LITMIR.BIZ

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satisfied with it, and it's like as if there was something lurking about—"

      She began to shiver as she looked into the black night about us—and it was indeed, although in summer time, as black a night as ever I saw—and her hand got a tighter grip on mine.

      "How do you know yon bad man isn't still about?" she whispered. "It was he killed Hollins, of course!—and if he wanted to kill you yon time in the yacht, he'll want again!"

      "It's small chance he'll get, then, now!" I said. "There's no fear of that, Maisie—amongst all yon lot of men above. Away you go, now, and get to your bed, and as sure as sure I'll be home to eat my breakfast with you. It's my opinion all this is at an end."

      "Not while yon man's alive!" she answered. "And I'd have far rather stayed with you—till it's daylight, anyway."

      However, she let me put her into the car; and when I had charged the policeman who went with her not to take his eyes off her until she was safe in Andrew Dunlop's house, they went off, and Mr. Lindsey and I turned up the stair again. Murray had preceded us, and under his superintendence Chisholm was beginning to open the screwed-up boxes. The rest of us stood round while this job was going on, waiting in silence. It was no easy or quick job, for the screws had been fastened in after a thoroughly workmanlike fashion, and when he got the first lid off we saw that the boxes themselves had been evidently specially made for this purpose. They were of some very strong, well-seasoned wood, and they were lined, first with zinc, and then with thick felt. And—as we were soon aware—they were filled to the brim with gold. There it lay—roll upon roll, all carefully packed—gold! It shone red and fiery in the light of our lamps, and it seemed to me that in every gleam of it I saw devils' eyes, full of malice, and mockery, and murder.

      But there was one box, lighter than the rest, in which, instead of gold, we found the valuable things of which Hollins had told Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe and myself when he came to us on his lying mission, only the previous midnight. There they all were—the presents that had been given to various of the Carstairs baronets by royal donors—carefully packed and bestowed. And at sight of them, Mr. Lindsey looked significantly at me, and then at Murray.

      "He was a wily and a clever man, this fellow that's lying behind us," he muttered. "He pulled our hair over our eyes to some purpose with his tale of Lady Carstairs and her bicycle—but I'm forgetting," he broke off, and drew me aside. "There's another thing come out since you left me and Smeaton tonight," he whispered. "The police have found out something for themselves—I'll give them that credit. That was all lies—lies, nothing but lies!—that Hollins told us,—all done to throw us off the scent. You remember the tale of the registered letter from Edinburgh?—the police found out last evening from the post folks that there never was any registered letter. You remember Hollins said Lady Carstairs went off on her bicycle? The police have found out she never went off on any bicycle—she wasn't there to go off. She was away early that morning; she took a train south from Beal station before breakfast—at least, a veiled woman answering her description did,—and she's safe hidden in London, or elsewhere, by now, my lad!"

      "But him—the man—Sir Gilbert, or whoever he is?" I whispered. "What of him, Mr. Lindsey?"

      "Aye, just so!" he said. "I'm gradually piecing it together, as we go on. It would seem to me that he made his way to Edinburgh after getting rid of you, as he thought and hoped—probably got there the very next morning, through the help of yon fisherman at Largo, Robertson, who, of course, told us and the police a pack of lies!—and when he'd got the last of these securities from Paley, he worked back here, secretly, and with the help of Hollins, and has no doubt kept quiet in this old tower until they could get away with that gold! Of course, Hollins has been in at all this—but now—who's killed Hollins? And where's the chief party—the other man?"

      "What?" I exclaimed. "You don't think he killed Hollins, then?"

      "I should be a fool if I did, my lad," he answered. "Bethink yourself!—when all was cut and dried for their getting off, do you think he'd stick a knife in his confederate's throat? No!—I can see their plan, and it was a good one. Hollins would have run those cases down to Newcastle in a couple of hours; there'd have been no suspicion about them, and no questions which he couldn't answer—he'd have gone across to Hamburg with them himself. As for the man we know as Sir Gilbert, you'll be hearing something presently from Mr. Elphinstone yonder; but my impression is, as Maisie never saw or heard of him during the night and day, that he got away after his wife last night—and with those securities on him!"

      "Then—who killed Hollins?" I said in sheer amazement. "Are there others in at all this?"

      "You may well ask that, lad," he responded, shaking his head. "Indeed, though we're nearing it, I think we're not quite at the end of the lane, and there'll be a queer turning or two in it, yet, before we get out. But here's Murray come to an end of the present business."

      Murray had finished his inspection of the cases and was helping Chisholm to replace the lids. He, Chisholm, and the detective were exchanging whispered remarks over this job; Mr. Elphinstone and Mr. Gavin Smeaton were talking together in low voices near the door. Presently Murray turned to us.

      "We can do no more here, now, Mr. Lindsey," he said, "and I'm going to lock this place up until daylight and leave a man in the gateway below, on guard. But as to the next step—you haven't the least idea in your head, Moneylaws, about Hollins's assailant?" he went on, turning to me. "You heard and saw—nothing?"

      "I've told you what I heard, Mr. Murray," I answered. "As to seeing anything, how could I? The thing happened on the stair there, and I was in this corner unlocking the inner door."

      "It's as big a mystery as all the rest of it!" he muttered. "And it's just convincing me there's more behind all this than we think for. And one thing's certain—we can't search these grounds or the neighbourhood until the light comes. But we can go round to the house."

      He marched us all out at that, and himself locked up the room, leaving the dead man with the chests of gold; and having stationed a constable in the gateway of the old tower, he led us off in a body to the habited part of the house. There were lights there in plenty, and a couple of policemen at the door, and behind them a whole troop of servants in the hall, half dressed, and open-mouthed with fright and curiosity.

Chapter XXXVII. The Dark Pool

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      As I went into that house with the rest of them, I had two sudden impressions. One was that here at my side, in the person of Mr. Gavin Smeaton, was, in all probability, its real owner, the real holder of the ancient title, who was coming to his lawful rights in this strange fashion. The other was of the contrast between my own coming at that moment and the visit which I had paid there, only a few evenings previously, when Hollins had regarded me with some disfavour and the usurper had been so friendly. Now Hollins was lying dead in the old ruin, and the other man was a fugitive—and where was he?

      Murray had brought us there to do something towards settling that point, and he began his work at once by assembling every Jack and Jill in the house and, with the help of the London detective, subjecting them to a searching examination as to the recent doings of their master and mistress and the butler. But Mr. Lindsey motioned Mr. Elphinstone, and Mr. Gavin Smeaton, and myself into a side-room and shut the door on us.

      "We can leave the police to do their own work," he remarked, motioning us to be seated at a convenient table. "My impression is that they'll find little out from the servants. And while that's afoot, I'd like to have that promised story of yours, Mr. Elphinstone—I only got an idea of it, you know, when you and Murray came to my house. And these two would like to hear it—one of them, at any rate, is more interested in this affair than you'd think or than he knew of himself until recently."

      Now that we were in a properly lighted room, I took a more careful look at the former steward of Hathercleugh. He was a well-preserved, shrewd-looking man of between sixty and seventy: quiet and observant, the sort of man that you could see would think a lot without saying much. He smiled a little as he put his

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