two of them: one, a most
extraordinary-looking fellow with a widow's peak that almost touched the
bridge of his nose, had been following us for some time, and just as we
were getting into the train at Brindisi he took a pot shot at us.
Unfortunately we were surrounded by a crowd immediately, and although we
made a sprint after the fellows, we missed them. We haven't seen widow's
peak since, but his pal, a little rat-faced person with a perpetual
sniff, is right here in this hotel on the same floor."

"Really?" said Guffy with interest. "Is that the man who had his rooms
ransacked?"

This innocent enquiry had an instantaneous effect upon his audience.
Eager-Wright sprang to his feet and Mr. Campion paused in his stride to
regard the speaker sharply.

"Fleurey told me," said Guffy hastily. "That's why he was trying to find
out who you were. Apparently some fellow or other on this floor
complained that your man, W. Smith, had gone rummaging among his things.
Naturally Fleurey was most anxious not to make any complaint until he
was certain you were not royalty incognito. Now I come to think of it, I
saw a man sneaking out of a window on this floor when I was driving up
just before lunch. He was a little rat-faced person in a brown suit."

"That's him," said Eager-Wright. "Lugg must have frightened him."

Mr. Campion, who had become suddenly grave, turned to Eager-Wright.

"I say, would you mind going out and finding Lugg?" he said. "It's the
same old Lugg, Guffy: he's only masquerading under the name of Smith,
like the rest of us. This wants looking into. I wonder what the cretin's
done now."

Five minutes later Eager-Wright returned, his eyes alight with
curiosity, and in his wake, lumbering, breathless but indignant, came
Mr. Campion's personal servant and general factotum, Magersfontein Lugg.

He was an immense and gloomy individual at the best of times. The lower
part of his vast white face was almost hidden by a drooping black
moustache, but he had the quick keen eyes of a cockney in spite of the
lugubrious expression which he almost always wore. The fact that he had
been a burglar before, as he remarked himself, he had lost his figger,
tended to make him a very valuable ally to the master to whom he was
devoted. Mr. Lugg's knowledge of the underworld was unrivalled.

At the moment the sleek black clothes of the typical gentleman's
gentleman sat oddly upon his ungainly form, more especially as he wore
no trace of the subservience which almost invariably accompanied them.
He eyed his master truculently.

"Can't even 'ave a little sleep in the afternoon now, can't I?" he said.
"It's 'Yes, me lord; no, me lord' the whole time. I get sick of it."

Campion waved his remarks aside impatiently. "Sniffy Edwards has left
this hotel by a window. Before he left he complained to the management
that his rooms had been ransacked by a person who resembled you very
closely."

Mr. Lugg looked completely unabashed. "Oh, 'e saw me, did 'e," he said.
"I wondered if 'e had."

"Look here, Lugg, this is disgraceful. You'd better pack your things and
go straight back to Bottle Street." Mr. Campion, it seemed, spoke more
in sorrow than in anger.

"Ho, that's it?" said his aide angrily. "It's manners now, is it? I
don't like to talk to you like this in front of yer friends, but I
didn't know we'd got to put on airs and graces in private. King you may
be, but not to me. Very well, I'll go. But you'll be sorry. When I went
through Sniffy's rooms I didn't search 'is bags, as you might think. I
simply took 'is morning mail. Anybody might 'ave done that. 'E was in
'is bath and I nipped in quick as you please and read the letters the
moment after 'e'd done so 'isself. And what's more, I found something. I
found the key of the 'ole situation. I was going to show it to you as
soon as I got you alone. But am I going to now? Not on yer life! I'm
going back to London."

"Cast aside like a worn-out glove, I suppose," said Mr. Campion
sarcastically. "The plaything of fate again. Come across with it, Lugg,
if it's interesting."

Mr. Lugg appeared mollified but affected not to have heard the
interruption.

"So Sniffy went, did 'e?" he said. "I thought 'e would. I left a note on
'is dressing-table sayin' I'd show 'im what it was like to take a good
look at the inside of 'is own 'ead if I laid ears to 'is dirty little
snuffle again. I left it anonymous, you know, but if 'e saw me that
accounts for him leaving sudden."

"What about this key to the whole situation?" enquired Campion again.

With a gesture of resignation Mr. Lugg removed his coat, unbuttoned his
waistcoat, and drew from a small pocket in the lining a crumpled half
sheet of paper.

"There you are," he said. "You fight in your gentlemanly way. Say
'Excuse me' and 'I wonder if I could trouble you.' But if you want a
thing done, go and do it in the natural dirty way that the Lord meant.
And if you don't like to read another bloke's letters, I'll put it
back."

"Lugg, there's something positively horrible about you," said Mr.
Campion with distaste as he picked up the paper.




CHAPTER THREE
THE MAN HIGHER UP


The fragment of paper which Mr. Campion held and at which the others
glanced over his shoulder was thumbed and dirty, but the message was
legible enough.

    _"Gwen's, London. Dear S.,--This is to give you the office. Have
    heard from P. that the old man is angry. We have both been on
    wrong track, as I thought. I am off to Fly by Night to-night.
    The old man's heard of something that may give us the lead in on
    the doings. There is supposed to be something carved on one of
    the trees in the garden which will show us the light. Seems like
    Sweet Fanny Adams to me. Join me careful. You can leave that
    bunch, they know less than us.--Yours, D."_

"There you are," said Mr. Lugg. "That's what I call evidence. It gives
it to yer in one."

"I'm hanged if I can see it," said Guffy, who was still frowning over
the document. "Can you make head or tail of this, Campion?"

"Well, yes, in a way. It's extremely interesting." The pale young man in
the horn-rimmed spectacles continued to regard the missive thoughtfully.
"You see, Sniffy's correspondent is inclined to stick to his own
vernacular. Translated, I imagine it goes something like this, doesn't
it, Lugg? 'Dear Sniffy,--This is to warn you. Have heard from P. that
the man who employs us is angry. We have been on the wrong scent, as I
thought. I am off to Pontisbright to-night. Our employer has heard of
something which may give us a clue to the whereabouts of the proofs.
There is alleged to be something carved on one of the trees in the
garden'--of the old Pontisbright house, I suppose--'which may give us
that clue. I am not very sanguine about this. Join me at Pontisbright,
but take care. You can leave Mr. Campion and his friends. They know less
than we do.--Yours, Doyle.'"

"How d'you make out Pontisbright?" said Farquharson.

"Rhyming slang. It's still used a good deal, especially for proper
names. That's only a guess, I know, but I think we're fairly safe in
assuming that it's what the man means."

"Of course you are," said Mr. Lugg's sepulchral voice from the
background.

"How do you know 'D' stands for Doyle?" continued Guffy obstinately.

"Well, Peaky Doyle has been with Sniffy Edwards on this job and he's the
most likely person to write to his friend on the subject. Also, he
spends a lot of his time at Gwen's, a rather shady lodging-house in the
Waterloo Road."

"Peaky Doyle is the man we've called 'widow's peak' all along, the man
who fired at us at Brindisi, I suppose?" said Eager-Wright. "I say,
Campion, this is important, isn't it? What do you actually make of it?"

Mr. Campion considered. His pale face was vacant as ever, but his eyes
were thoughtful.

"It's an interesting note altogether," he said at last. "I see no reason
at all to suppose that it isn't genuine, and in that case it puts us on
a new scent altogether. In the first place, if Peaky Doyle is going to
Pontisbright, I suppose we'd better go too. That's the name of the
Suffolk village, by the way, where the Pontisbright mansion originally
stood. Well, well, well; perhaps the fun is going to begin at last."

He was silent again for a moment and stood looking down at the paper.

"I know what you're thinkin'," said Mr. Lugg suddenly. "You're thinkin'
just what I've bin thinkin' all along, and it's this: 'Oo exactly is
Peaky Doyle's old man?"

Mr. Campion glanced at his aide, and for a moment they regarded each
other solemnly.

"Well, why not?" said Mr. Lugg. "It might be. And if so, either you give
up the 'ole idea or I 'and in my resignation."

"Nerves troubling you again?" enquired his employer mildly.

"No," said Mr. Lugg stoutly. "I know what's good for me, though. I've
never worked a miracle yet and I don't want t'ave to begin now."

Mr. Campion seemed to realize that this cryptic conversation must be
very tantalizing to his friends, and he turned to them.

"Peaky Doyle once worked for a very extraordinary person early on in his
unbeautiful career," he explained, "and the thought has occurred to both
Lugg and me that he might be back at his old job. I suppose you people
have heard of Brett Savanake?"

"The financier?" enquired Farquharson, while Eager-Wright and Guffy
looked blank.

Campion nodded. "He's an extraordinary man, one of those business
geniuses who turn up now and again. He's chairman of a dozen companies
of international importance, and how he got there is one of those
mysteries that people have given up trying to explain. Early on in his
career there were some very queer stories floating about, and just after
the Winterton Textile Trust smash he used to go about with a bodyguard
of thugs. Peaky Doyle featured rather prominently in that outfit. Since
then Savanake's just gone on from strength to strength. He's never
photographed, never interviewed, but keeps out of the limelight as much
as possible."

"But," said Farquharson, aghast, "would this be big enough for him?
Think of the risk!"

Mr. Campion grinned. "I don't think the risk would worry him," he said.
"But whether the thing's big enough is another matter altogether. If
we're up against him we're up against something pretty exciting. Still,
I don't see any way of finding that out immediately. If it arises, it
arises. What is important is this yarn about a clue carved on a tree
trunk. We can't afford to ignore a hint like that, can we? Alas, I see
the day of my pomp departing. I must get back to work."

"Look here," said Guffy, "what exactly are we looking for? This may seem
rather a trite question to you, but it's been worrying me."

Campion apologized. "I'm sorry," he said with genuine contrition. "I
ought to have explained this before. There's three things without which
the Powers-That-Be don't consider they could possibly get a favourable
decision at the Court of The Hague. The first--it's rather like a fairy
story, isn't it?--is the crown which was made for Giles Pontisbright in
the reign of Henry the Fourth. He had it made by Italian workmen, and
the only description of it we can get is a rather fanciful affair in a
manuscript in the British Museum. I'll read it to you."

He sat down on the bed again and took a slip of paper from his
note-case. He began to read, the archaic words sounding even more
strange in his precise voice.

    _"'Three drops of blood from a royal wound, three dull stars
    like the pigeon's egg, held and knit together with a flowery
    chain. Yet when a Pontisbright do wear it, none shall see it
    but by the stars.'"_

As he finished reading he eyed Guffy gravely through his enormous
spectacles.

"It sounds very difficult, doesn't it?" he said, "That bit about it not
being visible when it's on, for instance. Besides, those ancient crowns
weren't one of those red-plush bowler-hat affairs with festoons of
jewellery. They made 'em almost any shape. Well, then, that's that. Our
next little problem is the charter. That's written on parchment which,
according to the stationery bills of the time, must have been either
one-half or one quarter of a whole sheepskin. It's written in Latin, of
course, bears Henry the Fourth's seal and his mark. I don't think the
fellow could write. And the third treasure, is, as it should be, the
most important of all, and simply consists of Metternich's receipt for
the money in 1814. Heaven knows what that looks like. So, you see, we're
going to have fun."

Guffy's pleasant round face flushed. "It's rather jolly, though, isn't
it?" he said. "I mean, I rather like it. Who's got the Pontisbright
manor house now? I ought to know that part of the country well, but I
can't even remember having heard the name before." Mr. Campion met
Farquharson's eyes and grimaced. "That's where we come up against
another snag," he said. "There's no longer any house at all. When the
title lapsed the old Countess, who was the only member of the family
left, simply sold up everything, lock, stock, and barrel. The entire
place was dismantled and sold piece by piece, until nothing but a hole
which had contained the foundations was left. It was one of the great
acts of vandalism of the Victorian era." He paused. "Not very helpful,
is it?"

"But the garden," persisted Guffy. "This fellow Peaky Doyle distinctly
mentions the garden."

"Oh, the grounds are still there, we believe," put in Farquharson. "Not
kept up at all, you know, but still there."

"But isn't there anyone even remotely connected with the family living
in the place? In the dower house, or somewhere?"

"There's a mill," ventured Eager-Wright. "That's inhabited by the family
of a man who made an unsuccessful claim to the title just before the
war. He was killed in France afterwards, and the family consists of a
few kids, I think, but we're not sure about that. You think we ought to
go down there, Campion?"

The tall fair young man in horn-rimmed spectacles nodded.

"I think so. After all, as far as we know Peaky Doyle and his friends
are the only people who are interested in this affair besides us, and in
our present position with nothing definite to lay hands on, let us go
and see what the other fellow's got."

"Now that's sensible," said Mr. Lugg with the sublime confidence of a
man who cannot conceive a situation when his opinion is not useful.
"Only all I say is, find out first 'oo you're up against. And if it's
you know who I mean, leave it alone."

Mr. Campion ignored him. "Look here, Farquharson," he said, "in your
position as Equerry-in-chief, I wonder if you'd mind making all the
necessary arrangements? Pay our bills and give notice and see we leave
to-night."

"To-night?" expostulated Mr. Lugg. "I've got an appointment to-night. I
don't want to leave a bad impression in the place. People get talkin'
and it might look funny."

His further expostulations were cut short by a discreet tapping on the
outer door. He ambled off to open it, still protesting, and returned a
moment or so later to announce that Monsieur Etinne Fleurey was
desolate, but could he have a word with Mr. Randall?

Guffy went out in some surprise and was still more astonished to find
the little man himself standing on the threshold. He was pink and
apologetic, and Guffy, who realized the blow to his dignity which he
must have suffered by being forced to attend to anything personally,
regarded him enquiringly. The manager could hardly speak.

"Monsieur Randall, I am prostrate with regret. You will accompany me?"

He led the young man into an unoccupied suite farther down the corridor
and closed the door with every show of caution. Having satisfied himself
that he could not be overheard, he presented a shining face to his
visitor which was adorned with such an expression of woe that all
Guffy's sympathies as well as his curiosity were aroused.

"Monsieur, the situation in which I find myself is, as you would say,
putrid. I am annihilated. My world has come to an end. It would be
infinitely better if I were dead."

"That's all right," said Guffy, not knowing quite what else to say.
"What's up?"

"The unspeakable imbecile who complained," Monsieur Fleurey continued,
tears in his eyes, "he has gone. He has departed, crept out of the hotel
like a veritable odour, but that is not all. Circumstances which I dare
not divulge, circumstances which you, my dear Monsieur Randall, will as
a man of honour understand and respect, machinations of fate over which
I have no control, compel me to insist that the man Smith return
anything which he may have taken--no doubt in some perfectly pardonable
error--from the room of this _canaille_ whom we all so justifiably
detest."

"I say," said Guffy, trembling between a sense of guilt and a desire to
help, "this is going to be rather awkward, isn't it?"

"Awkward? Never in my career have I experienced such a sense of
embarrassment such as now overwhelms me! But what can I do? I tell you
my entire life, the fortunes of my hotel which are my very existence,
depend upon the recovery of a certain"--Monsieur Fleurey gulped--"a
certain letter which the man Smith doubtless suspected was one of his
own."

Guffy made up his mind. Apart from the fact that the little manager
appeared to be on the verge of hurling himself weeping at his feet, Mr.
Randall had very strong ideas concerning the ethics of Mr. Lugg's
escapade.

"Look here," he said, "I imagine there's been some mistake. Suppose in
about fifteen minutes or so you search the room occupied by Sniff--I
mean your late client. You never know with letters. They slip behind
beds, or get tucked under carpets, don't they?"

Monsieur Fleurey's little bright brown eyes met the Englishman's for a
second. Then he seized Guffy's hand and wrung it.

"Monsieur Randall," he said with a gulp which he could not quite
repress, "you are a veritable hero. The--how shall I say?--the pineapple
of your race."

Guffy went back to the royal suite and delivered his ultimatum. Mr. Lugg
was inclined to be truculent, but Campion was instantly obliging.

"That's rather a good idea on the whole," he said. "You slip out and
throw the letter behind the bed, Lugg. After all, we've read it. Don't
be a fool."

When the big man had gone off grumbling on his errand he turned again to
Guffy.

"I shouldn't think many things would arouse our friend Etinne so
thoroughly, would you?" he said slowly.

"Rather not. The poor fellow seemed on the verge of suicide." Guffy was
still amazed.

Mr. Campion moved over to the telephone. "Little Albert has had one of
his rare and illuminating thoughts," he said, and put through a call to
Paris.

After some moments' rapid conversation in French with some oracle in the
capital, he hung up the receiver and faced the trio. There was a curious
expression in the pale eyes behind the spectacles, and for the first
time that day a faint tinge of colour on the high cheek-bones.

"That was my good friend Daudet of the Sret," he said. "He knows
everything, although this question was simple enough in all conscience.
It occurred to me that the only thing that could produce such a state of
hysteria in the good Fleurey was the fear of losing his job, of
relinquishing the eminent position he has worked so hard to attain. I
enquired of Daudet the name of the proprietors of this hotel, and he
tells me that this, the Mirifique at Nice, and the Mirabeau at
Marseilles are owned by the Socit Anonyme de Winterhouse Incorporated.
And that interesting little combine, my pretties, is chairmaned and
practically owned by that beautiful soul Brett Savanake. D'you know, I
really think things are going to begin."




CHAPTER FOUR
"HERE'S MYSTERY"


"Across the face of the _East Suffolk Courier_ and _Hadleigh Argus_,
Fate's moving finger writes, and not very grammatically either," said
Mr. Campion cheerfully to Guffy, who sat beside him in the back of his
venerable Bentley thirty-six hours later.

Lugg was driving, and by his side Eager-Wright dozed peacefully.

Campion glanced at the paragraph in the local newspaper they had bought
on the way down which had occasioned his remark. Its headline,
"Mysterious Attack in Suffolk Village," had caught his attention, and he
re-read the few words below for the fourth or fifth time during the
journey.

    _"Miss Harriet Huntingforest, a resident of Pontisbright, near
    Hadleigh, Suffolk, has been the victim of a remarkable attack by
    an intruder yesterday, who entered her house and ransacked it
    without removing anything of value. Miss Huntingforest, who
    surprised the intruder, courageously ordered him out of the
    house, but was brutally felled to the ground, which rendered her
    unconscious. The only description of her assailant with which
    Miss Huntingforest can furnish the local police officer is that
    he was of unusual height and the possessor of an extraordinarily
    pronounced widow's peak."_

"Pretty, isn't it?" he said, handing the paper to Guffy. "That's a sort
of sign and portent, a direct message from Providence to say, 'Albert,
you're on the right track.'"

"It's extraordinary," said Guffy. "I'm glad I came with you. Since
Farquharson has had to stay behind to hand in his report, I feel the
Court of Averna would be a bit depleted without me. I see myself as a
sort of Watson with a club."

Mr. Campion shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know whether it's going to
be that kind of a party, unfortunately," he said. "Although I don't know
what on earth Peaky Doyle's up to, beating up old ladies. Still, we must
wait to find that out until we get there--if ever." He glanced round him
at the desolate country through which they were passing as he spoke.

The scenery was growing more beautiful and more rural at every mile.
Once they had left Framlingham the loneliness was extraordinary. They
seemed to have travelled for miles without seeing a soul. Plump little
white houses were hidden among great overblown trees; even the fields
seemed to have become smaller, and the flint roads were dusty and in
places extraordinarily bad.

Just as he had finished speaking, at a particularly confusing five-way
cross, Lugg pulled up the car and turned an exasperated face to his
employer.

"Now where are we?" he demanded.

"How far have you been driving blind?" countered his employer mildly.

Mr. Lugg had the grace to look startled. "I was relying on you," he said
bitterly. "I thought you'd sing out if I was going wrong. I didn't
expect you to sit there like a dummy while we see England first. When
I've bin in doubt I've bin taking the road to the left; and I've bin in
doubt since we left Ipswich."

"At that rate," said Mr. Campion affably, "we ought to be just
approaching it again. There's a map in that pocket by the side of you,
Guffy. As for you, Lugg, you hop out and have a look at the signpost."

Still grumbling, Mr. Lugg obeyed, and came back a moment or so later
with the information that the two roads on their right both seemed to
lead to a place called Sweethearting, they were headed for Little
Dunning, and had apparently come from Little Sweffling.

"There's nothing but a boy scout mark to show where that road leads to,"
he added, pointing to the remaining way. "Probably the poor bloke 'oo
wrote the signpost didn't know and 'adn't got the energy to go and see.
Shall we go and 'ave a look?"

"Boy scout mark?" enquired Campion, and as Lugg's great flail of a hand
indicated a gate which led into a ploughed field on their right, the
young man rose slowly and, climbing out of the car, went over to examine
the sign chalked upon its surface.

He was so long away that Guffy, his curiosity aroused, went to join him
and found him looking down at a round patch on the wood where the old
and dirty surface had been scraped away. In the centre of the white wood
thus displayed was a mark in red chalk. It was carefully made and
consisted of a cross surmounted by a cedilla.

Mr. Campion was frowning. "How extraordinary!" he said. "It must be a
coincidence, of course. Ever seen that mark before, Guffy? It's probably
the most ancient symbol in the world."

Eager-Wright, who had now joined the group, looked puzzled.

"I have seen it somewhere before," he said. "What is it? A tramp sign?"

Campion shook his head. "No. It's most odd." There was a new inflexion
in his voice and they regarded him with interest. He stretched out his
hand and rubbed the chalk gently. "It's a perfect example of the ancient
God-help-us mark," he said slowly. "Frankly, my dear old bird, you've no
idea how ancient it is. It's probably the sign that the Children of
Israel chalked up on their doors in times of persecution. The Ancient
Britons used it when the Norse pirates swept down upon them. At the time
of the Black Death you could find it on practically every door and house
wall. The last time I saw it, it was scribbled upon a piece of
corrugated iron in a devasted area in France after the war. You can
never tell where it's going to turn up. It isn't an appeal to a
Christian god, even. The symbol of the cross is much older than
Christianity, of course. Usually this thing is found in terrorized
districts, rather than in places where the danger has already struck.
It's a sort of--well, it's a fear sign. It's very remarkable to find it
here."

"If we could find a 'public,'" said Mr. Lugg, on whom the phenomenon had
made little or no impression, "we could ask our way. Then we should feel
we were getting somewhere, and we wouldn't be wasting our time any'ow."

There was no gainsaying the wisdom of this remark, and they trooped back
to the car thoughtfully. The green countryside looked very peaceful and
lovely in the late afternoon sun, but there was no telling what cloud
might hang over this gentle unspoiled area, what secret might be hidden
in its lush meadows or behind the branches of its leafy overhanging
trees.

It was eight o'clock in the evening when Lugg, who seemed to have
developed a beer-divining gift, steered the ancient Bentley slowly down
the hill into the wide valley in which the village of Pontisbright lay.
The main bulk of the place was built round two sides of a square heath
comprising some twenty acres of gorse and heather, interspersed with
short wiry grass. The principal road, down which they came, skirted one
side of the heath and dipped suddenly, to swerve at right angles at the
base of the valley and struggle off northward, leaving upon its left a
small winding river by the side of which was an old white mill with a
largish house attached.

The occupants of the car made a note of the mill. This, then, was the
home of the Fittons, the children of a pretender to the Pontisbright
title.

On the opposite side of the road from the mill was a considerable strip
of woodland, and they guessed that the site of the original Pontisbright
Hall must have been somewhere here.

They caught a glimpse of another house set squarely in the far corner of
the wood, a structure whose white walls and slate roof looked curiously
out of place in comparison with the antiquity around.

Lugg turned at right angles to the main road and brought the Bentley up
with great pride before the entrance of one of the most delightful inns
in a county famous for its hostelries.

The "Gauntlett" was shaped like an E without the centre stroke, and in
the recess screened by its yellow walls was a cobbled yard, very fresh
and clean. A row of benches bordered the yard and a large sign hung from
a post planted in the cobbles. The rudely painted board was much faded,
but the outline of a great mailed fist was just discernible on a blue
ground.

The building was thatched, and its latticed windows were set crazily in
the walls among the clematis which covered them.

The bar door was open, and two old men sat drinking beer in the last
rays of the sun. They looked up with interest in their little watery
eyes as the big car appeared. It was evident that the arrival of
visitors was doomed to cause a certain amount of commotion. Startled
faces appeared at the lower windows and the chatter from within died
down.

Mr. Lugg sniffed as he clambered out and held the door open for his
passengers to alight.

"Pretty as a picture, isn't it?" he said. "Look lovely covered with
snow. Let us 'ope," he added solemnly, "that the quality of the beer
don't make it all a mockery."

Mr. Campion ignored this pious wish and led the way into the bar, where
they interviewed the landlord. This worthy turned out to be a stocky,
rather startled little man in shirtsleeves and a cloth cap. He seemed
very dubious about providing them with accommodation, and they got the
impression that he was genuinely put out by their unexpected arrival.
Finally, however, he fell a victim to Guffy's powers of persuasion, and
his wife, a large, red-faced woman, who shared her husband's faintly
scared expression, conducted them upstairs to big unspoiled Tudor
bedrooms.

As it was too late to go visiting, the personnel of the court of Averna
contented themselves with an evening devoted to deliberately casual
enquiry. Eager-Wright and Guffy joined the dart players in the bar,
while Mr. Campion engaged Mr. Bull, the landlord, at shove-ha'penny on
the taproom table, polished to glass by long years of eager play.

The landlord was a past master with the five coins, and at sixpence a
game was quite content to beat the harmless-looking young man from
London until closing time and after.

Shove-ha'penny is a great leveller, and as the evening wore on, Mr. Bull
and Mr. Campion reached a state of amity which might have been achieved
only by years of different fostering. Mellowed, Mr. Bull revealed a
streak of conscious virtue which his acquaintances somewhat naturally
discredited instantly from his very insistence upon it.

"I wouldn't cheat you," he said to Mr. Campion, fixing the young man
with a softening eye. "I wouldn't cheat you because that wouldn't be
right. When I pick up my glass I might flip a coin into the bed with my
sleeve." He illustrated the point with remarkable dexterity. "But I
wouldn't do it. I wouldn't do it because that'd be cheating and that
wouldn't be right."

"I wouldn't do it, either," said Mr. Campion, feeling that he was called
upon to make some sort of echo to this important statement.

The landlord depressed his chin until it disappeared into the folds of
his neck.

"Very likely not," he said. "Very likely you wouldn't. And very likely
you couldn't, either. Takes a bit of practising, that does. There's some
people in this house now"--he nodded to an innocent-looking old man
swigging beer in a corner--"who've been trying to do it for fifty years
and never have, not without being caught. But I tell you what," he went
on, breathing hops and confidence into Mr. Campion's ear, "there's one
man you want to be careful of at shove-ha'penny, and that's Scatty
Williams. Scatty Williams is a clever one."

Mr. Campion appeared to be momentarily off his game. "Sounds an
attractive bird," he ventured.

"Bird?" said the landlord, and spat. "He's just an ordinary old man.
Looks a bit like a bird, now you come to say so. Bit like a duck. Bald
head and a long yeller nose. Not bright yeller, mind you; about the
colour of these walls."

Mr. Campion glanced at the mellowed plaster and his mental picture of
Scatty Williams grew from the merely interesting to the fantastic.

"He works up at the mill," continued the landlord. "Him and Miss Amanda
practically run the business."

Mr. Campion's expression became vacant almost to the point of imbecility
and he watched the landlord carefully as he stepped back and screwed up
his eyes preparatory to taking a shot into the top bed.

"She's a one with the wireless," Mr. Bull remarked without further
explanation. "That's what the mill's mostly used for nowadays. They've
got electric light down there."

It had not occurred to Mr. Campion before that the mill might be a
running concern, and his interest in the Fitton family grew.

"I shouldn't have thought there was enough grain around here to support
a mill," he said stupidly.

"Oh no," said Mr. Bull. "No, there's very little corn. I don't suppose
Miss Amanda mills twenty sacks in a year. She runs a dynamo. Charges up
wireless batteries. She told me she could put me up a light outside the
house here. Said she'd write my name in lights if I liked. Seems funny,
and that's a fact. So it is now."

His opponent refrained from pointing out that as apparently the entire
population of Pontisbright gathered at the "Gauntlett" already, not much
purpose would be served by any such ambitious scheme, but his interest
in Miss Amanda Fitton increased.

"She's clever for her age," was Mr. Bull's next remark, "and I'm not
trying to deceive you. Even if there was any reason for it I wouldn't do
that. But I reckon she must bring in quite thirty pounds a year, and her
only seventeen. Of course they work hard for it, her and Scatty, but
they get it."

"Seventeen?" said Mr. Campion, who was getting a remarkable mental
picture of the two millers of Pontisbright. "Does this astonishing young
woman live alone at the mill?"

"No, no. There's three of 'em. Three Fittons. There's Miss Mary, the
eldest; she's twenty-three. Then comes Miss Amanda. Then there's young
Mr. Hal. He's only sixteen. He'd be a lord of the land if the law was
what it ought to be. He's a Pontisbright all right. You wait till you
see him. Looks like the burning bush coming along; yes, yes, so he does
now."

Mr. Campion had no time to enquire into this startling simile, for the
landlord was still talking.

"They've got a foreigner staying with them, a fine upstanding old lady.
Miss Huntingforest, her name is. Got knocked down by a burglar
yesterday." He became thoughtful for a moment and then turned to Campion
with the expression of one who has had a vision. "Now I _hev_ thought of
something," he said. "If you gentlemen want to stay here you'd better
get took on at the mill as paying guests. I reckon they'd be glad to
have you. Scatty was talking to me about borrowing the paper to see if
there was anybody advertising for a place."

"That wouldn't be a bad idea at all," said Mr. Campion. "In fact, that'd
be a very good idea. But I thought we'd fixed up here?"

"That'll be all right," said Mr. Bull vehemently. "Don't you worry about
that. Some people'd complain and make a fuss about being put out, but I
wouldn't. I ain't and I shan't. I don't feel it and I shan't say it. I'm
honest, though I do say it myself."

"Quite," said Mr. Campion foolishly. "Quite. You're not very keen on
visitors here at all, are you? I thought it was rather strange when we
came in."

"Ah," said Mr. Bull, "strange it is, and I shouldn't be an honest man if
I didn't admit that."

They went on playing until long after closing time, legal and actual.
Eager-Wright and Guffy retired, and Campion remained with the landlord
alone in the big empty taproom. An oil lamp had been lighted, and the
uncertain shadows it cast over the table gave the landlord such an
advantage over his opponent that it evidently seemed to him a waste of
good money to suggest finishing the play.

Mr. Campion remained vague and foolish-looking, but the scared
expression which had lingered in his host's eyes earlier in the evening
returned as the shadows deepened, and towards eleven o'clock, while they
were still playing, Mrs. Bull appeared in the doorway, a coat thrown
over her nightgown. Her face was very pale, and when her husband stepped
over to speak to her the indolent figure by the table caught a stifled
sentence. The words were ordinary, but there was a thrill in the whisper
in which they were uttered.

"It's out there again!"

Campion stepped over to the window, not wishing to eavesdrop, and,
pulling back the short red curtain, looked out into one of the most
perfect moonlit nights he had ever seen. The moon was nearly full and it
streamed into the room like a flood-lamp. Outside it was so bright that
colours were almost distinguishable.

Campion was standing there surveying the prospect when a quick step
sounded behind him, and the next moment the curtain was jerked from his
hand and thrust back into position across the window. He turned in
polite surprise and caught sight of the landlord.

The man was very pale, his small eyes were starting and his lips
quivering.

"Don't let that in here," he said huskily. "Don't let that in here,
whatever you do."

He went into the bar and was pouring himself out a drink when Campion
came in. The young man paused in the doorway, looking slight and
ineffectual as ever.

"Something funny going on?" he enquired affably.

Mr. Bull swallowed his drink before replying. Then he lowered his voice
and said unsteadily: "The powers of darkness, sir, God help us!"

As he spoke he traced something with his forefinger in the dregs on the
bar, hastily wiping it off with a cloth immediately afterwards. Campion
had just time to catch sight of a cross surmounted by a little hooked
sign before it vanished beneath the duster.

The young man went slowly upstairs to bed. He did not undress, but stood
for a long time at the window of his bedroom, looking over the moonlit
garden of the inn. Since his room was at the back of the house he could
not see the heath. The garden ran some way up the hill down which they
had come into the village. Everything looked very peaceful in the
brilliant light, and the air was warm and flower-scented. It seemed
incredible that anything should be seriously amiss in such a lovely
valley; or that any terror could walk abroad to alarm such guileless
souls as the good people of the inn.

Mr. Campion was still standing motionless, his pale eyes thoughtful
behind his spectacles, when the latch of his door clicked softly and he
turned round just in time to see Lugg's enormous bulk and great white
face looming into the room.

Mr. Campion surveyed him coldly. "Come for a night-light?" he enquired
at length.

"'Ush," said Mr. Lugg, holding up a warning hand. "'Ush. Something's up.
I 'aven't 'alf seen something. My legs is shaking so I can 'ardly
speak."

Mr. Campion went over to his side, treading softly on the creaking oak
boards.

"You're getting a bit eccentric, Lugg," he murmured. "Heard any voices?"

Mr. Lugg plumped himself down squarely on the bed.

"I've been out for a walk," he said. "I 'ad a touch of indigestion and I
thought I'd walk it off. It seemed a nice night." He wiped his forehead
and looked up at his master knowingly. "Thought I might get 'old of a
bit of information about the place, and I 'ave. There's something very
queer going on around 'ere. I found a corpse to start with."

"A what?" said Mr. Campion momentarily taken aback.

"Corpse," said Lugg complacently. "I thought that'd make yer sit up.
There it was lying out in the moonlight all wrapped up in a sheet. It
give me a turn when I saw it. I emptied me flask at one go."

"Yes, well, what you want is a good rest," said Campion soothingly.

"It's lying out on the 'eath," Mr. Lugg persisted. "Come and 'ave a look
at it. Just the thing to make yer sleep. I was walking along, just as
you might be, 'ands in me pockets, and whistling soft to meself, when I
come to a great patch of gorse. I was going round it when I see a gleam
of white in a clearing in the middle of it. The moon was very strong and
it picked out everything nearly as clear as day. I worked round the
gorse till I come to a little path, and then I saw the corpse. It was
all wrapped up in a shroud, just the face showing. There was pennies on
the eyes and the jaw was dropped. It was a man--old man by the look of
'im--and stiff as you like. I just 'ad one look at 'im and came back
'ere like bingo."

Mr. Campion removed his spectacles. "It sounds worth seeing," he said
mildly. "Come on."

They went quietly out of the inn, tiptoed across the cobbles and sighed
with relief as their feet sank into the silencing turf of the heath.

"It's over there," said Lugg, pointing to a dark patch of gorse on the
uninhabited side of the stretch. "Seems funny, don't it? A corpse is one
thing, but a laid-out corpse on a blasted 'eath is another. Something
shockin' about it."

Campion was silent, but he quickened his pace and gradually the patch of
furze came nearer. When they were within a few yards of the outside
edge, a stray cloud passed over the moon and left them temporarily in
shadow.

"'Ere we are." Lugg's voice was unusually husky. "This is the path."

He plunged down a narrow track, sweeping aside the overhanging branches
of prickly yellow flowers as he went. The moon came out from behind the
cloud just as they entered the clearing, and the whole scene was once
more lit brilliantly.

The clearing was empty, save for themselves.

Mr. Campion turned to the speechless Lugg. "If we had a snare we might
get a rabbit," he said conversationally.

"I saw it," said Mr. Lugg hysterically. "Look 'ere, you can see for
yourself; this is where it was lying."

He pointed to a roughly made bed of dry bracken and hay in the centre of
the clearing, where the moonlight fell uninterrupted.

Campion stepped forward and picked up something lying half hidden by the
shadow under a gorse bush. It was a piece of linen about as big as a
man's pocket handkerchief. He shook it out gingerly and Lugg grunted.

Scrawled upon the cloth was the sign again, a cross with a cedilla at
the top.

"Well," said Mr. Lugg, whose vocabulary had deserted him. "Well, I ask
you!"

Mr. Campion dropped the rag and wiped his long, pale fingers
fastidiously with his handkerchief.

"Don't, my dear old bird," he said. "Don't. I don't know."




CHAPTER FIVE
THE MILLER


"But yesterday a king," remarked Mr. Campion as he walked across the
heath to the mill with Guffy and Eager-Wright the following morning.
"To-day, a poor gentleman come about the trouble. There's a natty line
in cheap philosophy somewhere there."

"We drop the Hereditary Paladin business, then?" said Eager-Wright, not
without relief.

Campion nodded. "From now on," he said primly, "I get no more respect
than my naturally superior intellect deserves."

Guffy, who had not been listening to the conversation, but who had been
surveying the scene with approval, turned. On the soil of his own county
he was no longer the diffident, affable soul he had been on the
Continent. Here he was a man of information.

"What a pity they took down the old house," he said. "It must have been
rather fine." He indicated a mound of parkland which rose out of a
wooded stretch on their right. "Quite a nice little bit of shooting,
still, I should say," he went on. "Not hunting country. That must be the
rectory over there by the church, I suppose."

The three young men glanced towards the slate roof of the modern house
they had noticed from the car, and Eager-Wright uttered the general
thought.

"It may not be very easy to go prowling about in those woods," he said.
"Still, I imagine we've got the place to ourselves. Widow's Peak would
hardly hang about after his colossal blunder in attacking Miss
Huntingforest, or whatever her name is."

Guffy, who was becoming more of the fine old country gentleman at every
step, beamed.

"Now we're actually here," he said, "I feel that no beastly London
magnate with his dirty little crooks can put up much of a show against
us," he said.

Eager-Wright grinned, but Mr. Campion remained impassive.

"I don't know whether it's occurred to you," he said diffidently, "that
our big business friend, Savanake, is employing Widow's Peak and Sniffy
Edwards at the moment because he's at the disadvantage of having led a
more or less upright life for the past year or two. Any moment now it
may occur to him to get hold of something rather better class in the
crook line. That's why we've got to hurry. You know: haste is essential.
The early birds get the worm. First reasonable offer will conclude deal.
You all know how I got the V.C. at Rorke's Drift, but in spite of my
well-known intrepidity, which you all admire so much, I should be glad
to get the Mother's Union prizes safely under lock and key before
Savanake undertakes the job himself. Hullo, here we are."

They had left the heath now and turned down the narrow lane to the mill.
Here, spread out before them, was the real rustic loveliness of Suffolk
at its best. In spite of the industry of Miss Amanda and her assistant
it was evident that the mill did little business, for the track was
grass-grown and culminated in a rough patch of green which sloped gently
down to a white-flecked race. The mill itself, a great white wood and
brick building, sprawled across the stream into the meadow on the
opposite bank, and beside it stood the house.

If there had been any doubt that the millers of Pontisbright had once
been prosperous folk, it must have been instantly dispelled. The house
was a nearly perfect example of late fifteenth-century architecture. Its
wattle-and-daub walls were plastered over and ornamented with fine
mouldings. Big diamond-pattern casement windows bulged beneath rust-red
tiles, and the whole rambling place suggested somehow the trim
blowsiness of a Spanish galleon.

The charm of the place was increased by faded chintz curtains billowing
through the open windows, and the gleam of polished wood from within.
Even a remarkably complex wireless aerial festooned across the roof had
a rustic and archaic look.

There was one startling anachronism, however. Drawn up before the door
was an extremely ancient but unmistakable electric brougham. This
remarkable vehicle had been painted crimson by an inexpert hand, and now
sat, squat and self-conscious, blushing violently for its own age.

As they came nearer they saw that the original upholstery, long since
defunct, had been replaced by the same variety of faded chintz that
adorned the house.

Guffy stared at the apparition in respectful astonishment. "That looks
like the thing the guv'nor paid a man in Ipswich ten quid to take away,
the year of the war," he said. "What an extraordinary thing!" He paused
and looked about him dubiously. "I say, there's rather a lot of us," he
ventured. "Suppose you two go and make the arrangements? I'll wait for
you."

"Grand old man seized with social funk," said Eager-Wright. "Come on,
Campion."

From the moment they approached the front door, an air of faintly
hilarious unreality descended upon the whole proceedings. As soon as
Eager-Wright knocked the door was swung open with suspicious celerity by
a person who was easily recognizable from the landlord's description as
Scatty Williams.

The man really was amazingly like a duck. His head was very bald and
very white, but his face was a yellowish tan. There was a ring just
above his ears which showed quite clearly where his hatband finished,
and his face and neck were exposed to the elements. Two little bright
blue eyes almost hidden by shaggy grey eyebrows were set close together
beside the narrow bridge of an enormous nose, which splayed out at the
tip so very like a duck's bill that one almost expected him to quack. To
add to the incongruousness of his appearance he was wearing a white
dress waistcoat of ancient cut which had been fitted with white sleeves,
so that it faintly resembled a cocktail jacket. For the rest, however,
he was arrayed in corduroy trousers, enormous boots and a very bright
blue shirt without a collar.

He beamed at the visitors, and it dawned upon them that he was one of
those people whose natural qualities unconsciously exaggerate every
emotion they may happen to feel. His smile of welcome was transformed,
therefore, into a horrific grin of pure joy.

"Come in, come in," he said before they could speak, and then, pulling
himself together, he added with a gravity which was as portentous as his
delight had been vivid: "You'll be the gentlemen who were thinkin' o'
staying here? What name shall I tell the lady?"

Eager-Wright shot an enquiring glance at his companion. "Mr. Wright and
Mr. Campion," said the pale young man firmly.

Their guide, mumbling the names over to himself so that he should not
forget them, led the visitors over a sweet-smelling, stone-flagged hall
into a low, very dimly-lit room in which dark masses of furniture loomed
indistinctly.

The room really was absurdly dark. Eager-Wright stumbled over a chair as
soon as he entered and regained his feet with a muttered apology, to
find himself looking down at someone who had come forward to meet him
with outstretched hand.

"Hullo," said a clear, unexpectedly vibrant female voice. "I mean, how
do you do? I'm Amanda Fitton. The house is extremely old and very
picturesque. There are remarkable fac--fac--well, advantages for
bathing, boating, fishing, walking, and--er--motoring."

There was a pause for breath and a clatter as Campion kicked a side
table in his attempt to step up beside his companion.

"Perhaps you saw the car outside?" continued the voice with a barely
concealed note of pride in its tone.

"The food is good," she hurried on. "Home-cooked and--er--liberal. If
you are delicate the water is very good here. You can have as much milk
and butter and eggs as you can eat."

As the visitors made no sound, if the laboured breathing of Eager-Wright
could be discounted, the voice continued, this time with a hint of
desperation in its depths:

"There is rough-shooting in the autumn and, no doubt, golf on the heath.
The food is good," she repeated rather lamely, "and would five guineas
be too much? There are three of you, aren't there? Three and a man?"

"Five guineas each?" enquired Eager-Wright.

"Oh, no! Five guineas altogether. Or we could make it pounds. We can
take you for as long as you like, and the beds are good."

There was a pause and the voice became unexpectedly wheedling.

"You will come, won't you? We've got electric light in some of the
rooms, and the mill doesn't make much noise, really, and Scatty and I--I
mean Williams--can work it when you're out."

"That sounds very fine," said Mr. Campion's vague, idiotic voice out of
the dusk. "Let me give you our recommendations. We're all house-trained,
to start with. Good-tempered, and, except for Lugg, remarkably
well-mannered. We dislike hot and cold water, modern improvements,
inside sanitation, central heating, and expensive wall-paper. My friend
here--Mr. Wright--who appears to have fallen over something else, is
engaged on a book about rural Suffolk, while I am partly assisting him
and partly on holiday. Lugg is very useful about the house, and we had
intended to pay three guineas a week each. Do you think we shall suit
you?"

Once again there was silence in the gloom and then the voice remarked
unexpectedly: "Do you mind shabby furniture? Tears in things, I mean."

"Nothing, in my opinion," said Mr. Campion firmly, "gives a house more
old-world charm than tears in furniture."

"Oh, well," said the voice, "in that case let's have a little light on
things. Stand by while I pull up the blinds."

They heard her moving cautiously across the room and then, with a great
rattle of rings, the curtains were thrown back, and what had once been a
pleasantly furnished room came into sight.

It was certainly true that there were tears in the furniture. Even the
best brocade wears out in time, and the delicate rose and blue coverings
of the formal settees and wing armchairs had been mended and remended
until they would stand repair no longer. The Brussels carpet was so
threadbare that only faint indications of pattern remained, and
everything in the room which age could mar, in spite of care, had been
spoiled long before.

Miss Amanda's visitors, however, were oblivious of these details. Their
interest was not unnaturally centred upon the girl herself.

Amanda Fitton, eighteen next month, was at a stage of physical
perfection seldom attained at any age. She was not very tall, slender
almost to skinniness, with big honey-brown eyes, and an extraordinary
mop of hair so red that it was remarkable in itself. This was not auburn
hair nor yet carroty, but a blazing, flaming, and yet subtle colour
which is as rare as it is beautiful. Her costume consisted of a white
print dress with little green flowers on it, a species of curtaining
sold at many village shops. It was cut severely, and was rather long in
the skirt.

There was something artificially formal in her whole appearance. Her
hair had been dressed rather high on her head and certainly in no modern
fashion.

She eyed them calmly with the inquisitive, but polite, regard of a
child.

Eager-Wright was staring at her with frank admiration. Mr. Campion, as
usual, looked merely foolish.

She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. "Well, now you've seen the room,"
she said, "and you know the worst. Or very nearly the worst," she
corrected herself quickly. "All the rooms want doing up a bit, but the
beds really are good. And the food really could be absolutely marvellous
if you did pay three guineas a week each," she added with a sudden burst
of navet.

"Oh, well, then, that's fixed up," said Eager-Wright with tremendous
satisfaction.

She smiled at him, a wholly disarming gesture which opened her mouth
into a triangle, and revealed very small white even teeth.

"Wait!" she said. "You'll have to find out sooner or later. You may as
well hear it all. Of course this is very awkward, but then you can
always have one of those flat round ones, and I don't mind fetching
water. We could have the copper alight all day. And if you wanted one
when you came in--in the evening or anything--we could just get it out
of the copper in a pail. Four pails makes a really good one. Besides, if
you've never had one in those round things it's rather fun. After all,
you are on a holiday and there'll be bathing."

"I know," said Mr. Campion happily. "You haven't got a bathroom."

She looked at them wistfully, and wrinkled her nose engagingly.

"Does it really matter--awfully?"

"Not in the least!" said Eager-Wright, who was quite prepared to
forswear baths for ever and a day should she desire it. "I could always
get the water," he continued helpfully. "I mean, if you showed me where
the copper was and all that sort of thing."

"I tell you what," said Amanda with sudden enthusiasm, "we could have a
pump from the copper all worked by electricity. Scatty and I have got
some marvellous gadgets. You'll have to see them. How long can you
stay?"

"A week," said Campion quickly, before Eager-Wright could engage the
room for life.

"Oh, well, that's splendid," she said. "Are the others like you? Oh, and
will you have your food by yourselves or will you eat it with us? It's
rather fun eating with us and it doesn't make so much work. Oh--and do
you think your man would mind sharing a room with Scatty? He needn't, of
course, because I can always sleep in the mill. We could put up an army
in the mill if we cleared away some of the things." She stopped
abruptly. "I'm not putting you off, am I?"

"Good Lord, no," said Eager-Wright, who could not take his eyes off her
face. "I'm only worrying if you'll be able to put up with us. There's
such a lot of us and--"

"There's Lugg, of course," said Mr. Campion. "He lowers our stock
considerably."

She waved his words away airily. "Oh, well, that's marvellous," she
said. "Now you're here and it's all fixed up, what shall we do first?
Come and see the rest of the house. It really is rather jolly and the
beds are good. And the food ought to be all right. We've got one P.G.
already; Aunt Hatt. She's been with us three years now. She came over
from America on a visit and stayed with us for a bit, and then she sort
of took over everything. We're really the nonpaying guests, as a matter
of fact. Scatty and I don't make a lot at the mill, and our hundred a
year doesn't go very far. And"--she paused and looked at them
delightfully--"it isn't really queer my telling you all this, because if
you're going to live with us for a week you may as well know all about
us and then you won't be surprised by anything. First of all, about
Scatty. He opened the door to you just now. Well, he isn't really a
butler. Only when old Honesty Bull sent down this morning and told us
that there were some people who wanted to stay down here for a bit he
said you had an enormous car. And so I thought we'd better smarten up a
bit. That's why I've got this frock on and I made the drawing-room a bit
dark. We had two women hikers once, but I'm afraid the drawing-room put
them off. So I determined it shouldn't happen again. Scatty and I work
the mill."

She stopped breathlessly.

Mr. Campion smiled. "Just the place for Wright and his book," he said.
"As soon as I heard it was a mill I said 'Just the thing. Nothing like
running water for inspiration.' And wheels within wheels, and that sort
of thing."

Amanda shot a dubious glance in Mr. Campion's direction before she
hurried on again.

"Oh, well, come and see Aunt Hatt," she said. "I expect she's in the
kitchen. She cooks so much better than Mary that she took over after
she'd been here a week. Do you like American food? Scatty and I fixed
her up an electric waffle iron. It works all right, but it's a bit
big--the blacksmith made the actual grill--and you get waffles about a
foot across. But I think that's all the better. Come on."

She led them across the hall again, whose carved king beam was at least
as old as the Wars of the Roses, and through an archway into a great
kitchen.

This was a vast apartment with whitewashed walls and a red stone floor.
Standing by a table, which looked as though it had been built to hold
machinery, was a tall grey-haired woman with a big apron tied over her
brown walking skirt and blouse, and a pair of golden pince-nez on her
nose.

Her whole appearance suggested a brisk practicalness in direct
opposition to Amanda's more inconsequential personality. At the moment
she was engaged in lifting little round currant buns out of an
oven-tray, and the golden heap on the wire stand looked very inviting.

"Well, did you have any luck?" she said, and shut her mouth quickly, as
she realized that Amanda was not alone. But the next moment, as she
caught sight of the young men, a smile spread over her face and she
laughed like a girl.

"There's four of them," said Amanda. "And they're paying three guineas a
week each, and they don't mind there not being a bath. Oh, wait a
minute: Mr. Campion, this is Aunt Hatt--Miss Huntingforest. And this is
Mr. Wright, Aunt. Where's Mary? Over at the mill?"

Miss Huntingforest ignored the question. She was surveying the young men
with critical, but friendly eyes.

"You're on holiday, I suppose?" she enquired.

Mr. Campion repeated his little speech about Eager-Wright's history of
Suffolk, and Miss Huntingforest seemed reassured.

"Really? An author?" she said, looking at the young man with quickening
interest. "Well, isn't that nice."

Eager-Wright looked uncomfortable and muttered a few words of modest
depreciation.

Aunt Hatt relieved his embarrassment by offering them all a bun. As they
stood round in the kitchen nibbling her gift, the slight formality which
had momentarily fallen on the party was dispelled.

Miss Huntingforest went on with her cooking, talking the whole time with
that complete lack of self-consciousness which seemed to be the keynote
of the whole household.

"You'll forgive my enquiring what you are doing down here," she said,
stooping down to peer into the enormous oven. "I'm not a nervous woman
as a rule, but since that attack on me the other day I have certainly
been a little alarmed."

"Oh yes," said Amanda quickly. "I ought to have asked you; do you mind
burglars?"

"Not at all," said Mr. Campion easily. "Do you have many?"

"Only one so far," said Miss Huntingforest grimly. "But that was not
enough. If he hadn't struck me down before I realized what he was up to
I could have managed him. But you don't expect such things in a
civilized country. I was alone in the house," she hurried on. "The
children were in the village and I'd just come out here to see if the
bread was rising, when I saw him come creeping out of the dairy. He must
have got in by the back window. I said: 'Young man, will you please
inform me what you're doing?' He spun round and looked at me and I had
just time to see that he was a stranger, and had the most remarkable
peak of hair coming down right over his forehead, and then, as I went
for him, he put up his hand and caught me on the chin. I went down and
hit my head on the table, rendering me completely unconscious. It's a
miracle I didn't swallow my dentures and choke to death. I wrote to
every paper in London about it."

She paused.

"A horrible experience," said Eager-Wright, while Mr. Campion looked
foolish and sympathetic at the same time.

"And, of course, he didn't take a thing," said the good lady.

"Adding insult to injury," put in Amanda, and she and her aunt laughed
immoderately.

Miss Huntingforest turned to the young men. "I don't know whether
Amanda's put you wise to the family," she said. "It's a rather curious
arrangement, but it works very well."

"I told them practically everything," said Amanda consideringly. "You
see," she went on, turning to the guests, "when mother died four years
ago we decided we'd have to make the mill a going concern and take
paying guests and carry on generally. Well, so far the paying guest
department is the only really paying line. We've only had one guest of
course--Aunt Hatt--but from our point of view that's been a howling
success."

Miss Huntingforest seemed to think it was her turn to explain a little,
although why either of them should have been so courteous was beyond Mr.
Campion's powers of divination.

"Well, it was like this," she said. "My father was an Englishman, and,
although he never talked about it, I knew he came from this part of the
world. And some years ago I thought that as I was planning a little
globe-trotting I might come down here and see what the home town of the
Huntingforests looked like. Well, when I got here I took rooms in the
village at first. And then I met these children and I realized, of
course, that they must be distant connexions of ours. And so I came to
stay here. I hadn't been in the house a week before I decided that I
must take things in hand. There was Amanda, if you please, running about
like a Milwaukee Indian, without a mended stocking to her name. It
wasn't nice to have two pretty young girls without a chaperon in the
heart of the country like this. It wasn't nice and it wasn't safe. I'm
emancipated, I hope, but I'm no fool. So I put my foot down and here I
am."

She drew another great tin of cookies out of the oven as she finished
speaking, and Amanda helped herself, motioning them to imitate her.

Miss Huntingforest beamed at them. "If you can eat cakes at eleven
o'clock in the morning you're all right," she said. "It's an acid test,
in my opinion. If a man can eat two cookies before noon and enjoy them
there's not much wrong with him."

"Well, look here," said Amanda, "I'll take you round the house and
Scatty'll get your things. I'll go up with him and cadge a ride back in
your car. I've never been in a really decent car. Mine goes by
electricity, you know."

"Goes!" said Miss Huntingforest with good-humoured contempt.

Amanda blushed. "Aunt Hatt's very rude about my car," she said. "But
it's really very useful, and not at all bad, considering that I bought
it off a higgler for a pound, and Scatty and I made it go. There's only
one thing against it; you can't go more than five miles in it. Two and a
half miles out and two and a half miles back: then the batteries have to
be recharged. That doesn't cost very much because of the mill, you see.
There's as much power as you want there. It means a lot of work in the
winter, seeing to the sluices and that sort of thing, but it's worth it.
I left it outside the door this morning because I thought it might
impress you. It did, didn't it?"

"It certainly did," said Mr. Campion truthfully.

"There you are! I had a row with Hal about it. He said it'd put anyone
off. I must go and help Scatty push it back to the shed in a minute,
because the battery's being charged and we've only got one."

"Let's all go and push it," said Eager-Wright, who seemed anxious to
serve in some way or other.

She turned to the door, but was restrained by Miss Huntingforest.

"Amanda, that's your one respectable dress."

"Oh, yes, of course. I forgot. I'll go and change. They've said they'll
stay, anyhow, and I don't suppose my working clothes will really put
them off."

Miss Huntingforest seemed to have doubts on this point, but she said
nothing and the girl hurried out.

"If you're interested in antiquities--" began Aunt Hatt, but got no
further on this subject, for at that moment there was a certain amount
of confusion in the hall outside, and Guffy's voice was heard
distinctly.

"Really, it's quite all right," he was saying. "A bit of a
scratch--nothing else."

At the same time the kitchen door was opened and a girl who could quite
clearly be no one else but Mary, Amanda's elder sister, appeared with
Guffy in tow, while a boy about sixteen followed them.

Mary Fitton had Amanda's hair, Amanda's eyes, but not Amanda's pep. In
exchange, Nature had endowed her with a grace all her own and an
attractive, but serious, expression.

The boy resembled his sisters as far as the hair was concerned, but
already he had developed a certain pugnacity of expression.

Both strangers were tremendously excited, and Guffy, looking pale and
slightly flustered, strode between them. He was in his shirtsleeves, and
his right hand was closed tightly over his left forearm, which was
covered with blood.

"Come on, put it under the pump," said Mary.

She spoke as though she had known her companion a long time, and it
occurred to Campion that she, too, must have the family gift for making
friends.

They all crowded round Guffy as he stood by the sink, while young Hal
pumped streams of water over the injured arm.

"Well, for crying out loud!" said Miss Huntingforest. "That's a nasty
scrape. Where did this happen?"

While introductions were hastily effected, Guffy explained.

"I--er--I was prowling round the mill," he said, "when Miss Fitton here
took pity on me and introduced herself. I was investigating a loom there
is up there--most interesting--when I lost my footing and crashed
through one of the floorboards."

"Dry-rot," said Miss Huntingforest. "I've said it over and over again.
You might have killed yourself."

"I was all right," said Guffy hastily. "Only struggling back, like a
fool, I caught my arm on a six-inch nail. I'd taken off my coat to give
a hand with the loom and, of course, this is what happened. It pierced
the skin."

"Pierced the skin!" said Aunt Hatt. "You'll have to have stitches in
that. Wait a minute: I'll make a tourniquet and then you can wash it as
much as you like."

Mary glanced at her aunt. "I think he'd better go up to Doctor Galley,"
she said. "You be quiet," she added, as Guffy opened his mouth to speak.
"You can't wander about with a tear like that. It'll get awfully sore if
you don't have it sewn immediately."

Hal smiled at Guffy, as from one superior being to another.

"She's a bit bossy," he said. "But I think she's right, you know. Look
here, we'll walk up with you. Galley's a very good man; he hardly hurts
at all. He takes out teeth as well--if you need it."

Eventually, after a certain amount of protestation, Hal and Mary set out
with their captive for the doctor's, and prevailed upon Eager-Wright to
accompany them.

Mr. Campion appeared to have been forgotten, and he sat in a little
recess in a corner of the hall and looked through the open doorway at
the quivering leaves and dancing water without. The old house seemed
very quiet after the hullabaloo. It was really amazingly attractive.
Like all very old houses it had a certain drowsy elegance that was very
soothing and comforting in a madly gyrating world.

He allowed his thoughts to wander idly. He noticed the delicate Gothic
carving of the stone fireplace, sniffed appreciatively at the mingled
odours of wallflower and baking cookie, and wondered how the rabid
busybodies who leap upon ancient monuments and tear them stone from
stone that they may grace the dank loneliness of museums could have
overlooked such a perfect unspoiled gem.

He was disturbed in his reflections by the reappearance of Amanda
dancing down the staircase in her "working clothes." At first sight she
appeared to have put back her age ten years or so. Her slender figure
was covered by an old brown jersey and skirt which had shrunk with much
washing until they clung to her like a skin. The only concession to
vanity was a yellow-and-red bandanna handkerchief knotted loosely round
her neck.

"Hullo," she said. "Where are the others?"

Mr. Campion explained. Amanda looked crestfallen. "Has that floor gone
at last? Scatty and I wondered if we couldn't re-board it with faggot
poles. They wouldn't be comfortable to tread on, but they'd be safe. I'm
very sorry. Is he badly hurt?"

"I don't think so. He seemed to be enjoying it," said Campion
truthfully. "Your sister was looking after him. She's taken him to the
doctor now."

Amanda was silent. A shadow had passed over her face.

"I didn't think I'd go myself," Mr. Campion continued. "It was rather
like joining the crowd round an accident, I felt. By the way, I hope
your doctor is not too rustic. Not the cobbler in his spare time, or
anything like that?"

She shook her head. "Oh no. Old Galley's all right, really."

She stood fidgeting in the middle of the hall, looking absurdly young.

Something prompted Mr. Campion to take a shot in the dark.

"I must get back to Lugg," he said. "That's my man. He's getting very
temperamental. He went for a walk on the heath last night and came back
with a ridiculous story about finding a corpse on the heath."

He stopped abruptly. The girl was looking at him with a mixture of alarm
and defiance in her eyes.

"Don't you think it would be nice?" she said in a tone which warned him
not to continue as clearly as if she had said the words. "Don't you
think it would be nice if we went to see the mill?"

"Splendid idea," said Mr. Campion affably.

His tone and expression were friendly, but his pale eyes behind his
spectacles were keen and searching, and it had not escaped him that
Amanda's cheeks were very white and her lips were trembling.




CHAPTER SIX
TONGUES IN TREES


"Ease her a bit! Ease her! Now hang on or she'll go in the river."

Amanda, breathless and crimson with exertion, clung to the archaic
steering arm of the old brougham.

Mr. Campion, who was pushing the cumbersome vehicle up the dangerous
slope to the coach-house of the mill, did as he was told.

"If only Scatty was a proper chauffeur," Amanda observed, as they tucked
this great-great-grandmother of electric transport into an old
striped-canvas shroud. "If only Scatty was a proper chauffeur he could
do all this shoving."

"That's right," said Mr. Campion brightly. "Or if he was a horse."

Amanda regarded him coldly. "You admitted the car looked very well
outside the house," she said with dignity. "You're probably one of those
people like Hal who don't believe in appearances. But I do. Appearances
matter an awful lot."

"Oh, rather," said Mr. Campion. "I knew a man once who carried it to
excess, though. His name was Gosling, you see, so he always dressed in
grey and yellow, and occasionally wore a great false beak. People
remembered his name, of course. But his wife didn't like it. Of course,
he had perfectly ordinary children--not eggs--and that was a blow to
him. And finally he moved into a wooden house with just slats in front
instead of windows, and you opened the front door with a pulley on the
roof. It had a natty little letterbox on the front gate with "The Coop"
painted on it. Soon after, his wife left him and the Borough Council
stepped in. But I see you don't believe me."

"Oh, but I do," said Amanda. "I was his wife. Come and see the mill."

The shadows of the leaves made dancing grey patterns on the white walls,
the water was very clear, and the air was warm and sunny, as they came
across the yard and turned into the cool, slightly musty-smelling
building.

"There isn't much to see up here," said Amanda, "except my dynamo, which
is rather fun. That's our principal possession. Then there's Mary's
loom. She makes homespun scarves and things. They go to a shop in
London. She doesn't get much for them, but they're very pretty. That's
all there is except the oak, and that's Hal's."

"The oak?" enquired Mr. Campion.

She nodded. "It's right up in the mill tower. It isn't much to see, but
it's the only Pontisbright heirloom we've got. It isn't really an
heirloom at all, because I suppose we stole it. But nobody wanted it
except us."

She paused, and stood leaning against one of the pillars which supported
the crazy floor of the apartment above. An old sack-shoot trap stood
open, and through it was a vivid picture of green meadows, overblown
trees, and a little winding stream which flowed gently on to the crimson
and yellow of a distant osier bed.

She made such a fantastic figure in her tight brown jersey and
red-and-yellow kerchief that Campion, regarding her owlishly behind his
spectacles, wondered if the whole adventure were quite real.

He sat down on a pile of sacks, and the girl's next remark was in
keeping with his mood.

"Of course," she said, "Hal's the proper Earl of Pontisbright. That
makes it all the more fun, don't you think?"

Mr. Campion blinked. "It all depends what you mean by fun," he said
cautiously.

"Oh, well--the missing earl and all that sort of thing. You know; the
wicked great-grandmother, the babe in the snow, and justice gone astray.
It's so nice when it's true. Shall I tell you about it?"

It was evident to him that the query was superfluous. Amanda, always
informative, was in chatty mood.

"Well," she said before he could assent, "the last proper Earl of
Pontisbright--that is, the last man who lived at the Hall--had two sons;
a young one called Giles and an older one called Hal. Well, Giles went
off to America and was never heard of again until Aunt Hatt turned up.
She's his granddaughter. But the elder son stayed on with his father and
mother, who was an absolute terror called Josephine, until he was about
twenty-five, when he fell in love with an absolutely beautiful girl
called Mary Fitton, and they got engaged.

"Mary Fitton lived over at Sweethearting with her father, who was just a
knight."

She paused. "You don't look very intelligent," she said. "Are you taking
it all in?"

"Every word," said Mr. Campion truthfully. "Aunt Hatt's grandfather's
eldest brother was engaged to Mary Fitton, whose father was just a
knight. I suppose he had trouble with his parents? A battle of snobs in
high life, as it were."

"Oh, no. Only with great-great-grandmother Josephine," said Amanda
quickly. "His father was rather keen on the marriage, and, anyway, they
did get properly engaged. And then, of course, the Crimea happened, and
one day Hal rode over to tell Mary that he'd got to go off to the war
next morning. And so he said could they get married at once? And she
said Yes. And so they went to the clergyman and persuaded him to do
them. And it wasn't very legal, but he did. Then Hal and his father both
went to the war and got killed, and the Countess Josephine had the nerve
to say that Hal and Mary hadn't been married at all, and so the little
Hal wouldn't be the heir when he arrived. And she bribed or frightened
the parson, who must have been an awful fool, anyhow, into saying there
hadn't been any marriage, and so the title lapsed, and the Countess
Josephine sold up everything and had the house pulled down. Still
clear?" she demanded, somewhat breathlessly.

"Yes," said the valiant Mr. Campion. "Can I tell you the story of my
life after this?"

Amanda ignored him and went on: "Mary Fitton got into trouble from her
relations, but the little Hal, although he was poor, was an awfully
fierce sort of person, and clearly a Pontisbright. He went off to London
and made some money and got married, and his son was called Hal, too,
and that was my father. He came down here and bought the mill and fought
the claim, really because he had promised his father he would for the
first Mary Fitton's sake. But it was very awkward, and he had no
documents, and so he lost. Then he got killed in the war, and his money
was lost in the war, too, all except a hundred a year, which we've got.
But you see how it all happened, don't you? I mean, the Countess
Josephine business, and why Hal is the proper rightful earl. You believe
it, don't you?" she went on anxiously.

Mr. Campion's pale eyes smiled from behind his enormous spectacles as he
looked from the girl in the shadow to the green and lovely scene
without. After all, he reflected, if the electric brougham were true,
why not the story of the rightful earl?

"Of course it's true," said Amanda, breaking into his thoughts. "That's
why we stole the oak. Would you like to see it? These steps aren't very
safe, so you'll have to take care."

She led him across the uneven floor to a very tottery open staircase,
which led up to the apartment above.

"There isn't time to show you all this now," she said, pointing vaguely
to the big dusty barn in which they stood. "The oak's in the tower. It
took six men to get it there, besides me."

The tower of the mill proved to be a small wooden room, built on above
the main structure, and as they climbed into it the air smelt hot and
stuffy, and there was an ominous scampering in one corner.

"Rats," the girl remarked cheerfully. "There's dozens of them about.
Ratting's rather fun. Well, here you are. Here's the oak."

She displayed a huge cross-section of an oak bole, about four inches
thick, which leant up against the wall under the window.

"We stole it; or at any rate we took it," she said proudly.

"Very determined of you," murmured Mr. Campion affably. "Where was it?"

"On the tree, of course," she said. "If you're interested I'll tell you
about it, but if you're not I'll save it for some other time." As usual
she hurried on without waiting for a reply. "First of all, the oak tree
that this belonged to was supposed to have been planted by the first
Pontisbright that ever was, hundreds of years ago, and it stood up in
the park by the Hall. It was famous all over the county. And then a long
while ago, probably about seventeen hundred, a part of it blew off. So
they cut the rest down quite short, until it was about as high as a
table from the ground, and they fixed a brass sundial over it. When the
Countess Josephine sold the house she sold the sundial, too, and it was
unscrewed and taken away. Well, we found the tree--or rather, Father and
Mary did, when Mary was quite young--and we stole this slice off it. It
was a tremendous business to cut, I believe. I wasn't old enough to know
much about it then, but anyway here it is."

Mr. Campion's pale face was perfectly blank. "Very nice, too," he said.
"But what for?"

"The inscription, of course," said the girl. "It was on the wood under
the sundial, rather badly carved and a bit mossy when we found it. But
that's gone now. I scrubbed it. If you could help me push it back a
bit--it's frightfully heavy, so be careful--I could show you what I
meant."

Mr. Campion was fast learning that association with Amanda always
entailed strenuous physical exertion. He took off his coat, and between
them they lowered the great disc gently to the floor. The underside of
the wood, which now lay revealed, had roughly gouged signs upon its
blackened surface. Cracks had defaced the letters in some places, but
the tremendous depth of the carving and the size of the ciphers had
helped to preserve their character.

There appeared to be eight lines of lettering, each character being a
good three inches high.

Mr. Campion said nothing, and the girl dropped upon her knees and with a
somewhat grubby forefinger traced the words as she read, while the young
man, bending over her, followed her finger, an expression of complete
stupidity on his pleasant, vacuous face.

    "If Pontisbright would crownd be,
    Three strange happenings must he see.
    The diamond must be rent in twain
    Before he wear his crown again.
    Thrice must the mighty bell be toll'd
    Before he shall the sceptre hold,
    And ere he to his birthright come
    Stricken must be Malplaquet drum."

"Rather jolly, isn't it?"

Mr. Campion looked more vague than ever. "I say," he began diffidently,
"this would probably be of great use to old Wright in his book. I'd like
to take a copy of it for my album, too. There's one thing I don't
follow: if the tree was blown down about seventeen hundred, and the
sundial was put on the stump then, how did this carving come to be on
the wood itself?"

"Oh, we worked that out," said Amanda. "It's quite simple, really. You
see, we imagine this inscription was meant to be a secret affair, and we
think the man who wrote it was the father-in-law of the Countess
Josephine. He was always writing bits of verse. Mother had some of his
letters, and he often broke out into doggerel in those. You see," she
went on earnestly, striving to make herself clear, "we think this
writing was not done before the sundial was put on, but after. Someone
unscrewed it, did the carving and then put the sundial back. We worked
this out from the condition the letters were in when we found it."

"That would make the date of the inscription about eighteen-twenty, I
suppose?" ventured the young man, glancing up from the envelope on which
he had been scribbling. "I say, this'll help Wright tremendously in his
book. There's nothing like a secret inscription or two to give an
author's work the authentic touch. Then the publishers can say: 'Mr.
Wright, who is, of course...' Well, well, he will be pleased."

"Isn't it about time," said Amanda, regarding him steadily, "that you
dropped all this holiday business? We know who you are. That's why we
were so keen on your coming to stay with us. That's why I've shown you
this. Does it interest you, or doesn't it?"

For some moments Mr. Campion was silent. Amanda looked slightly
uncomfortable.

"Look here," she said with one of her sudden bursts of confidence,
"perhaps I'd better tell you all about it now. You see, about a week ago
a most unpleasant person, pretending to be a professor of some sort,
presented himself at the front door and put Mary and me through a
thorough cross-questioning about inscriptions; had we got any? had we
heard of any in the wood? and all that sort of thing. Naturally we shut
up like oysters and I had the oak moved up here for safety."

"I see," said Mr. Campion soberly. "This professing person, was there
anything odd about him?"

"He hadn't a widow's peak, if that's what you mean," said Amanda. "He
was just an ordinary, scrubby little soul. Not bad enough to throw in
the race, you know; but we didn't like him."

"Quite," agreed Mr. Campion. "Tell me, was it the honest manliness of my
appearance which made you confide in me with such touching spontaneity?"

"No," said Amanda. "I told you, we knew about you. Aunt Hatt used to be
a great friend of Mrs. Lobbett and her husband, down in the South
somewhere, and she heard all about you from them. D'you remember them?
She used to be Biddy Pagett."

Mr. Campion gazed thoughtfully out of the window. "Oh yes," he said. "I
remember Biddy. I remember Biddy very well."

Amanda shot a shrewd, quick glance in his direction and changed the
subject.

"When old Honesty Bull sent down to us this morning to tell us some
people wanted to stay, he also told us your names. We had a council of
war and decided that you were just the man to get into the house. It
doesn't really matter, does it?"

Mr. Campion turned to her and there was unexpected gravity in the eyes
behind the spectacles.

"Amanda," he said, "this has got to be kept quiet."

She nodded. "I know." She put back her head and passed a finger across
her throat. "Not a word," she said. "Only, if there's anything we can
do, let us in on it, won't you?"

He seated himself upon the window-ledge. "How much of my illustrious
life have you been able to mug up?"

"Not a lot," said Amanda, crestfallen. "Aunt Hatt didn't know much. She
only knew your name and that you were in the adventure over at Mystery
Mile. And we know you live in Bottle Street, and have a manservant who's
an ex-convict."

"An ex-burglar," said Mr. Campion. "Forget the convict. Lugg doesn't
like his college education mentioned. It's a tradition with old
Borstalians, I believe. Anything else?"

"That's all," said Amanda. "It isn't really an acquaintanceship, is it?
Only when you arrived I did hope something was going to happen. And now
we're on the subject I should like to point out that I would make a very
good aide-de-camp."

"Or lieut," said Campion. "I often think that's what the poet meant when
he said Orpheus and his lieut."

"Very likely," said Amanda. "They made trees, didn't they? That reminds
me, let's put this thing back."

When the oak was once more hoisted into position and Mr. Campion had
resumed his coat, they went down into the mill again. Just before they
came out into the yard he laid a hand upon her arm.

"What happened on the heath last night?" he enquired.

The girl started and glanced behind her involuntarily, as though she
feared some intangible audience. When she turned to him again her small
face was very grave.

"That doesn't come into it," she said. "I can't explain it, but that's
got to be forgotten."

Mr. Campion followed her out into the sunshine.




CHAPTER SEVEN
CAIN'S VALLEY


"It's the friendliness of the village I like," said Eager-Wright as the
three paying guests of the mill walked across the heath that evening
after dinner.

"That's right," said Guffy expansively. "You don't get this curious
clubbable atmosphere in many country places. What do you say, Campion?"

The pale young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles who was wandering along
beside the others, his habitual expression of affable idiocy very much
in evidence, glanced up.

"Oh, it's all very nice," he said cheerfully. "All very nice indeed.
Let's hope it doesn't lead to membership of the oldest club in the
world."

"What's that?" said Guffy.

"Club on the head," said Campion promptly.

"In my present mood I should enjoy it," said Eager-Wright. "She's rather
an amazing girl, don't you think?"

"Charming," agreed Guffy with unexpected warmth. "Charming. None of this
modern nonsense about her. Sweet, and, you know, well--" he
coughed--"womanly. Gentle, discreet, and all that sort of thing."

"Eh?" said Eager-Wright. "If you think working a mill, with dynamos,
sluices, and general sack-heaving is a womanly occupation, I don't know
what you expect of your hoydens."

"Oh, Lord, I wasn't talking about the brat!" said Guffy with dignity. "I
meant the elder sister. You aren't baby snatching, I hope, Wright?"

"You only saw her in her 'working clothes,' as she calls them," said
Eager-Wright. "She looks a bit young in that get-up, I admit."

"She looks about ten," said Guffy coldly. "How old is she? Fourteen? But
they're nice people. It seemed a pity that the bar-sinister crept in in
the fifties."

The three young men were paying a call. Earlier in the day a note had
arrived from the white house opposite the church, in which Dr. Edmund
Galley, after describing himself as a "lonely old scholar remote from
modern enlightened conversation," had begged the three "visitors to our
little sanctuary" to drink a glass of port with him after dinner.

Campion had the note in his pocket, and he took it out to re-read it. It
was an odd document, written in such appalling script that Amanda alone
had been able to decipher it at first. The paper was yellowed with age
but of an expensive variety, and the address, oddly enough was "The
Rectory."

This peculiarity had been explained away by Amanda. The village of
Pontisbright no longer possessed a parson. A visiting curate bicycled
over from Sweethearting every other Sunday to take a service in the
little Norman church.

Guffy glanced at the paper in Campion's hand.

"He's a rum old boy, isn't he?" he said. "He stitched up my arm quite
satisfactorily this morning, though. Looks like a gnome, by the way."

"Did it occur to you," remarked Eager-Wright, "that the people up at the
mill seemed rather dubious about our coming along here to-night?"

Guffy turned to him. "I thought that," he said. "Why were you so keen on
going, Campion?"

"Educational reasons mostly," said the young man in the spectacles.
"There is no pastime more calculated to instill into the young gentleman
a Thorough Knowledge of Life and a Dignity of Manner than the exercise
of polite conversation with his elders. That's on the first page of my
etiquette book."

"By the way," said Guffy, ignoring this outburst, "I'd forgotten.
There's rather a sweet story about this old doctor. Apparently he
inherited the house, furniture, library, everything, from his
great-uncle, the last incumbent of the living. The uncle's rectory had
been inadequate, so he built himself that white house. He lived to
ninety-five or so, and died leaving the whole thing and a small income
to this man Edmund Galley, who was a penniless medical student at the
time, on condition that he lived there. Galley accepted the legacy and
simply set up as a doctor. It must have been about forty years ago.
There was no other medical man in the place, or for a radius of ten
miles for that matter, and so he's done very well for himself."

Mr. Campion remained thoughtful. "If the uncle was ninety-odd and our
present friend, the hospitable doctor, whose port I trust is inherited
with the house, has been here forty years, the probable date of his
uncle's appointment as Rector of Pontisbright would seem to be about
1820. In which case he may very well have been the foolish cleric who
was under the thumb of the wicked Countess Josephine."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Guffy with dignity. "Do
you?"

"In the main, yes," said Mr. Campion judicially. "Well, since we've
arrived, let us walk up the garden path looking as though we might be
able to dispense modern enlightened conversation, and let the bravest of
us pull the bell."

The white house, which had looked so modern compared with the thatched
cottages of Pontisbright proper, proved, upon nearer inspection, to be
much more old-fashioned than they had at first supposed. The garden was
well kept without being trim, and the flower borders were filled with
herbs whose pungent scents hung heavy on the evening air.

The steps up to the porch were green with age, and as they climbed them
they found that the hall door stood open. From the darkness within an
odd figure materialized, and with a chirrup of appreciation Dr. Edmund
Galley came out to meet his guests.

At first sight he appeared somewhat eccentric, in costume at least, for
above a pair of ordinary grey flannel trousers he had arrayed himself in
a smoking jacket which must have first seen the light in those days when
men hid themselves away in little morocco dens, dressed themselves up,
and settled down to a pipe as to some secret and ceremonial rite,
requiring fortitude and patience in its accomplishment.

Above this display of magnificence the doctor's face was round and
smiling, albeit a little wizened, like an old baby.

He greeted Guffy as a friend. "My boy, this is very good of you to take
pity on an old man. How's the arm? Mending, I hope. You want to be
careful in this district!"

Guffy introduced the others, and, after the ceremony was over, they
followed their host through the dark hall to a room on their left, whose
long windows looked out over an expanse of flowers.

The whole house seemed to be permeated by the scent of the herb garden.
The effect was extraordinary, but not at all unpleasant, though their
first impression of the room they entered was that it had been
undisturbed, even by the housemaid's brush, for many years.

It was a ridiculous room to house such a queer little person. In spite
of its windows it contrived to be dark, and the furniture had one
disconcerting peculiarity: it was almost all serpentine. Guffy judged
that the original Rector of Pontisbright must have had a pretty taste
and considerable means for a man of his calling.

Practically all one wall was taken up by a huge serpentine bureau which
curled and curved its undulating length, a baroque monstrosity if ever
there was one. Even the chairs had this engaging habit of sprawling and
curling until they looked as if one saw them in a trick mirror.

The little doctor noticed Eager-Wright's startled expression and
chuckled with unexpected humour.

"What a room to get drunk in, eh, my boy?" he said. "When I first came
down here I was about your age, and when I came into this room I thought
I was drunk. Nowadays I'm used to it. When I feel I'm a bit under the
weather I go and have a look at my surgery-table and if that appears to
have legs like this cabinet, then, damme, I know I'm drunk."

He seemed to concentrate upon Eager-Wright, and the reason for his
interest was soon apparent.

"I hear in the village you're writing a book?" he remarked, after waving
them to chairs round the window. He had a curious birdlike voice and the
likeness was enhanced by his habit of speaking in little staccato
sentences and holding his head slightly on one side as he put a
question.

"You mustn't be surprised," he went on as the young man looked at him
blankly. "Strangers are an event here. Everybody talks about 'em. When I
went on my rounds this morning everyone was full of your arrival. A man
who writes a book is still something of a rarity here. I'm proud to meet
you, sir."

Eager-Wright cast a savage glance at Campion and smiled at his host with
suitable gratitude.

Guffy, his huge frame balanced on one of the ridiculous chairs, gazed
mournfully in front of him. The evening, he was convinced, was going to
be wasted.

"A glass of port?" said the doctor. "I think I can recommend it. It's
from my uncle's cellar. I'm not a great port drinker myself, but I've
come to like this. The cellar was full of it when I came."

He opened a totally unexpected cupboard in the panelling and produced a
decanter and glasses of such exquisite cut and colour that they were
easily recognized as museum pieces. The deep rich red of the wine
promised well, but it was not until they tasted it that the truth came
home to them. Guffy and Campion exchanged glances, and Eager-Wright held
his glass even more reverently than before.

"Did you--did you say you had much of this, sir?" he ventured.

"A cellar full," said the doctor cheerfully. "It's good, isn't it? It
must be very old."

A gloom settled over the party. That a man could live for forty years
with a cellarful of priceless wine, and drink it, perhaps
even--sacrilegious thought!--get drunk upon it, without realizing its
value, was, to Eager-Wright and Guffy at least, a tragic and terrible
discovery.

As they drank, the little doctor's affable pomposity became less
noticeable. Seated in a huge arm-chair with the priceless glass in his
hand and the shadows of the room enhancing the depth of colour of his
jacket, he became less of a person and more of a personage; a queer
little personage in his big aromatic mausoleum of a house.

The conversation was very general. The doctor was surprisingly
uninformed upon most present-day subjects. Politics had passed him by
and the only names which interested him were those of a bygone era.

Once they touched upon the architecture of the church opposite, however,
and he blossomed out immediately, displaying a wealth of archaic
knowledge backed up by sound original thought which astounded them.

Gradually, as the evening wore on, the light failed and the shadows at
the back of the room deepened until the baroque bureau had melted into
the background. The three young men became aware that the indefinable
something about the little doctor they had noticed all the evening was
growing stronger and had become recognizable. The man was waiting for
something. He was quite evidently marking time, waiting for some
psychological moment which must now surely be close at hand.

The talk became uneasy and fitful and Guffy had glanced at his
wrist-watch once or twice with pointed interest.

Their host stirred finally, hopping up from his seat with a birdlike
agility which was vaguely disconcerting. He moved to the window and
looked up at the sky.

"Come," he said. "Come. You must see my garden."

Why he should have waited until it was almost dark to display this part
of his establishment he did not explain, but he seemed to take it for
granted that there was nothing odd in his behaviour and led them out of
the room, down a passage to a side door and out into the tangled
wilderness of flowers and herbs whose scent in the late evening air was
almost overpowering.

"These are all plants under the government of the Moon, Venus, and
Mercury," he remarked casually. "It's rather a quaint conceit, don't you
think? The flowers of the Sun, Mars, and Jupiter are in the front
garden. I think my garden is my only hobby. I find it very interesting.
But that isn't what I brought you out here for. I want you to come along
to the end of the garden, right up here on the mound. It's a barrow, you
know. It's never been opened and I don't see why it ever should. I don't
believe in prying about in graves, even in the service of science."

He went on ahead of them, scrambling up the round artificial hillock,
the burial mound of some prehistoric chieftain, hopping through the
trees and looking more gnome-like than ever.

"What the hell are we up to now?" muttered Guffy under his breath to
Eager-Wright as they brought up the rear of the little procession.
"Going to see a poppy under the influence of Neptune?"

"Going to be seen by a poppy under the influence of drink," said the
other softly. "Or there may be fairies at the bottom of the garden, of
course."

Guffy snorted and they ploughed on until, upon reaching their host's
side on the top of the mound, they found themselves looking down upon a
wide-sweeping valley. Pontisbright lay like a cluster of dolls' houses
in the southern extremity, and, among the uncultivated fields which
followed the winding valley, little dwellings nestled snugly. Even Guffy
was partially mollified.

"A wonderful view, sir," he said. "By jove! You can see the whole of the
Bright Valley, nearly."

The little doctor looked at him sharply, and when he spoke his voice had
an unexpected gravity which startled them.

"The Bright Valley," he said. "No, my dear young sir, I see you don't
know the local name. In these parts we call it Cain's Valley."

The phrase brought them back to the business in hand with a jerk. It
seemed strange to hear the ancient title from this little man in his
queer clothes, standing on the top of a barrow at the end of his garden.
But this was only the beginning of the oddness of Dr. Edmund Galley.

"The Valley of the Accursed," he repeated. "And that, alas! my friends,
is what it is."

He stretched out his hand and his voice sank to a whisper.

"See?" he said. "See the little lights coming out?"

They did, and it was a very pretty sight. In one cottage after another
the lights sprang out, making little sick yellow patches against the
fading sky.

"Look," he said, "there are very few of them. Every year they get fewer
and fewer. There's a blight on this land that we can never shake off, a
curse from which we can never escape."

Guffy opened his month to remonstrate, but there was something in his
host's expression which silenced him. The little man had changed.
Eager-Wright could not be sure if the shadows were responsible for the
transformation, but the puckered face seemed to be altered completely by
some giant emotion. The eyes looked strangely fixed and the lips were
drawn back over the gums like the lips of a maniac.

But in an instant the expression had faded, and when he spoke again it
was in his normal conversational tone, save that it now carried a little
more of solemnity than usual.

"This is a great responsibility I take upon myself," he said slowly. "A
serious responsibility. But if I don't tell you I don't know who will.
And if I tell you, it may be too late. Still, a doctor has a public duty
as well as a private one, and I think perhaps in these circumstances the
course I am taking is the only one open to me."

He turned to them and addressed them collectively, his little bright
eyes watching their faces anxiously.

"I am a good deal older than any of you," he said, "and when I heard
you'd come here this morning I made up my mind that, whatever the risk
of appearing a mere busybody, I would do my best to have a chat with you
and put the facts before you; and when you answered my
invitation--rather an odd one from a complete stranger--I realized that
my task would not be as difficult as it seemed at first. I saw that you
were sensible, courteous men, and after talking to you this evening I am
more than convinced that I should have been a positive villain had I
neglected this self-imposed duty."

The young men had stood looking at him while he made this extraordinary
announcement with a mixture of curiosity and polite astonishment in
their eyes. Guffy, who had privately decided that a man who could drink
'78 port without recognizing it was a lunatic and not fit for human
society anyway, was inclined to feel uncomfortable, but Eager-Wright was
plainly interested. The doctor continued:

"My dear young people," he said, "you must get away from here as soon as
you possibly can."

"Really, sir!" expostulated Eager-Wright, who had been completely taken
aback by the culmination of the harangue. "I believe in keeping the
country for country folk, but after all..."

"Oh, my boy, my boy," protested the little doctor sadly, "I'm not
thinking of anything of that sort. I'm thinking of you, of your safety,
your health, your future. As a medical man I _advise_ your instant
departure; as a friend, if you will allow me to call myself one, I
insist upon it. Look here, suppose you come back to the house. I can
tell you about it better there. But I brought you up here because I
wanted you to see the valley. Now, come along, and I will try to justify
myself for what must have seemed to you a very inhospitable outburst."

Back in the baroque sitting-room, with a paraffin lamp at his elbow, Dr.
Galley surveyed the three young men in front of him thoughtfully. He had
lost much of the dignity and impressiveness which he had displayed in
the garden, but, nevertheless, he spoke as a man in authority and his
quick, bright eyes took in each face in turn.

The three young men responded according to their temperaments. Guffy was
inclined to be irritated, Eager-Wright was puzzled, and Mr. Campion
apparently concentrated with great difficulty.

The little doctor spread out his stubby hands. "You see how difficult it
is for me to say all this," he said. "The place is my home, the people
are my friends and patients, and yet I find myself reluctantly compelled
to tell you a secret. But first I must beg that none of you will ever
think of giving these facts to any newspaper. We don't want any Royal
Commissions, any gigantic hospital, to rob us of our freedom."

He wiped his forehead, which had been glistening. There was no doubt
that he was suffering under some great emotion, and their curiosity was
roused.

"Has it occurred to you," said the doctor with sudden deliberation, "has
it occurred to you that there's something queer about this
village--about the whole valley, in fact? Haven't you noticed anything?"

Eager-Wright spoke without glancing at Campion. "There was the mark on
the gate," he ventured.

The little doctor seized upon his words. "The mark on the gate," he
said. "Exactly. The ancient God-help-us mark, no doubt. You recognized
it? Good. Well, let me explain that. When I told you that this village
was under a curse I said no more than the literal truth. I suppose the
thought that ran through your minds when you first heard me use the word
was of something supernatural, something fantastic. Well, of course,
that is not so. The curse that lies over Cain's Valley and the village
of Pontisbright is a very real scourge; something that no exorcism can
destroy; something from which there is only one escape, and
that--flight. That curse, gentlemen, is a peculiarly horrible form of
skin disease akin to lupus. I will not worry you with its medical name.
Let it be sufficient to say that it is mercifully rare but absolutely
incurable."

They stared at him.

"Oh, don't think me a crank," he said. "I'm not the man to advise you to
leave a delightful holiday spot because two or three people have
contracted a contagious disease in this district. When I said a curse I
meant a curse. The place is poisoned. The air you breathe, the soil you
walk upon, the water you drink is impregnated, soaked, drenched with the
poison. There is no escape from it. If the facts were broadcast what
would happen? Our county council would be forced to take action, people
who have lived here all their lives would be driven from their homes,
and the place would become a hunting ground for bacteriologists and no
good purpose would be served. I ask you to leave here immediately, for
your own sakes."

Guffy rose to his feet. "But this is incredible, sir," he said with more
brusqueness in his tone than ever. "I beg your pardon, of course, but
what about the Miss Fittons? What about Miss Huntingforest?" The little
doctor sighed. He seemed to find Guffy extraordinarily dense.

"I should have explained myself more fully," he said patiently. "I
thought you understood. As is usual in cases of this sort, the natives
of the poisoned area are rarely, if ever, affected. Nature provides
their blood with a natural antitoxin. The Miss Fittons are Pontisbrights
also, and one of the peculiarities of that family has always been
immunity from this disease. As a matter of fact, I believe Behr mentions
it in his treatise on the subject. Miss Huntingforest is also a member
of the family, and so far she, too, has escaped."

He sat there regarding them solemnly, the beads of sweat still standing
out on his forehead, his hands folded in his lap.

"The legend hereabouts is that one of the early Pontisbrights brought
the disease with him from the Crusades, and that it is his poor skeleton
mouldering in the churchyard over here which still infects the whole
valley. But, of course, that is a fairy story."

Guffy wandered up and down the room in perplexed silence. Mr. Campion
leaned back in his chair in the darkest corner and peered at the
proceedings through his spectacles, while Eager-Wright kept his eyes
fixed upon Dr. Galley.

"May I ask, sir," he said quietly, "how you have managed to escape all
these years?"

"I wondered if you'd ask me that," said the little man triumphantly. "I
made an experiment on myself when I first came here. I've often
considered it was quite the most remarkable thing I've ever done. I
inoculated myself before the serum had been located and officially
recognized by the B.M.S." He grimaced. "I nearly killed myself, but I
was successful in the end. It was not a pleasant business, and I will
not bore you with a description of my procedure. But in the end it was
successful, and here I am probably the best authority on the disease in
the world. By the way, I must ask you not to mention our conversation
this evening to the good people at the mill. Poor young people! I'm
afraid the shoe pinches sometimes. My behaviour this evening has been a
tremendous breach of etiquette, as I'm sure you have noticed, but in the
circumstances I do not see what other course there was to take. I hope I
have persuaded you to go back to London."

"I'm afraid you haven't," said Guffy stoutly. "After all, I'm determined
to do my bit of holiday-making, and here I stay."

It was evident that Dr. Galley did not approve of this decision, and he
spread out his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sure if you could see some of my patients in
my more westerly districts you'd change your mind. They are not a very
pleasant sight. Still, the affair is your own. I'm sure you will
understand I was only doing what I considered my duty in warning you."

"Oh, quite right, quite," said Mr. Campion's foolish voice out of the
dusk. "But my friend Mr. Wright has made up his mind to write his book
here. You know how difficult authors are--temperament and that sort of
thing. It puts us in rather an awkward hole, don't you see? What do we
do to protect ourselves from this--er--frightfully unpleasant complaint
you've got about? I'm sure Wright and I would do anything within reason.
Cold baths are very beneficial, aren't they?"

The little doctor peered through the gloom at his third visitor and
appeared to consider Mr. Campion's odd enquiries for some moments.

"Well," he said at last, "there's really very little you can do. If you
took my advice, of course, you would leave in your car this evening; but
as far as protection is concerned, I don't know what to suggest. Unless,
of course, you'd care for some of the stuff I made up for my own use.
This isn't an injection--merely an ointment. You smear it on the palms
of your hands, behind the ears and in the elbow crease, in the evening
before going to bed."

He was speaking reluctantly, as though the offer was being forced from
him. He looked from Eager-Wright to Guffy and smiled nervously.

"I'm afraid you'll think that this is rather extraordinary coming from a
medical man," he continued, "but there's nothing like familiarity with a
disease to produce a preventive. The recipe for this stuff was given me
by an old man who used to live on the other side of the heath about
thirty years ago. He was a strange old fellow--something of a
herbalist--and this stuff, whatever it is, does sometimes work. I'll get
you some, anyway."

He picked his way across the room with the quick daintiness of a bird
and hurried out into the passage.

The Hereditary Paladin and his aides-de-camp had barely time to exchange
glances before he had returned, however, bearing a little stone jar tied
down with a piece of paper.

"Here it is," he said. "I always keep a supply handy. I often use it,
but I may warn you it's seldom efficacious. You try it this evening. Rub
it well in. But if I were you I think I'd simply go back to London.
After all, perhaps, I wouldn't take this," he went on, stretching out
his hand to take the jar from Guffy.

Mr. Campion intervened by shaking the outstretched hand. "I say, this is
really awfully kind of you, awfully kind," he murmured idiotically. "I
don't mind telling you you've given us the scare of our lives. After
all, it's a drawback to a place, a thing like that. I realize that. If
it weren't for old Wright's book we'd clear out. As it is, Art must be
served and all that. Which reminds me; I nearly forgot what we meant to
ask you. Where is the Pontisbright Malplaquet drum?"

If he expected the little doctor to show any surprise he was
disappointed. Dr. Galley merely appeared puzzled.

"I've never heard of it, my boy," he said genially. "Malplaquet? Let me
see, that was Marlborough, wasn't it? No, I'm afraid I can't help you.
Ask Amanda. She's an extraordinarily intelligent child. She'll probably
tell you anything like that that you want to know. But," he went on with
returning seriousness, "you mustn't think that these are the ramblings
of an old man. This is a serious matter we've been discussing and I know
what I'm talking about."

He stood on the step and waved to them as they went down the drive. The
moon had risen and they saw him quite plainly, an odd little figure in
his ridiculous smoking jacket.

They walked along in silence until they were well out of earshot, and it
was Eager-Wright who spoke first.

"I say," he said, "if this is true, it's rather filthy, isn't it?"

Mr. Campion said nothing, but Guffy spoke.

"I suppose it must be true," he said. "But I think we'll stay. We must
stay. It's ridiculous. I expect that stuff he gave us is no great use,
but we can try."

He took the jar out of his pocket and they gathered round him. There was
sufficient light still for them to see the thick black marking on the
cover. This consisted of a rough diagrammatic drawing of the sun, but no
words surrounded it.

Guffy removed the paper carefully and they stood looking down into the
jar, which appeared to be half full of some dark greasy-looking
substance which gave off a peculiarly pungent odour.

Mr. Campion thrust a forefinger into the stuff and rubbed a modicum into
the palm of his left hand. Then he stood for some moments, his head
slightly on one side, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. Suddenly he
began to laugh.

"Old Doctor Displays Unexpected Humour," he remarked, and scrubbed his
palm with his handkerchief.

"What is it?" Guffy took the jar and sniffed at it gingerly. "Stop
laughing like an idiot, Campion. What's this infernal stuff made of?"

"Sea onion," said Campion mildly. "Or, as we botanical eggs like to
think, _Scilla maritima_, or Ye Common Squill. One of the most powerful
irritants known to ancient herbal medicine. In fact, rub this well into
your palms, behind your ears and into the creases of your elbows, and
to-morrow you'll have a fine crop of blisters. Quite terrifying
symptoms, in fact; serious enough to make any unenlightened bird hare
back to London for expert medical advice. Too bad that poor old boy
didn't allow for a modern education. He evidently hasn't heard of the
'How to Cure Uncle at Home' school of literature which has made us all
so bright. His tale of plague was pretty, but not circumstantial enough
to pass our modern boy."

Guffy stared at him in frank astonishment. "D'you mean to say the fellow
was lying?" he demanded.

"But, good heavens," Eager-Wright expostulated, "the man was positively
sweating with sincerity."

The Hereditary Paladin cocked a thoughtful eye at his followers.

"He was, wasn't he? I noticed that," he said. "But not with sincerity.
Hang it all, people don't perspire with truth."

"Of course," said Guffy slowly. "A man sweats with fear."

"That's what I thought," said Mr. Campion. "Odd, isn't it?"




CHAPTER EIGHT
UNWELCOME STRANGER


"Talking of poetry," said Mr. Campion unexpectedly, as the three young
men continued thoughtfully across the heath towards the mill, "many a
useful thought has burned in verse that Shelley would have spurned.
Likewise, the stuff to put your pennies on is not concealed in
Tennyson."

"Interesting, no doubt," commented Eager-Wright good-humouredly, "but in
the circumstances not very helpful. This is no time for blathering,
Campion."

The Hereditary Paladin looked hurt but not offended.

"I'm not blathering," he said. "I think like that. I spend so long at
the movies that I've picked up their culture. But if you want more
dignity, in the words of the Prime Minister, I have just had a bewtiful
thoat which I am about to brodecast--not to the wurrld, but to you two,
my trusty colleagues. Consider this: _If Pontisbright would crownd be,
Three strange happenings must he see. The diamond must be rent in twain
Before he wear his crown again_--you can't have anything clearer than
that. _Thrice must the mighty bell be toll'd Before he shall the sceptre
hold, And ere he to his birthright come Stricken must be Malplaquet
drum._ There you are; there's the whole thing in a nutshell. A fine
old-fashioned treasure-hunt with clues complete. Now it's all simple and
straightforward. We just have to think round, split the diamond, toll
the bell and beat a rousing tattoo on Malplaquet drum.

"To avoid," he continued, his quiet precise voice sounding somehow
absurd in the moonlight, "a great many tedious and irritating questions,
I will tell you how I came by this information, poem, valentine, or
what-have-you. Pay attention, because I do not wish to have to repeat
myself."

He launched into a brief but truthful account of his adventure with
Amanda in the mill that morning and dutifully repeated the doggerel when
they asked for it. Guffy was inclined to be excited.

"I say--well--that is, rather--er--conclusive, isn't it?" he said, his
face glowing with enthusiasm. "That accounts for everything we've got to
find. The crown, the sceptre--which corresponds with the charter and the
birthright, which is the title deed. Why did you keep quiet about it so
long, Campion? I mean, the whole thing's practically settled. Now we
just have to hunt round and get the things. Rather a clever little bit
of poetry too. Hang it, what are we waiting for?"

"Three things," said Mr. Campion gently. "The diamond, the bell, and the
drum. And, of course, there's always the possibility that the whole
thing's a sort of joke in bad taste. After all, it doesn't follow that
because a thing's been written a hundred years it's true. Consider
Joanna Southcott."

"All the same," said Guffy, who was a little hurt by the production of
these awkward details, "it is a help, isn't it? I mean, the hoax theory
is absolutely absurd. I once carved a girl's name on a tree. Only three
letters, but it nearly broke my wrist. No one would carve all that out
if he hadn't got some very good reason. Things are livening up, anyhow.
That old doctor was an interesting bird, and then this coming on top of
it--well, really!"

He smiled with tremendous satisfaction. Eager-Wright, who had been
silent throughout the discussion, now glanced up.

"I say, Campion," he said. "It comes back to me now. When we were in the
pub last night playing darts, one old fellow was being teased about his
lack of skill and someone bet him he wouldn't get five bulls in ten
shots, and he said he would when the Great Bell rang again. I gathered
it was a sort of local saying, meaning, you know, the next blue moon,
or, as one would say, 'Come domesday.'"

"That's right," said Guffy. "I heard him say that. What an extraordinary
thing!"

"The catch being," said Mr. Campion, "that the Great Bell is the local
Mrs. Harris. There ain't no such thing. If you want to know, it used to
hang in the tower of Pontisbright house and was the sort of Big Ben of
the county. Unfortunately, it was sold with the rest of the house and
melted down to make guns for the Zulu War. There's only one like it in
the world--the convent bell of St. Breed in the Pyrenees. I asked Amanda
this afternoon. She's a mine of information. Apparently, our only chance
of hearing the 'owd Bell of Pontisbright' is an earthquake, hurricane,
air-raid, or other calamity, when its ghostly and muffled voice is heard
in the village. Still, we can hardly rely upon that. The other minor
difficulties include the fact that no one's ever heard of a diamond in
the family, and the only drums in the vicinity are the battered pieces
of work on the trophies in the gallery of the church. There are nearly a
dozen of them, so we can go up and have a musical evening if we feel
like it. None of them are of the Malplaquet period, I hear, and anyway
they're dropping to bits. Not very comforting, what?"

They turned into the lane leading to the mill as he spoke. Eager-Wright
grunted sympathetically, but Guffy was inclined to be obstinately
cheerful.

"We'll get to the bottom of it, you'll see. I'm only afraid the thing
may be too easy."

"I shouldn't let that cloud trouble you," said Eager-Wright bitterly.
"That's not disturbing you, I suppose, Campion?"

Mr. Campion did not reply. A shadow had disentangled itself from the
hedge and now clutched his arm. It was Amanda.

She was breathless with suppressed excitement, and, as she stood before
them in the moonlight, she presented a slightly fey appearance in her
tight brown clothes, her burnished hair dishevelled and her eyes
sparkling distinctly in the faint light. It was evident that she was
bursting with some great news, but there was also an indefinable flavour
of alarm in her whole attitude.

"I say," she began, with her now familiar rush of inconsequential
confidences, "it's going to be frightfully awkward, I'm afraid, but it
is rather good. He fought like a fiend and Scatty hadn't the least idea
who he was until Lugg sat on his chest. Lugg is a delightful person. He
and Scatty are going into partnership if ever you get tired of him. But,
of course, we can't talk about that now. There's him to think of. I
suppose we could hush it all up, but it would be so awkward if it all
came out. We couldn't plead self-defence then. Oh, I say, be careful.
Nobody knows except me and Scatty and Lugg. I thought I'd wait here and
catch you before you went into the house. Still, they did deserve it,
creeping about the mill like that. I knew it wasn't rats. And, of
course, the noise was tremendous when Scatty and Lugg got there. They
were playing cards in the kitchen at first. It was awfully dull, because
Scatty hadn't got any money, and they were so glad that something had
happened that they got overexcited and--well--"

Eager-Wright clutched his forehead. "For heavens sake, what's happened?"
he demanded.

"I'm telling you," said Amanda's voice plaintively out of the dark.
"Don't make such a noise."

Mr. Campion sat down on the bank by the side of the lane.

"Suppose you start from when you decided it wasn't rats," he said
gently.

"Well," said Amanda, planting herself before him. "I'll go through it
all again if you like, but we're wasting time. I remembered that I
hadn't put the dust cover over my dynamo. I look after it rather
specially because it's the most important thing I've got. Scatty says
it's silly to wrap it up at night, but it doesn't do it any harm,
anyway.

"Well, I sneaked out into the mill without taking a lantern, because I
know the way, and while I was there I heard someone moving upstairs in
the loft where the oak is. So I shouted 'Oi!' quite loudly, because I
thought it might be one of the Quinney children ratting. And then there
was an awful crash and someone swore. Of course, I guessed what had
happened. Someone had knocked over the oak, which was enough to bring
the whole mill down. When I heard the swearing I knew it couldn't be the
Quinney children because Mrs. Quinney does try to bring them up well, in
spite of what they say in the village. And, anyway, it was a strange
man's voice."

She paused for breath whilst they waited, trying to sort out her story
from the mass of irrelevant details which she showered upon them.

"Well, the next thing that happened was nothing at all," she said.
"Absolute silence. And, although I wasn't afraid--I wasn't, really--I
thought, well, suppose I'm not able to get them down alone. So I crept
out so softly that they couldn't possibly have heard me and rushed into
the kitchen. As you were paying so much every week I bought a lot of
beer, and, of course, I forgot Scatty.

"Anyway, he and Lugg were playing cards, and there was a lot of beer
about, and when I told them what had happened they just sprang up and
charged out into the mill."

She sighed. "They made so much noise that I thought the others would be
sure to hear them and come out, but I expect they just thought it was
you coming back from the doctor's and they were polite enough to keep
quiet."

"But what about the man?" cut in Guffy, whose impatience was verging on
exasperation.

"Listen," admonished Amanda severely. "There were two men, but one got
away. Scatty and Lugg caught the other one just as he was coming down
the staircase. I didn't see the fight because it was in the dark, but
apparently Scatty got the idea that there were lots of people there.
Anyway, he kept shouting to them to come on, all of them. Lugg only made
a sort of grunting sound, but I found afterwards that he'd got his head
in the poor man's stomach and was trying to push him through a door that
wasn't there.

"I went back to get a lantern when I couldn't hear any noise at all
except them breathing, and when I came back Lugg was sitting on the
man's chest showing Scatty how to use a life-preserver. They were both
awfully happy, but I stopped it. I'm afraid it may be awkward, aren't
you?"

She stood fidgeting from one foot to the other, waiting for their
verdict.

"It sounds like a drunken brawl," said Mr. Campion. "Scatty and Lugg
seem to be a pair of daisies, as we say on the Bench. There's only one
interesting point which arises. Did you notice who their unfortunate
playmate was?"

"Oh, I thought you'd guess that," said Amanda. "That was all right. It's
Widow's Peak. Serve him right. There's only one thing that makes it so
very difficult. I'm afraid they've killed him."

A muttered exclamation escaped Eager-Wright, Guffy whistled, and Campion
rose to his feet.

"Oh, dear!" he muttered deprecatingly. "Oh, dear!"

"Perhaps he's not quite dead," said Amanda hopefully. "But you see, Lugg
and Scatty were getting so excited that I shut them up in the garage and
bolted the door. They can make as much noise as they like in there and
no one will hear them. I sent them in to find me a spanner and then I
pushed the door to and bolted it. Then I went back and had a look at the
man. I put a couple of sacks under his head and I couldn't be sure
whether it was his heart beating or if it was mine. You know how when
you're--well--just a bit frightened, your own heart seems to be louder
than anything else in the world. I gave it up after a bit and came out
here to wait for you. I began to dislike the mill without a light."

"I say, you poor little kid," said Eager-Wright, moved to comment by
this frank avowal of humanity.

"Not at all," said Amanda stiffly. "I wasn't afraid. I was only put out,
as anybody would be, and very cross with Scatty. I think he was showing
off to Lugg. Still, it's the man we've got to think about, even if he
did attack poor Aunt Hatt. He still looked very queer when I had a peep
at him about ten minutes ago."

Campion cut off down the lane. "I'm sorry Lugg's breeding has let him
down again," he said, but his tone was grave, and as he strode on his
face was anxious in the moonlight; Amanda pattered along beside him, and
Guffy and Eager-Wright hurried after them.

It was a grim and silent party which entered the mill some three minutes
later. Curious sounds which had been emerging from the garage ceased
abruptly as they passed. Amanda produced a hurricane lamp from behind a
corn measure and turned up the wick.

Then she led the way up the dangerous staircase to the first floor. The
yellow light glinted on her wonderful hair and the brown skin of her
unstockinged legs. They followed her into the great dusty apartment
above and she stopped and pointed to an alarming bundle stretched upon
the boards near the open sack shoot.

"There he is," she whispered, and held the lantern high.

Campion and Guffy dropped on their knees beside the prostrate man and it
became evident that in spite of her alarm Amanda had retained sufficient
presence of mind to loosen the man's collar and prop up his head.

After a rapid examination Mr. Campion heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank God he's all right," he said. "His little friend was lucky to get
away. We'll leave these two thugs to cool their heels till the morning
if you don't mind, Amanda. Meanwhile, there's this person to be attended
to. He looks as if the depression had found him out. Still, I think
he'll live to be beaten up another day. Really, this is most
unfortunate. I don't know what he'll think of us."

He produced a flask from his hip pocket and poured enough spirit between
the livid lips to lay out an ordinary undergraduate. The man groaned and
stirred.

As he lay there in the light of the oil lamp they had ample time to
examine him. At the best of times he could not have presented an
attractive appearance, and of course at the moment the odds against him
doing so were heavy.

He was a great lank individual, loosely but powerfully made, with a face
heavily creased and lined beneath a single day's growth of beard. But by
far his most interesting feature was the tremendously deep peak of hair
which slanted down across his high forehead to meet the bridge of his
nose.

"Extraordinary-looking egg," said Eager-Wright judicially. "He's the
chap who fired at us at Brindisi all right."

"Still, a rather bad effort coming here alone and being set on by two
murderous heavyweights. Rather a sitting bird, what?" said Guffy, in
whom the sporting instinct was strong.

"Not a very good effort, beating up poor Aunt Hatt," observed Amanda
dryly. "And Scatty's no heavyweight. It was the beer."

Eager-Wright switched the conversation into more pertinent channels.

"An unpleasant-looking man," he remarked. "Got a gun in his pocket, I
see. I suppose they hit him before he had time to draw. Any idea at all
who he is, Campion?"

"Alas! poor Yorick," said that worthy. "I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of
infinite pest. But I don't think we'll go into that now. Dear, dear!
This is unfortunate. He never liked me. We shall never be all boys
together now. Look here, Amanda, could you get me an old blanket--one
that you don't really care if you never see it again? We'll meet you
outside in five minutes. I wonder if you, Mr. Randall, and you, Mr.
Wright, would help me carry him downstairs? Treat him very tenderly.
He's quite one of our nicest enemies."

When Amanda returned with the blanket they met her in the yard, the limp
body of Widow's Peak between them.

The journey down the lane to the heath was tedious, since he was
unexpectedly heavy, but they accomplished it eventually, treading
cautiously to avoid making any unnecessary noise and taking care to jolt
their burden as little as possible.

When at last they reached a convenient patch of heather, sheltered alike
from the road and the wind by a gorse bush, they set him down gently,
and Campion covered him with the blanket, using extreme solicitude.

Eager-Wright bent over the man for an instant and emitted a little grunt
of satisfaction as he took a scrap of paper from the waistcoat pocket.

"I thought so," he said. "See? He's copied down the rhyme. Amanda didn't
disturb him soon enough. He'd finished his work when she heard him.
Let's hope he's forgotten it when he comes to himself."

Mr. Campion sighed and, taking the paper from the other man's hand,
returned it carefully to the pocket.

"There," he said. "I think that's the least I can do in the
circumstances. That may compensate him a little for the inhospitality of
the _crtin_ Lugg."

They stared at him. "What on earth are you doing?" Guffy demanded. "It's
mad enough to leave this fellow here when we've got a perfectly good
excuse to drop him into gaol while we hunt round at leisure. Just
because a fellow gets beaten up by accident you don't have to give him
the game."

Eager-Wright did not join in this outcry. He was regarding Campion
speculatively, trying to discover the logical reason which he felt must
be beneath this apparently imbecile behaviour. Guffy, who was more
single-minded, persisted in his objections.

"Let's put him in the car and cart him off to the county police
headquarters." He moved over to his friend and looked earnestly into the
pale vacant face. "Look here, Campion," he began, "I appreciate your
sporting spirit, old fellow, and I think it's a very fine thing. But I
can't help feeling that we're up against something rather serious just
now, you know. It's too important a thing to take chances with. We've
got to fight, and even to fight dirtily if it comes to it. There's a lot
at stake."

"Stout fella," said Mr. Campion affably, shaking the embarrassed Guffy's
hand with awful fervour. "But consider, my dear old flag-wagger, how on
earth do you imagine this beautiful soul down here ever heard about the
oak? He heard about it because little Albert sent him a note with 'Look
what I've found in the mill loft, Ducky,' or words to that effect,
neatly written above my usual signature."

As Guffy fell back in shocked amazement and the others regarded the pale
young man dubiously, Mr. Campion stirred the figure in the blanket with
the tip of his shoe.

"This fellow isn't very bright. In fact, his cleverness is barely more
than low cunning, but since he's working for the old firm, as it were,
we have one of the most astute brains in the world against us. That's
why I thought he was just the man to be supplied with this information
as soon as we got hold of it. If it wasn't a riddle it'd be different,
of course, but in this case it was senseless to try and hold it back,
especially when time is so precious."

"Well, I'm hanged if I see it," said Guffy stoutly. "I think you've gone
completely nutty. Why? That's what I want to know; why?"

Mr. Campion linked his arm through the other's. "Because, little
inquisitive," he said, "two heads are better than one. That's all."




CHAPTER NINE
QUESTION TIME


"If I were in residence, so to speak," said the Hereditary Paladin from
his seat of honour on the work-bench which ran along a wall in the
dynamo room of the mill, "I should have you two beheaded. As it is,
you'll be lucky if you get off with the sack."

He made anything but an impressive figure seated cross-legged on the
bench, his knees drawn up to his chin and his trouser-legs flapping; but
his eyes were severe behind his spectacles and his curious personality
dominated the scene.

Amanda, very solemn and subdued, had perched herself on a heap of sacks
in a corner, while Eager-Wright and Guffy kept guard over the
delinquents, who, after their night in the garage, looked considerably
the worse for wear in the morning sun.

Scatty had apparently decided to take his tone from Mr. Lugg, for whom
it was evident he had formed a tremendous respect.

That worthy was more truculent than apologetic, and was still inclined
to treat the whole incident in the light of a night out rather than an
affair of serious import.

"The sack," said Mr. Lugg grandly, "doesn't come into it. Me and my pal
'ere 'ad a scrap with a party discovered on enclosed premises, probably
with felonious intent. Lumme, we didn't ought to get the sack for that.
We ought to get the price of our time."

"Don't say 'didn't ought,'" said the Hereditary Paladin absently. "And,"
he went on with more judicial solemnity, "the price of your time is
good! What would have happened if that man had died, as he probably
would have done if it hadn't been for Miss Fitton, who had the presence
of mind to lock you two homicidal maniacs up for the night?"

"Self-defence," said Mr. Lugg promptly. "Peaky Doyle always carries a
gun. It was Peaky, wasn't it?"

"It was Peaky, as it happened," conceded Mr. Campion. "But, as far as I
can gather, in your condition last night it would have been all the same
to you if it had been the local bobby."

"No, it wouldn't," said Mr. Lugg earnestly. "Not with my instinct. My
instinct never tells me wrong. As soon as the young lady 'ere come in I
said to myself, 'That's Peaky in the mill. Let's go and bash 'im up and
that'll be a real help to his lordship.' I did say that, didn't I,
Scatty?"

"Yes," said Scatty with the awful fervour of a man lying to save his
skin. Of the two he made perhaps the more lamentable spectacle. He had a
scar across the dome of his head, drowned eyes and a round pink tip to
his nose. He studiously ignored Amanda's reproachful gaze throughout the
proceedings. It was evident that since he had put his faith in his new
friend, although not sanguine, he was hoping for the best, or, at least,
that the worst might not be unbearable.

"Now look here," said Mr. Lugg, eyeing the assembly warily, and at the
same time favouring them with a horrific, but conciliatory smile, "let
bygones be bygones. Me and my friend 'ere got a bit lit and p'raps we
done a silly thing. But seeing as 'ow it's all right and no 'arm done,
let's put that from our minds. What 'ave we learnt from the events of
the last evening? Consider that; what 'ave we learnt?"

Eager-Wright's lips began to twitch ominously, and although Mr. Campion
remained cool and unfriendly the tension in the room had lessened
considerably and Mr. Lugg sensed that he was making headway.

"We've learnt one 'orrible thing," Lugg continued, his voice sinking
with fine dramatic effect. "Peaky Doyle is prepared to risk 'is skin,
and for a funk like Peaky Doyle that means only one thing--that 'e's
workin' for his old boss. And if 'e's workin' for 'is old boss, then the
sooner we get 'ome and put the 'ole thing out of our minds the better."

There was silence after this remark, which was broken unexpectedly by
Mr. Lugg's partner in adversity. Scatty Williams emitted the wheezy rasp
of an alarm clock about to strike.

"Seems like--er--seems like, Maggers, that 'owever dangerous that be us
ought not to run away."

Mr. Campion's factotum was completely taken off his guard by this sudden
avowal of courage on the part of his ally. He dived after the
countryman's retreating respect.

"If you was to know 'ow dangerous that lot are you wouldn't stand there
swankin'," he said. "If you'd been through what I 'ave you'd know that
there are times when it's the article to retire graceful."

"Rather a sordid argument don't you think, Lugg?" Mr. Campion's tone was
enquiring.

Mr. Lugg was not abashed. "You can talk," he said. "You always could.
And what does it amount to? A lot of poppycock. 'Igh-sounding--I grant
you that. 'Igh-sounding poppycock. I've looked after you like a
perishing nursemaid for never mind 'ow long, and I know you. 'Ave we bin
up against Peaky Doyle's boss before? No. That's why we're 'ere to-day;
stop me if I'm wrong. I'm all for loyalty and doin' the job, but I don't
ask for trouble. Let me go and get out the car and we'll all go back to
town."

"An indecent revelation of a nauseating mind," observed the Hereditary
Paladin judicially. "You will now go and clean the car, taking Mr.
Williams with you. Meanwhile, we shall consider whether we shall keep
you here under observation or whether we shall ring up the governor of
your old college to see if he has got a vacancy. You can go."

Mr. Lugg's small eyes flickered. "Bloomin' fatigues!" he said to Scatty,
and they heard his husky confidential remark to the other man as the two
offenders shuffled off down the stairs. "If you 'adn't 'ave bin with me
you'd 'ave bin for it. 'E trusts me."

Eager-Wright began to laugh.

Mr. Campion affected not to have heard. "Peaky Doyle was carrying a
gun," he remarked. "Old Lugg might have been killed. You may think it
odd of me, but I should have been sorry."

"Look here," said Guffy, whose bewilderment of the night before had not
abated with the morning light. "I don't understand what's happening at
all. I didn't know you knew this fellow Doyle personally, Campion."

"We don't know one another well," murmured the young man deprecatingly.
"We met in the house of a mutual friend in Kensington. There was a fight
going on at the time. Mr. Doyle hit me over the head with a
life-preserver. It wasn't exactly a formal introduction, but I've always
felt we were at least on bowing terms since then."

"I'm talking about the letter you said you wrote him," persisted Guffy.
"Were you serious last night? You see, I didn't even know he was in the
village. Where did you send the note?"

"That," said Mr. Campion modestly, "was rather clever. A pure guess, but
it happened to come off. You'd be surprised how it cheered me up.
Yesterday afternoon something occurred which gave me the idea."

"The only thing that happened yesterday afternoon," said Amanda
practically, "was the invitation from Dr. Galley."

"Exactly," he agreed. "As soon as I received the one I wrote the other,
addressed it to Peaky by name, and when we went up to the doctor's house
I stuck it on one of the railing spikes where it could easily be seen
from the windows. I performed this feat with my natural skill and
unobtrusive dexterity and neither of you spotted me. I deduced that
Peaky would see that we were all visiting and that therefore the fort
would be undefended, and would take advantage of our absence to
reconnoitre. As it happened I was perfectly right."

"But why on Dr. Galley's railings?" Guffy demanded.

"Because our friend Peaky is a guest at the house," said Mr. Campion.
"See how the plot thickens."

They stared at him, and Amanda was the first to speak. "But this is
absurd," she said. "I've known old Galley all my life, but he wouldn't
protect a man who'd attacked Aunt Hatt--really he wouldn't. He's queer,
I know; awfully queer in some things." Her voice sank a little on the
last words, but she controlled it and her final announcement was firm.
"He just wouldn't do it."

Mr. Campion said nothing but remained where he was, perched on the
bench, a more foolish expression than ever upon his pale face.

"It's the clue that's worrying me," said Guffy. "That verse on the oak
bole. I had a thought," he continued modestly. "That diamond, you know,
might be just a diamond-shaped piece of glass, a window panel or
something."

Eager-Wright nodded gloomily. "I know," he said. "That's the trouble.
The house is no longer here. When the message was carved on the oak I
imagine no one ever dreamed that it would be destroyed."

"Another thing's rather odd," ventured Mr. Campion from the bench. "The
last two hints in the book of instructions refer quite definitely to
sound. You see, 'Thrice must the mighty bell be toll'd Before he shall
the sceptre hold'; and likewise, 'And ere he to his birthright come,
Stricken must be Malplaquet drum.' It's the musical element which
confuses me. I mean, this snappy lyric may simply be the instructions
for the ceremony at the accession party; directions to the local
choirmaster and whatnot. It's all very mysterious."

"It strikes me as being very mysterious that Peaky Doyle had vanished
from the heath this morning and has not yet been heard of in the
village," said Eager-Wright. "It looks as though either his friend came
back for him or else there are more people about the place than we know
of. Someone must have looked after him."

Before anyone could offer any suggestions on this subject Aunt Hatt's
clear vibrant voice sounded from the floor below.

"Mr. Campion! You have a visitor. Can I send him up?"

Before Campion could reply Mr. Lugg's sepulchral tones floated up to
them.

"That's right, ma'am," they heard him say affably, and add in the more
familiar tones he kept for Mr. Campion's intimate friends: "Step up this
way, sir, if you please. Look where you're goin'. Every other step's a
mockery. 'Is 'Ighness is givin' audience in the boiler room this
mornin'."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and presently a head appeared through
the trap.

"Farquharson!" said Guffy, starting forward. "Well, this is delightful.
Mind that hole in the floor, old boy. Let me introduce you. Miss Amanda
Fitton: Amanda, this is Farquharson, an old friend of ours, a charming
fellow."

"Quite the little society matron, isn't he?" remarked Campion, grinning.
"What news?"

The new-comer took a copy of _The Times_ from under his arm and handed
it to the speaker.

"This morning's paper," he said. "Personal column. Fourth paragraph
down. I know one doesn't get the papers till the evening in these
country places, so I brought it along. I thought I ought to be on the
scene of action, anyway."

Campion took the paper and glanced at the paragraph. Then he began to
read the message aloud:

"'If A.A., late of Bottle Street, Piccadilly, will call at Xenophon
House, W.C.2, on Wednesday at 4:30, the documents we have prepared for
him will be ready for him to sign. X.R. & Co.'"

"Extraordinary way of doing business," said Guffy. "You'll put it off, I
suppose? Unless--by Jove! it's a sort of code. Good Lord, how amazing!"

"Hardly a code," ventured Mr. Campion gently. "That 'documents ready to
sign' bit had a certain forthrightness, I thought."

"Well, it can't be a trap," said Farquharson cheerfully. "The great
insurance offices may be viewed with suspicion in some quarters, but I
never heard of them taking in unwary visitors and knocking them on the
head."

Eager-Wright was looking at Campion with interest.

"Whom will you see?" he demanded.

Mr. Campion's pale eyes were thoughtful behind his spectacles.

"Well, really, I don't know," he said. "But as a matter of fact, I've
rather got the feeling that I'm in for a half hour with the boss."

"Who is the boss of Xenophon?" said Farquharson, and then as an
incredulous expression crept into his eyes he turned to the other man.
"That's Savanake himself, isn't it?" he said.

Mr. Campion nodded. "If I've got to see him at half past four I'd better
hurry, hadn't I?" he said.




CHAPTER TEN
BIG BUSINESS


"Mr. Campion," said the pale young man with the toothache, "Mr. Campion.
About the papers."

"I beg your pardon?" said the beautiful but efficient young woman at the
enquiry desk, eyeing him coldly.

"Campion," said the young man again. "A hot, fiery plant under the
jurisdiction of Mars. And I've come about the papers. Large flat, white
things. You must have heard of them. I'm sorry I can't speak more
clearly, but I've got a toothache. I'll sit down here, shall I, while
you ring up about me?"

He smiled at her as well as he could round the enormous pad of
handkerchief which he held against his cheek and wandered away from the
desk to seat himself on what appeared to be a coronation chair at one
side of the tessellated marble hall. Apart from the toothache, Mr.
Campion's appearance was in keeping with his surroundings. His dark suit
proclaimed business, his neatly-rolled silk umbrella good business, and
the latest thing in bowlers business in the superlative.

He sat there for a long time, the one sober spot in the welter of
magnificence which greeted the visitor to Xenophon House. He was gazing
idly at the baroque Italian candelabra in the painted dome above his
head and reflecting how much more jolly it would have been if the
posturing Loves and gilded _amoretti_ had been replaced by lifelike
models of the Board of Directors, when a subdued feminine voice in his
ear startled him to attention. It was the young woman from the enquiry
desk.

"Did you say 'Campion,' if you please?"

"That's right. About the papers."

"Will you come this way, sir?"

The change in her manner was very noticeable, and Mr. Campion followed
her through the hall, a person of importance.

A giant lift which Mr. Campion innocently supposed to be of solid gold
deposited them on a mezzanine floor, where the scheme of decoration had
leapt on a century or so and hundreds of impressive persons scurried
among furniture of chromium steel and glass.

Mr. Campion forgot his tooth long enough to admire this picture of
ruthless efficiency and found himself handed over to a soft-voiced,
grey-haired man who moved very close when he spoke, as though his
business were of some very personal and slightly undignified nature.

"Mr. Campion?" he murmured. "Quite." And then with a gasp, as though he
felt his lungs would not contain enough breath for him to finish the
sentence: "About the papers? Yes? Will you come this way?"

They entered the lift once more and Campion, ever anxious to be affable,
smiled wryly round his handkerchief.

"Two little birds in a gilded cage," he murmured foolishly.

The man started and glanced at him with such cold shrewd eyes that the
fatuous smile faded from the half of Mr. Campion's face that was
visible, and it relapsed into its usual state of placid inanity.

The other became more deferential than ever.

"Thank you, thank you," he murmured. "Very kind of you, sir." And taking
a pencil and paper from his pocket, he jotted down a few hieroglyphics.

Somewhat startled, Campion looked over his shoulder.

"Goldbaum and Cazeners advance two points," he read.

He was still pondering over this incident when he was ushered out of the
lift into a corridor inspired by the neo-Byzantine or latter-day Picture
Palace school of thought.

"Perhaps you would be so good as to wait in here, sir."

Mr. Campion's feet sank into a depthless carpet. His eyes became
accustomed gradually to sacred gloom. The door shut noiselessly behind
him and he sat down in yet another variety of state chair and found
himself looking round a room which had all the marble and mahogany
solidity of a reading room at one of the better clubs. Immense oil
paintings of the company's linen surrounded the walls. A fireplace as
big as a church organ and very like it in design filled the far end of
the room, and he gazed over a mahogany table which reminded him of a
skating rink and nursed his face.

He had just accustomed himself to living in Gargantua when a sudden
draught assailed the back of his neck and the next moment a little sandy
man who had quite obviously only brains to recommend him paused at his
elbow.

"Er--Mr. Campion," he said, holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you.
You've come about the papers, I presume. What's the matter with your
face? There's nothing so nasty as a nasty tooth. That's right, keep it
warm. Does it hurt you much?"

Mr. Campion shook his head.

"Oh, well, that's all right," said the other. "Glad to have you up."

Mr. Campion smiled shyly and sought for some really suitable return for
this greeting. "Nice little place you've got here," he said at last,
conscious that he had found the _mot juste_.

The other shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly but with a certain pride.
He shot Mr. Campion a sudden penetrating glance.

"You saw the ad?" he enquired.

"In _The Times_," said Mr. Campion.

The new-comer still hesitated, and Mr. Campion felt in his breast
pocket.

"I brought this along," he said, "in case you wanted to see it."

He placed an ordinary British passport on the table. The little sandy
man's face lighted up.

"Now that's what I call intelligent," he said. "I see you and me'll get
along. My name's Parrott--er--two t's, of course."

"Of course," murmured Mr. Campion gravely.

Mr. Parrott turned over the pages of the passport, glanced at the
photograph and then at Campion. He seemed satisfied, for he returned the
document.

"Well, you'd better come along," he said. "The private lift's in here."

Once again Mr. Campion set out on his travels. They skirted the table,
Mr. Campion trotting obediently behind his guide, and, after traversing
quite a considerable distance, came at last to a small door in the
panelling which gave this time on to a Tudor lift; the sort of lift, as
indeed Mr. Parrott pointed out, in which Queen Elizabeth might have
ascended had the idea of such a thing occurred to her.

"You are now going," said Mr. Parrott impressively, "into The Suite
itself. This is the ante-room."

Mr. Campion, still clutching his handkerchief to his swollen cheek, but
contriving at the same time to look dutifully impressed, stepped into a
cool cedar-scented atmosphere and found himself almost ankle-deep in
velvet pile. This great walnut-panelled apartment hung with green was
peopled with immaculate young persons of either sex who moved silently,
rustled papers softly, coughed discreetly.

A willowy young man detached himself from his fellows and came towards
them. The well-known lineaments of a famous family were easily
discernible in his face, and his voice had the soft, attractive quality
of old-time diplomacy.

Mr. Parrott, who appeared to know that he was out of place in these
surroundings, murmured a confidential "This is Mr. Clinton-Setter, one
of The Secretaries." And then in a still lower tone to the younger man:
"Mr. Campion. About the papers."

Mr. Clinton-Setter smiled, coughed, waited until Mr. Parrott had
departed, and spoke again in a lowered voice to Campion.

"Mr. Savanake will see you immediately. Would you like to--er--leave
your hat and umbrella?"

Denuded of his hat and umbrella, Mr. Campion felt he might now be
permitted to see the exhibit without further fuss. But it was not to be.

Mr. Clinton-Setter conducted him through immense double doorways into
yet another apartment where an incredibly important-looking person
champed and fidgeted with the broad ribbon of his eyeglass.

Mr. Campion followed his escort, his head bent devoutly, his
handkerchief still clasped to his jaw. They entered a small corridor and
Mr. Clinton-Setter put up his hand warningly.

"This is The Room," he whispered, and tapped discreetly. Then, throwing
open the door, he stood aside and announced firmly: "Mr. Campion. About
the papers."

The young man with the toothache stepped into the room with the
conviction that what you see on the pictures is sometimes true.

He had been prepared for a palatial office, but not for this. Here was a
shot from one of the more fanciful German films. The clean lines of
glass walls were interrupted by mysterious machines. A gigantic desk
which sprouted bulbs, switches, telephones with televisor attachments,
and which must have contained, Mr. Campion imagined, enough equipment to
befuddle any ordinary office, was set facing the door with a steel
arm-chair behind it.

The young man looked about him, searching for the owner of all this
efficiency. He had just decided that the room was empty when someone
stirred behind him and he turned to see another desk set in an alcove
behind the door, and at it, looking very businesslike, a completely
unexpected small, plump elderly lady. This person had a lumpy forehead,
shrewd eyes, and the faint air of indefatigability of a Labour cabinet
minister. She smiled at Campion reassuringly.

"You're two minutes early," she said, revealing a comfortable, homely
voice with an unexpected North Country accent. "But it doesn't matter.
Mr. Savanake will see you in the private room. That's a great privilege
for you. He doesn't often see people there. Try to keep that
handkerchief down from your face" she went on. "If he sees people
looking ill he's sorry for them and that disturbs him. It makes him
waste his mind on unimportant things. That's right. Now go straight in
when I open the door. Sit down at the chair in front of the desk and
remember there's nothing to be afraid of."

She pressed a button on her desk and, after receiving an answering
light, presumably worked from the inner shrine, she smiled at Campion
again.

"There you are," she said, and released a lever in the floor with her
stout black shoe.

A section of the plate-glass wall slid aside, like the door of a tube
train, and Mr. Campion passed within.




CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE GRAND MANNER


The ingenuous mind of the pale young man in horn-rimmed spectacles
expected solid gold and nothing else, with a small plutocrat, possibly,
enthroned within. But the room into which he stepped was even more
surprising.

It was small and stuffy, with green distempered walls, and worn brown
linoleum on the floor. It appeared never to have been dusted.
Old-fashioned spike files lay in piles in the corners. There was a small
gas ring with a kettle on it in the fender and a Charles Dana Gibson
girl pinned up over the mantelpiece.

The visitor's chair, worn and inkstained, stood before a varnished desk
so littered with papers, cigarette ends and odd bottles that there was
no clear space upon it at all.

But Mr. Campion noticed these things only slowly. At first his entire
attention was taken up by the man who sat hunched behind the welter of
papers, the demi-god who controlled the destinies of the fantastic
palace beneath him and its slaves.

Brett Savanake was a man of startling appearance. To begin with, he was
what in more romantic times would have been called a giant. He was still
comparatively young, being nearer fifty than sixty, and his grey-black
hair was cut close to his enormous head. He had a round pale face and
intense grey eyes. He looked at Mr. Campion without speaking or smiling,
and waited until the young man had seated himself before his heavy white
lids so much as flickered. Then he grunted.

This minor explosion shook his entire frame, and might well have
startled a more impressionable visitor. But Mr. Campion remained blank,
unassuming, and apparently engrossed in his toothache.

"D'you read _The Times_ yourself, or did someone show you that
advertisement?" said the personage fiercely.

"A friend showed it to me," said Mr. Campion truthfully.

"Did you tell him you were going to answer it?"

"Yes," said Mr. Campion.

"That was indiscreet. I don't know if you're the man I want."

With a sigh, Mr. Campion rose from his chair and moved towards the door.

"In that case I will repeat my journey through the wonder house," he
said over his shoulder.

"Sit down. Don't be a fool. I've got no time for fools."

Savanake rose to his feet and held out, rather surprisingly, a packet of
Players. Mr. Campion appeared mollified, but he shook his head.

"I--I can't with this tooth," he said. "Thanks awfully all the same."

As he sat down again he noticed that the other had undergone a complete
change of mood. His bullying vanished and he seemed to have decided to
become hearty.

"Well, my boy," he said, "so you've come about the papers. Rather good
that, eh? It sounded interesting. Didn't give anything away. Now, I've
been hearing a good deal about you, one way and another, and I've sent
for you because I think I can put something in your way that may
interest you."

Mr. Campion peered round the corner of his handkerchief. "Very nice of
you, as long as it isn't a spoke in my wheel," he murmured idiotically.

The personage favoured him with a long and penetrating stare. Then he
leant back in his chair and sighed.

"Well, Campion, let's get down to business," he said. He was now neither
hearty nor aggressive, but himself, an intelligent personality, a
tremendous personal force.

Mr. Campion remained quiet and rather foolish-looking.

With another prodigious sigh the huge man lunged forward, and planted
one immense arm among the papers.

"You don't speak Spanish, do you?" he enquired.

"Not often," said Mr. Campion cautiously. "And then only to people who
don't understand English."

"Oh, you do? Well, that makes things much easier. The fact is, Campion,
I've got a job for you."

If Mr. Campion was surprised at this announcement he did not show it,
but remained sitting up looking pleasantly interested.

"It's a difficult job, a ticklish job, but from what I've heard of you
you're the man for it. Ever been to South America?"

Mr. Campion nodded. "Once."

"You have? Well, this is splendid!" A gleam of enthusiasm shone for a
moment in the grey eyes. "That settles it. You are the man we want. It's
difficult, dangerous, but the reward is enormous. The latest revolution
in Peru has proved very unfortunate for our interests. What we want is
someone with brains and resource, someone without ties, to engineer a
counter-revolution. Wait a minute--wait a minute. Don't say anything
yet." He stretched out a large hand warningly. "It's not so impossible
as it sounds. The machinery is all there. It simply needs the right man
to take it over. Think of it, my dear boy. You could make yourself
president, if you liked."

The Hereditary Paladin of Averna was still hesitating when the other man
went on:

"We'll keep you there as long as you do your best to protect our
interests. This firm is a world power; do you realize that? This is no
ordinary chance, as you can see for yourself. You'll never forgive
yourself if you miss it. You're the man I want. I don't know if you're
interested in money, but there might be as much as twenty-five thousand
pounds and all expenses in it if you succeed. You can make what you like
on the side, too. It's not an unattractive offer, is it?"

Campion stirred. His face had lost its inanity and had become
thoughtful.

"It's a great deal of money," he said. "But frankly that doesn't
interest me so much. The job sounds interesting. I should enjoy it."

Savanake nodded. "You would. That's why I chose you rather than some
brilliant young soldier. Frankly, it's a job for an adventurer."

"Just what I was thinking," said Mr. Campion, and his eyes behind his
spectacles became almost wistful. "What a pity," he added. "It really is
a pity. I suppose you couldn't hold the offer open for a week or so?"

The big man glanced at him shrewdly. "No, I'm sorry, but that's
absolutely impossible. The thing must be done now if it's done at all.
It'll take you a month to get to the place. There's been some delay
already. We've had difficulty in locating you. What's the matter?
Thinking about this little business you're engaged on at the moment? Let
me see, my enquiries tell me you were down in Suffolk somewhere. My dear
boy, leave it. This is the chance of a lifetime."

He ruffled the papers on his desk and finally discovered the memorandum
he sought.

"Here we are. It's a little government job, isn't it? Government
business is notoriously thankless. You take my advice and put it
straight out of your mind. Just walk out and leave it. With a
bureaucracy of the type which governs this benighted country the chances
are that no one will ever notice that you've resigned. And, anyhow, if
they do, what does it mean? A long enquiry, a period of unpopularity
perhaps which will be safely over by the time you return. By then
another government will probably be in power and the whole thing might
never have happened."

Mr. Campion remained dubious, and the personage, having pressed home his
point, became more practical.

"I have all the paraphernalia here," he said. He unlocked a leather file
and displayed its contents. "There's your reservations on the boat--one
of our own liners, of course--here's a letter to the captain, here are
your instructions upon arriving on South American soil, here's a letter
which we will go into afterwards, and here's five hundred pounds in
notes. You'll find it all arranged most thoroughly. I congratulate you,
my boy, on seizing this chance of a lifetime."

Mr. Campion looked pleasantly vacant. "When you say the matter is
immediate," he said, "just how immediate do you mean?"

Brett Savanake glanced up from the papers in his hand and for an instant
his cold, grey eyes held Campion's own.

"When you leave this office," he said, "one of my secretaries will take
you down to the ground floor, where a car will be waiting. He will drive
with you to Croydon, whence you will both fly to Southampton to catch
the _Marquisita_. My secretary will accompany you on board and will
conduct you to the captain's cabin. You will remain there until the boat
is under way. For obvious reasons you will travel under a pseudonym, and
I have prepared passports under the name 'Christian Bennett.'"

He paused, and Mr. Campion peered at him round the corner of his
handkerchief, which still covered half his face.

"Fine," he said. "I hope you've remembered to pack my woollens?"

"Your usual tailor has supplied a complete tropical outfit, which is
waiting for you on board the _Marquisita_."

"Splendid! Now all I've got to think about is a bottle of Mothersill,
and a bag of nuts for the natives, I suppose."

"That facetiousness," said the personage. "I've heard about that. I find
it very irritating myself."

The young man looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry," he said. "Still, we are
but what we are, and I'm going definitely out of earshot. May I
congratulate you on your intelligence system? You've found out quite a
lot about me."

Savanake shrugged his shoulders. "It's all here," he said. "Your real
name. I see your brother is still unmarried. You'll come into the title
some day, I suppose. Rather unpleasant, a thing like that hanging over
you. I should imagine that the life of a country squire with a seat in
the Peers' Gallery would not appeal to you."

"Oh, there are compensations," ventured his visitor gently. "You get a
lot of free theatre tickets and people send you samples. Not just a
packet of razor blades, but big things: mangles, and patent
mackintoshes, and thousands of British cigars."

Savanake went on impassively. "I know your successes, your association
with Scotland Yard. Let me see, you are unmarried, unattached."

"Fancy-free," remarked Mr. Campion mildly, "is the term I've always
liked."

"You are thirty-two years old," the voice went on inexorably. "You are
reputed to be comfortably, but not lavishly provided for. You are
reckless, astute, and quite extraordinarily courageous."

"I take number nines in shoes," said the young man with the toothache
with sudden irritation. "I always wash behind my ears, and in my
mother's opinion I have a very beautiful tenor voice. Suppose I decide
not to play revolutions with you?"

"I don't think you would be so stupid." Once again the cold grey eyes
peered into Mr. Campion's face. "Besides, a refusal does not come into
the question. I only put this matter up to you as a proposition because
it seemed more polite to do so. As it happens there is no alternative.
After careful research into your record, habits, and personality I have
chosen you."

Mr. Campion rose to his feet. "What about my friends?" he enquired. "If
I desert them now how can I ever look again into those clean but honest
faces?"

"I hate that manner of yours," said the personage irritably. "Sit down.
All that has been arranged. Must you hold that handkerchief up to your
face?"

"Yes," said Mr. Campion ungraciously. "I suppose you're going to tell me
now that you've written a letter to Mr. Randall, whom I've known for
many years, and that all I have to do is to copy it out?"

"Sign it," said Savanake. "It's typewritten on a machine borrowed from
your flat. I shall now read it to you."

He cleared his throat.

_"'Dear old thing,'"_ he read solemnly, _"'I am afraid this is going to
come as a bit of a shock to you. But don't think too hardly of me. The
fact is something has come along which has a spice of real danger in it,
the one thing, you know, that I could never resist. I am leaving the
childish affair upon which we have been engaged in your hands. Regards
to the others. Yours ever...'"_

_"Bert,"_ suggested Mr. Campion helpfully. "I say, I hate to hurt your
feelings, but you can't send that. Guffy would smell a rat immediately.
The idea's all right, but I'd better touch it up for you. You needn't be
afraid of codes and whatnot. Don't post it until after I'm gone."

He took a fountain pen from his pocket, and began to scribble on a piece
of typing paper lying on the desk. The note was very short, and as soon
as he had finished it he threw it over. Savanake read the message aloud,
no expression in his voice or face.

    _"Dear old bird: I know when I'm beaten. Something more
    entertaining has turned up which will take me out of the
    country, and I'm jumping at it. Please accept my sympathy.
    I know of nothing more beastly than to find that a man one
    rather liked was a toot after all. Still, these things have
    an educational value, and anyhow I should hate you to forgive me.
    Yours, A.C."_

Savanake nodded. "It is better," he said. "You will not, of course, be
allowed to send wireless messages from the ship. Now I think that
completes your interview. I will send for my secretary and you shall
go."

"Just one moment," Mr. Campion raised a pale, detaining hand. "I have a
condition which seems very reasonable from my point of view. This firm
runs a sideline in insurance, doesn't it? I rather fancy I should like
to insure my life for the sum of fifty thousand pounds with you for a
short period. Can you arrange it?"

The grey eyes regarded him sharply. "You may find it difficult to get
yourself covered if you're going on an errand like this," he said. "As
soon as you get to your destination there will be a certain amount of
danger. I thought that was what you wanted."

"Ah," said Mr. Campion brightly. "You misunderstand me. The period to
which I referred was the time between the moment I leave this office and
that at which the _Marquisita_ sails."

For a moment the great face looked at him blankly, and then Brett
Savanake put back his head and laughed until the tears rolled down his
face.

"I believe you have a sense of humour after all," he said. "I see it
now. Very well, I'll fix it up."

"I want it done properly," persisted Mr. Campion. "In fact, I should
like it put through by my own brokers. If you'll lend me your telephone
I'll ring up my man and tell him to come round and see you immediately."

Savanake shook his head. "Crude stuff, my boy."

Mr. Campion looked hurt. "If you have a telephone directory there," he
said, "you can look up the firm yourself and get the number for me. I
have a particular reason for wishing that someone whom I shall name will
receive a substantial sum of money in event of my death. It's also a
hint to your secretary to be careful with me."

Savanake picked up the telephone directory. "What's the firm?"

"Poulter, Braid, and Simpson of Pall Mall. You've probably heard of
them."

The personage seemed reassured. The firm was one of the largest of its
kind in the world.

"I do my business through a man named McCaffy. If you'd ask for him I
should like to speak."

The speed with which the call went through moved Campion to comment, but
the personage cut him short.

"We've got no time to waste. Tell him to come round here within half an
hour, and I'll have the thing put through for you."

Mr. Campion took the instrument. "Hallo, McCaffy," he said. "This is
Campion speaking. I'm insuring my life. Yes, I've got Xenophon to take
me for a short period. I'm afraid it's urgent. Could you come round and
fix it all up? I've got to get away, but I'll sign everything and leave
it for you. I'm sorry, old boy, but you must come immediately. Haste is
essential. No, I didn't say that you were inconsequential: I said that
haste was essential. Come at once. They won't trouble to go into that;
I'm obviously perfectly healthy. Nothing faintly wrong with me except
toothache at the moment. You know where it is; Xenophon House. Good-bye.
Come along right away, there's a good fellow."

He hung up the receiver. "Are you satisfied?"

Savanake nodded. "That's all right, so far."

A certain amount of delay might have been expected in the transaction of
a piece of business of this magnitude, but a murmured word on the
telephone to the efficient old lady in the next room and the necessary
papers were instantly forthcoming and duly filled in.

"The premium will be paid out of my twenty-five thousand," announced Mr.
Campion, striving to look businesslike. "And in event of my death I want
the whole of this money to be paid to a private individual. That can be
arranged, can't it?"

"Certainly. Can I have the name?"

"Miss Amanda Fitton, The Mill, Pontisbright, Suffolk."

Savanake appeared surprised. "But you've only known this girl a week,
haven't you?" he enquired. "What on earth do you want to give her fifty
thousand pounds for?"

"Need we go into it?" objected Mr. Campion wearily. "You seem to know
such a lot about me. Find that out for yourself. Besides, it isn't, I
hope, a question of giving her fifty thousand pounds. I trust it won't
be necessary: don't we all?"

When at last the formalities were over, Savanake touched a bell upon his
desk.

"The time has come to wish you good-bye and good luck, Campion," he
said. "You've taken the only intelligent course and I feel sure you'll
make a success of it. You'll find Mr. Parrott waiting for you in the
outer office. You have your papers? You have your money? Very well,
then, good-bye. As soon as you get on board I should advise you to study
your instructions. They're extraordinarily complete, and I think you'll
have no difficulty in following them. Good Luck."

Mr. Campion felt himself dismissed. In the outer office he found Mr.
Parrott making a very fair representation of the stage idea of a
plain-clothes policeman, in his tightly fitting blue coat and venerable
bowler. The old lady was still at her desk, and she nodded affably to
Campion as he appeared.

"You've got a nice cabin on board the _Marquisita_," she said. "I've
wired the stewardess to put plenty of blankets on your bed. It's always
cold when you start out."

Mr. Parrott, very grave and completely devoid of his natural bonhomie in
the rarefied atmosphere of the chief's own room, took Campion by the
arm.

"Come along," he said, and led him out into the corridor. He seemed to
revive a little as the door closed behind them, and he lowered his voice
confidentially. "There's a lift down the end of the passage," he said.
"Save us going through the waiting-rooms. How's the tooth, ol' man?"

"Awful," mumbled Mr. Campion, whose handkerchief now completely covered
his mouth. "Seems to be getting worse. I suppose I can't stop at a
dentist's?"

The request was so mumbled that it was only with great difficulty that
Mr. Parrott caught the sense. At the word "stop," however, he shook his
head violently.

"Sorry, ol' man," he said, "but it can't be done. Against the boss's
orders. You're to go straight to the aerodrome. Private plane, too."

A stifled squawk from Campion arrested them as they came to the lift
room. The young man's eyes were round and horrified behind the
horn-rimmed spectacles.

"If I catch cold in this tooth I shall pass out. You must get me a scarf
or something."

Mr. Parrott considered. At heart, it would appear, he was a kindly man,
but it seemed that Mr. Campion's request was impossible.

"I'd pay a fiver for an ordinary woollen scarf," muttered the prisoner,
turning up his coat collar and bringing out yet another handkerchief to
protect his swollen face. He spoke despondently, but he caught the gleam
of interest in the other man's eyes. The next moment, however, Mr.
Parrott was his virtuous, self-righteous self again.

"Sorry, ol' man," he began as they shot past the second floor, when
Campion clutched his arm.

"What would it cost me to call in at my flat, you watching me the whole
time, of course, for a big coat and a bottle of toothache mixture? You
can hold my hand for the entire outing, if you like."

Mr. Parrott drew a deep breath. Then he lowered his voice and spoke in a
husky, confidential whisper.

"Five hundred quid," he said.

"Done," said Mr. Campion unexpectedly. "Seventeen A, Bottle Street."

As the two men stumbled into the little flat over the police station in
the famous cul-de-sac off Piccadilly, the drawn curtains and
sheet-covered furniture proclaimed its owner's long absence. Mr. Parrott
followed his charge into the bathroom, where Campion rummaged through a
cabinet until he found the phial he sought. Mr. Parrott asked to see it,
and only the clearly-written label satisfied his curiosity.

"Now the coat."

Campion trotted into the bedroom, Parrott at his heels.

"Sorry if I'm a bit nosey, but orders is orders, you know."

His companion muttered something indistinctly about five hundred pounds,
and Mr. Parrott had the grace to look discomfited.

"Every risk must be paid for," he said sullenly.

"Quite," agreed Mr. Campion without sympathy. "Now, my coat's in this
cupboard."

"Is your tooth getting worse? I can hardly hear what you're saying." Mr.
Parrott came closer.

Campion pointed to the door of a wall cupboard with his unoccupied hand.

"Blob, blob," he said.

His guard appeared to understand, for he nodded and stepped aside and
the young man went in.

"Half a moment, I can't see very well," Campion's voice was still very
indistinct.

Mr. Parrott glanced at his watch. "Here, hurry," he demanded. "Here,
Campion, where are you?"

His momentary alarm was dispelled, however, by the reappearance of a
tall slender figure, who now wore a scarf wrapped over the lower half of
his face to hold the handkerchief in place, and who carried an immensely
thick overcoat in his arms. His hat he retained upon his head.

Mr. Parrott helped him into the coat, and together they groped their way
out of the dismantled flat. When they were safely back in the car Mr.
Parrott's charge thrust an envelope into his hand. The sandy man glanced
at its contents and something like wonderment spread over his face.

"I don't know who you are or what you're up to," he said. "But you're
the first man I've ever met--and I've met some rich men--to pay up so
handsomely for a little thing like that." He lowered his voice still
more confidentially and came closer. "I say, your name isn't really
Campion, is it?" he muttered.

"Blob, blob," said the figure at his side mysteriously, and Mr. Parrott,
translating this remark as a refusal of confidence, leant back sulkily
in his corner as the car sped on towards the aerodrome.




CHAPTER TWELVE
VISITATION


It was opening time at the "Gauntlett" on the evening of the day on
which Mr. Campion's letter had arrived at the mill, and Eager-Wright and
Farquharson hurried out of the bar as the Lagonda appeared in the yard,
and Guffy climbed slowly out. This meeting had been arranged at the
hasty conference that morning when it had been first decided that Mr.
Randall should go to town to "get the truth" from Xenophon House. Amanda
had been told nothing of the letter, and since there was Lugg also to be
kept in the dark, the prince-bereft Court of Averna had decided to
confer at the inn.

The three young men went into the deserted saloon bar together. So far
Guffy had said nothing, but his woebegone expression told them that
their best hopes were dashed.

"Well, I went there," he said at last, a faintly pugnacious expression
creeping into his round, good-natured face. "And quite frankly I made a
row. It's not a thing one likes to do, but in this case there was no
help for it. Finally, I got to see a man called Parrott--an awful
bounder--but he seemed sincere, although naturally I didn't feel like
trusting him. He didn't seem to be a fool, and he took a great deal of
trouble to find out who I was before he'd give me any information. But
finally, when I'd convinced him that it really was my business, he
opened out a bit."

He looked at his audience with troubled blue eyes.

"His story is that Campion was offered a hell of a job. He hinted that
the amount involved was colossal, but it necessitated prompt action.
According to him Campion's on his way to South America now."

"I don't believe it," said Eager-Wright, who was becoming more and more
wide-eyed as the regrettable story continued.

"Nor do I," said Guffy stoutly. "But the person Parrott went into a lot
of details. Apparently he insured his life with the firm and then
Parrott saw him onto the _Marquisita_ himself. They flew from Croydon to
Southampton--or so he says."

"Campion was doped," said Farquharson with conviction.

"They obviously shanghaied him some way or other. If only that damned
note hadn't been so horribly convincing I should feel like starting a
hue and cry."

Guffy was silent for some moments, and when he spoke it was with the
utmost reluctance, his good-humoured kindly face red with shame.

"He can't have been shanghaied," he said. "Not in the ordinary way. This
place, Xenophon House, is a cross between the Regent Palace and the Bank
of England, with a spot of the Victoria and Albert thrown in. Of course,
I believe in Campion. Whatever he's done, he's done it for the best. But
I think we've got to face the fact that he's gone--for the time being,
at any rate. I wish that letter of his had contained some sort of code.
I've gone over it again and again. The beastly thing looks almost
genuine. What we've got to do is to decide if we're going to drop the
whole thing, or if we're going to carry on exactly as if he were here."

"Oh, we must carry on." Farquharson spoke impulsively. "I don't see that
we've got much authority, but we can't back out. I think Campion knows
us well enough to realize we'd carry on. That's probably what he's
relying on."

Eager-Wright nodded. "I agree emphatically," he said. "Frankly, I
couldn't drop this thing now if I tried. I feel we're on the verge of
discovering something at any minute. Did you take that copy of the
inscription on the oak to the man you spoke about?"

Guffy nodded. "I left it with Professor Kirk at the British Museum. I
didn't explain much to him, but he didn't mind. He's an extraordinarily
nice old boy and absolutely brilliant in his own line. If he can't make
anything of it no one can. Then I came straight back. There didn't seem
anything else to do after my interview with Parrott."

His despondency would have been comic in any other situation. Cowardice,
and the letting down of friends, were the two cardinal sins in Mr.
Randall's calendar.

"We went up to the church and had a look at the drums there," said
Farquharson in an attempt to change the conversation from a topic which
was painful to them all. "But I'm afraid there's not much to report.
There are eleven of them in the gallery, all in an appalling state of
repair. It's evident that no one thinks much of them. They're very dusty
and one supports a pile of ancient hymn-books. We examined them
carefully, but we couldn't find anything of particular interest save
that they are certainly a good deal earlier than Malplaquet."

"As a matter of fact," Eager-Wright continued, "we put in a spot of
'strickening'. Farquharson played 'God Save the King' on each drum, but
without any result, save that we stirred up a cloud of bats in the
roof."

It was at this moment that Mr. Bull appeared for orders. "You don't look
so well to-day, sir," he remarked, peering at Guffy with bright,
inquisitive eyes. "Some people'd tell you you looked well even if you
didn't, but I wouldn't, because that wouldn't be right. You don't look
so well as I've seen you. Try some Colne Springs. There's nothing like a
good dark beer if you're not quite up to the mark. Now some people would
say that just to make custom," he went on shamelessly, "but I wouldn't.
If I didn't think that'd do you good I wouldn't serve you, and that's
the truth now."

Before such a simple confession of virtue Guffy was stricken dumb. Mr.
Bull went off to get the more expensive beverage without hindrance. When
he returned with the three pewter tankards, discovering no opposition,
he pursued his favourite subject.

"I'm honest," he said, gazing at his visitors with a self-satisfied
smile. "That's what's made this house as popular as it is. I've turned
away nearly a dozen visitors to-day, or the promise of 'em, which is as
good. A person came along here this afternoon in a little car and asked
me if I could put up twelve members of the party who were coming to dig
for remains--something to do with history. I put him off. 'We don't want
a lot of people here,' I said. And you can believe me, because I'm
telling you the truth: he went to every other house in the village and
not a soul would put his friends up. And why? Because we want the place
to ourselves, and I'm not being offensive neither. We've kept ourselves
to ourselves and always have done, and always will do until the great
bell rings again."

At this remark Eager-Wright roused himself sufficiently from a gloomy
reverie to regard the landlord thoughtfully.

"I don't suppose there's anyone left alive who actually heard the great
bell ring before it was melted down," he observed.

"No," said Mr. Bull. "I do suppose not. Mrs. Bull's father lived to a
hundred and eight, and he heard it," he went on cheerfully, but
unhelpfully. "And that's the gospel truth and you can believe it because
I've said it. He was a wonderful old man in his time. He remembered the
Pontisbrights theirselves, and he could drink half a gallon without
drawing breath. He wore the same pair of boots for twenty years and died
in 'em. He could shave himself, too, and pull his own teeth," he went
on, to the glory of his wife's house. "And his youngest daughter--that's
Mrs. Bull--was born when he was eighty-five. That shows you, don't it?"

"What's this story about the voice of the old bell being heard in times
of storm or disaster?" enquired Guffy.

The landlord looked dubious. "I've never heard it," he said. "And if I
told you I had I'd be a liar. But old Fred Cole heard it--or always said
he did. Anyway, he died and the devil took him, three or four days
before you come down. He was a wicked one, he was. Both Fred and his
wife and their little girl that used to live with them down in the
little cottage by the church, they all three said they used to hear it
when there was a tempest. But they were all three uncommonly
evil-minded, and, finally, the devil come for Fred."

"What about the wife and the little girl?" enquired Eager-Wright.

"Oh, they've been dead these ten years," said Mr. Bull with relish.
"Fred used to thrash 'em, and one after the other they died. Some on us
reckon he killed 'em. Anyway, after he beat 'em they died."

"It almost looks as if he did," said Farquharson reasonably.

"Ah," said Mr. Bull, "it do, indeed, yes, yes, and that's the truth now.
He were a powerful wicked old man."

There seemed no point in pursuing the conversation with the determinedly
worthy landlord, and they paid their score and went out to the car.

"What about Lugg?" enquired Farquharson as they drove over the heath.
"And everyone else, for that matter. What do we say about Campion?"

"Detained in London, don't you think so?" said Guffy. "After all," he
added hopefully, "it might even be true." There were more lights in the
house than usual when they drew up in the mill yard, and the old place
looked very lovely against its peaceful background of feathery trees,
half hidden in the mist rising up from the river.

As Guffy sprang out he glanced towards the door. He had half expected
Mary Fitton to come out when she heard the car. He had no reason, but
still he had expected it. The whole house was unnaturally quiet, he
thought, and he wondered that at least Amanda had not come bouncing to
the door.

But as no one appeared he turned the handle and stepped over the
threshold, closely followed by the others. It was dark in the hall, but
he thought nothing of it, and turned to the stand to hang up his coat.

It was at this precise moment that something dull and heavy was thrust
over his head and pulled down round his shoulders. Similar scufflings in
the gloom behind him told him that his assailant had companions, who
were attending to Eager-Wright and Farquharson.

After the first shock of surprise Guffy's reaction was intense anger.
The sack which enveloped him was damp and smelt abominably, and his
captor had contrived to catch the bridge of his nose with the raw edge
of the bag. Guffy began to swear in a savage undertone and, stiffening
himself, proceeded to heave at his enemy with his shoulders, since his
arms were pinioned. A grunt of pain escaped him; the swines were
kicking. This was the final insult. Mr. Randall went berserk. He
struggled wildly in his canvas prison, and actually succeeded in finding
the lower end of the sack. He had wrenched an arm free when the butt of
a revolver smashed down across his wrist, numbing his hand and arm from
fingertip to elbow.

Once again the sack was dragged down almost to his knees and this time a
narrow rope was pushed round his shoulders, and wound so tightly that
the strands cut into his flesh.

He was helpless, blinded, and without the use of his arms. He crouched
and butted in the direction in which he fancied his enemy to be, and he
had the satisfaction of feeling a man's yielding ribs beneath his weight
and of hearing the smothered grunt as their owner collapsed. Crippled
without his arms he stumbled over yet another struggling figure, missed
his footing, and crashed on top of his winded assailant. The two rolled
over and over together.

He had no time to think clearly, and he did not realize at first that no
word had been spoken by the attackers, and that he had no clue at all as
to their identity. His own fury obsessed him. The sack was nauseating.
Its dank and musty folds clung to his skin.

To outrage him still further, his adversary seemed to be gaining the
upper hand. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath of sickening
sack-tainted air. The cords took the strain; they cut deeper and deeper
into his flesh. He felt the veins in his neck swelling until his head
sang, and the pain between his eyes was unbearable. Then, just when it
seemed that he must relinquish the effort or burst, the cords snapped
with a report like a pistol shot. He heard a muffled exclamation from
his enemy as the man strove to rise out of the knee-grip in which he
held him.

Guffy rode the man like a recalcitrant horse for a second, while he
strove to free himself from the insufferable sack. He had his shoulders
out, and was already rewarded by a deep breath of comparatively pure air
when a sense of impending danger swept over him. He ducked forward a
second too late. A blow so heavy and savage that even the thick hessian
with which his head was covered proved little or no protection crashed
down upon his skull. He fought wildly to retain his senses, but the
terrifying numbness which the blow had produced spread in spite of him,
and he felt himself falling, falling, and finally drifting away into
unconsciousness.

He came to his senses some considerable time later to find himself sick
and dizzy, and still a prisoner in the unbearable sack. His shoulders
had been rebound, and his arms and hands were numb. He moved cautiously
and discovered that he was not lying on the flagstones of the hall, but
upon some slightly softer material, which he suspected to be the
threadbare drawing-room carpet.

Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone, but that someone was
breathing very close to him. He held his own breath, rolled a few inches
forward, paused and listened. Then to his complete astonishment he heard
a whisper barely more than a foot away from him.

"Who are you? Are you--are you dead?"

The terror in the familiar voice saved the question from banality.
Guffy's heart leapt.

"Mary," he whispered back. "Where are you?"

"Here." The small voice sounded pathetically unsteady. "Tied to a chair.
I can't move."

Guffy's anger began to reboil. The pain in his head was almost
unendurable, however, and since he was now conscious he was particularly
anxious not to collapse again.

"Where are they?" His lips grazed the sodden sacking as he spoke.

"Hush, I think they've gone, but I'm not sure. Be careful."

"Where are the others?" Guffy found that the hard mound beneath his
head, which he had been cursing a moment before, was the instep of his
informant, and the discovery comforted him unduly.

"In here, all except Amanda," she said. "We were all gagged, too, but I
got mine off by wriggling. I--I'm afraid to scream."

"How about Wright and Farquharson? Are they tied up too?"

What with fury, pain, and tender solicitude, Guffy was almost demented.

"There are two more bundles--er like you," said the voice diffidently.
"I can only see where the moonlight falls, so I can't tell who they are,
even by the legs."

The young man settled himself as comfortably as he might. "I say, am I
hurting you?" The idea occurred to him irritatingly.

"Not at all."

Guffy leant on.

"They came when we were in the dining-room," she continued in a hushed
but penetrating whisper. "We were waiting for you three, as a matter of
fact. There were six men, I think. They came in an enormous Darracq
which they left in the yard at the back. We saw the car at the corner
and we thought it was you until they all swooped down on us. I don't
know where Amanda is. I heard her scream once. It sounded as though she
were downstairs, but they bundled the rest of us, Aunt, Hal, and I, in
here and tied us to chairs."

"Did you see them or get their idea?" Several futile efforts had
convinced Guffy that his bonds were considerably stronger than those
which had been used upon him before, and he gave up trying to escape
them.

"Of course I saw them." Her tone was plaintive. "They were very ordinary
people, like furniture movers, really."

Remembering the strength and ruthlessness of the blow which had knocked
him out, Guffy wryly reflected that she was probably right.

"I don't know what they wanted," she went on. "But as far as I can see
they just turned the house inside out. They went over this room like
customs men. They pulled up the carpet on one side, and it wasn't until
they realized it had been down so long that it had practically grown to
the floor that they gave up the idea. They looked behind all the
pictures, too. We heard them shifting furniture all over the house."

Guffy grunted. He could think of no adequate comment.

"I heard the car go off about half an hour ago," she ventured after a
pause. "But I didn't yell in case there was still someone left behind. I
haven't heard a sound since, though, so I suppose it's all right now."

Guffy struggled to rise but gave it up, breathless and groaning.

"How about you? Can you move?" he demanded.

"No. I've been trying, but my arms are tied behind me to the back of the
chair, and I think the rope goes on to my feet. Anyway, my ankles are
bound to the chair leg. I've tried wriggling, but it just hurts and the
rope seems to get tighter."

"Keep still, then. I'll have another go."

It soon dawned upon the valiant Mr. Randall, however, that for once in
his life he was beaten and he might struggle till doomsday and never get
free.

"Wright!" he called softly. "Wright! Farquharson!"

"Hallo! Is that you, Guffy? I say, I can't stir."

Eager-Wright's voice, stifled and breathless, sounded somewhere near at
hand.

Guffy swore. "How's Farquharson?"

An inarticulate sound from somewhere across the room indicated that Mr.
Farquharson, besides being bound, was also gagged.

The minutes ticked on, and the company, having realized that silence was
no longer politic, began to exclaim in their violent efforts to get
free. It was when the struggle seemed to have gone on for hours that the
miracle occurred.

"Well," said Aunt Hatt's cheerful American voice, vibrant and
comfortingly strong. "Attacked in the home for the second time in one
week, and they call this a quiet country. For crying out loud! I
certainly feel better for that gag out of my mouth. Now just unfasten my
hands. That's right. And the feet. That's better. Now let me see if I
can give you a hand with the others."

The surprise made them incredulous at first, but it soon became evident
that the indomitable lady was certainly free. She set to work on the
task of loosening the others with remarkable energy, considering the
cramped position in which she had been sitting for so long.

Mary and Hal were released within a few moments, and the girl and her
brother immediately turned their attention to the three pathetic bundles
on the floor.

Guffy emerged from his hated sack battered and filthy, but a hero in
Mary's eyes, and was thereby appeased.

Eager-Wright appeared to be comparatively unharmed, but Farquharson was
unconscious when they ripped the gag from his mouth. Aunt Hatt took
charge of him with a brisk efficiency that was tremendously comforting,
and Guffy left him in her care when with Eager-Wright and young Hal they
set out to search the house for Amanda and those unlucky watchdogs, Lugg
and Scatty Williams.

They found the girl almost immediately. She was in the dining-room,
lashed to the heavy old-fashioned Chesterfield, a rag thrust into her
mouth. Her wrists and ankles were raw where the cords had cut her as she
struggled to get free, and there were tears of fury and frustration in
the eyes which glared at them through a tangled mesh of flaming hair.

They released her and she staggered up, stiff and breathless and
quivering with rage.

"Six of them!" she burst out. "Only six of them, and we let them get us
down! Why, we were almost even numbers, and yet they beat us and tied us
up in our own house. I bit someone's hand through, though, and I'd have
got away if they hadn't had guns. I've been trying to get free for
hours."

Tears choked her. Then she stood before them speechless, angry, and
forlorn, while they looked at her helplessly. She pulled herself
together.

"Come on," she said, "we must get Scatty and Lugg out. They're locked in
the cellar. I've been listening to them swearing for the last two hours.
The cellar grating is just outside this window."

Hal and Eager-Wright went down to release the crestfallen bodyguard, and
Guffy and Amanda adjourned to the drawing-room, where the others were
still assembled. But it was not until Farquharson had revived and Aunt
Hatt had made a tour of the house, to discover that the place had been
ransacked, but apparently not pillaged, that Guffy put the question
which had been worrying him for half an hour.

"Miss Huntingforest," he demanded, "who set you free?"

The good lady stared at him. "Why, you, of course," she said. "Don't
look at me like that, boy. You came up behind me and whisked the gag out
of my mouth and the next thing I knew both my hands and feet had gotten
free."

"But I let Guffy loose," said Mary. "And you untied me, Aunt Hatt,
and--" she broke off, a terrified expression creeping into her eyes.
"Who?" she demanded, looking round the dismantled room where the whole
household was assembled. "Who set Aunt Hatt free?"

There was a long silence as they looked from one to another, startled
enquiry in the face of each. No one replied, and all around them the
great ancient house was silent and empty as a deserted tomb.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN
'WARE AMANDA


The letter addressed to "The Rev. Albert Campion" arrived by the post on
the following morning and it lay upon the side table in the hall, an
object of curiosity to all beholders from the moment of its arrival to
the time of its disappearance and subsequent recovery.

Since it had not been re-addressed, bore a Northamptonshire postmark,
and was labelled "Urgent," the feeling in the family that it might
contain useful information was acute.

The household had spent an uncomfortable night in ransacked rooms, and
Guffy at least was considerably more grim and morose when he descended
the stairs, a lump the size of an egg on the back of his skull.

At a hurried council of war on the evening before it had been
unanimously decided not to call in the police. Nothing had been taken,
as far as could be discovered, and the visitors were convinced that in
the circumstances County Police investigation was the last thing to be
desired. Aunt Hatt had been curiously amenable to this arrangement, and
the residents of the mill had decided to undertake their own defence,
and, when possible, to wreak their own vengeance.

Guffy caught sight of the letter on his way in to breakfast. He stopped
in his stride--stood looking at it thoughtfully. He saw himself faced
with a minor but irritating problem. If he followed the simple course
which his instincts and upbringing dictated, he reflected, he would
re-address the letter "c/o Xenophon House," and dismiss the incident
from his mind. But, weighed down with the responsibility of his new
vocation, he hesitated. His head was hurting abominably, and, hearing
Amanda whistling happily as she clattered down the staircase behind him,
he made a dive for the breakfast room, leaving the letter where it lay.

Amanda's reaction to the envelope on the table was very different. As
soon as she saw it she paused, and, after a single guilty glance round
to make certain she was unobserved, she whisked it off the polished wood
and tucked it into that schoolgirl reticule, the knee of her knickers,
and strode on in to breakfast.

Her whistling had not ceased throughout the incident, and Guffy would
have been prepared to swear that she had followed him straight into the
room.

The group gathered round the breakfast table in the warm morning
sunlight was still considerably shaken by the events of the preceding
night. Farquharson looked pale and unsteady, and Eager-Wright had
several ugly bruises round his jaw. Young Hal possessed a black eye, of
which he was inordinately proud, and only Aunt Hatt looked her compact,
unruffled self.

A constraint had arisen between Guffy and Mary, and there was a slightly
old-world shyness about the girl which enhanced her somewhat Edwardian
beauty, and reduced the young man to a state of pleasurable idiocy
pretty to watch.

Amanda alone had a light of triumph in her eye, and an even more
pronounced jauntiness than before. Her wrists and ankles were disfigured
by bandages, but her spirit appeared to have been strengthened rather
than diminished. She planked a heap of wireless catalogues on the table
next her plate, and began to turn over the leaves with tremendous
interest.

"It seems to me the radio's like drink; it just gets a hold on you,"
Aunt Hatt remarked cheerfully to the table at large. "Amanda, will you
drink your coffee before you spill it? This girl spends half her time
reading advertisements of fearful machines which she never even hopes to
buy."

"Not at all," said the miller with a certain amount of justifiable
resentment. "I'm going to purchase four outsize valves--the plates run
white hot at a thousand volts--a bunch of loud-speakers, and something
rather sensational in the accumulator line. Very probably a new dress,
too, if I feel like it."

Her brother and sister laughed politely at this exuberance, and passed
each other the honey, but Amanda was not content to let the matter drop.

"Do you think," she enquired gravely of Eager-Wright, who sat opposite
her, "that it would be better to buy a new accumulator for the car or a
new car altogether?"

"Not to-day, Amanda. No bright conversation to-day. We're all a bit
rattled."

Young Hal's voice had the genuine note of authority in it. It was
evident that he took his position as head of the family with becoming
seriousness.

The girl turned upon him coldly. "I'm perfectly serious," she said. "As
it happens, I've come into a certain amount of money and I'm debating
how to spend it. I think, perhaps, a new car after all. A last year's
Morris would be fun. I've been talking to Scatty out of the window this
morning, and he thinks we could pick one up in Ipswich for about ninety
pounds. I thought I might go in and see about it this morning. The car
would take me as far as Sweethearting and I can get a bus from there."

Hal, Mary, and Aunt Hatt exchanged glances.

"Poor Amanda, it's the excitement," said the elder lady compassionately.

"Wait a minute, Aunt." Hal put out his hand apologetically and then
turned to his sister, his young face grave and politely enquiring. "Do
you mean this, Amanda?"

His sister granted him a single truculent stare. "Of course I do. You
don't imagine I'm sitting here making a fool of myself. I've got a first
instalment of three hundred pounds, as a matter of fact, and as there
are naturally a few things I want, I'm deciding how to spend it to its
best possible advantage."

Recollecting suddenly that the Fittons possessed an income of one
hundred pounds a year, apart from their various activities, Guffy
understood the expression of blank amazement on his host's face.

Amanda remained calm, but a little sulky.

"Three hundred pounds? Where is it?"

"In my dressing-table drawer. In your collar-box, if you want to know.
It was so lumpy I didn't know where else to put it, so I borrowed your
box."

Hal frowned. He was leaning forward in his chair at the head of the
table, his eyes wide and puzzled.

The two faced one another, Amanda superficially casual and ridiculously
truculent, and the boy startled and incredulous. They were absurdly
alike; the Pontisbright hair glowed and shone above their expressive
faces.

"Do you mean to say you've got three hundred pounds in notes in the
house?"

"Yes, I do." Amanda's tone was plaintive. "Why shouldn't I? Lots of
people have three hundred pounds all at once. You often do, don't you,
Guffy? Don't be so bourgeois, Hal."

Hushing under the injustice of the final admonition, the head of the
Fitton family stuck to his guns.

"Where did you get it? And what's all this about a first instalment?"

"That," said Amanda calmly, "I am afraid I'm not at liberty to tell you.
Now I must go and get ready to go to Ipswich. I'll take Scatty, I think,
if you don't mind."

"But, Amanda, you're joking," Aunt Hatt appealed nervously.

"Of course I'm not, darling. I happen to have three hundred pounds,
that's all. I may also have some more. I'd like to say, too," she went
on, eyeing the assembly severely, "that, in my opinion, all this
interest in my money is a trifle vulgar."

"Was the money in the house last night?"

"It was."

"And they never took it!" burst out Aunt Hatt, who could not get the
burglary idea out of her head. "What a mercy!"

"Perhaps they were just six Santa Clauses in unorthodox costume," said
Hal contemptuously.

Amanda's cheeks flamed. "That's mean, mouldy, and unfortunately
typical," she said, and rose to her feet. "Now I'm going to Ipswich."

As the door closed behind her Hal coughed deprecatingly, the gesture of
a man three times his age.

"Very extraordinary," he observed, and went on with his breakfast with
studied deliberation.

Eager-Wright caught Farquharson's eye and stifled a desire to laugh.

Guffy was thoughtful. It occurred to him that, amusing though Amanda's
attitude might be, the facts were certainly odd, if true, and when he
recalled her indignant outburst at Hal's suggestion concerning the
possible identity of their visitors of the night before, an
uncomfortable suspicion flashed through his mind. He put it from him
hastily, but it still hovered there, and he could not get it out of his
head that three hundred pounds might not be such an inconsiderable mess
of pottage if one needed it badly enough.

It was evident that something of the same idea had occurred to Hal, for
he suddenly put down his table-napkin and rose to his feet.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment," he said with that grave courtesy
which was his chief characteristic, "I think I'd like a word with Amanda
before she goes off." And leaving the table he hurried after his sister.

Amanda's room was situated directly above the apartment in which they
sat, and although Aunt Hatt and Mary skilfully fielded the conversation
it was impossible not to overhear the staccato sounds which emanated
from the floor above. It began with angry voices and continued in a
series of rumblings which suggested that the rightful Earl was beating
his sister up and that she was defending herself with true Pontisbright
spirit. Eventually, the noise ceased and Hal reappeared in the breakfast
room looking flushed and a little ruffled, but outwardly dignified and
composed as ever.

He came in at the door, glanced round to make sure that they had all
finished, and then turned to his aunt deferentially.

"I wonder if you would mind, dear," he said in exactly the tone which
his father and grandfather must have used before him in their more
pompous moments. "There is something I would like to discuss with our
guests, as I feel it concerns them."

Aunt Hatt, who was extremely fond of her nephew, withdrew immediately
without so much as a smile, beckoning Mary to follow her.

Hal went over to Guffy, who was standing on the hearthrug reflecting
that the Fitton family had a charm which made even their quarrelling
delightful.

"Look here, Randall,"--the boy's tone was gravity itself--"I've got a
confession to make on behalf of my sister Amanda. I'm sorry she's
behaved like this, but you know what women are--no manners when it comes
to it. I don't think they can help it. Just natural weakness, I imagine.
I say," he went on, suddenly forgetting his head of the family pose,
"she really has got that money. I've seen it. Three hundred pounds in
five-pound notes. It's awfully fishy, isn't it? However, that isn't what
I was going to talk to you about. I'd like you all to hear about this,
although it's rather disgusting. When I went up to Amanda just now I
came on her somewhat unexpectedly. She was reading this letter. I asked
her whom it was from, but she wouldn't tell me. And then I saw the
envelope lying on the bed. Look, here it is. It's addressed to Campion."

He stood before them, the envelope which Guffy had seen in the hall held
out in front of him. It was considerably crumpled and explained in some
measure the noise of five minutes before. Hal was blushing painfully.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, and I don't want to make excuses for
her. She's behaved atrociously, and I've told her so. I would like to
say, though, that she doesn't always do this sort of thing. She's not
that kind of girl at all. Perhaps," he added hopefully, "they knocked
her on the head rather badly last night. It might be that, you know.
Still, I think you ought to read the letter. It's not my affair, I know,
but it does seem important. Aunt Hatt and Mary and I can't very well
help gathering what you're up to down here, and--well, it seems
important."

He thrust a ragged piece of notepaper into Guffy's hand.

"I'm afraid Amanda's read it," he remarked. "But she didn't seem
particularly interested. I think she took it in a fit of wanton
mischievousness."

He pronounced the last phrase as a single word, and seemed considerably
relieved to get it off his chest.

Guffy read the letter carefully. It was a remarkable document, written
in a flowing, somewhat affected hand on a large sheet of buff-coloured
notepaper, ornamented by a crimson facsimile address stamp.

    "My dear sir: In reply to your civil letter I may say that I was
    profoundly interested in the question you raise. In my letter to
    _The Times_ of July 4th last year, which you are pleased to quote,
    I referred to the reprehensible habit of the curators of our
    lesser-known museums of relegating some of their most interesting
    exhibits to the more musty and inaccessible corners of the ugly,
    ill-ventilated mausoleums over which they preside.

    "As it happens, I am able to answer the question which you raise,
    and let me take this opportunity of assuring you that it is _no_
    trouble at all, but that I take a very _real_ pleasure in being
    able to perform what I regard as a public service. I may say that
    in a long, and, I trust, useful, pursuit of correspondence with
    the public Press, I have seldom attempted to reply to a question
    which has interested me more. The Pontisbright drum, which you
    refer to erroneously as the Malplaquet drum--its generally accepted
    appellation being the Pontisbright drum of Malplaquet--was placed
    in the parish church at Pontisbright when the ancient mansion was
    demolished and the title fell into abeyance.

    "Some years later, in 1913 to be exact, it was loaned, by whose
    authority I know not (although I should certainly like to have a
    word with that gentleman!), to the Brome House Museum at Norwich,
    where it remains to this day, a shocking example of laxity in the
    preservation of ancient relics. I feel sure you will respect my
    confidence in this matter and not bruit it to the Press until you,
    in your position (which is, I trust I am right in assuming, the
    incumbent of the parish), have been able to secure its return.
    As I know the curator of the Brome House Museum slightly, I have
    taken the liberty of dropping him a note by the same mail informing
    him that his little delinquency has been surprised, and that I fear
    he must surrender the prize he has held so long. (I am afraid the
    good people of Norwich have long since ceased to regard the drum as
    the eighth wonder of the world, as it is now, I hear, in a very
    inferior position.)

    "My friend Mr. Formby (I feel sure he will remember my name,
    although we are only correspondent acquaintances) held his present
    post at the time of the original loan, so there should not be any
    irritating formalities.

    "Thanking you again for the many civilities, and, I fear,
    flatteries, which you have been kind enough to write about my
    little hobby, and expressing the hope that I have been of some
    slight assistance in your estimable quest,

    "I beg to remain, my dear sir,

    "Your obedient servant,

    "RUDYARD GLENCANNON."

"Well, I'm damned!" said Guffy. "What a genius Campion was--is, I mean.
Well, that settles that, doesn't it?"

Hal coughed discreetly. "I don't want to interfere, of course," he said,
"but who is Mr. Glencannon?"

"One of the prime busybodies of the world," said Farquharson, grinning.
"You're bound to come across his name sooner or later. He's an old boy
of independent means who spends his life writing to the newspapers. He
must spend half his day reading them and the other half writing to them.
He's been going for fifty years or so, and, of course, by this time he's
a mine of information. Just the one person in the world to appeal to on
a question of this sort. Campion must have written to him as soon as
Amanda showed him the oak."

Hal still hovered and it occurred to Guffy that the boy's position was
invidious.

"Look here," he said, "I don't know how much you've gathered, but I'd
like to assure you that we're definitely on the right side and all that
sort of thing. I know we can count on you at any time, can't we?"

It was just the right attitude to adopt, and Hal, who was so precocious
in some things, and such a child in others, regarded him gratefully.

"Any time," he said enthusiastically. "Rather! I say, are you going to
dress up as parsons and get the drum?"

Guffy was silent for a moment. The call to action contained in the
letter had not before occurred to him, and he was somewhat taken aback
by this startling suggestion.

"Why, no," he said, and laughed. "Of course, we can hardly do that."

Eager-Wright joined him, but Farquharson grimaced.

"It's rather the sort of thing Campion would do, isn't it?" he said. "I
mean, after all, we've got to get hold of the drum somehow or other, and
in the circumstances the way seems open for us to go right in and ask
for it."

"There's something in that, you know," agreed Eager-Wright quickly. "We
can't very well dress up as parsons, of course; it's a rather serious,
unpleasant offence, to start with, and I don't think any of us could
bring it off, for another thing. But, after all, I don't see why we
shouldn't turn up as lay-readers or something--zealous parishioners who
have called to take the parish property back to its old home."

Guffy looked profoundly uncomfortable. A naturally law-abiding soul, he
was appalled by the illegality of the project.

"I say, you know, it's stealing," he objected.

Eager-Wright shrugged his shoulders. "We could always call it
kleptomania of an unusual kind. And, besides, we can put it back in the
church when we've finished with it. It belongs there, anyway. Hang it!
we should be performing a valuable public service, as old Ramsbottom, or
Glencannon, or whatever his name is, points out. Look here, let's do
that, Guffy. We'll all go up to Norwich this afternoon and interview the
curator. If we mention Glencannon's name I don't see why we shouldn't
get away with it. We can explain we've offered our services and our car
to save the parish the cost of transport. People often do that sort of
thing."

"Not a bad idea," agreed Farquharson. "I'm afraid we shall have to leave
you in the town, Wright. With your face in its present condition, you
hardly look _bona fide_ as the Reverend Campion's right-hand man. How
about it, Guffy?"

Mr. Randall hesitated. "It's rather an extraordinary thing to do," he
said cautiously. "We shall have to do the thing properly. If we make a
hash of the interview we shall never get hold of the drum. Perhaps if we
wore dark suits and called about four o'clock in the afternoon just
before closing time we might get away with it. We may be getting on the
right track at last."

"What about defence here?" enquired Farquharson. "Lugg will be your only
assistant, Hal. Look here, shall we leave Wright behind?"

"Oh, Lord, no." The boy was polite but firm in his refusal. "We shall be
ready for anyone this time. Besides, I imagine they did everything they
wanted to do last night, or else satisfied themselves there was nothing
here."

The inference of the first part of his remark dawned upon Guffy before
the others and he glanced up to see the boy staring gloomily out of the
window, suspicion and discomfort in his eyes.

As though in answer to their thoughts, there was a whirr and a rustle
from without, and the "car," every inch of its crimson surface a-quiver,
slid out of the coach-house and shot across the drive. Amanda, bolt
upright and impudent, sat at the wheel, with Scatty, huddled and a
little scared, beside her.

Moved by a sudden impulse, Hal threw open the casement and shouted to
her:

"Amanda! Come back! I want to talk to you."

His sister waved her hand with blissful disregard, and was gone.

"Where are you going!" he bellowed.

Very faint, but clear and triumphant, her voice returned to them on the
wind.

"To spend three hundred pounds, you poor fish!"




CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CHURCHWORKERS


"Ever stolen anything before, Farquharson?" said Guffy as they pulled up
in the market place at Norwich to drop Eager-Wright and enquire of a
policeman for the Brome House Museum.

"Hundreds of things," said Farquharson. "What's a little drum, anyway?
If I see anything else I like I shall bring it back as well. If we get
away with this we might start on the South Ken. There's a large-size
model of a flea there I've always had my eye on."

Left to themselves, however, their mood sobered. Neither was
particularly keen on the task, and the prospect of misrepresenting
themselves to some eagle-eyed guardian of the city's treasures appeared
uninviting in the extreme.

Since Mr. Campion's mantle had descended upon him, however, Guffy was
determined to see the thing through. The only museum he ever remembered
visiting was the Victoria and Albert, and he pictured himself being
thrown out ignominiously by resplendent officials and delivered to the
local police to be brought up on the following day, on a charge of
attempted theft, before his old acquaintance Sir Geoffrey Partington,
the magistrate for the district.

Farquharson sat quiet and placid, prepared, apparently, to take
everything in his stride.

Guffy swung the car into Maple Street, and sought for Number 21. To his
surprise this building turned out to be an ordinary house, presenting an
even greater problem than an impersonal stone palace. It was not even a
particularly large house, but a pathetic, rather dingy late Georgian
edifice with a small brass plate on the front door which announced
timidly to the curious that the "Brome Grotto and Museum" lay within.

Here was no magnificent _concierge_, no stream of people, no confusion
under cover of which they might secure their treasure and depart. Even
the door was latched.

Guffy rang the old-fashioned iron bell-pull and waited, his heart
thumping ridiculously. So great was his alarm that he almost turned and
fled when heavy footsteps on the tiles within warned them that someone
was coming to obey their summons. The next moment the door was opened
and the two nervous desperadoes were confronted by a somewhat disastrous
spectacle.

A man who had once been tall and broad, but who was now both bent and
shrunken, stood before them. He was clad in a shiny blue serge suit,
which had evidently been made for him in the days of his former pride,
and a dull red face, greasy eyes and dusty sandy hair completed his
unedifying appearance. He smiled at them hopefully.

"You've come to see the Grotto?" he enquired. "I shan't be half a
minute. I'm just getting a letter off to the post, so perhaps you'll go
round by yourselves. If you'll just step in I'll give you a ticket.
That'll be threepence each--thank you."

While he spoke he backed, waving his hands in front of him with a
curiously enticing movement, and they found themselves in a very
ordinary narrow hall adorned with a few cases of stuffed birds and some
packets of faded picture postcards spread out on a decrepit table. From
among these the unpleasant person produced a roll of tickets, two of
which he traded for a sixpence.

"Well, there you are," he said, pointing to a room on their left. "Go
through the museum, down the steps and across the garden to the grotto.
I'll just finish my letter and then I'll come and give you the history."

He had wandered off and disappeared through a small archway at the end
of the hall before either of them could speak. The closing of a door
seemed to jerk Guffy back to his senses.

"Perfectly absurd," he muttered. "I say, it wouldn't be difficult to
lift the thing completely and simply walk out with it. Hang it, we're
the only people in the place. I expect it's in here."

They turned into the room vaguely described as the museum to find
themselves confronted by a heterogeneous collection of curios. Here were
stamps, fossils, more stuffed birds, flints and Roman pottery, a large
boat in a bottle and a mummified two-headed calf. But of the Malplaquet
drum there was no sign at all.

They went on still further and discovered yet another room devoted to
the same distressing confusion. One or two pleasant pieces of china and
a vast amount of worthless material, an ancient boneshaker and a
miscellaneous collection of swords and early sporting guns were heaped
upon one another with the profusion of a second-hand shop.

A neatly printed notice directed them to the grotto, and they were about
to follow it hopefully when the person who admitted them returned.

"It's very dull," he remarked from the doorway. "Very dull, isn't it?
The exhibits are not good. Very ordinary. I don't suppose you thought
much of the grotto, either."

He had a sing-song voice with a suggestion of tears in it, and as he
stood looking at them a wave of hopeless melancholy seemed to flow over
the entire room. He did not give them time to speak but continued
unhurriedly, his voice plumbing even greater depths of wretchedness.

"I've been here thirty years. When old Dr. Poultry died and left this
house and collection to the town, I was appointed Curator. And I've been
Curator ever since. It's been growing duller and duller every year. I
don't know why I stay. It's a rotten life. People used to come once;
they don't come now. Hardly anyone ever comes. I don't blame them. It's
a rotten collection. You're tourists, I suppose, at a loose end? You
must have an old-fashioned guide book, too, because the newest ones
don't even mention this place. I can't complain: it's a terrible show.
Have you seen all you want to? No one stays here long."

He was backing out of the door with the same beckoning motion of his
long damp hands, and they were in serious danger of being hypnotized out
of the place by his very gloom. Farquharson nudged Guffy, who took the
plunge like a hero.

"Oh, so you're the Curator, are you?" he said, his voice becoming
unexpectedly severe in his efforts to sound confident. "Well, we've come
from the--er--Vicar of Pontisbright. I am one of his parishioners, you
see, and I've--h'm--lent my car for the purpose."

The man was looking at him blankly and he floundered on.

"I'm afraid I'm not making myself very clear," he said fiercely. "You
may have heard from Duncannon--hang it, man, it's about the drum."
Nervousness and a sense of guilt were making Guffy irritable and
inarticulate.

The faded sandy person in the doorway began to betray a flickering gleam
of intelligence.

"Oh, the drum," he said. "You've come from Pontisbright. It ought to
have gone back, I know that. It's been here for years. Nothing
remarkable about it. No history attached to it. Just an ordinary drum.
Very dull. Always in the way. Still, if you want it there's no reason
why you shouldn't have it. People are very funny over church property. I
suppose they're justified."

Guffy heaved a sigh of relief. It was going to be easy after all, in
spite of the hash he had made of his opening.

"Oh, well, that's very satisfactory," he said. "There was some doubt in
our minds as to whether you would be willing to part with it. After all,
it's hung in the church for a long time and we--h'm--people of
Pontisbright felt that it ought to go back in its proper place, don't
you know."

"Very natural, I suppose," said the Curator wretchedly, his sing-song
becoming well-nigh unbearable. "Very natural. It's a rotten drum. You
don't mind my saying so. Nothing of interest about it. It isn't even
dated, or autographed by Marlborough. It's just an ordinary drum. Have
it back in the church by all means. Sorry we've kept it so long. I'd
have sent it back before, but we're so poor. There's no money for
carriage."

This pronouncement, unflattering though it was, was definitely
encouraging, and Guffy and Farquharson already felt the glow of triumph.

"Oh, well, then, that's perfectly all right then," said Farquharson.
"Since we can have the drum, we've no complaint to make. Although I may
add," he went on with a brilliant effort at improvisation, "our last
parish council meeting was a somewhat fiery gathering. Now I imagine
there's a certain amount of formalities to attend to and then we can
call the matter settled."

"There's no formality," droned the deplorable person, now actually
hovering on the brink of tears. "It's all been done. Done this morning.
And I'm glad to get rid of the drum."

"It's all been done, has it?" Guffy's jaw fell open. "Oh, I see," he
went on with an effort. "When you got Mr. Glencannon's note I suppose
you made the necessary arrangements?"

"There weren't any arrangements. It was only the receipt, and I've got
that. Naturally I didn't part with the drum until I got the receipt."

The monotonous voice did not alter in tone in the least on these
momentous words, so that it took some seconds before their sense
actually percolated to his two visitors.

Guffy sat down heavily on a chair which was providentially behind him.
Farquharson, however, kept his head.

"Oh, it's gone already, has it?" he said, striving to make his voice
sound casual. "I see there's been some slight mistake. My friend here,
Mr. James, was under the impression that the Vicar wished him to call
for the drum as he was bringing his car into Norwich to-day."

The Curator looked at him stupidly. Then he laughed, showing an
unexpected array of craggy yellow teeth.

"Just like a vicar, isn't it?" he said, the gleam of cheerfulness dying
out instantly. "Just like a vicar. A lot of old women, I call them.
They're always bothering people to do things and then doing them
themselves."

Farquharson repressed a start of surprise.

"Did the Vicar call himself?" he asked faintly.

"No," said the Curator. "Not exactly. As he's so deaf he stayed in the
car. His wife came in. Hardly the sort of woman for a vicar's lady, I
thought. I hope I don't give offence. But it wasn't that way when I was
young. The vicar was expected to marry a woman of his own age, and she
was supposed to know how to behave." He paused and looked at them
dubiously. "I'm not being very gallant, am I?" he said. "I hope the lady
isn't a personal friend. One gets indiscreet at this job. Hardly ever
seeing a soul makes a difference. It wears down a man's spirit. It's all
so dull!"

"Dull!" said Guffy explosively, and controlled himself instantly,
granting the startled Curator a distrait smile.

"Dull," said the sandy man. "Dreadfully dull. Nothing ever happens here.
We've never even had a burglary. Nothing here worth stealing."

Farquharson, catching sight of Guffy's eye, received the impression that
the Curator's thirst for excitement was going to be gratified by a
murder, and he hastened to intervene.

"So you didn't like our Vicar's wife?" he said with forced joviality.
"Well, well, a lot of people don't. Er--which one was it?"

"Eh?" said the Curator.

"The old one or the young one?" floundered Farquharson. "I mean, the
mother or the wife?"

"Oh, the wife, I think," said the sandy person gloomily as his one
chance of a sensation was dashed before his eyes. "Dyed red hair very
unsuitable with her old-fashioned clothes. I haven't seen a
leg-of-mutton sleeve since my wife left me. Oh, I am being indiscreet! I
must apologize. But it's so dull. I haven't had a chat with anyone for
so long."

"Dyed hair and leg-of-mutton sleeves?" said Guffy, who had apparently
given up any idea of playing his part.

"It must have been the old lady," said Farquharson hastily. "Or his
sister, perhaps."

"No, it was Mrs. Campion," said the Curator. "Mrs. Albert Campion. She
signed the receipt and gave me twopence for the stamp. No money passed,
but it seems to make it legal. Oh, well, I'm sorry you've had your
journey for nothing, but it was nice to have someone to talk to. You'll
find the drum in the church, I expect, when you get back, if Mrs.
Campion got it safely home. She said she had a new car, and the old
Vicar by her side didn't look too grand. But then these country vicars
never do. They don't see enough of life, and so they get narrow-minded
and dull."

His voice rose to a passionate wail of misery on the final word and he
snuffed at a none too clean handkerchief.

"The Vicar," said Farquharson in a desperate effort to identify their
precursor, "is quite an athlete in his way."

"Well, he didn't look it," said the Curator. "Bald as an egg, and deaf
as the proverbial coot, according to his wife."

It was in that instant that inspiration came to both Guffy and
Farquharson. For a moment they stood looking at their informant with
glazed eyes. Then Guffy rose to his feet. He seized the astonished
official by one damp, limp hand, shook it firmly like a man
accomplishing some unpleasant duty, and walked out of the house.

Farquharson glanced after him and then bent confidentially towards the
bewildered museum keeper.

"Mr. Walker is a little put out," he said. "You see, the Vicar
especially requested him to call in here. There was a lot of feeling
about it at the parish council meeting."

"I can understand it," said the Curator wretchedly. "But I thought you
said his name was James?"

"Whose?" said Farquharson.

"Your friend who's just gone out, banging the door and raising the
dust."

"So it is," agreed Farquharson rather stiffly. "James Walker."

"Oh, I see." The Curator seemed saddened by the news. "Well, good-bye.
Come again and I'll show you the grotto. But you won't like it. It's a
rotten show. As I tell the executors, it's dull."

Farquharson fled. Guffy was waiting for him, the engine running. He let
in the clutch the moment the other man was in the car. When they got to
the end of the street he turned.

"Amanda!" he said thickly.

"Amanda," echoed Farquharson. "And, God bless my soul, Scatty Williams."




CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE STRICKEN DRUM


The sunny afternoon air was warm and pleasant as Hal leant over the
half-door of the mill and gazed with thoughtful unseeing eyes into the
clear water of the race, shooting out over the green stones towards the
narrow bridge which marked the end of the Fitton territory. Behind him
the giant wheel was turning slowly and its gentle creak could be heard
behind the whine of Amanda's dynamo.

On the cobbled yard in front of him stood a heap of packing cases,
deposited there not half an hour before by a lorry from Ipswich. Hal had
so far demeaned himself as to wander over and inspect the labels. They
bore the name of a big electrical firm, and he had returned lowering to
his position to await Amanda.

He was contemplating the complete subjection of Amanda, and while he was
planning exactly what he would say and what she would reply--a natural
but singularly useless proceeding at the best of times--he became aware
of Dr. Galley's rotund figure striding down the lane. Having assured
himself that the doctor had not already seen him, Hal, who did not feel
like general conversation, withdrew a pace or two into the shadow.

Dr. Galley bounded forward, his peculiar springing gait creating the
illusion that he bounced. Hal watched him idly. When he reached the
front door, instead of pulling the bell he peered about him furtively,
and then, drawing something from an inner pocket, he stretched up to his
fullest height and thrust the tiny object into a crack in the plaster
above the lintel.

Hal took a step forward in his surprise at these extraordinary antics,
and now the little doctor, glancing over his shoulder, caught sight of
him. He thrust his hands hastily behind his back, puffed out his chest
and sauntered over towards the mill with elaborate carelessness.

"Hallo, my boy," he bellowed as soon as he was within speaking distance.
"Glad to find you. I was coming down to see you all," he went on as he
came up to shake hands over the half-door. "I really ought to see you
all together. You must forgive me if I sound mysterious, but I feel that
I've made a discovery, and I know you will all excuse me if I make a
little occasion out of the telling."

There was no hint of jocularity in his tone. On the contrary, he spoke
with a profound seriousness which Hal found embarrassing.

"I want you all to come up to my house to-morrow night," the doctor
continued, permitting a hint of his excitement to creep into his voice.
"When I say 'all,' I mean you, your sisters, and that man Randall, if
he's still here. He seemed a nice person, didn't you think, Hal?"

The boy looked at the old man sharply. Dr. Galley's manner was always
strange, but to-day there was something definitely odd about it. His
round eyes seemed wider than usual, his plump face less rosy.

"You like the man Randall?" the doctor continued with such earnestness
that it put the question quite outside the range of casual interest. "I
mean, you think he's an honest, sober, decent, clean-living man?"

"Oh, yes, I think so, sir," said Hal, rather taken aback by this trend
in the conversation.

"Splendid," said the doctor fervently. "Splendid. Just the man. Well,
I'm afraid I can't tell you much about it now. I must go in to see your
sisters and your aunt. I suppose she ought to come to-morrow. It's going
to be a great day for you, my boy, a great day. I want you all to be up
at my house at half-past six. It's an unconventional hour, but it's the
best time for me. You wouldn't fail me, would you? You'd regret it if
you did."

"I'm sure we'd like to come, sir," said Hal dubiously. "Of course. Thank
you very much. The only thing is that we're tremendously busy down here
just now and--"

"Oh, you'd regret it all your life if you didn't come, Hal." The little
man bent forward as he spoke. "Look here, I'll tell you this much. Last
night I was rummaging in my library when I picked up an old volume of
_Catullus_. The cover slipped off and I found that it had been made with
pockets in the binding." He lowered his voice mysteriously. "In one of
the pockets I found a document written by my great-uncle. He was the
incumbent here in Lady Josephine's time, you remember. And I found
another thing: a page torn out of the church register of the period.
D'you realize what that means?"

Hal stared at him. "Do you mean that you've found proof of the marriage
between Mary Fitton and Hal Pontisbright?"

The old man put up his hand. "Not another word until to-morrow night.
It's my discovery and I want it to be my party. You'll come now, won't
you?"

"Rather! Of course. I say this is wonderful of you, Dr. Galley."

The old man regarded him steadily. "I can show you greater wonders than
that, my boy," he said solemnly. "Don't come into the house with me. I
think I'll tell your aunt and your sisters alone, if you don't mind. I
won't give any more away than I've told you. I want to keep it for a
real surprise. I shall see you at half-past six, then, my boy. Half-past
six to-morrow night. Oh--and, Hal, you'll forgive me for saying this,
but it's very important. Could you--er--put on completely clean
clothes?"

The boy stared at him, and the old man hurried on.

"I know it sounds peculiar to you, but put it down to an old man's fad.
Completely clean clothes, all of you."

He hurried off before the boy had time to say anything further, and Hal
looked after him in astonishment. He watched the little man until he
disappeared into the house, and then relapsed into his old position
leaning over the half-door. His natural impulse was to follow the doctor
to see if he could glean any more information on this exciting theme,
but he was an obstinate soul and he had made up his mind to wait for
Amanda.

He ceased to think about his sister, however, for Dr. Galley's hints had
raised all sorts of possibilities, if the missing page from the church
register had really been found, and Mary Fitton's marriage could be
proved, then his own claim to the Pontisbright fortune and titles could
hardly be disputed.

This disturbing thought was followed by the recollection of his father's
disastrous attempt to fight the claim and the penury to which it had
reduced his children. The proof was not much use without money, Hal
reflected gloomily, and the subject of money brought him back naturally
enough to Amanda.

However, he completely forgot to walk over to the door and discover what
Dr. Galley had hidden so carefully above the lintel. His exasperation
with Amanda had just been aroused again when she appeared, seated at the
wheel of a two-year-old Morris Cowley which shot dangerously down the
lane, escaped the mill-race by inches, and pulled up with a shriek of
brakes as its inexpert driver, flushed but triumphant, brought it to a
standstill.

She waved airily to her brother and stepped out with conscious pride.

"Hullo," she said. "If the Quinney children came down for their battery
I hope you didn't give it to them. It isn't nearly done. I didn't put it
on until this morning. I know you're impressed, but don't stand there
gaping at me. Get the garage open and I'll see if I can steer this bus
in."

Hal felt that this was hardly the opening for the tremendous chastening
which Amanda was due to receive. He was also extremely interested in the
first petrol engine to be owned by the Fitton family, and it annoyed him
to find that his desire to examine it was becoming overwhelmingly
strong. He let himself out of the mill and walked towards the car with
as much dignity as he could muster.

"I say, you can't see it here," said Amanda hastily before he was within
six feet of her. "Get the garage open and I'll show it to you in there.
Scatty is bringing the brougham from Sweethearting. I dropped him there.
Do you think we shall be able to get them both in?"

"Now look here, Amanda." Hal strove to make his tone authoritative
rather than querulous. "You've got to explain! You're disgracing the
whole family; putting us all in an awkward position. And I, for one, am
not standing it. Leave that smelly little sardine tin alone and come
into the house, and let's have a full explanation. Fortunately our
guests are out of the way, and if you insist on making a fuss it won't
matter."

"It isn't a smelly little sardine tin," said his sister, touched on the
raw. "The exhaust smells a little, but that's nothing. Get that door
open or I'll run over you. I did fifty coming home."

Hal strode forward and placed his hand on the side of the car as though
he would hold it down by main force if necessary. As he had feared,
Amanda was going to be difficult.

"Before this car goes into our coach-house," he said firmly, "I want to
know where you got the money to buy it."

He stopped abruptly, his eyes resting on a bundle lying on the back
seat.

Amanda saw his changing expression and sprang forward, but she was too
late. Hal whipped off the covering and there lay exposed in fine clear
sunlight the Pontisbright Malplaquet drum.

It was a side drum, a little longer than the pattern now in use, but its
dark blue sides were still gay with a faded crest, and worn white cords
long since devoid of pipe-clay hung gallantly from the under-hoop.

The two faced each other across the car, the drum between them. Amanda
was scarlet and inclined to be truculent, while Hal was pale with rage
and shame. Slowly he stepped down off the running board and went round
to his sister. Amanda did not follow his intentions, so that when he
came up behind her and jerked her wrists together behind her back she
was taken completely off her guard.

As soon as he began to march her into the mill, however, she protested
violently. But he was angry and in no mood for half measures.

"I'm so furious with you, Amanda," he said, speaking like a child
through clenched teeth, "that I simply can't trust myself not to beat
you up. I'm going to lock you in the granary to cool your heels for a
bit, until I decide what's best to be done with you."

Amanda knew when she was beaten. Early tussles with Hal had proved to
her beyond doubt that he was by far the stronger. She kept her dignity,
however, as she permitted him to guide her into the concrete-lined
chamber on the ground floor of the mill, whose only exits were a heavy
oak door which bolted on the outside and a small grated window high up
in the wall.

The sense of satisfaction as he slammed the door to and thrust the bolt
home was the sweetest balm his outraged sensibilities had received in
the whole afternoon. He hurried back to the car and, having made sure
that he was not overlooked, he rewrapped the drum in its covering, and,
armed with the bundle, crept into the house by the side door and up the
back stairs to his bedroom.

This room, situated under the roof on the second floor, ran the whole
depth of the house on the eastern side, and from its narrow casement
window he had a clear view of the yard and the approaching lane. He set
the drum down upon the bed and stood for some time looking at it, a
sense of excitement tightening his heart.

It was a beautiful romantic toy, so bravely coloured, so gallantly
braced. The belt hook was still shiny, and with pardonable vanity he was
constrained to hitch it clumsily to his belt and peer at himself in the
mirror. He tapped it gently with his knuckles, and the hollow sound was
comforting, but it did not produce any startling or untoward results.

He put his head out of the door and listened. Mary and Aunt Hatt, he
guessed, were still in the drawing-room with Dr. Galley, and he went
softly back into the room and rummaged among the odds and ends in a
drawer of his dressing-table until he found an old ivory ruler. Armed
with this, he advanced upon the drum and beat it vigorously.

The head was loose and the sound buzzed hollowly round the room.

He gave it up. In view of Amanda's behaviour, he reflected, the only
thing he could do was to hand over the trophy untouched as soon as the
others returned. He wandered over to the window and looked down, to be
rewarded by the sight of Scatty Williams returning with the ancient
brougham. He shouted down to him: "Don't go into the mill, Scatty. As
soon as you've put that away you might trundle Miss Amanda's new car in
after it. Then go round to the kitchen and stay there."

The old man touched his hat without looking up and set about the work
obediently.

Hal continued to lean out of the window. He saw Dr. Galley depart, and
some ten minutes later Aunt Hatt set out, a shallow basket containing
white flowers on her arm. He guessed she was going up to the church. On
Friday evenings Miss Huntingforest made it her business to attend to the
altar vases, and she went off now looking very businesslike in her
tweeds, a stout ash-plant held firmly in her gloved hand.

From where he stood Hal had a wide view of the surrounding country. He
could see Lugg fishing placidly in the millpool. Only Mary was
unaccounted for, and he guessed that she was in the kitchen preparing
Scatty's tea.

Once a light sound from the mill startled him and he turned to look at
the gaunt white building. The skylight in the room where the oak was
kept was shut, he noticed, and it puzzled him, for he could have sworn
that it had been open a moment before. Still since there was no one
there to close the window, he dismissed the matter from his mind.

He was still keeping vigil when the others returned. He caught sight of
their disconsolate faces as they clambered out of the Lagonda. He
glanced behind him. The drum was still lying on the bed, and, bursting
with excitement, he hurried down the back stairs and into the hall where
they were standing round the table.

Guffy held a letter in his hand. It had come by the second post, and had
been lying there ever since twelve o'clock. He glanced up from the
document as Hal appeared.

"Where's Amanda?" he demanded sternly.

"Yes," put in Farquharson. "I'm afraid we want an interview with her
rather badly."

"I know," said Hal hastily. "I say, I'm awfully sorry this has happened.
She's gone completely off her head, of course. But don't imagine I'm
standing for it. I've locked her up. She's in the granary, and you can
deal with her yourselves afterwards. But first of all you've got to come
upstairs with me. Don't you see? I--I've got it!"

"The drum?" enquired Guffy eagerly as they crowded round him.

Hal nodded. "I've got it. It's upstairs on my bed. I say, I've given it
a tap or two, but nothing's happened."

Guffy's grip bit into the boy's shoulder. "That's great. I've got a
letter here from Professor Kirk, our expert." He put the sheet of paper
on the table. "Look, here you are. Here's the only paragraph that
matters. 'In my opinion the word stricken when used in reference to the
Malplaquet drum probably means broken or riven. I should suggest that
when you acquire the trophy you should bring it to London for expert
examination.'"

"Good heavens, let's get our hands on the thing!" said Eager-Wright.
"Where is it, Hal?"

The boy led them up the main staircase triumphantly and into the
bedroom, which he had left barely five minutes before.

"I couldn't lock the door," he explained, "because there isn't a key.
And, anyway, I knew where everyone in the house was. Look, there it is."

He pointed to the blue-and-white cylinder which still lay upon the bed.
They hurried forward, and Guffy was the first to emit an exclamation
which sent a chill of alarm down Hal's spine.

"Look here," he said, "when did this happen?"

The boy stood staring down helpless at the sight which confronted him.
Although the Malplaquet drum remained where he had left it, in his
absence the cords had been slashed through, and the head had been
removed. Its discarded hoop lay loose upon the coverlet.

The boy stared at his friends, scarlet-faced and stammering.

"It wasn't like this when I came down five minutes ago," he ejaculated.
"And there was no one in this part of the house. Aunt Hatt has gone out,
Scatty and Mary are in the kitchen, Lugg's fishing. Amanda's locked up
in the granary, bolted on the outside--" He broke off helplessly.

From the yard below came the sharp, ominous sound of splitting wood.
They crowded to the window and looked out. Amanda stood on the cobbles,
hammer and chisel in hand. With the calm of one setting out on a
pleasant but arduous task, she was breaking open the largest of the
three cases.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BEFORE THE STORM


Guffy Randall lay on his back, and stared at the fluted beam which
sprawled across the bedroom ceiling. It was just dawn. Through the
casement on his right he could see the tops of the elms in the meadow
gilded with morning light, but the beauties of Pontisbright held no
longer any attraction for him. He was contemplating his failure to
complete the task Campion had left undone. Even now he could not trust
himself to think about the Hereditary Paladin. His somewhat sentimental
heart had been wrung by his old friend's desertion. His own position at
the moment kept him occupied, however, and as he lay gloomily regarding
the ceiling it re-occurred to him that things were bad.

He heaved over on to his side. There was Amanda, for one thing. Whom was
she working for? And the odd little doctor with his fishy invitation and
crazy astrological talk. There was the terrorized village, the vanishing
of Widow's Peak, and the mysterious raid of the night before, which had
ended more mysteriously still.

He had been inclined to welcome the raid. After all, when it came to a
straight fight he was up against something to combat which he could at
least lend a hand. But even that adventure had proved unsatisfactory.
The only comforting thing it had shown was the fact that wherever the
Averna proofs might be, they were not then in alien hands.

He sat up in bed and clasped his knees. After the disappearance of the
drumhead on the previous evening he had been so sure on this point,
especially when an exhaustive search of the house and mill had revealed
nothing.

Amanda, of course, had hardly been helpful. Her airy account of walking
out of the granary on discovering that the door had been unbolted had
not been convincing, and her absorption in her new radio apparatus had
proved frankly exasperating. Even the good-natured Eager-Wright was
finding it hard to champion her.

With the end of the search had come the certainty that the underhead had
vanished, and whatever the drum might have contained was in enemy hands.
Complete failure had seemed obvious until Aunt Hatt had returned from
the church with her extraordinary tale of the camp on the heath.

In the chill morning light, Guffy turned the story over in his mind. A
party of hikers, quite twenty of them the good lady was convinced, had
descended upon the village, and put up in tents on the heath. Mrs. Bull,
who had been distributing hassocks in the church at the same time as
Aunt Hatt had been attending to the flowers, had volunteered the
information that they were the same archaeological students that her
husband had refused to accommodate the day before. Aunt Hatt, her
suspicions aroused, had walked boldly home across the heath and taken in
as much of the scene as her sharp eyes could see of the strangers.

She had come back with the information that they were criminals, every
man of them: most suspicious.

Guffy and Eager-Wright had walked down to the village later in the
evening, ostensibly to visit the "Gauntlett," but they had seen nothing
of the archaeologists save the little white tents grouped together like
the sails of a schooner on the dark sea of the heath.

Guffy stirred restlessly. The faint air of inaction and the impression
that they were waiting for some storm to break he found unnerving.
Finally, he rose to lean out of the window and inspect the morning. It
was barely five o'clock. A ground mist levelled the contours of the
valley, although he could just see the course of the narrow river
winding down through the low meadows on the southern side of the heath,
picked out by the high brambles and pollard willows which lined its
banks, and grew so thickly that in most places the stream was obscured.

The rest of the household still appeared to be asleep, and he returned
to his bed cursing himself for his helplessness.

Had he stayed at the window a moment or so longer, the events of the day
might have been considerably precipitated, for almost at the instant
that he threw himself disconsolately onto his bed the coach-house doors
in the yard below were swung cautiously open, and the nose of Amanda's
new Morris emerged.

Scatty Williams sat at the wheel while Lugg, exerting his full strength
for one of the rare times in his life, pushed the car silently into the
yard. Scatty dismounted and together they disappeared into the mill, to
return some minutes later, bearing most of Amanda's new radio equipment
and a coil of rope. These were loaded carefully into the back of the
car, and the vehicle was then steered silently down the lane.

Some minutes later, when the two conspirators judged they were out of
earshot, they started the engine and drove off, turning down the lower
road to avoid the heath.

For some hours after this secret departure the house and mill were
perfectly silent. Even the water in the race was barely flowing, and
behind the shuts the sluggish river mounted slowly.

As with many country mills where the local river boards are lax, there
was not sufficient water power to move the wheel at all times, so that
Amanda was accustomed to raise the shuts before a bout of work in order
that the necessary force could accumulate for her purpose. It seemed
that she had a special programme on hand to-day.

At seven o'clock Mary came down and the kitchen quarters sprang to life,
and it was to the pleasant clatter of delf and the sizzle of bacon that
Guffy arose and went down, missing for the second time that day a
phenomenon which might have given him food for thought.

He had just passed the landing window when a dishevelled figure barely
recognizable as Amanda crept out from among some shrubs in the garden
and sprinted the last few steps to the side door. She slipped into the
house and gained her own room without being seen. Her costume, which
consisted of a bathing dress and a pair of ragged flannel trousers
lifted from Hal's cupboard, was covered with green lichen, and her hair
was wild and full of twigs. But there was a gleam of triumph in her eyes
and her cheeks were red with excitement.

She washed and changed with the speed of a revue star, and trotted
downstairs, demure and downy, to find Hal and Guffy conferring in the
hall. Oblivious of the thought that they might not want her assistance,
she joined them, and peered over her brother's shoulder at the note he
held.

The boy glanced at Guffy enquiringly and, receiving his shrug of
acquiescence, handed her the paper.

"Found on Lugg's pillow this morning," he said. "His bed hasn't been
slept in either, or else he made it before he went."

Amanda read the message aloud. "To whom it may concern. I am bunging
off. Yours respectfully, Magersfontein Lugg."

"Poor dear," said Amanda.

"Poor dear, my foot!" said Hal contemptuously. "Clearing out just when
things are getting exciting. Look here, Amanda, your behaviour up till
now has been very bad, but we're going to give you one more chance.
We've been talking to the postman this morning, and he tells us that
these so-called hikers on the heath have got five fast cars and about a
dozen motor-bikes in that white barn on the Sweethearting Road. He's
seen 'em."

As Amanda did not seem particularly impressed, he went on:

"There's more to it than that. When Perry went round with the letters he
was naturally curious, so he rode over the heath quite near the tents,
and he says he saw a man sitting outside one of them cleaning a
revolver. Now what do you say? Archaeologists don't carry guns in
England."

"Who said they were archaeologists? Come in to breakfast. By the way,
Aunt Hatt says old Galley wants everyone to put on clean linen to go to
his party. I hope you remembered this morning."

It was not until noon, and the heat which the early mist had promised
had become a sweltering reality, boding thunder to come, that the second
surprise of that amazing day burst upon the people of the mill.

Guffy was pacing up and down the dining-room in an agony of indecision,
struggling with the premonition that something was about to happen, and
the sober reflection that hardly anything else could when the car
containing a self-conscious policeman and a bluff but didactic inspector
arrived.

Mary, who had spent the morning devoted to household affairs with the
sweet womanly abstraction which Mr. Randall admired, was the first to
interview them. She came bursting into the dining-room a few minutes
later, her face pale and her eyes starting.

"It's the police from Ipswich. They want Farquharson and Eager-Wright."

The two young men, who had been lounging in the window-seat, sprang up
in astonishment and, followed by Guffy, clucking and anxious as a hen
with a brood, hurried into the hall. Hal was already there pressing,
with unerring instinct, beer on the perspiring but adamant inspector.

Amanda, too, had lounged over from the mill, and now stood draped
against the doorpost, surveying the scene with calm, childlike eyes.

"Mr. Jonathan Eager-Wright?" enquired the inspector, consulting his
notebook, as the young men appeared.

Eager-Wright nodded. "Anything I can do?"

The official regarded him mournfully. "Yes, sir," he said. "Just stand
on one side, will you? That's right. Now, Mr. Richard Montgomery
Farquharson? Oh, that's you, sir, is it? Well, Jonathan Eager-Wright and
Richard Montgomery Farquharson, I arrest you both and severally on a
joint charge of attempting to obtain under false pretences valuable
exhibits from the Brome House Museum, Norwich, on Friday, the 3rd last.
I have to warn you that anything you may say will be taken down as
evidence against you. Now, gentlemen, I must ask you to come with me.
Here are the warrants if you'd care to see them."

Guffy was the first to break the frozen silence which followed this
announcement.

"Really!" he exploded. "I say, Inspector, this is ridiculous. In the
first place Eager-Wright never went near the place, and..."

He broke off in some confusion as he caught Farquharson's startled
glance.

"Anyhow, it's absurd," he finished lamely.

The inspector thrust his notebook back into his coat-tails and sighed.

"If you've anything to say, sir, germane to the issue as they say, then
you come back to the station and say it there. I'm sorry, but I must
take these gentlemen along."

"I'll certainly come." Guffy was crimson with indignation and guilty
alarm. "I'll phone my friend the County Commissioner, too. This is
damnable, officer, frankly damnable." He advanced upon his hat on the
stand as if it had been an enemy, and Amanda leapt forward.

"Don't leave us," she whispered, with just enough dramatic effect to
flatter Mr. Randall's mood. "Don't forget we haven't even got Lugg now."

Guffy stopped in his tracks, and Farquharson, who had heard the appeal,
spoke hastily.

"She's quite right, Randall. You can't leave the house. Don't worry, my
dear old boy. We'll be back during the day. These fellows only want a
satisfactory explanation. Don't you, Inspector?" he added, turning the
full force of his lazy, charming smile on the policeman.

"I'm sure I hope you'll be able to give one, sir," said that worthy
without much enthusiasm, while his attendant sprite in the helmet
smirked irritatingly.

Eager-Wright joined in the discussion. "We're all right, Guffy," he
said. "I'll phone my old boy if necessary. Don't get alarmed. You hold
the fort until we return--probably about tea-time. I hope nothing
exciting happens until we do get back."

"You come along, my lad," said the inspector, suddenly growing tired of
the conversation. "You'll get all the excitement you want."

A stricken group stood in the doorway and watched the departure of the
police car. Eager-Wright and Farquharson were wedged in the back; the
plump inspector between them.

Guffy passed a trembling hand over his brow. A long line of law-abiding
squires had produced in him a subconscious horror of the police and
their ways which no hardened criminal could equal.

"I ought to go and phone about those fellows," he said. "Where's the
nearest place?"

"Sweethearting," said Amanda promptly. "And I don't think you ought to
leave Mary and Aunt Hatt alone. After all, Hal and I aren't much good in
a scrap. It was all right yesterday when we had Lugg and no one was
about, but now all those people have arrived on the heath."

She broke off. Mary frowned at her.

"Nonsense. We're perfectly all right," she said. "Amanda, you're simply
behaving ridiculously."

Guffy became thoughtful, and his round, good-natured face was troubled.

"She's right," he said at last. "Of course, I must stay here. Those
fellows can look after themselves. I imagine it's only a case of a phone
call or two, establishing identity or arranging bail. It's infernally
awkward, however. I mean to say, in a sense Farquharson and I are
guilty. I wonder how they got hold of our names?"

No one volunteered any reply to this problem, but Mary sniffed the air
suspiciously.

"My cakes," she said. "They're in the oven."

"I--er--I'll come and help you," Guffy offered, following her
precipitate flight into the kitchen. "It may clear the air a bit," he
added inanely.

Hal and Amanda exchanged glances and it seemed to Hal that his sister
was definitely more amenable. The sudden depletion in their numbers made
for friendliness.

"Come over to the mill," she suggested. "I've something to show you."

He followed her dubiously. "I didn't smell burning," he said. "Did you?"

"No," said Amanda. "It was camphor. The policemen's clothes, I think.
Didn't you notice something about those men?"

"What?" he enquired cautiously

"That they weren't real policemen, of course," said his sister.

"Not real...?" Hal stared at her, his jaw falling open. "But why
didn't you say? We might have stopped them. Good Lord, Amanda, why on
earth didn't you mention it?"

"Because," she said darkly. "I had my reasons. Come along and I'll tell
you."




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE CROWN


"What do you think of it?" enquired Amanda.

Her brother, who was squatting among the reeds that fringed the
millpool, peered down at the boat hidden so cunningly among the bushes
before replying.

"It's not at all bad," he admitted. "Who fixed it up?"

"Scatty and I. It's all part of the scheme. I'm afraid you've got to
trust me for an hour or two longer, though."

"I haven't trusted you for a minute yet," he observed drily, his eyes
still fixed upon the boat.

In many ways it was an extraordinary craft. In foundation it consisted
of the old ferry punt in which Amanda and Scatty got about in flood
time, but its appearance had been considerably changed by a
superstructure of light leafy branches and gorse, so that its real
character was completely hidden, and while there was sufficient room for
four or five people to crouch inside, to the casual observer it
resembled nothing so much as a floating bush or a tangle of brushwood
which had come adrift from some pile on the bank.

Amanda pointed downstream to the leafy tunnel ahead.

"In the dusk," she said softly, "no one from the road would notice that
going down, would they? Once I lower the shuts there'll be enough water
to send us downstream with a rush."

The boy straightened himself, and eyed her dubiously.

"I hope for your sake that you're not playing the fool, Amanda," he
said.

"I'm not, honestly I'm not," she assured him earnestly. "I brought you
round here to show you this because I may have to ask you to take it
down to Sweethearting on your own. You could, couldn't you?"

"Naturally," he said. "A good deal better than you could, I should
think."

"That's what I thought," said Amanda with unexpected humility.

Hal was about to enquire further, but he was interrupted. At that moment
there sounded clearly and sharply from the other side of the mill the
unmistakable crack of a revolver.

The two young people exchanged sharp, startled glances, and then the boy
started off across the meadow to the footbridge, Amanda at his heels. As
they reached the yard they heard another shot somewhere in the house,
and Aunt Hatt screamed.

They hurried into the hall at the same moment as the good lady herself
appeared at the head of the stairs. She was only partially clad, and a
dressing jacket was clutched round her shoulder.

Mary and Guffy emerged from the kitchen a moment later, and Aunt Hatt
screamed again.

"Oh, it's you two, is it?" she said with relief as she peered down into
the darkness of the hall. "Where's the burglar? Be careful, he's got a
revolver."

"What burglar, darling?" Mary stepped forward. "What's happened?"

"The burglar was in my bedroom. He stole my garnet necklace," said Aunt
Hatt with some asperity. "It wasn't of any value, but I had a
sentimental regard for it. It belonged to my mother. I'd just set out my
things on the bed for the party and I stepped into my clothes closet for
my black skirt, when I heard a sound in the room behind me. I came out
and there he was, a perfectly strange man in my room, rummaging among
the things on my dresser. He snatched the garnet necklace out of my
trinket case--it only came back yesterday after having a new clasp--the
necklace, I mean, not the box."

"What happened to the man?"

"He climbed out of the window on to that ledge above the coach-house
roof." Aunt Hatt was more outraged than frightened and her kindly grey
eyes flashed angrily. "I shouted at him," she said. "And he had the
impudence to point a gun at me. I stepped back from the window, a little
alarmed, I suppose, and the next thing I heard was firing. Oh, listen!
What was that?"

Her last words ended on a little squeak of alarm as a third shot
shattered the drowsy silence of the mill. Before anyone could speak,
there was another report, and another, and another, until it sounded as
though there was a pitched battle in the yard.

Guffy was making for the scene of action, with Mary clinging to his arm
to prevent him, when the patch of brilliant sunshine framed by the
doorway was obscured by the startling apparition of a strange gunman
backing into its shelter. He was firing at some assailant hitherto
unseen, and appeared to be a stranger to them all, a little thickset man
with a roll of red fat between his coat collar and his cap.

Guffy disengaged himself from Mary's restraining hold, and took a flying
leap onto the intruder's back, pinioning his arms to his sides with the
grip of a bear. The man swore viciously, and struggled to free himself,
but Hal stepped forward and snatched the gun from his hand.

"Here, let me go, can't yer?" said their captive, revealing an
unexpectedly squeaky voice. "Don't hold me in the doorway. There's a
female lunatic out there with a gun."

"Hold him!" shouted Amanda. "Hold him!"

"That's the man." Aunt Hatt advanced menacingly upon the now helpless
captive. "That's the man who took my garnet necklace. Make him give it
back."

"Look out!" bellowed the stranger, suddenly doubling up as footsteps
sounded on the stones without. "Here she comes. She's a homicidal
maniac, I tell yer."

The whole struggling group fell back a pace or two as once again the
patch of sunlight vanished, to give place to an extraordinary individual
who, revolver in hand, now appeared upon the threshold. It was a gaunt
figure clad in a long dark skirt and skimpy blouse, and upon its head an
old felt hat was unbecomingly tied with what appeared to be a bootlace.
It stood for a moment in the doorway while they gasped at it, and then
an unmistakable, slightly pedantic voice said clearly: "She walks in
beauty like the night. I say, hang on to that fellow. Hysterical little
soul, isn't he? He's blown a most unbecoming hole through my new blue
bonnet."

"Campion!" said Guffy in a strangled voice. "Well, I'm damned!"

"Not necessarily," said the new-comer affably. "By the way, before we
get chatty, let's tie this fellow up. Amanda, the clothes line."

Amanda was the only one of the party who was not temporarily dazed by
this unexpected development, and she trotted out into the kitchen
obediently.

Ten minutes later the man who had stolen Aunt Hatt's garnet necklace in
what at first sight appeared an unnecessarily dramatic fashion, was
reposing safely under the dining-room table, neatly trussed.

The party then adjourned to the cool of the hall once more. Guffy was
shaken with a mixture of amazement and delight, and an overwhelming
sense of relief. No restoration monarchist could have been more
delighted at the return of his prince and leader than this foolish, but
stout-hearted Grand Vizier of Averna to see the Hereditary Paladin once
again.

Mr. Campion sat down on the stairs where he was in the shadow and out of
sight of the doorway, while they gathered round him, curious and as yet
a little incredulous.

"Mr. Campion, you're wearing my old clothes."

Aunt Hatt peered at the skirt as she spoke.

"My landlady gave them to me," said Campion, casually indicating Amanda.
"When I presented myself at her mill some days ago I explained my desire
to get about unnoticed in the dusk, and she very obligingly obtained
these garments to effect my disguise."

Guffy gaped at him. "Then you never boarded the _Marquisita_?" he said.
"I knew there was something fishy about that letter."

The pale young man, looking somehow less foolish without his spectacles,
had the grace to appear penitent.

"I admit my letter was a little misleading," he said. "As a matter of
fact that whole incident was rather amusing. The engaging Mr. Parrott
and I came to a little agreement." As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed
upon Guffy's face as though he were anxious to explain and to apologize.

"I had the toothache, you see," he went on airily, "and we called in at
my flat for a scarf and a coat. Unknown to poor old Parrott (two t's, he
tells me--that's to make it clear that he's nothing to do with the other
branch of the family) my friend McCaffy was waiting for me in the
cupboard wearing my second-best blue suit. I had the best one on, you
see. I don't know if you're following all this, but there really isn't
time to go into it very fully. Poor old McCaffy's a delightful soul, on
for absolutely anything and one of the very best. He's always hard up,
poor fellow, and occasionally I'm able to put a job in his way. This was
one of them. You see, unfortunately for him he resembles me
extraordinarily, except in the lower part of the face. To make the
likeness more harmful he's made a study of my more revolting mannerisms,
and if he can only wrap up his mouth and his chin he can pass very
easily for me. Well--" he spread out his hands--"during the business
interview I had with Pop Savanake, or whatever his friends call him, I
rang up McCaffy, who was sitting in the outer office of my insurance
brokers by appointment in case my interview turned out as I thought it
might. As soon as he got my clever message, which was ostensibly to my
broker, he handed on as much of it as was good for him to the fellow who
does my business, and then doubled round to wait for me in the clothes
cupboard. The rest was childish but so pretty. I went into the cupboard
with a marble in my cheek and a hanky over it and McCaffy came out with
a muffler round his face. He went off with Mr. Parrott for a nice sea
voyage, with nothing but his passage money home at the end of it, for on
examining the sealed orders handed to me by the captain of industry, he
discovered them to contain just that. I hung about until it got dark,
motor-cycled down to Sweethearting and walked the rest of the way over
the fields in the dawn without seeing a soul. Then I burgled the mill
and left the rest to Amanda, for whose creditable performance she will
be mentioned in my will. By the way, remind me, Amanda, when the fun is
over: I must wire McCaffy his passage money to Rio."

Guffy shook his head. "If you've been in the mill the entire time," he
said, "why on earth you chose to hide there, frightening the lives out
of us and worrying us to death, I can't possibly imagine."

Mr. Campion's pale, foolish face became regretful. "I'm sorry about
that," he said. "But what else could I possibly do? I've had to keep you
in the dark because it was absolutely necessary for you all to behave
exactly as if I had deserted you. You see, in this instance it really is
a case of 'spies everywhere.' The place is swarming with them."

Guffy was still dubious. His leisurely mind was recalling the incidents
of the past few days.

"Then you explain Amanda's behaviour," he said. "The three
hundred-pounds--the releasing of Miss Huntingforest after the raid--the
new car. I suppose you engineered all that?"

Mr. Campion regarded his friend and the seriousness in his face was so
unlike him that Guffy was silenced altogether.

"The exciting relation of my astounding adventures while in hiding I
shall reserve for the club banquet," Campion continued. "As it is, my
appearance at this particular juncture is an accident. But for the
unforeseen intrusion of our friend in the next room you would have
remained in ignorance of my duplicity until this evening. So, my dear
old birds, do carry on as usual. Everything depends on that."

"You say 'everything,'" said Guffy gloomily. "Everything's over. Our
failure is complete and utter."

"Failure?" exclaimed the Hereditary Paladin with spirit. "My poor dear
imbecile friend, if we can screw our courage to the sticking point, as
we say on the halls, we shall make good--succeed--win through--make the
bell ring and get our money back. It's only the next few hours which are
difficult, and they're so difficult and tetchy that I feel that Miss
Huntingforest and Mary ought to be out of it, somehow. But as the whole
success of the circus depends upon their complicity, I'm asking them to
take the risk."

"I imagine one more risk or so won't make much difference to me," said
Aunt Hatt grimly.

Guffy looked uncomfortable. "Miss Huntingforest, I shall never forgive
myself for the inconvenience and trouble we've brought upon you," he
said.

"They started before you came," said the lady with resignation.

"Count us in on it," said Mary firmly, and the older woman nodded.

Mr. Campion leant forward, a comic figure in his remarkable garments.

"The situation, so far," he observed, "is definitely sound. If it
weren't for the simple-livers on the heath and the evidence delivered so
neatly by the gentleman in the dining-room that our opponents are not so
daft as I had hoped, the affair would be almost plain sailing. As it is,
I'm afraid there's a risk, a much greater one than I dreamed would ever
be possible. These fellows are desperate. They're working for a man
who's never yet been disappointed in anything he set his mind on."

"When you say the situation is sound," said Guffy, "what do you mean? I
don't see that we're any further on than we were at the beginning."

"Not with the Charter well on its way to Whitehall? That's a tremendous
step. Oh, I forgot... Dear, dear, I hope you're not going to be
annoyed. You see, what happened was this. When I heard about
Glencannon's letter from Amanda I asked her to drop into Norwich for the
drum. It never dawned on me that you three heroes would undertake the
same task or I'd have left it to you. However, when at last it came into
the house I couldn't keep my hands off it. I watched Hal take it out of
the car and then, seeing him looking out of his bedroom window, I
guessed that he'd got it up there. I sneaked round the back of the mill,
got in through the side door, and secreted myself on the upper landing,
so that as soon as Hal went down to meet you fellows I was able to input
and get the thing."

"But how did you know the Charter was inside?"

"I didn't, and it wasn't," said the Hereditary Paladin. "It was where I
hoped it would be from the moment I read the verse on the oak. The
Charter was written on parchment, you remember. Well, as a matter of
fact, it formed the underhead of the drum itself. Rather a natty hiding
place, don't you think? All the clerical work was on the inside, of
course. It was genuine all right. Henry the Fourth's seal and
everything. Lugg took it over the fields to the Sweethearting road early
this morning, I hope, and from there Eager-Wright will take it to town."

Guffy, who had been listening to these revelations with the delight of a
child, now became depressed.

"Of course," he said, "you don't know. Rather an awkward thing's
happened to Wright and Farquharson."

"Yes," began Mary, but words failed her as she caught the gleam in
Amanda's eyes.

Guffy looked scandalized. "Good heavens, Campion, was that you, too? I
say, you know, it'll take a bit of explaining, won't it?"

"It was the only way," said the Hereditary Paladin shamelessly.
"Consider. This village is swarming with potential trouble-mongers.
They've made two attempts to discover if we've got hold of anything and
if so to appropriate it. They're more or less convinced--or were until a
few hours ago--that we have nothing. And yet they can't understand why
we're still hanging about. They believe I'm safely on the way to South
America, but at the same time they believe that you're on to something
or you'd hardly remain here. Well, reflect. If Eager-Wright sets out
post-haste for town in the ordinary way they'd naturally hold him up,
search him and take whatever was going. The problem that faced your old
friend Albert is obvious to you. Those two birds had to be got away out
of the community without arousing any suspicion whatever, and the arrest
notion seemed to be the only one that fitted into the case. Lugg fixed
it up this morning by phone from Sweethearting. We have a lot of odd
friends in town who have no difficulty in getting hold of a little thing
like a uniform or two. I hope they did their stuff well?"

"Damned well," said Guffy, who was still not quite approving. "I suppose
if they took us in they deceived those blighters on the heath."

"Oh, I think so. I told Lugg to see they did the thing properly. I
imagine they called in at the pub, asked the way to the house, dropped a
few elephantine hints about the young gents who were wanted for a
motoring offence, and finally came down here and carried off their prize
in triumph. Once they get outside Sweethearting they'll pick up Lugg and
the Charter, and Eager-Wright will take the car and go on. Farquharson
will wait at that pub on the river for further developments. Rather
smart organization, don't you think? When, if ever, I come into my
kingdom I'm thinking of making it into one of these new-fangled
republics with myself as dictator."

"You talk about the importance of the next few hours," said Guffy. "Are
we to take it that something really sensational is about to happen some
time this evening?"

"Well, yes, it'll be sensational enough if it comes off. Oh, yes, quite
definitely."

"We must put Dr. Galley off, then," said Mary quickly.

"Oh no, please don't do that." Campion turned to her gravely. "That
little jaunt is tremendously important. And that brings me to the
subject of Dr. Galley. He presents a rather interesting problem. While I
know for a fact that he's not definitely in league with our
over-attentive friends, I observe that he's up to something very queer,
although what it is I can't for the life of me imagine. When I first
heard of his invitation I felt that it was the most awkward thing that
could possibly have happened, but now I'm not so sure. Those good souls
who are taking such tremendous interest in your movements just now will
be taken completely off their guard if you all dutifully go out to tea,
as it were, at this stage of the proceedings. All I dare tell you at the
moment--and I've got to implore you to put your trust in little
Albert--is that during your visit to old Galley you will receive the
signal. You can't miss it. It will force itself upon you. Then follow
Amanda back here as hard as you can and leave the rest to her.

"I'm sorry to be so mysterious," he went on unhappily, "but you must see
how touchy the whole thing is. If all goes well to-night we shall have
the third and last proof, the most important one, the Metternich
receipt. The other two are important, but without this third trophy I'm
afraid any suit would fail at the International Court at The Hague. Now
you see just where we stand."

He was looking at them appealingly, and they responded.

"Rely on us," said Aunt Hatt with unexpected vigour. "I'm glad we're
going to Dr. Galley's," she continued, displaying once again her vein of
practicalness, which never seemed to desert her, no matter how fantastic
the situation became. "His story interested me. He might really have
those proofs of Mary Fitton's marriage."

"I thought that," said Campion, who appeared to know everything. "I
heard the story from Amanda last night, and it seemed to me that it
might be very likely. There's something odd going on there, though,
something I don't understand at all."

Amanda looked startled and hastily diverted the conversation.

"You say we've got two proofs," she said. "We know about the Charter,
but where's the Crown?"

"The Crown!" said Mr. Campion, aghast. "I forgot it." He rose to his
feet, and dived into the dining-room where their captive lay.

It was some minutes before he returned, and then he came back
triumphant, something shining in the palm of his outstretched hand. They
pressed round him, and Aunt Hatt emitted a squeak of astonishment.

"My garnet necklace!"

Mr. Campion peered at her quizzically through his spectacles.

"They're not garnets," he said. "They're very old square-cut rubies."

"Rubies? Why, it might be valuable."

Mr. Campion grinned. "It is. This exhibit, ladies and gentlemen, is the
Crown of Averna."

He held the necklet up so that they could all see it. It consisted of a
roughly made chain of early red gold, worked to resemble a daisy-chain,
and at uneven intervals three rust-red stones were set between the
links. Three large white agates completed the circle, and a latter-day
jeweller had inserted a very modern fastener, so that the round now
appeared nothing more than a fashionable choker necklace of a somewhat
unusual design.

"There you are," said Campion. "Three drops of blood from a royal wound,
three dull stars like the pigeon's egg, held and knit together by a
flowery chain."

"But it belonged to my mother," said Aunt Hatt in astonishment. "It was
given to her by my father and it was always kept, I remember, in a
walnut bureau which stood in the parlour, since it wasn't fashionable to
wear such ornate jewellery in those days. I remember that bureau quite
well. It was inlaid, you see, with a little diamond-shaped panel in the
writing flap. When you pressed the diamond at the bottom it came up and
opened in two halves to show a tiny secret drawer behind."

She stopped abruptly before the expressions on their faces.

"The diamond!" ejaculated Guffy. "'The diamond must be rent in twain
Before he wear his crown again.' That bureau must have been part of the
household furniture that went to America with Guy Huntingforest."

"But how did you know? And how did they guess? Why wasn't it stolen
before, when they searched the house?"

Not unnaturally Aunt Hatt was still finding the story difficult to
believe.

"If we take those questions backwards, the clever gentleman will
endeavour to explain," said Campion. "In the first place, it wasn't
stolen when they searched the house because it wasn't here then, and
even if it had been no one knew quite what they were looking for.

"Then for the second question. They guessed, I imagine, because in the
last two days the man in authority has seen fit to appoint men of brains
on this business. That's what makes it so awkward for this evening's
performance. The gentleman in the next room is quite an eminent
professional thief in his own line. He seems to have been told exactly
what to look for. The thugs who descended on you last Thursday were
hunting for something more obvious, I imagine, something they could take
away in a hatbox."

"How did you guess?" demanded Mary.

Mr. Campion glanced down at the chain in his hand. "Last night," he
said, "a rather pathetic figure, clutching her weeds about her, paused
outside the lighted window where the family sat at their evening
meal--just like you see on the pictures. If I had time I could bring
tears to your eyes on this theme. However, when I was peeking in my eyes
fell naturally upon Miss Huntingforest, and there she sat smiling and
serene with the Crown of Averna round her neck. Stifling my hysterical
shrieks of delight and astonishment, I went back into the darkness and
decided that, as I didn't want to give myself away, the Crown was
probably as safe there as anywhere."

"But I don't see how you could have guessed from just seeing it," said
Amanda.

"Oh, we master minds, we jump at things like that," said Mr. Campion
solemnly. "Of course, it seemed incredible at first, but I couldn't get
the description out of my head. However, it was not until I noticed
something else that I was absolutely certain."

"Something else? What was that?"

"Well," said the young man slowly, "the quotation from the manuscript
goes on, you know. 'And when a Pontisbright do wear it, none shall see
it but by the stars.' Last night Miss Huntingforest was sitting between
Hal and Mary, and what I noticed was this."

He beckoned Hal towards him, and when the boy stepped forward obediently
Campion placed the circlet upon his head. The effect was extraordinary,
and somehow miraculously convincing. The flaming Pontisbright hair
swallowed up the red gold, and the dull sheen of the strangely coloured
rubies, so that all of the Crown that was visible were the three agates,
the "three dull stars like the pigeon's egg," creamy clear above the
boy's wide forehead.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DOCTOR GALLEY'S UNUSUAL PRACTICE


"If you, Amanda, will only think of me as Hannibal," said Mr. Campion,
tucking his threadbare skirt round his ankles as he sat huddled up on
the stairs, "or Julius Caesar, or even that other great organizer,
Policewoman Webb, the Limehouse Fairy-Godmother, you will see that my
system for this evening is neat, snappy, quite the thing and well worth
following."

They were alone in the hall. The others had already set out for Dr.
Galley's house, and only Amanda had lingered behind for final
instructions. Now she stood leaning against the wall, her face pale with
excitement and her eyes wide and questioning.

"It's all ready," she said. "We've got the boat down to the join in the
river. It's completely hidden. The trees meet in a tunnel there. Hal's
going to get the others aboard, and I shall let down the shuts. The
river is very high, so it'll come down with a rush and we ought to make
good speed. I've had it all out with Hal, and he knows exactly what to
do. I'd like to go over it again just to see I haven't made a mistake.
When we get to Sweethearting we take the car that will be waiting at
'The George' and we go round the back way to Great Kepesake, where we
wait for Scatty and Lugg, who will come by the fens."

Mr. Campion nodded. "I'm very proud of that bit," he said. "If your
friends on the heath miss you they'll take it for granted that you've
made for London. It won't occur to them to look further inland. However,
if it should be necessary to go further afield leave it to Guffy. He
knows West Suffolk very well. Anyway, most of it belongs to his father."

Amanda shrugged her shoulders. "We shall be all right," she said
valiantly. "Don't bother about us. What I want to know is what's going
to happen to you? You'll never do it all alone without me. Why not leave
the escape to Hal, and let me stay behind to give you a hand?"

Mr. Campion's pale eyes met hers gravely. "Sorry, old lady," he said.
"Can't be done. Put it down to a natural desire on my part to hog all
the glory."

"I do," said Amanda coldly. "And I think you've bitten off more than you
can chew. I'm the technician, remember, and I don't think you've got any
idea the sort of noise this..."

"Signal," said Mr. Campion quickly.

"Signal," agreed Amanda, "is going to make. They'll hear it in Ipswich.
You'll have the whole hive down on you like a sandstorm."

"So I shall," he agreed cheerfully. "But I've provided for that. The
boy's got brains. I've always thought that it was only spite that kept
me from getting into the sixth form."

"What have you provided?" demanded Amanda ruthlessly.

Campion sighed. "I was going to take you into partnership as soon as you
were over school age," he said, "but I'm hanged if I shall now. You're
much too nosey. You ought to look on me with reverence. You ought to see
me as the hand of fate, a deity moving in a mysterious way."

"What have you provided?" persisted Amanda.

Campion shrugged his shoulders. "At precisely ten minutes to seven
o'clock," he said, "the two officials who arrested Mr. Farquharson this
morning will obligingly bring him back, and the outside world will
assume that they have discovered that he wasn't the man they wanted
after all. They will bring him back here, exciting a certain amount of
comment but, I trust, no alarm. As soon as they get here they will
remove their uniforms, the inspector will take our Morris, the policeman
will remain at the wheel of the hired car he's driving, and Farquharson
will take the Lagonda. The moment the signal is given they will shoot
out of the lane. Farquharson and the inspector will take the heath road
round the camp, driving at great speed. They will dash past the
'Gauntlett' and on to the road which skirts Galley's side of the wood.
Meanwhile, the bobby--you'd like him, by the way, drives at Brooklands
quite a lot--will take the lower road on the other side of the wood.
They will circle the enclosed area as often and as noisily as is
possible in the time, and the moment the signal ceases, will drive off
ostentatiously down the three different roads which lead out of this
charming village. Behind them, I hope and trust, will dash our enemies,
leaving little Albert time to take the hat round and clear off with the
collection. It should also cover your departure, or flight out of Egypt,
or whatever you like to call it."

"It's good," said Amanda after a pause. She nodded. "Very hot."

"That's what I thought," he agreed modestly. "Now you see the kind of
man I am."

"I'm conceited, too," said Amanda. "But I wish you luck. I'll go now.
You can think of me as Moses, leading my relations out of the
wilderness. By the way, have you noticed Guffy and Mary? I think it must
be because she's led such a secluded life and has been starved for
companionship of her own age, don't you?"

"Without any modicum of disrespect for my old friend, Mr. Randall," said
Mr. Campion judicially, "perhaps so. Er--life's very beautiful, isn't
it?"

"Speaking as a soul not yet mated, nerts," said Amanda.

Campion rose to his feet. "I'm going to get out of these clothes and
sneak into the wood and bide my time. You run along. Don't forget. Hold
them there until the signal at all costs."

She did not turn away, but stood there hesitating, and at the expression
on her face he came over and stood looking down at her.

"Look here," he said gravely, "what's the matter with this visit to
Galley? You've been so tremendously against it all along, and now I
believe you're funking it."

She shook her head defiantly, and a gleam of the old defiance showed in
her brown eyes.

"I'm not really afraid of anything," she said, but he knew the words
were sheer bravado and he continued to look down at her, for the first
time a trace of anxiety appearing in his eyes.

"What do you know about Galley?" he demanded.

She did not move away, but turned her head and gazed thoughtfully
through the open doorway into the yard beyond.

"He's very harmless, really," she said suddenly, her voice unusually
soft. "I don't suppose he ever kills anybody who wouldn't die anyway,
and I do believe he does a lot of good. Of course, it's all childish and
not at all serious, but there's always that uncomfortable feeling that
there might be something in it."

Mr. Campion's eyes were very stern. "Does he take some sort of dope?" he
demanded. "I didn't recognize it when I saw him. What is his poison?"

"Oh no, it's not that," said Amanda, still not meeting his eyes. "I've
never said anything because I thought he might get kicked out of the
profession for it, and I do think he does a lot of good in a way. But
all the really queer things you've noticed around here--the fear sign
and that sort of thing--are mainly due to him and his habits for the
last twenty years or so. He's mad, you see."

He laughed. "Most people are a little."

She turned her head sharply and looked him full in the eyes, and he was
startled by her expression.

"I mean insane," she said. "Or at least that's the only comfortable way
to look at it."

Something about her calm sincerity was very convincing and he reseated
himself upon the stairs.

"Out with it."

Amanda stirred uncomfortably. "I haven't told anyone this," she said.
"In fact, I once swore a most frightful oath I never would. But I think
you'd better know." She paused to consider her confession, but finally
the words came with a rush. "This is how I worked it out," she said.
"Dr. Galley was only just qualified when he came down here forty years
ago. I don't know much about it, but as a rule doctors learn a great
deal after they're qualified, don't they? When Dr. Galley came down here
at first he didn't have anyone to talk to except country people, and I
think he had a lot of time on his hands. Naturally, he took up reading.

"Well"--her voice sank--"that library he inherited from his great-uncle
is an enormous affair, and it contains some very queer books and
manuscripts."

She paused and glanced dubiously at Campion, but he was following her
intently and she continued:

"This is only my theory," she said. "And, of course, I know hardly
anything about it. But even fifty years ago medicine and--and
superstition were rather mixed, weren't they?"

Campion was frowning and his eyes seemed to have become darker as he
stared thoughtfully into her face.

"You're suggesting, I take it, that Dr. Galley is actually practising
archaic medicine, herbalism and that sort of thing, I suppose?" he said.

"Oh yes," agreed Amanda with a flash of her old cheerfulness. "He's
always done that. But what I'm getting at is this. Ever since I've known
him he's gone a step or two further than that. You see, what it boils
down to is that ancient medicine was often--" she paused again.

"A variety of witchcraft," said Mr. Campion dryly.

The girl regarded him with complete gravity. "Yes," she said at last.
"That's it. It sounds silly, doesn't it?"

Mr. Campion was silent for some moments. In a long experience of the
more out-of-the-way corners of life he had met with some curious
phenomena--some odd forms of mania, and some amazing cases of
retrogression. Suffolk, one of the oldest counties, was virtually
unexplored, and little local papers whose very names were unknown to the
great London dailies sometimes printed strange tales of ignorance and
superstition which had found their way to tiny rustic police courts. It
did not seem incredible to him, therefore, that, in a county where whole
districts go for years without seeing their local police constable, very
strange things should occur which never reached the maw of any printing
press.

The more he considered Amanda's revelation the less unlikely, if not the
less extraordinary, it seemed to be. The fact that the little doctor had
bought no practice, but had put up his plate uninvited, would have
automatically ostracised him from any professional folk in the district
and his patients would have been gathered naturally from the ignorant,
trusting country people, very few of whom could read at the time of his
arrival.

Campion considered Amanda's theory set forward so ingenuously and found
that with her he could imagine any impressionable youngster left to
solitude and a library delving amongst the ancient volumes, and
consuming greedily anything which touched his own subject, however
remotely. He could guess at the temptation to try an early remedy thus
discovered on some unsuspecting patient, and the surprise at some
coincidental cure. He could see the man growing older, becoming more and
more bigoted, obsessed by his dangerous hobby.

He glanced at Amanda. "The first night we came to the village Lugg
saw--or thought he saw--a corpse laid out on the heath," he said. "Was
that anything to do with Galley?"

Amanda took a deep breath. "It isn't often done here," she said.
"Anyway, it did no harm. The village only consented because Galley
wanted it. Fred Cole died quite naturally, and really he was rather a
bad lot. You wouldn't understand or I'd explain."

"In certain uncivilized countries," remarked Mr. Campion, his eyes still
fixed on her face, "the natives believe that if one of their number
dies, whose private life has not been quite as beautiful as it might
have been, then it is a good idea to let the corpse lie out in the
moonlight for three nights running so that the evil spirit may escape
completely and not be shut in a grave where it may grow fierce and
dangerous. The bravest natives watch the body to see, so they say, the
hour at which the spirit escapes, so they may be able to tell to which
angel they must appeal for protection from it."

Amanda sighed, a little escaping breath of pure relief.

"You know all about it. I'm so glad. It saves a lot of explaining. Yes;
that's it exactly. I'm not sure whether old Galley had ever actually had
it done before, but he's talked about it for years. I fancy Fred Cole
was the first person to die with a reputation bad enough to allow Galley
to make the experiment without offending anyone. Well, that's all there
is to that, so we can forget it, can't we?"

Campion had not taken his eyes from her face.

"You were there, I suppose?" he said.

Amanda grew slowly crimson. "It was wrong," she burst out at last.
"Wrong, and rather horrible. But you see, Galley's brought the whole
village up--and me, too, in a way--to believe, or at any rate to know, a
lot about witchcraft, and when he actually summoned me I didn't like to
disobey."

Mr. Campion remained very grave. "Did Dr. Galley tell you that according
to superstition to perform this rite satisfactorily one of the watchers
should be a magician and the other 'a fair young maid, chaste and
untaught, so that the spirit may enter into her, and when she runs mad
may be kept close and of no danger to her fellows'?"

Amanda stared at him. "No," she said at last. "No, he didn't. Perhaps he
didn't know about that bit," she went on, wrestling with this new
sidelight on Dr. Galley's character. "Or perhaps be realizes there's
nothing serious in it after all."

"Optimism and loyalty will be your downfall, young woman," said Mr.
Campion grimly. "To my less charitable mind this story shows one thing
very clearly: Dr. Galley has a mania and his malady has at last reached
a point when his concern for his friends is less important to him than
his rather nasty hobby. This is very disturbing, Amanda."

She was silent for some moments. She seemed to be considering the
situation gravely, for her brown eyes were dark and troubled, and there
was an alarmed expression in their depths.

"I've had my doubts about this party all along," she said at last. "You
see, I found a bit of vervain stuck upon the lintel over the front door
after Dr. Galley went yesterday, and he asked particularly if Hal and I
and Guffy and Mary would wear clean clothes for the party. The others
put it down to sheer eccentricity, but I did wonder..."

Campion bounded to his feet; "I'm going up there with you," he said.
"You ought to have come out with this before. As soon as I've discarded
this hampering garment we'll clear off through the wood."

"But what about the signal?" demanded Amanda.

"Signal be hanged!" said Campion unexpectedly. "D'you realize that we've
sent your poor aunt, the unfortunate Guffy and those two children into
the hands of a lunatic with a mania for demonology, and the black art, a
form of madness which, after all, had all England by the ears three
hundred years ago? And now we find two evidences of the more common
preparations for sacrifice planted neatly under our noses."




CHAPTER NINETEEN
POURBOIRE


Mr. Campion strode along the narrow footpath through the woods which had
once formed part of the grounds of the Pontisbright house. Amanda
plodded at his heels. In spite of their haste they went cautiously. An
ominous silence hung over the village, and the storm which had been
threatening all day was now billowing up out of the south in great inky
clouds of trouble. It was insufferably hot, the air stifling.

Once, when they had almost traversed the clump of pines which grew on
the western extremity of the open space where the house had stood,
Campion paused, and whistled softly.

The sound was echoed from somewhere high in the branches of a cedar
which stood just to the right of the cavity which had once contained the
foundations of the Hall.

Mr. Campion seemed satisfied, for he pushed on, Amanda still pattering
behind him.

By the time they reached the low hedge that separated Dr. Galley's
garden from the Hall grounds the storm was perceptibly nearer, casting
an unnatural light over the vivid flowers which grew round the rectory.
The flowers of the sun, Mars and Jupiter, which were all in the front
garden, seemed to favour peculiarly bright colouring, and it was not
difficult to remember that spellmongers of ancient times professed an
ascendancy over the weather and plant life.

Mr. Campion glanced back at Amanda, and the glimpse of her white face
suddenly brought home to him the full drama of their mission.

"They'll be in the long room at the back," she whispered. He nodded. "Is
there a window we can look through?"

"I think so. Come on."

She slipped in front of him, and set off down a path between two great
banks of giant sunflowers. The battered white house stood out
startlingly amid the swirling shadows. The aromatic scent of the garden
was so strong that it was almost overpowering. The wind had risen in the
last few minutes, and it was as though the doctor's garden had been
caught by a fury. The flowers and leaves danced wildly in the breeze.

When they reached the side of the house the girl motioned her companion
to keep back, and they crept along the mouldering wall until they
approached a window set in an alcove and partially hidden by heavy
curtains on the inside.

Pulling herself up cautiously Amanda peered in and Campion looked over
her shoulder. They were looking down upon the scene within, for the
ground sloped away in front of them.

Amanda nudged Campion. She dared not speak, for the window was partially
open. He nodded, but did not take his eyes off the little group within.

Dr. Galley's drawing-room had been dismantled. The furniture was piled
against the walls and a dark curtain hung across the bay window in the
far wall.

Aunt Hatt, looking comfortably conventional in her walking suit and
serviceable hat, sat nursing her gloves in a chair by the fireside.
Guffy and Mary sat on a couch opposite her, while Hal stood directly
beneath the window through which they watched. An awkward silence
appeared to be in progress and it was some time before Amanda located
Dr. Galley. When she saw him at last he was bending over a side table on
which were a decanter and glasses. Presently his voice sounded fretfully
out of the shadows.

"I wish Amanda would come. We really can't get on without Amanda. It's
most important. The time's going, too."

"I'm sure she won't be long," said Aunt Hatt comfortingly. "I really
don't think we need wait for her, Doctor. Won't you tell us some more
about your exciting discovery?"

The old man looked at her vaguely. "Oh yes," he said at last. "That
discovery. Yes, yes, of course. But there's no time for that now. The
hour is at its height."

It was evident to everyone that he was labouring under some tremendous
emotion, and Campion, who caught a glimpse of his eyes as he looked up,
felt that sudden thrill of mingled pity and nausea which a healthy mind
must always feel before such a revelation.

"The hour is at its height," the doctor repeated. "We must begin without
her. Mary, my dear, will you pour a glass of wine for each of you? Don't
worry about me; I shan't drink myself. I have to keep my mind very, very
clear."

Aunt Hatt and Mary exchanged glances as the old man brought the table
into the very centre of the room. His hands were trembling, and the
glasses tinkled and rattled alarmingly. The two outside the window
caught the dull gleam of the wine in the white decanter.

It was evident that Mary felt the sinister atmosphere in the room, for
she did not stir, and for some seconds after the doctor stood back the
table remained unattended.

Mr. Campion frowned and Amanda noticed that his usually expressionless
face showed definite signs of alarm. He felt in his pocket.

"It's a pity," he whispered. "Such a nice bottle. Still, they really
mustn't drink that stuff."

And before the girl realized what he was doing, he had raised his
revolver and fired through the narrow crack between the lower sash and
the sill. She had just time to see the slender cut-glass bottle split to
atoms, and its crimson contents spurt out over the floor, when Campion
seized her hand and dragged her headlong over the grass to a vantage
spot among the sunflowers.

They crouched there, waiting, but no one came to the window, and,
although there was the sound of voices from the room there was no
banging of doors or hurrying.

"They're all right for a bit," said Campion, sighing. "He was relying on
that stuff. It was something to make them sleep, I hope, nothing more
serious."

Amanda blinked, and was silent for some moments. "Look here," she said
at last, "it's getting late. You ought to go down to Lugg and Scatty.
I'll keep the others in there until the signal. You must let me. I can
manage it. I see now: he's as batty as a coot."

Mr. Campion regarded her thoughtfully, and she went on: "Don't be
obstinate. If anything goes wrong with the plan we shall all be in the
soup."

Mr. Campion took his revolver from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

"If you take this," he said, "at least you can't come to any serious
harm. Although, be careful."

Amanda did not waste any time in argument. She took the gun from his
outstretched hand.

"You get back to the wood," she said. "When I hear the signal I'll get
them out."

She rose cautiously to her feet, slipped the gun in her jacket pocket,
and turned towards the house. Then, looking back suddenly, she stopped
and kissed him unromantically on the nose.

"That's by way of pourboire, in case we don't meet again," she said
lightly, and hurried out onto the garden path, whence she walked boldly
into the house, the unnatural light turning her blazing hair into a
flame.




CHAPTER TWENTY
TO MEET ASHTAROTH


When the decanter standing upon the small table in the centre of the
room was suddenly shivered the atmosphere in the doctor's drawing-room,
which had been tense enough before, was instantly brought to fever
pitch. Aunt Hatt screamed, Guffy sprang to his feet and Hal, over whose
head the shot had passed, made for the window.

But Dr. Galley's reactions were so much more startling than the
phenomenon itself that they forgot their own alarm in their surprise at
his behaviour. He threw up his hand and with eyes blazing and face
transfigured exclaimed loudly: "He strikes! He shows his will!"

He gave no explanation for these cryptic utterances, but, finding that
he was the centre of interest, turned and addressed the company in a
voice completely unlike his usual diffident murmur. The change in him
was extraordinary. He held himself very stiffly and there was a
suggestion of new strength about him as though he had become possessed
of a new and powerful personality.

"Since he has decided to act without my aid, we will leave it to him,"
he said. "You will all keep very still, please."

Aunt Hatt would have spoken, but he silenced her with a gesture, and she
sat looking at him, frank bewilderment written clearly on her kindly
face.

Guffy coughed. The whole thing struck him as being incomprehensible.
Campion's sudden return had exhausted his powers of surprise, and,
besides, the atmosphere of the room, which seemed to be full of acrid
smoke not unlike incense, but less pleasant, was beginning to cause him
discomfort. He felt dizzy and inexplicably sleepy.

It was at this moment that a third diversion was caused by the arrival
of Amanda, who walked coolly into the room, her right hand resting
negligently in her jacket pocket. She smiled at the doctor, who turned
towards her eagerly.

"You're late," he said testily. "The hour is past its height. It is the
hour of Casael--you know that. Stand over there."

He pointed to a chair set on the right of the bay window. As Amanda
walked towards it she disturbed the folds of the curtain which covered
it, and the choking aromatic smoke in the air became more dense.

"Quarter to seven," wailed Dr. Galley. "Quarter to seven and we have not
yet begun."

He moved the table from the centre of the room and proceeded to roll up
the carpet. Since his behaviour had become really eccentric only with
the smashing of the decanter, and Aunt Hatt, Guffy, and Mary were all
three slow-thinking, conventional people, they sat there looking at him
stupidly, too astonished to move.

He kicked the folded rug across the doorway and they sat looking at the
boards which he had revealed. These were oak and blackened with age, and
upon their dull surface a curious design had been chalked. This
consisted of a nine-foot square with a line drawn parallel to each of
two opposite sides, forming rectangular margins. These were occupied by
crosses and triangles, whilst in the central area between them a circle
had been drawn to touch the parallel lines. A smaller circle lay within,
concentric with the first circle, and this contained a square again. In
the space between the first and the second circles the name Casael was
written three times, and on all four sides of the inner square the name
Ashtaroth was printed in large letters.

The full significance of this display did not dawn on anyone, save
Amanda, for some time, but Aunt Hatt rose to her feet.

"The air in here is stifling, Doctor," she said. "I think I'll go out
into the garden."

He wheeled upon her. "Sit down," he said sharply. Aunt Hatt sat down
meekly; why she never quite understood, save that curiosity played a
large part in her mixed emotions just then.

Dr. Galley leant over the back of the sofa and produced a long, black
dressing-gown, which he put on. And then, stepping carefully to avoid
the chalk lines, he placed himself in the centre of the inner square.

"Now," he said, "I will explain." Outside the storm had broken and the
sigh of the wind, coupled with the sound of rain pouring down upon the
leaves, made the scene in the room somehow more fantastic, more
convincing, than if the sun had been shining.

A violent crack of thunder above their heads drowned the old man's voice
for an instant, and even the phlegmatic Guffy was conscious of a thrill.
Sometimes things are so utterly inexplicable, so unexpected, that they
stun the senses into at least momentary acceptance. After the
thunder-clap had died away there was complete silence in the little room
as the five sat with smarting eyes and suddenly disturbed breathing,
watching the figure in the black gown.

"There are many sciences," began Dr. Galley, "which have been forgotten.
There was a time when men willingly gave up their lives in a search for
power such as is undreamed of by modern pettifogging students. Forty
years ago I made up my mind that I would emulate those men and perhaps
beat them at their own game.

"For years," he went on passionately, "I strove with the aid of the
remarkable books left to me in this house to make myself a master of
those occult sciences which have been neglected so foolishly in the
present day.

"I have studied diligently," he continued, turning a glittering eye upon
them, "and, in countless little ways, I have proved that I was right. I
could tell you of remarkable cures worked upon the good people
hereabouts with the aid of the powers of the air. Some of the country
people know me for what I am and respect me for it, even as their
forefathers not so long ago respected the great Dr. Dee, Court Magician
to Queen Elizabeth.

"But," he went on with growing fervour and so much nervous power behind
his words that now they could hardly have moved had they wished,
"although in small things I was successful enough to know that I was
right, in the large things I had always been disappointed. I thought at
first that my books were at fault, or that I myself by my early training
had rendered my being too gross, too materialistic to achieve my ends.
But seven nights ago I was successful. He came at last. Ashtaroth
himself appeared.

"Wait!" he continued, throwing out his hands. "Wait! You shall hear it
all. You shall see to what a triumph my studies have brought me. Seven
nights ago in the hour of Methratton I was alone in this room, standing
within my circle conjuring him to appear. I had fasted for three days.
This room was strewn with coriander, sorcelage, and hen-bane, and I had
done all the other necessaries which it is not right for you to hear.
After I had repeated my conjuration he appeared.

"He did not come in his usual guise, but in his own person as a man.
When I conjured him he came up to me and I knew that my spells were
strong enough to hold him. So that he would not harm me I became his
servant. He stayed in my house and hid himself, and I obeyed him. I
failed him in one thing. I thought he had left me, but after"--he turned
to them and his face lighted up until he became positively terrifying,
and Amanda gripped the gun in her pocket until the steel bit into her
flesh--"but after," he continued, "he was delivered into my hands I
became his master. I found him on the heath so stricken that the spirit
could not leave the body. I brought him back here and he has been my
captive. But I have been afraid. The body is dying, and although I have
fed the spirit on those things which my books tell me are his chief
food, the smoke of ambergris, frankincense, red storax, mastick, and
saffron, he has not yet recovered."

He paused to allow this announcement to sink in and then went on,
speaking with the same horrifying earnestness as before.

"If the body in which he rests should die, then he must find other
habitation. Now perhaps you see why I have brought you here. It is
written in my books that Ashtaroth, Prince of the Criminators, that
great group of fire spirits, can be placated with the blood of two
maidens, and two young men taken on the appointed day in the hour of
Casael.

"I had arranged," he went on, a flash of cunning creeping into his face,
"that you should take a little morphia with your wine, so that his task
of subduing you might be easier. But, you see, he knew his power and
disdained a modern drug.

"Now the time is at hand. Ashtaroth, come forth!"

He threw up his hand and stood facing the curtained bay window. He was
trembling, his eyes were blazing, and there was a thin line of foam
between his lips.

The storm added the impressive effect. A distant rumble of thunder
emphasized the words and a flash of lightning flickered through the
room, this time accompanied by a much louder crash.

"Here!" ejaculated Guffy, suddenly stumbling to his feet. "You must stop
this tomfoolery, Galley. This is madness, you know."

"Oh, look! Look!" Aunt Hatt's voice was hardly recognizable as it cut
through Guffy's husky outburst. "There's something behind the curtain.
It's moving!"

It needed only this to produce a state of genuine fear in Dr. Galley's
audience. All eyes were turned upon the heavy curtain. The choking fumes
were now growing stronger in the room, and even while they stared, the
curtains stirred a little and from behind them there issued a strange
inarticulate sound, something between a gasp and a groan, but which in
the circumstances sounded very much less than human.

"He comes!" screamed Dr. Galley, quivering in an ecstasy of excitement.
"Ashtaroth, come forth! By the masters of the demons who people the
upper air, by Python, by Belial, by Asmodeus and by Merizim, come you
out! By the Psoudothei I conjure you. I charge you by the
Prestidigitators, by the Furies and by the Ariel powers who mix
themselves with thunders and lightnings, corrupting the air, bringing
pestilence, and other evils, I summon you! O Ashtaroth, come hastily and
tarry not. Make your appearance visible to my sight. I bind you in this
hour of Casael to whom you be captive that you remain visible here
before the circle as long as my pleasure is, and not before my license
to depart."

As the doctor's chanting died away the curtains billowed forward and
were then dragged open, to reveal in the aperture, surrounded by the
choking fumes of burning herbs, a terrifying spectacle. The figure of a
man so emaciated that he appeared almost a skeleton, partially draped in
a crimson cloth and otherwise entirely nude save for cabalistic designs
which appeared to be painted on his skin, stood swaying in the aperture.
His face was contorted and his red-rimmed eyes were glazed. It was only
by his hair that they recognized him. It grew down to an unmistakable
widow's peak, almost reaching the bridge of his nose.

The doctor was chanting like a maniac in the centre of his circle, and
now his voice rose to a frenzy as he besought the new-comer to take his
ancient right and drink his fill of blood prepared for him.

The others, who had been momentarily stunned by this apparition, now
sprang to their feet, and the pitiful thing in the curtains suddenly
caught sight of Guffy and a strangled cry escaped him as he tottered
forward.

"For God's sake," he mumbled through cracked lips, "get me out of here!
He's mad--he's torturing me!"

The effort of speech seemed to be too much for him, for the next moment
he had pitched forward onto the floor, where he lay sprawled out across
the ancient circle at the feet of the doctor.

Guffy swept the man out of the way and dropped down beside the terrible
thing on the floor. When he looked up again his face was white with
alarm. "I think he's dead," he said shortly. "We must clear out of here.
Dr. Galley, you'll have to see the police about this, I'm afraid."

His quiet voice, which had yet something of a tremor in it, was almost
drowned by a recurrence of the thunder. The storm had returned and the
angry roar of the rain upon the windows made a fitting accompaniment to
the extraordinary scene in the room.

Dr. Galley seemed oblivious of everything and everyone save his captive
devil, Ashtaroth, from whom he had so pathetically expected so much. He
stood now, an expression of startled bewilderment on his face, all the
more terrible because of his strained pupils and twitching lips.

"If the body is dead," he shouted suddenly, "I have stepped out of my
circle. I am no longer protected. The spirit has entered me. I am
possessed by Ashtaroth. I feel his power in my blood. I feel his power
in my hand. I am possessed--"

Guffy leapt upon the maniac just in time. From the folds of his robe the
doctor had drawn a long slender-bladed knife. The little man seemed to
have developed superhuman strength, and Hal and Amanda went to Guffy's
assistance before at length they got him to the ground.

Then, just at the moment when the magician who had been Dr. Galley had
become transformed into a frothing, screaming homicidal maniac, and the
storm outside was at the height of its fury, a clock somewhere in the
house struck seven, and instantly a sound which none of them ever forgot
swelled and reverberated through the valley until the whole world seemed
to reel before its clamour.

It was as though a bell of gigantic proportions was tolling a peal to
summon mankind. It was impossible to tell where the noise came from. It
seemed to be all about them, an angry sea of sound.

And then, quite suddenly, it stopped, and in the peace which followed
they became aware of an answering note, a shrill clear humming. It
lasted for perhaps a minute and then the clamour of the great bell rang
out again, drowning everything else.

Amanda, who in her position of superior knowledge had not been quite so
shaken by these terrifying developments as the others, kept her head and
remembered her part.

"Guffy," she whispered, "lock Galley in the first room across the hall,
and the rest of you beat it back through the wood. We've got to. I can't
explain now, there's hardly any time."

The urgency in her tone lent her authority, and since her advice
embodied the natural desire of everyone present, they obeyed her. Hal
put his arm round Aunt Hatt's shoulders and seized Mary by the hand.

"Come on," he said "We'll go straight to the boat, Amanda. You follow
with Guffy. You'll see to the shuts, won't you?"

She nodded and on a sudden impulse thrust Campion's gun into his pocket.

"You take this," she said. "I can leave everything to you, can't I?"

He looked at her meaningly and nodded.

When Dr. Galley had been disposed of safely in his own dining-room,
Amanda and Guffy paused for a moment in the darkened hall.

"This way," she whispered. "We've got to get back to the mill before the
bell stops ringing."

The storm had abated a little, but the sky was still dark and a fine
rain was falling as they came out into the tangled garden, thankfully
leaving the house behind them. The body of Ashtaroth lay where it had
fallen, its face hidden against the rudely decorated boards.

The rain had not cooled the atmosphere and a wave of hot scented air,
heavy with moisture, met them as they plunged into the path between the
sunflowers. All the time the tremendous clangour of the great bell,
which now seemed louder even than before and was interrupted by fierce
splitting sounds like rending stone, deafened Guffy's senses and added
to his bewilderment.

Suddenly it ceased again and once more that high sweet echoing murmur
soothed the battered valley.

Amanda turned to Guffy, her eyes dancing. "It works!" she said
triumphantly. "It works!"

"I don't understand," he said. "What the hell is it?"

"Oh, of course--you don't know. It's the great bell of St. Breed, the
convent in the Pyrenees. Campion fixed up with them to broadcast it on a
private wavelength. That's what the wireless stuff was for. Scatty has
the loud-speakers in the cedar as high as he could get them, so that
they correspond more or less with the real bell in the old tower. Those
awful crashes are atmospherics. This storm isn't very helpful. But it's
the sympathetic vibrations that count. Don't you remember what it said
on the oak? Don't you see, there's an answer!"

She dragged at his arm and forced him to plunge on through the
undergrowth. As they crossed the narrow lane to the home wood a car,
apparently driven by a madman, roared past and turned to skirt the old
Pontisbright estate.

Amanda's eyes glinted. "The system" was beginning to work.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TRUTH IN THE WELL


At the moment when Dr. Galley was conjuring Ashtaroth to appear, Mr.
Campion was crouching in the hollowed-out centre of a bramble bush
beneath the cedar tree talking to Lugg. The big man, looking even more
unhappy than usual in his ear-phones, was expressing his views with his
customary forthrightness.

"We're askin' for trouble," he said, looking down at some six square
feet of accumulator while storm and lightning played round him and his
paraphernalia. "Askin' for trouble," he repeated. "If you want my views
on this scheme of yours, it's perishin' awful."

"I don't," said his master frankly. "Is Scatty ready?"

Mr. Lugg held up his hand. "'Ullo," he said. "'Ere it comes. With these
atmospherics it sounds like a vaudeville turn."

He jerked a string which hung down beside the bole of a cedar tree and
received an answering tug from Scatty, who was superintending the
loud-speakers above.

"Well, 'e's not bin struck by lightnin' yet," he said. "Shall we let 'er
rip?"

Campion nodded and his aide bent over the amplifier.

"'Ere goes," he said. "Eight times as loud as real. I'm very fond of
bells."

Instantly from above their heads came the sound which had such a
profound effect upon the little group in Dr. Galley's drawing-room and
which was to be one of the wonders of Suffolk for many years to come.
Even Campion was not prepared for the stupendous uproar which the
broadcast bell of St. Breed, sister bell to the Pontisbright giant,
could make when amplified. He could picture the effect which this mighty
clangour must make upon the superstitious village folk, and, more
important still, upon the camp on the heath. There the forces had been
massing all day and now they would be stirred into action.

He permitted himself an anxious glance through the leaves towards Dr.
Galley's white house. If that little party came to any harm, he
reflected, he could never forgive himself. But behind all these
considerations which raced through his mind was the one great hope which
possessed him. When the deafening clangour above his head ceased for a
moment's respite he would know the answer to a question which had been
uppermost in his mind ever since he had read the couplet on the oak.

Everyone has noticed that in a room where there are hollow vessels
certain sounds will produce answering murmurs. The sharp bark of a dog
may set a row of cups ringing on a dresser. Certain notes on a piano
will provoke answering vibrations from metal trays. Campion had hoped
that some such phenomenon might give meaning to the remarkable
instructions carved so laboriously under the sundial.

As he waited the great bell ceased and his heart leapt as from somewhere
in the depths of the wood before him came the answering murmur he longed
to hear; clear, high, sweet, and unmistakable, a humming beckoned him.

He turned to Lugg. "Don't forget they're broadcasting five times. After
the fourth time get Scatty down, and as soon as the fifth is over smash
a couple of valves and clear out."

"What if 'Is Nibs' boy friends spot us before?" demanded Mr. Lugg not
unnaturally.

"Then you must fight for it. But they won't. They'll be following the
second note. They're not fools. Good-bye. See you to-morrow."

"I 'ope," said Mr. Lugg, but this pious wish never reached his master,
for, his lank figure bent against the storm, Mr. Campion had plunged
into the trees.

Although he had spent the best part of the past three nights in making
himself familiar with the overgrown paths and ruined boundaries of the
once magnificent garden, he found the task he had set himself to be
quite as difficult as he had anticipated.

Another shattering peal from the bell of St. Breed made him stop in his
tracks and wait anxiously for the clatter to subside. The storm was
still raging and the atmospherics tore through the pealing of the bell
like miniature thunderclaps. He could hear the sound of a motor-car
engine in the lane and recognized the Lagonda. Farquharson was doing his
part, then.

From the heath there were other noises, only faintly discernible through
the clangour.

Then again the noise above him stopped, followed by the sweet musical
call ahead. He forced his way on towards it. There was very little time.
The great bell would ring only thrice more. Between now and the dying
away of the final vibration he must find the source of the answer.

As he pressed on he realized to his relief that it was nearer than he
had suspected. It led him across the site of the old lawn and down a
narrow path to what must once have been the stables, but over which the
grass now grew in uneven mounds. It was risky business coming out into
the open, but he ploughed on recklessly.

He had just reached a clump of overgrown laurels when again the
loud-speakers in the cedar bellowed forth the challenge of the sister
bell. Again the answer came, beckoning him ever forward through the
rain-soaked leaves. Alarm seized him: only twice more now.

He pressed on. He was coming to the open field which skirted the lane
below the church, the same lane which lay between Dr. Galley's home and
the heath. As in many meadows that have once been parkland, a fine group
of elms stood in the centre, forming a ring round a little depression in
the grass. As soon as Campion saw them his heart sank. He wormed his way
down the hedge and stood there waiting, while for the fourth time the
bell chimed and received its answer.

Yes, there was no doubt about it: the echo came from the elms.

There was no hedge between the meadow and the lane and the stately park
railing had long since disappeared. Already two cars had passed. There
was no time to be lost.

He sped across the short grass, trusting to the rain and the uncertain
light to hide him. When he reached the trees, the humming had died away
and he stood there, flattened against the trunk of an elm, while for the
last time the great booming voice of the twin sister of the Bell of
Pontisbright startled the countryside and reawakened old echoes long
since forgotten.

Campion stood waiting and was rewarded. From somewhere among the trees,
almost, it seemed at his very feet, the high clear voice of the answer
rose to meet him.

He saw the explanation suddenly, an old half-broken well-head, the mossy
stones quite clear among the short grass. He glanced about him and even
as he did so a sleek black car, followed by three motor-cycles, swung
round the bend and on to the meadow.

In his present position he was hidden, but discovery, it seemed, must be
inevitable. If he were found then the hiding-place was found also. The
short branches of the elm invited him. He caught at one and swung
himself up swiftly into comparative safety among the leaves.

He went high and at length found himself in a position from which he
could see down into the shadows and still descry the faint outlines of
the well-head some twenty feet below.

He was craning round in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the occupants
of the car when another sound reached him which he recognized
immediately as the roar of the mill wheel down in the valley. Amanda had
reached the shuts, then.

He turned involuntarily towards the sounds and found that although he
could not see the mill the lower portion of the river was visible to him
from the height at which he sat, and he caught the chill gleam of water
between the overhanging trees.

He watched it anxiously and it seemed to him that he saw a shadow
passing swiftly down the stream; something that might have been a bundle
of brushwood or some trusses of straw swept down from some flooded yard.

His attention was recalled immediately, however, by the sound of voices
just below him. The light was getting worse at every moment in the
shadows beneath the elm, but as a dark-coated figure leant for a moment
against the trunk of the very tree up which he sat a thrill of surprise
passed through him.

Those giant shoulders were unmistakable. Savanake had come himself.

There was still a murmur from the well-head. It was more than he could
hope that they should not notice it, and when a voice which revealed
startlingly the presence of Mr. Parrott said clearly, "It's somewhere
here--hark," Campion's thrill of despair was mitigated by the knowledge
that it was only to be expected.

The light was fading rapidly. Now he could no longer see the well-head
himself, and the river was only visible in little silver patches among
the grey meadows.

"Yes," said the voice of Savanake suddenly. "It is here. Of course,
something like this was perfectly obvious from the time we first heard
about the amplifier in the wood, but I didn't quite follow it until I
heard the bell." He laughed. "It's amusing that they should have taken
all the trouble and left it to us to do the finding. We must hurry."

"Two cars left the mill, sir," said one of the motorcyclists, and
Campion could see his dark form coming forward. "One turned to
Sweethearting. The other took the lower road."

"That's all right," said Parrott quickly. "Our people are following.
They're making a get-away with the crown. Probably realize that this is
too much for them. We shall collect all they have before morning."

"Why waste time?" said Savanake testily. "This all-important thing is at
our feet, probably. It's infernally dark, isn't it?"

There was considerable movement at the foot of the tree and from Mr.
Campion's point of view the figures had almost melted into the darkness.
But for the red tips of their cigarettes, and their voices, he would not
have been able to locate them.

"It's too dark to see anything," grumbled Parrot. "If we use torches we
shall be seen. Does that matter?"

"I don't care what you do. Find the thing. Here, Everett." Campion heard
the car door open and a figure stumble through the gloom.

"Yes, sir."

He guessed it was the chauffeur who spoke.

"Bring the car up here and turn the headlights full on this dell.
Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Almost immediately the soft purr of a car engine sounded through the
field as the Rolls crept forward and two great beams of light stretched
out over the short grass.

"I say, Mr. Savanake." Mr. Parrott's voice sounded nervous and
protesting. "We'll have them down on us."

"Who the hell cares if we do? We're armed, aren't we? They've gone off
in those three cars with the rest of our fellows after them. We shan't
get any villagers here for days. They're probably saying their prayers
in pious terror as it is. Get on with it, Everett."

Slowly the great car slid into position and the enormous headlights
picked out each blade of grass in the dell with startling vividness.

The well-head seemed to jump at them, and Campion's last hopes were
dashed as Parrott started forward.

"Well, that's a bit of luck, isn't it?" he said, his voice shrill with
excitement.

The little group closed round the well save for the chauffeur, who still
lingered by the side of his car, although even he had dismounted. The
men who had come on motorbicycles produced a crowbar and a pickaxe. They
set to work at once on the stone slab, which had grown into its position
and was firmly cemented there with weeds, moss, and soft earth.

Campion watched them anxiously. His position was desperate. He had even
no revolver. He crouched there peering down at them, and although
Savanake's broad back obscured the scene most of the time, he heard the
grunt of satisfaction as the slab gave beneath the pick, and saw the
crowd scattered for a moment as it was heaved out of its position.

They were all engrossed now; too excited by their discovery to heed
anything else. Mr. Campion began to descend. He came down cautiously,
feeling his way on the side of the tree most in darkness.

At length he found himself on a branch not ten feet from the ground, and
beneath him, leaning forward and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of
the well-head, was the chauffeur. The shaft from the parking lamp lit up
his wide shoulders.

Mr. Campion felt for his only weapon, a heavy stone twisted in his
handkerchief. He had armed himself with this elementary life-preserver
when he had first made his way from Dr. Galley's garden to find Lugg.

"There it is! There it is!" said Parrott's voice excitedly. "Another
bell slung on a crossbeam."

"Don't worry about that." Even Savanake's voice sounded nervy. "It's the
thing itself we want. Probably an iron box or a cylinder. Look for a
hole in the brickwork. Don't fall in. We have nothing to get you up
with. Hullo, what's that?"

There was a movement among the group, a ripple of smothered
exclamations. The chauffeur took another step forward and at that
instant Mr. Campion dropped.

The interior of the well was dark. Its rounded sides were grey with
lichen. From its depths a dank unpleasant odour arose, breathing the
decay of centuries. But the excited men round the edge were oblivious of
anything save the object of their quest.

Savanake himself was kneeling on the stones, wrenching at something
embedded in moss just above the ear of the bell. Once his hand slipped
and his arm shot back, so that his elbow struck the iron and a faint
high note sounded for an instant in the night.

"Here, you get it," he said savagely, rising to his feet and rubbing his
arm vigorously.

A man took his place eagerly. There was the sound of iron on the stones
and someone swore.

"Look out, it's heavy, sir."

They dragged a square iron box on to the slab.

"It's locked, of course?"

"Shall I smash it open with the pick, sir?"

"No, no. Isn't there a key somewhere?"

Once again the crevice in the well was explored, but without result.
Savanake seemed to make up his mind.

"I'll take it as it stands," he said. "You three replace this stuff. You
can use your torches. We're evidently not going to be disturbed. Then
get back to town. Report to Mr. Parrott to-morrow. Come on, Parrott. You
and I will take this with us."

He picked up the box by the iron rim in its lid and strode towards the
car. In spite of its weight he carried it easily, as though it had been
a toy in his hand.

"Back, Everett," he said, as he climbed into the body of the Rolls, his
assistant scrambling after him.

The figure in the chauffeur's coat touched his peaked cap respectfully
and the great car shot back over the grass and then, with rather more of
a jerk than might have been expected from a man used to his machine,
leapt forward on to the lane.

Down the narrow fling road, past the darkened "Gauntlett," Campion
brought the great car like a whirlwind. The man in the seat behind him
was ruthless, a giant, and armed; also he had a companion. But in his
hands was the one thing above all others which at that moment Albert
Campion most desired, and with a whirring flurry of wheels he brought
the great car round the bend and down the narrow cul-de-sac at the far
end of which stood the mill.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE MILLPOOL


The car sped down the narrow lane, its giant headlights picking out the
familiar scene and lending it a strange unreality as if the mill and the
silent house had been part of some enormous stage set. Only the roar of
the water and the steady chugging of the wheel were alive.

Unarmed save for his improvised sling, Campion drove on savagely and
brought the car to a standstill within a foot of the race.

"Lost your way, Everett?" Savanake's voice sounded hearteningly casual.

Campion made an inaudible reply and, springing out of the car, threw up
the bonnet. He bent over the spotless engine for some moments, trusting
to the shadow of the hood to hide his face.

Presently, as he had hoped, the car door opened and footsteps advanced.
Mr. Campion gripped his handkerchief in which the heavy stone still
rested.

The new-comer proved to be Mr. Parrott. He came up out of the darkness,
officious and trembling.

"I say, Everett, this is disgraceful at such a time. You'll get into
trouble. Mr. Savanake's very upset."

Campion raised his head and looked at the new-comer. The expression on
the pompous little face as Mr. Parrott recognized the man he thought he
had put so safely on board the _Marquisita_ was remarkable.

Campion did not permit his surprise to subside. On top of the
realization that the incredible does sometimes occur, Mr. Parrott
received a blow on the skull which sent him down like a sack.

But even as he fell a voice in which there was an unmistakable ring of
satisfaction said sharply: "Put your hands up, Campion. I've got you
just where I want you."

Mr. Campion, looking lanker and more pale than usual in the chauffeur's
cap and the coat which was much too wide for him, had no alternative but
to obey. He had no illusions concerning the man with whom he had to
deal. He raised his hands above his head, therefore, and waited.

Savanake came towards him. The side-lights fell upon the gleaming barrel
of the revolver he levelled. In his left hand he still carried the iron
box, as though he had been loath to set it down even for an instant.

Campion felt the gun muzzle in his ribs. His captor glanced down at the
race.

"That's no good," he said suddenly, and went on, his voice still soft,
his tone still conversational. "You're going to walk in front of me,
Campion, with this gun just where it is now, until you get to the
millpool. For obvious reasons I don't want you to be found with a bullet
from my gun in your body. But any sidestepping, any tricks, any stumble,
and I pull the trigger. Understand? This time I'm doing the job myself,
so that there can be no mistake."

Mr. Campion did not reply, but his silence was pointed. They might have
been standing at the end of the world, so remote did they seem from any
interruption. Parrott lay where he had fallen.

The big side door of the mill stood open, as it always did, and through
it, across a concrete way, a faint gleam showed in the darkness where
the second door, which was the main exit to the sluices and the gangway
round the river, stood wide also.

Mr. Campion walked slowly into the mill. On the threshold the increase
in the pressure of the muzzle against his ribs arrested him.

"Why are you leading me in here, Campion?" demanded the same ominously
soft voice. "You know me well enough not to play the fool."

"This is the only way to the millpool," said Mr. Campion plaintively.
"The gangway at the back of the mill below the grille is so rotten that
the millers have put a barrier of hurdles across the path, and unless
you intend us to swim the river this is the only means of reaching the
pool. I don't mind you shooting me so much, but I won't be bullied."

"Go on," said the man behind him. "Lead me to the millpool. I've heard a
great deal of your cleverness lately, but how you could have come out on
a job like this without a gun is beyond me."

"I don't like the idea of being hanged," confided Mr. Campion in the
darkness. "You just don't worry about that, I take it?"

They passed through the mill and now came out on the mouldering wooden
way which skirted the dynamo wheel and led on to the top of the millpool
floodgates. On their right the river flowed silently through the grille
and under the broken gangway, which was so badly in need of repair that
for safety's sake Amanda had placed a couple of hurdles across the path,
one in the angle of the wall near the door through which they had come
and one farther on at the opposite bank of the river.

They passed the shed over the dynamo wheel and came out on to a narrow
bridge with the river on their right and the steep sides of the millpool
on their left. There seemed to be more light here and the water which
surrounded them looked sinister and uninviting.

The floodgates, a little farther on down the path on which they stood,
were closed to permit the full force of the river to flow through the
mill into the main stream.

"This will do very nicely, I think," said Savanake quietly. "Turn
around."

The lank figure in front of him turned obediently. The expression on his
face was still affable and vacant. Savanake could see him clearly in the
faint light.

As they faced one another the incredible loneliness of the spot became
more apparent. Both men were deadly serious, but while Savanake betrayed
a certain tension, Mr. Campion remained foolish-looking and ineffectual
as ever.

"One moment," he murmured. "Would you like me to take off my coat? It
belongs to your chauffeur, you know. The police get hold of a thing like
that. They're great lads for the obvious."

"Keep your hands above your head," said the other man warningly, but the
notion evidently appealed to him, for he set the precious iron box down
on the path and with his left hand caught the coat collar firmly.
"Stretch your arms out behind you."

He stripped the garment off his captive and laid it on the ground, but
did not pick up the iron box again.

"I'm quite sorry to have to kill you," he remarked. "And it may seem
foolish of me, although there seems to be plenty of time, but I should
like to explain that I am not taking this way of getting rid of you as a
form of revenge for the insignificant little trick you played upon the
arch-idiot Parrott. I have only one reason for wishing you out of the
way, and that is sufficient. You are the only man who knows exactly what
it is that I have obtained to-night. None of my assistants have any idea
what is in the iron box, or of the story concerning it. You see, in the
circumstances the course I am taking is the only intelligent thing to
do."

Mr. Campion shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know why it should occur to
you that my last moments would be comforted by an assurance of your
intelligence," he said. "What method are you thinking of employing? I
hate to seem lowbrow, but in the circumstances that subject interests me
more. Or perhaps it's a secret?"

Savanake laughed. He towered over Campion and the young man became
suddenly aware of his enormous strength.

"There's no secret," he said. "Your body will be found floating in the
pool. You will be bruised, naturally, but it will be assumed that you
met your death by accident. There will be no awkward bullet, no
ridiculous clues for half-educated policemen to follow. How do you
imagine I'm going to kill you, you little rat, you? With my hands."

There was a tinge of satisfaction in the tone, an almost brutish
savagery which lurked behind the soft voice.

Mr. Campion remained thoughtful.

"I see," he said slowly. "But there's something you've overlooked. I
can't worry about your affairs now, though--I've got my own eternity to
think of. Still, perhaps I may as well mention it. This iron box"--he
glanced down at it on the gangway--"what exactly is in it?" And moving
his foot sharply he toppled the precious trophy over the edge and into
the millpool.

The splash it made as it hit the water was audible above the throbbing
of the wheel.

Savanake, taken off his guard for an instant, swore violently and turned
instinctively to the dark water. In that moment Campion leapt.

He caught the man round the shoulders and swung himself up, kicking the
gun out of his hand. It fell to the path but did not slide on into the
water. Any ordinary adversary would have staggered back or fallen
beneath this sudden attack, but Savanake was a person of no ordinary
strength. He braced himself to meet the onslaught, exerting the
tremendous force concealed in his huge body. One mighty hand closed
round Campion's ankle like a vice, and with a wrench of the gigantic
shoulders the young man's grip was prised open. Campion slipped down and
caught his enemy round the knees, thrusting his head forward savagely
into his stomach.

Savanake grunted and pitched forward, but his grip on the young man's
ankle did not loosen as together they plunged down into the cold dark
waters of the pool ten feet below.

When Campion came to the surface some seconds later his first feeling
was of relief. He was free. The paralysing grip on his ankle had gone.

He struck out cautiously, swimming half under water. His clothes weighed
him down and it was numbingly cold after the storm. He found himself
just below the alcove in the brick wall of the pool which housed the
floodgates. When the main shuts were closed and the mill was not working
the water was released through the pool by means of these gates, and at
such times the alcove, or "apron," was a race, with the water pouring
down from above. But now all was quiet and the little trickle of water
escaping through the gates barely wetted the stones.

Campion stretched out a hand to grip one of the iron staples in the
brickwork. His fingers closed over it gratefully and he was about to
haul himself up when the unexpected occurred. Another hand came out of
the blackness of the little cavern, a hand unmistakable in size and
strength. It caught him by the throat and Savanake's voice said
distinctly: "Now!"

Realizing his danger a second too late, Campion caught the wrist and
threw his weight upon it to drag his enemy forward into the water again.
He could see the eyes, bright and dangerous, in the face so near his
own, and he guessed the man was lying on his stomach, one hand grasping
the iron staple let into the brick floor of the race while with the
other he gripped his victim.

Campion's efforts were unavailing. He realized they were hopeless
immediately.

Savanake laughed. He spoke, and the words reached Campion through the
mists that were gathering about him. Their sense dawned upon him slowly.

"Found drowned."

The grip upon his throat tightened and he was forced down until the
water met over his head. He struggled, but the grip was relentless. The
man was drowning him deliberately, holding him under until the life
should have been forced out of his body.

It came to Campion with something like a shock of surprise. This was the
end, then. This was the finish. It seemed a pity.

He made a last desperate effort to free himself, but the hand which held
him and the icy water which imprisoned him had become as one. The veins
in his head had ceased to feel that they must burst. He felt calm,
almost sleepy.

Then quite suddenly he was aware of a change. He felt himself shooting
up to what seemed an incredible height. He felt the air forcing itself
into his lungs, choking him. A dark form shot past him in the water, the
surface of which had become frothy. A current was sweeping him out into
the centre of the pool. In the single moment, during which he regained
consciousness before the black shadows once more closed down upon him,
Mr. Campion realized the explanation of this phenomenon.

Some third person had opened the floodgates and the sudden sheet of
water belching through the alcove had swept Savanake and his victim out
into the pool again.

He struggled to rouse himself, but the old peaceful feeling returned and
he floated limply through the pool to the tunnel of trees over the
stream.

Brett Savanake clambered up out of the water on the far side of the
floodgates where the bottom of the pool sloped up sharply to the bank.
He had no clear idea what had caused the sudden rush of water which had
swept him back into the pool. Vaguely he supposed he must have touched
something, pulled some lever or otherwise disturbed some crude
mechanism.

It was typical of the man that he did not give another thought to
Campion. The Campion episode was over and best forgotten. He went back
to the spot where his gun lay and from which the young man had kicked
the iron box.

As he paused to look down a faint sound disturbed him from the shadow of
the dynamo-wheel shed and he stood listening. But as nothing else
occurred to arouse his suspicion he continued on the task he had set
himself.

Flattened against the wall in the shadow of the shed, Amanda stood
trembling, hardly daring to breathe. She had watched the proceedings at
first from the window on the first floor of the mill and then from her
present hiding place. She knew Campion too well to interfere, and had
lent a hand by opening the floodgates only when the situation had seemed
desperate enough to warrant her assistance. At the moment, for the first
time in her life, she was almost paralysed with fear.

Where was Campion? She listened, her heart beating so loudly and heavily
that it hurt her side. She could just see Savanake from her present
position, and as she watched him he removed his coat and boots and
plunged into the pool again.

She listened anxiously for sound of Campion, but there was no noise
above the wheel save the splashing of the man who had just entered the
water.

The revolver still lay on the path by the chauffeur's coat. She had not
noticed it at first, but now she caught sight of it and had just made up
her mind to creep out and get it when she heard Savanake coming out
again, and once more she sank back into the comparative safety of the
shadows.

From where she stood she could see him coming up to the path where his
coat lay.

The storm had completely cleared and the sky was bright with stars, so
that she could see he carried something, an iron box suspended by a ring
in its lid.

The explanation of the whole thing dawned upon her as she caught sight
of it, and her courage, which had temporarily deserted her, now returned
as she realized that here was something definite to be done.

Savanake sat putting on his boots not ten paces from where she stood.
She felt that he must hear her breathe. But he seemed principally
concerned with dressing himself as soon as possible. The iron box lay
unprotected at his side.

Amanda stopped and picked up a loose pebble at her feet. Then, waiting
her opportunity, she hurled it out across the pool with all her
strength. It struck a tree on the opposite bank and the sharp sound,
followed by a gentle plop as it ricocheted into the water, brought the
man to his feet, straining his eyes to see the least sign of movement on
the further bank.

Amanda darted forward like a shadow, snatched the box and fled down the
gangway to the mill. She heard his startled exclamation and the next
instant a bullet tore the shoulder of her dress. She gained the mill,
however, and swung the door to behind her. The heavy iron bolt was
stiff; it took her a moment to force it home, and as she bent over the
task there was a roar, a shriek of splintering wood and a sharp pain
stabbed her in the chest. The box dropped from her hand on to the stone
with a clatter, and as she bent down to snatch it up a strange giddiness
overtook her and she dropped to her knees.

Another shot cut through the door. Amanda struggled to get out of the
line of fire. Her mouth felt full of blood and a numbness was spreading
over her body. She reached her feet only to fall again, pitching
headlong into the arms of a figure who had burst through the further
doorway of the mill and who now held her in wet arms.

"Amanda!" Campion s voice was strained. "For God's sake get out of this,
you little fool!" And then in a new tone: "Hullo, I say, Amanda, are you
hurt?" And finally, as she did not speak but lay limp and heavy against
him, an exclamation escaped him and he set her down gently against the
wall.

Outside the door Savanake had ceased shooting and appeared to be putting
his shoulder to the boards. Campion advanced cautiously, keeping out of
the line of fire as well as he could, but before he could reach the bolt
the hammering ceased and he caught the sound of the scraping of wood
above the rumble of the wheel.

Campion was not as a rule foolhardy. His adversary was armed and not
fifteen minutes before had been all but successful in an attempt to
murder him. Moreover, the iron box was temporarily safe. Yet because of
something which he would not have explained even if he could, and which
was definitely to do with Amanda, he went out after Savanake with the
intent to kill.

He worked back the bolt as silently as possible and opened the door an
inch or two. At first it seemed that the man had vanished, but suddenly
he caught sight of him and his heart leapt.

In Savanake's anxiety to get round to the front of the mill before the
girl with the box could have reached the car, he had disregarded the
warning of the hurdle and had scaled it, to fall almost immediately
through one of the gaping holes in the planking over the river. At the
moment he was up to his armpits and was clutching feverishly at the
mouldering boards, which broke under his hands, while the river sucked
at his body eagerly.

Campion stared at him and the sudden realization of the man's terrible
danger came home to him. The planking through which Savanake had fallen
was above the grille, that grid of iron which keeps debris floating down
the river out of the wheel of every mill. The man's helpless body was
immersed on the inner side of the grille and the great wheel rumbled and
spluttered within a few feet of him.

In spite of the fact that a moment before Mr. Campion had come out with
the intention of killing his enemy if he could, such a death was too
terrible for him to contemplate.

"Hold on," he said. "I'm coming."

The white face on whose forehead the veins stood out in weals was raised
to his own for a moment. Recognition gleamed in the eyes, coupled with
bewilderment and a flush of superstitious fear. Then, as Campion reached
the hurdle, the right hand crept forward and snatched the revolver which
lay where he had dropped it on the edge of the hole. A sudden smile
spread over the contorted face, but although the lips moved no sound
issued.

With a superhuman effort the man raised his arm and fired. The bullet
passed harmlessly over Campion's head, but the movement had been too
much for the man in the water. As he raised his arm the river carried
away his hold and he slipped under the boards.

The steady throb of the wheel, so monotonous, so relentless, seemed to
Campion's horrified ears to pause an instant, and a tremor so small and
yet so terrible passed through the great white building. Nothing more.

Then all was silent save for the steady throb of the thirty-foot metal
paddle.




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LATE EXTRA


Kneeling in the dark mill beside the silent bundle which was Amanda, Mr.
Campion listened anxiously. At first the entire village seemed silent
save for the steady throbbing of the wheel and the chatter of water in
the race. He stood up, therefore, and braced himself to lift the girl.
His head was dizzy and his clothes dragged upon him. Besides being
irritated by his own weakness, he was frantic in his alarm concerning
her.

He had just raised her up and was preparing to carry her and the iron
box into the house when a beam of light swept across the face of the
mill and the one thing he most dreaded occurred.

A car, the sound of whose engine he did not recognize, came rattling
over the loose stones of the lane and pulled up beside the Rolls.

He leant back against the wall, Amanda in his arms. The darkness hid
them for the moment, but they were completely unprotected should a dark
form loom up in the open doorway and flash a torch round the chamber. He
held his breath and strained his ears to catch every sound. His alarm
increased.

The new-comers, whoever they were, seemed to take it for granted that
the mill was unoccupied. One of them was talking loudly, although as yet
he could catch no words. He heard them rattling the front door of the
house and then stamp round to the back.

Campion staggered forward. Some hiding place must be found immediately
for them both. Even though Savanake were dead, his lieutenants were
still at large.

He had just reached the centre of the floor when thundering footsteps
sounded on the stones outside, a moment afterwards. Someone rattled on
the door panel with the head of a cane, and a voice, old, kindly, and
faintly pompous, demanded briskly: "Anyone about here?"

Mr. Campion froze. He felt the hairs rising on his skull. Death was one
thing, but to find oneself suddenly bereft of one's senses was another.

"Anyone about?" the voice repeated querulously, and at the same time the
sharp beam of a powerful torch stabbed the darkness.

It came to rest on Campion's face and he stood there blinking, the girl
in his arms.

There was a startled but satisfied grunt from the doorway before the
voice said astonishingly: "Well, Campion my boy, what the devil do you
think you're up to now? Little lady hurt? Glad I came along."

Mr. Campion's knees only just upheld him. "Colonel Featherstone!" he
said. "Good heavens, sir, how did you get here?"

"Confidential orders from the top, my boy." The old voice had a
self-satisfied ring in it. "Stationed at Colchester, don't you know.
Only heard of this an hour ago and here I am. Young Stukely-Wivenhoe is
out there beating round the house with a couple of men. Hark at 'em.
Sounds like a herd of buffalo. I've got a subaltern with sergeant and
three sections in two lorries coming along. They had some little trouble
with a car-load of blackguards on the road, but they'll be here any
moment now. I saw they didn't need any help so I pushed on. There's a
fellow out here lying by a Rolls-Royce. Seems stunned. Campion, that
girl's been shot or something. Blood on her bodice."

Mr. Campion did not speak but stood swaying. The peaceful sensation he
had experienced under water was returning and only Amanda's weight in
his arms forced him to cling to consciousness.

There was a commotion in the doorway and Colonel Featherstone's huge
dark form loomed forward.

"Here, my boy," he said, "I didn't realize, dammit. You're done up. Give
me the little woman. There, that's right. Wivenhoe!"

The final word was bellowed in the famous voice at once the pride and
despair of every sergeant-major in the brigade.

Instantly a clatter of boots sounded on the stones outside and Mr.
Campion relapsed into a species of coma until he found himself sitting
in the hall of the mill house, while old Featherstone, assisted by the
lean and handsome Wivenhoe and two wooden-faced but excited private
soldiers, laid Amanda upon the couch in the drawing-room.

Colonel Featherstone came back blowing with kindliness, importance, and
unusual exertion.

"Doctor in the village, Campion?"

The young man glanced up sharply. "No, not at the moment," he said,
pulling himself together. "Someone had better get into Sweethearting and
fetch the man there." He went into the drawing-room while the Colonel
despatched his chauffeur with orders which were pithy and concise to
return with a competent doctor in the shortest possible space of time.

Wivenhoe and the other men went out to inspect the condition of the
unlucky Mr. Parrott.

Amanda was still unconscious, but Campion was sufficiently familiar with
revolver wounds to hope that the danger was considerably less than he
had feared at first.

He left her at last and went back to the hall. The Colonel and company
commander, Captain Stukely-Wivenhoe, were waiting for him. Both men were
naturally curious. The atmosphere of mystery and excitement which
enwrapped the whole place like a blanket was unmistakable. Campion
glanced at their khaki uniforms and was thankful and comforted. Old
Featherstone's bright pink face and voluminous white moustache were
other emblems of peace and security, and for once in his life Mr.
Campion was grateful for such assurance.

Proceedings were interrupted at the outset by the return of the orderly
from the dining-room whither Mr. Parrott had been carried. The man was
plainly startled and Featherstone nodded to him to speak.

"Excuse me, sir, but there's a man under the table in the other room."

"Hiding?" Old Featherstone clumped forward with interest.

"Hardly, sir. He's bound and gagged."

"Oh yes, of course," said Mr. Campion. "Of course. I forgot."

The Colonel's little blue eyes rested enquiringly on the young man for a
moment before he coughed noisily, and returned to his subordinate.

"That's all right, Bates. Run upstairs and see if you can find a
dressing-gown and a pair of trousers for Mr. Campion. Can't stand about
like that, Campion," he continued as the man went off. "Might catch a
chill--never know."

The young man smiled faintly. There was something fantastic about old
Featherstone's imperturbability.

"Look here, sir," he said, "I'd better explain a bit, hadn't I?"

"All in good time my boy, all in good time. First of all, is there
anything you want done? We're here primarily to give a hand, and
secondly to convey--all--something or other to Whitehall. Orders were a
bit hurried, don't you know. Young Oxley will be along with the men at
any minute now."

Campion considered. "Someone ought to go along to Great Kepesake to
collect Miss Huntingforest, the elder Miss Fitton, her brother, and
Randall," he ventured.

"Guffy Randall?" enquired the captain with interest. "I was lunching
with his father yesterday. Really! Well, shall I go along, sir?"

"Yes." Old Featherstone stuck his head out of the door. "I hear the
lorry. You take that Rolls, Wivenhoe, and bring 'em all back here. Any
objections, Campion? Your car?"

"No, sir, but I think that's an excellent idea, if I may say so. That
car will get through anywhere unquestioned. I should take someone with
you, Wivenhoe, all the same."

"Right. I'll pick up a man from the lorry."

Old Featherstone watched him go and then returned to Campion, who was
struggling into the dry clothes the orderly had unearthed.

Mr. Campion turned the events of the past few hours over in his mind.
The iron box stood on the table and he laid his hand over it absently.

"There's a man's body in the river below the mill," he said slowly.
"It's probably in a bit of a mess. He went through the wheel. Then
there's that fellow tied up in the dining-room; he's a case for the
police."

"Oh, well, we'll leave him there." Old Featherstone seemed relieved.
"We're just here to protect your party and to convey the
two--ah--objects which you've discovered to headquarters. In confidence,
I don't understand this business, Campion, but as far as I can gather,
someone--I heard young Eager-Wright's name mentioned--went to town
carrying something or other which set the whole department by the ears,
and they phoned to me."

Mr. Campion's nod of understanding was interrupted by the arrival of the
lorry and the unexpected appearance of Farquharson, followed by the
subaltern Oxley. The young officer made his report briefly to
Featherstone.

"We found Mr. Farquharson's car overturned, sir, on the Sweethearting
road. He was being attacked by the occupants of a second car, who were
armed, and who fired on us. One of our men has a shoulder wound. Mr.
Farquharson appealed to us for assistance and as his story showed that
he was--well--in this business, sir, I ventured to bring him along."

"Quite right. Unorthodox, but quite right. Where are the blackguards who
fired on you?"

Old Featherstone's pink face was almost luminous. "In the back of the
second lorry, sir."

"Splendid. I suppose we shall have to turn them over to the civil
authorities. Pity. Good work, all the same. Now, Oxley, send the
sergeant and a party to search the river for a body. Corpse of a man.
Been through a mill wheel, poor fellow. Bring him in."

"Yes, sir."

The young man saluted and went off, while Farquharson, pale and
battered, but bursting with excitement, came forward.

Old Featherstone shook hands with him. "Didn't think I should find you
in this sort of mess, my boy, when we met last year. That was a dull
affair at the Bletchleys', wasn't it? God bless my soul, it was. Well,
had a bit of scrap?"

"Just that, sir. Oxley put the story in a nutshell."

"They caught you, I suppose?" Campion enquired.

"Yes, in the end. But I gave them a run for their money first. What
happened? Did you get it?"

"Amanda did."

"Amanda? Where is she?"

"In the drawing-room. He got her pretty badly, I think."

"Good Lord." Farquharson sat down suddenly on the edge of the table.

The doctor from Sweethearting arrived at practically the same moment as
the scouting party under Oxley reported that the heath was deserted, and
the barn which the invaders had used as a garage was now empty.

Farquharson and Campion waited in the hall for the doctor to come out of
the drawing-room. They were both silent, but while Farquharson looked
frankly anxious there was no expression at all upon Mr. Campion's face.

At length the doctor, a squarely built, eminently practical young man,
came out to them, and at the first glimpse of his face Farquharson
seemed relieved.

"Is she all right?"

The doctor glanced at him suspiciously. Revolver wounds were rare in his
experience, and ever the precursor of a day in the court giving
evidence.

"I don't know about all right," he said brusquely. "She's not in danger,
if that's what you mean. Can we get her to bed upstairs anywhere?
There'll have to be explanations about this, you understand."

Mr. Campion, whose appearance was not improved by the enormous pair of
flannel trousers and gay dressing-gown, both the property of Guffy
Randall, in which he was arrayed, nodded gravely to the doctor.

"That's all right," he said. "Don't worry. Farquharson, will you see to
all this? I must go to Featherstone."

When Farquharson descended the staircase some time later, Amanda was
lying safely in her bed, conscious and comparatively comfortable. The
doctor remained with her until Mary and Aunt Hatt should arrive, not
that he was in any way alarmed at her condition, but his curiosity was
thoroughly aroused, and he was conscious that it might be his duty to
make some sort of report to the police.

On reaching the hall, Farquharson found a soldier on duty outside the
drawing-room door.

"Here you are, sir," he said. "The Colonel's compliments and will you
join the conference?"

Farquharson hurried through the doorway to find a typically
Featherstonian scene within. The furniture had been pushed back save for
a small rectangular table which was placed in the centre of the room,
and behind which the old man sat with Wivenhoe on his left, and, rather
surprisingly, an anxious, but still game Aunt Hatt on his right. Mary
sat behind her aunt, while Campion, Guffy, and Hal were placed on a
long, narrow music stool parallel with and in front of the Colonel's
table.

Campion had just finished speaking as Farquharson came in, and Aunt
Hatt, who was too worried about Amanda to be silenced by any military
etiquette, sprang up.

"How is she? Can I go up to her?"

Colonel Featherstone turned a shade darker, but his manners did not
desert him. Lumbering to his feet he clumped over to the door and held
it open.

"Give the brave little woman my compliments, ma'am," he said. And as
Aunt Hatt fluttered out he strode back to his chair without dreaming for
an instant that he had spoken, save in the most simple, natural manner
in the world.

"Ah, Farquharson, my boy," he said. "Sit down, will you? Campion's just
told us a most remarkable tale. If you'll forgive me, my dear"--he
nodded to Mary--"damned remarkable. Well, Campion, let's have that iron
box and open it, shall we? Don't want to make any mistakes at this
juncture."

The iron box was placed on the table, where the Crown of Averna already
lay, and Captain Wivenhoe and Campion set to work on it with a steel
pike in the captain's clasp knife. The long secretion in the damp
well-head had told upon the metal and finally the lock burst with a
crack like a pistol shot. In spite of the Colonel's discipline, they
crowded round the table.

The box contained a small parcel wrapped in oilskin, which, on being
unfolded, disclosed a stout linen bag, a little yellow and clammy with
age. Within this again was a sheet of old coarse law paper, and a folded
slip of parchment, the seal which had bound it, broken.

Colonel Featherstone produced a pair of glasses, and his stubby fingers
played over the papers clumsily.

"This looks important, Campion," he said. "But I'm hanged if I see what
it means. Have a look at it."

Campion took the sheet of paper and read the faded, brown script aloud:

    "The bell hath kept this secret well
    If Pontisbright you be.
    But evil dog thee, death until,
    If stranger taketh me."

"Huh!" said old Featherstone and added, turning to Hal: "Here, my lad,
look at this, will you?"

He passed the parchment to the boy, who opened it carefully. An array of
seals met their eyes and a fine Latin screed, too legal and archaic to
follow, but the word "Avernium" re-occurred again and again, and at the
foot of the page was the signature too well known to be doubted,
"Metternich," and the date, 1815.

"That's it!" Guffy met Campion's eyes, and a sense of exhilaration swept
over the whole room.

Featherstone replaced the documents carefully in the linen bag, and put
the crown in with them.

"Well, Campion, my boy," he said, "I'll take charge of these, shall I?
Daresay you'll be glad to hand over the responsibility, after
everything. Don't worry. They shan't leave my tunic until I place them
in the secretary's own hands. You're going to get recognition for this,
you youngsters, and in my opinion you deserve it."

They watched him while he buttoned the linen bag carefully in the inside
pocket of his tunic.

"There," he said with unconcealed satisfaction. "Now I must consider
myself a royal courier, don't you know. We'll do the thing properly.
Mustn't take any risks. I'll take Bates and a section under a corporal
in one lorry by way of escort. Wivenhoe, I'll leave these good people in
your care until you can hand over everything to the civil authorities.
Well, good-bye, Campion. Congratulations, sincere congratulations."

They followed him to the door and saw him safely installed in the back
of his car. Bates and the chauffeur sat in front, and the lorry lumbered
along behind. There was something slightly absurd, slightly magnificent,
and mightily romantic about this gallant departure, and even had Brett
Savanake not lain mangled in the sweet waters of the Bright, Mr. Campion
felt he would have been unperturbed about the safety of the precious
proofs.

Captain Wivenhoe proved as capable, if less colourful, as his superior
officer.

"Look here, Randall," he said as they trooped back to the drawing room,
"we both know the County Commissioner pretty well. Dear old Tenderton is
an understanding, intelligent old boy. I feel like putting the whole
thing, or most of it, before him. After all, I gather there's a bit of a
mess to clear up, and that will fall to his department. They found the
body, by the way. The mill wheel stove his head in against the race."

Guffy turned enquiringly to Campion. "Shall we appeal to the
Commissioner?" he enquired.

Mr. Campion nodded. "Fine," he said. "Fine, if you can fix that up
between you. The doctor chappie will want appeasing, too, and there are
several things to be considered."

"Good heavens, yes." Guffy blinked as he spoke. "Dr. Galley. I'd
forgotten him."

They listened appalled, while he sketched a brief account of their
terrible experience of the afternoon, his inarticulation and
under-statement lending a much more awesome gravity to the tale than any
more elaborate telling could have done.

Mr. Campion was silent after the recital, but when Wivenhoe went out to
dispatch a man with a note to the County Commissioner he spoke:

"That kid Amanda," he said; "what a nerve she has! She stayed behind
after all that."

Guffy glanced across the room to where Mary stood with her back to him
talking to Hal.

"They're marvellous women, all of them," he said, and his round solemn
face brightened. "I'm a very happy man, Campion," he announced gravely.
"Very happy, indeed. Mary's as keen on the country, the estates and that
sort of thing, as I am. Fortunate, isn't it? There's only one thing
that's worrying me. We got engaged this afternoon," he said, "and at
that time I assure you I had no idea at all that this revelation of old
Galley's was going to break. You see, as it is, in view of everything,
the P.M. can hardly refuse to interest himself personally in the
family's claim, and with this sheet from the register to go on it seems
to me to be a foregone conclusion. That means that I shall marry Mary
just when her brother gets the earldom and the estate. Rather awkward,
isn't it?"

Campion passed his hand through his fair hair. "My dear old garrulous,"
he said, "let me assure you first that the idea of anyone of your house
marrying for wealth or position is one of those absurdities which could
not take root even in the embryonic mind of the lowliest of
gossip-columnists. Then let me enquire gently and kindly, as of a man
demented by love or drink, what the hell are you blathering about? What
page from what register?"

Guffy blinked at him. "Of course," he said. "Of course, you don't know.
Oh, well, here it is. When we first went to see that unfortunate fellow
Galley the man produced an envelope containing, so he said, a page or so
from his uncle's diary, and a sheet from the parish register. He was
going to show it to us when the clock struck the half-hour, and the
sound seemed to bring on his--er--paroxysms. Well, naturally, I forgot
about it in the excitement which followed, but apparently Aunt
Hatt--that woman has guts, Campion--simply picked it up before she went
out. When we came off the boat and went into the 'George' at Great
Kepesake she produced it. Hal's got it. It's unmistakably genuine."

The boy came over and unlocked the rosewood bureau in the corner.

"I've just put it in here for safety," he said.

Campion took the envelope, and they gathered round the table and pored
over its contents.

There were two leaves from the diary, two small discoloured pages
written in a ragged, crabbed hand. The first entry was dated June 30th,
1854.

"Rose early. Cow still sick. Mrs. Padditch dropped my best salad bowl
and cracked it, so was forced to dismiss her. This evening young Hal
from the Hall came to visit me, looking very gallant in his soldier
clothes. Gave me twenty guineas (20 gns) to marry him to Miss Mary
Fitton of Sweethearting without his mother's knowledge. Felt myself in a
quandary, but since he is the heir and I am still a young man, and may
live here many more years, I salved my conscience and agreed. Married
him at seven o'clock this evening to the girl, Mrs. Parritch and her
father's man, Branch, standing witness. The little Miss looked peaky. I
wonder if she will live to see him back."

Campion set the page down. This intimate glimpse of another life so long
vanished was sobering even at the end of so much modern turmoil.

The second entry was even more enlightening.

"January 5th, 1855. Have consented at last to Her Ladyship's way. My
conscience pricks me but I see no way out of my dilemma. Hear the poor
little Miss is near to death, anyway, at the loss of her man, so it may
well be the same in the end for her. Her Ladyship is very bitter. A hard
woman. I find myself helpless in her hands. Have taken out leaf from
Register and find that I thereby also render Elizabeth Martin and Thos.
Cowper unmarried in the sight of man, if not in God's sight. Prayed
diligently that I should be forgiven my sins. N.B. Have hidden page from
Register in cover of _Catullus_, leather bound copy."

"There you see," said Mary. "He was afraid afterwards that his diary
might be read, so he took these pages out and hid them with the sheet
from the register."

Campion spread out the last sheet. It was a page from the Church
Register. The signatures were faded, but still clear: "Hal
Huntingforest. Mary Fitton. June 30th, 1854." And underneath the record
of the marriage which had so disturbed the accommodating vicar: "Eliz.
Martin. Thomas Cowper. Sept. 18th, 1854."

"What do you think?" Hal's young voice was eager. "Can we get it proved?
We haven't any money, you know."

Campion glanced up from the documents and grinned. "That's all right,"
he said. "I think we shall find that in view of everything we can get it
through without the least difficulty in the world. As for money, the
Hereditary Paladin of Averna should come in for a packet. As Pretender,
I, Albert, abdicate in favour of thee, Hal, and all that."

Hal shook hands with him gravely, and Mary slipped her arm through
Guffy's.

Eager-Wright put his head round the door.

"I say, Campion," he said, "half a minute. The sergeant and a patrol
have just brought in those two prize idiots, Scatty and Lugg. They've
walked from Kepesake. Come and swear to 'em, will you?"

Mr. Campion hurried out to the rescue of his henchman. Lugg, lugubrious
and sorry for himself, was sitting on the doorstep of the mill with
Scatty at his side, while their captors stood round, amused and
tolerant.

"The army," said Mr. Lugg, casting a baleful glance at his employer, his
voice packed with scorn. "The blinking army. Can't do a little quiet job
without the army turning out. It's Yes, mister sergeant. No, mister
sergeant, the whole time. I get sick of it. Yes, sir," he added hastily
before the expression in Mr. Campion's face. "Yes, sir. Come to report,
sir. All quiet, sir."

After satisfying the sergeant Mr. Campion turned away. He was unbearably
weary. His head was burning, his mouth was dry. The adventure was over,
then; the victory complete. He walked slowly upstairs.

As he passed Amanda's room Aunt Hatt came out. She was smiling.

"She's better, I do believe," she confided. "Quite herself again, but a
little weak. Go in and see her. She's anxious to hear that everything's
all right."

Campion went into the gay little room. Amanda, white and a trifle
pinched, but very much alive, grinned at him from the bed.

"Hallo, Orph," she said. "Come to report to the Lieut? What's the
worst?"

"There isn't any," he said, sitting down on the end of the bed. "This
sensational business has come to a successful close, as we say in the
board room. The treasure has gone to town in the charge of a minute but
magnificent portion of the British army, the missing earl is well on the
way to his place in _Dod_, we're both alive, thanks to you, and I'm half
asleep."

"Good," said Amanda and sighed. A spasm of pain passed over her face,
and her eyes fluttered open, surprise in their brown depths. "It hurts
when I do that," she said. "But I'll be all right in a day or two. I'm
very healthy, my teeth are good, I never snore, my relations say I have
a sweet temper."

Campion sat looking at her, and she lifted a hand with some difficulty,
and laid it on his arm.

"Don't be frightened," she said. "I'm not proposing marriage to you. But
I thought you might consider me as a partner in the business later on.
You see, when Hal comes into the estate Scatty and I are going to have a
thin time. I don't want to go to a finishing school, you know."

"Good Lord, no," said Campion, aghast at the prospect.

"That's all," said Amanda. "Get that well into your head. No higher
education for me. I say, do you ever think about Biddy Pagett? You
know--Biddy Lobbett."

Mr. Campion, dishevelled, and unbeautifully clad, met her frank
enquiring gaze with one of his rare flashes of undisguised honesty.

"Yes," he said.

Amanda sighed. "I thought so. Look here," she went on. "I shan't be
ready for about six years yet. But then--well, I'd like to put you on
the top of my list."

Campion held out his hand with sudden eagerness. "Is that a bet?"

Amanda's small cold fingers grasped his own. "Done," she said.

Mr. Campion sat where he was for a long time staring out across the
room. His face was expressive, a luxury he scarcely ever permitted
himself. At last he rose slowly to his feet and stood looking down very
tenderly at this odd little person who had come crashing through one of
the most harrowing adventures he had ever known and with unerring
instinct had torn open old scars, revived old fires which he had
believed extinct.

"What's going to change you in six years, you rum little grig?" he said
slowly.

She did not stir. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were parted, and her
breath came regularly and evenly.

Amanda was asleep.






[End of Sweet Danger, by Margery Allingham]
