The Surprising Experiences of Mr. Shuttlebury Cobb (2024)

R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

First UK edition: Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1927

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2014
Produced by Roy Glashan

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE — THE GIFTEDSTRANGER

THE humblest of creatures play their useful, and sometimesindispensable, parts in the great scheme of Nature. My introductionto the strange events connected with the Gifted Stranger waseffected by a mere railway guard, and a mighty unceremonious one atthat. He had blown his ridiculous whistle and waved his absurdflag, the engine had uttered a warning shriek, and the train hadactually begun to move, when I raced wildly up the platform atHerne Hill.

"'Ere, in you get!" shouted the guard, spitting out his whistleand wrenching open a door; and, as I scrambled on the footboard, heapplied a vis a tergo that sent me staggering across thecompartment and caused the only other occupant hastily to draw uphis foot and rub that portion of his boot that corresponds to thecorn on the little toe.

"Seem to be in a hurry," the proprietor of the toe remarkedsourly.

"I'm not really," I replied. "It was the guard. I am sorry Itrod on your foot."

"So am I," was the acid rejoinder. And the conversationlanguished.

I put my bag and stick in the rack and spread myself out. It wasa first-class compartment, my ticket was a third, and the firststoppage was at Faversham. This was highly gratifying. We all liketo get some of our own back from the railway companies.

My companion sat and stared out at the house roofs that floatedpast the window as if immersed in his own reflections. He was amassively-built man with large feet, a sandy moustache, and apeculiarly foxy type of countenance. Socially I could not place himat all. He did not look like a professional man, or a farmer, or aship-master, or, for the matter of that, like a first-classpassenger. But that was none of my business.

Presently he produced a letter from his pocket, and, holding itnearly at arm's length, slowly read it through. Now I objectstrongly to people who read letters under your very nose, for, tryas you will, you can't help an occasional glance, and then you areannoyed with yourself. This was a long letter, written in a bold,legible hand on both sides of the paper and held out in the fulllight of the window. I tried to look away, but again and again myeyes unconsciously turned towards it and each time I found myselfreading a sentence before I recollected myself. What made it worsewas that the sentences were so very odd that they tempted me tosteal a further glance to see what they meant, and my struggles toresist the temptation were not so successful as I should havewished.

"If it is really true, there is a fortune waiting forsomebody."

I had read this sentence before I had the presence of mind toshut my eyes. And even while I was considering the question, Ifwhat was true? behold! my eyes had automatically opened and takenin another sentence.

"Your peculiar gifts and experience ought to help you to solveit."

I turned my eyes away guiltily, but could not help speculating.What were his peculiar gifts—besides a hypersensitive littletoe? And what would they help him to solve? Before I was aware ofit, my eyes were back on the paper and had lighted on thisastonishing statement:

"It is in the room in which there is an iron pump and a sedanchair."

Good Heavens! I ejacul*ted inwardly. What kind of room can it bethat contains an iron pump and a sedan chair? And what can the restof the furniture be like? In my amazement I stared at the letterlike a fool, and at that moment I caught the eye of the owner.

It was very embarrassing. Of course I oughtn't to have looked atthe letter, but then he ought not to have held it under my nose.And, in any case, it was rude of him to stare at me as he put theletter away and then to move pointedly to the other end of thecompartment. I felt it very much and for some time sat gaping outof the window in great confusion, trying to ignore my fellowpassenger.

When, at length, I ventured to glance in his direction, I againcaught his eye. But now there was a new expression in it; anexpression of interest and lively curiosity. He held a number ofofficial-looking blue papers in his hand, and, when he caught myglance, he hastily gathered them together—so hastily that hedropped one, and before he could snatch it up from the floor, I wasable to observe that it had a photograph pasted on it. He seemedunreasonably annoyed about the accident—for it was only aman's portrait, after all. He rammed the papers into his insidebreast pocket, buttoned his coat, stuck his hands deep into hispockets and looked as if he would have liked to stick his feet in,too, and so generally put himself out of sight. For the rest of thejourney he sat motionless in his corner, staring out of the windowlike a cataleptic waxwork, evidently determined to offer no furtherentertainment.

But he had given me some food for reflection to go on with.There was the room, for instance, which contained a pump, a sedanchair and "It." What on earth could "It" be? A stuffed elephant,perhaps, or a full-size model of the Victory, or somesimilar portable trifle. And then my companion's "peculiar giftsand experience," what could that mean? Was he a clairvoyant or acrystal-gazer? He didn't look like one. But there was thatphotograph, and here my thoughts wandered off into speculativechannels, which led nowhere, as I had not his peculiar gifts.

From these wanderings I presently came back to my own affairs. Ihad been sent down to Canterbury by old Morlett, our seniorpartner, on business connected with a property called Elham Manor.The rather ruinous old house had been taken by an Americangentleman, Mr Jezreel P Damper, for one year on trial, with theunderstanding that, if he liked it, he should take it on lease. Hehad already been given possession but had apparently not enteredinto residence, and my business was to inspect the premises andmake local arrangements for the execution of such repairs as Ithought necessary, consulting with Mr Damper if he was to be found.When I had done this I was to take a fortnight's holiday.

At Canterbury West my gifted fellow-traveller alighted andwalked slowly towards the barrier. I bustled past him, and,unostentatiously presenting my third-class ticket, hurried out ofthe station, down the approach into the High Street. Jubilantly Itook my way along the venerable thoroughfare towards the massivetowers of the West Gate, anxiously considering where I should putup for the night, until my eye lighted on the jovial sign of theFalstaff Inn. Now a real painted sign is in these days a thing tobe thankful for, and such a painted sign, too, to say nothing ofthe fine forged ironwork. I halted to admire the portrait of jollySir John, then, on the front of the house, I descried the wingedwheel of the CTC, whereupon I dived in through the low doorway anddemanded high tea and a night's lodging.

There is great comfort in an old-fashioned inn with a paintedsignboard and a landlord who knows what's what. I sat complacentlyin the coffee room and watched a minor canon, disguised as awaiter, prepare the table for afternoon service and vanishsilently. I sniffed a growing aroma of grilled ham, and when, anon,the canon reappeared, staggering majestically with a Falstaffiantea tray, I drew up to the table, poured myself out a bumper oftea, and decapitated a soft-boiled egg at a single stroke. And atthat very moment the coffee-room door opened and in walked mypeculiarly gifted fellow-traveller.

He did not appear to notice me, which was uncomfortable. I amnot a conspicuous man, but I am quite visible to the naked eye at adistance of seven feet, which was the distance that separated us ashe sat at the other end of the table pretending that I didn'texist. It was not only uncomfortable, it was offensive. Perhaps histoe still rankled in his breast—if I may use theexpression—or my inadvertent glance at his letter was stillunforgiven. In any case his glum and silent presence at the tabledestroyed all pleasure in my meal. It was neither solitude norcompany. Hurriedly I gobbled up eggs, ham and toast, drained theteapot to the last drop, rose from the table and stalked out of theroom.

A couple of minutes later I was once more strolling up the HighStreet, debating whether I should begin my business at once or waittill the morrow. Entering the city by the West Gate, I paused onthe bridge to look down on the quiet river, the flock of restingboats, and the picturesque houses with their thresholds awash,leaning over their unsteady reflections, when, chancing to lookback, to my surprise and annoyance I observed the gifted strangersauntering towards me.

It was very singular. I had left the inn only a few minutes andwhen I came away he had but just begun his meal. This indecoroushaste in feeding further prejudiced me against him, which, togetherwith a dim suspicion that he was following me, made me decide toget clear of him. Starting forward, I strode down a by-street,darted through an archway and along an alley and then traversing anarrow lane once more found myself in the High Street.

A careful look round showed me that the gifted one was not insight. Probably he had gone down the by-street and missed thearchway. I was turning to resume my walk when I perceived straightbefore me the entrance of the City Museum. Now museums have afascination for me, especially provincial museums, which are apt tocontain antiquities of local interest. The present one, too,offered a sanctuary from my gifted acquaintance, for if he wasreally following me, he would probably spend the rest of the dayscouring the streets in search of me. Accordingly I entered themuseum and began to browse round the galleries, of which the firsttwo that I entered were tenanted by a dreary company of stuffedbirds. From the ornithological rooms I passed to a picture galleryfurnished abundantly with examples of the old masters of the "brownand shiny" school. This was not very thrilling. What was more tothe point was a notice on the wall directing visitors to the CoplinCollection of local antiquities. Following the direction of thepointing hand, I started forthwith along a narrow passage that ledto a distant annexe, which, to judge by its present condition, wasseldom trodden by the foot of man. At the end of the passage I cameto a large room, at the threshold of which I halted with a gasp ofrecognition. For the first thing that met my eye was a sedan chair,and the second, a curious iron pump.

This, then, was the mysterious room. The next question was Whatwas "It?" I ran my eye over the various objects displayedconfidingly on tables, unguarded by glass covers. "Leather corset,said to have been worn by Queen Elizabeth," and extremelycontracted in the region of the gizzard. That wasn't it. "Ivoryrecorder with silver key." That wasn't it. "Wheel-lock musket,""Child's Shoe," "Carved horn drinking-cup," none of these fittedthe implied description. And, at last, I came to the veritable"It."

No doubt was possible. I identified it at the first glance.Mystery and secrecy exhaled from it like a subtle perfume.Concentrating my attention to a perfect focus, I bent over thetable to examine it minutely.

It was a silver mirror, a small piece, of charming design andexquisite workmanship, wrought—mirror and frametogether—from a single plate of silver. The few square inchesof polished surface were surrounded by a broad, richly ornamentedframe, the design of which included an encompassing ribbon whichsupported an oblong pendant. And here was where the mystery camein. For on ribbon and pendant was engraved, in delightfullypicturesque "old face" lettering, the following strangeinscription:

A Harp and a Cross and goode redd golde,
Beneath ye Cross with ye Harp full nigh,
Ankores three atte ye foote of a tree
And a Maid from ye Sea on high.
Take itt. Tis thine. Others have stepped over.

—Simon Glynn. 1683.

I read through this poetic gem a half a dozen times and was nonethe wiser then. In sporting parlance, it was a "fair knockout." Icould make nothing of it. At length I turned to the descriptivelabel for enlightenment—and didn't get it.

"Small silver mirror, discovered in 1734, concealed in an aumbryin Elham Manor House. This house was built by Simon Glynn, agoldsmith and an official of the mint under the Commonwealth, wholived in it for many years. The aumbry was discovered behind thepanelling of the dining room during some repairs. The mirror isbelieved to be Glynn's own work and the doggerel verses engraved onthe frame are supposed to refer to some hidden treasure, but theirexact meaning has never been ascertained. See Boteler's 'ManorHouses of Kent', for an account of Simon Glynn and Elham ManorHouse."

Here was news indeed! Elham Manor! I had the keys in my pocketat the very moment! And I had full authority to carry out anystructural repairs that I thought necessary! And the cryptogram hadnever been deciphered!

Now I understood that mysterious sentence in my friend's letter:"There is a fortune waiting for somebody." Yes, indeed! Perhaps itwas waiting for me. I seemed to understand, too, why the gifted onehad dogged me in that singular manner. No doubt his letter hadcontained some helpful tips and he suspected that I had readthem—and I wished I had, now. But he little suspected that Ihad the run of Elham Manor, and I mustn't let him if I could helpit.

Feverishly I copied into my notebook the inscription and thelabel. Then I wandered round the room, thinking hard and looking atthe exhibits. Should I repair to the adjoining library and look upBoteler, or should I make a beeline for the Manor House? I turnedover this question before the pump, the shoe, the pistol and therecorder, but could not make up my mind. I cogitated as I stood infront of the sedan chair, vainly seeking to peer in through thecurtained windows. In sheer absence of mind, I tried the fastening,and when, to my surprise, the door came open, revealing thesnugly-cushioned interior, I became suddenly possessed by an insanecuriosity to feel what the inside of a sedan chair was like.Yielding to the impulse, I backed in and sat down, and then, tocomplete the sensation, I drew the door to, when it shut with anaudible click.

I sat in the semi-darkness turning over my problem. Should Irisk the publicity of the reading room or go direct to the ManorHouse? And what the deuce could Simon Glynn mean by that absurddoggerel? The sedan chair was extremely comfortable, and the dimlight that filtered in through the worn curtains was pleasant andconducive to thought. I enjoyed myself amazingly—until my earcaught the sound of approaching footsteps and an unmistakableclerical voice. Then, thinking that it was high time to move, Igave a gentle push at the door.

But the confounded thing wouldn't budge. I pushed a littleharder, but the door only creaked protestingly. It evidently had asnap catch. In short, I was locked in. I was about to try if thefront window could be let down when the footsteps entered the roomand a sonorous clerical voice arose in wordy exposition. I brokeout into a cold perspiration and hardly dared tobreathe—especially as the dusty interior was inducing adistinct tendency to sneeze.

"Here is a sedan chair," the voice expounded, "a vehicle whichillustrates—leave that handle alone, James, you are notallowed to touch—which illustrates the primitive modes oflocomotion in use among our forefathers. You willobserve—"

Here I seized my nose with both hands. My eyes watered. Myshoulders heaved. I tried to hold my breath, but it was no go. Ifelt it coming— coming—and at last it came.

"Ha chow!"

The expounding voice ceased. There was a deathly silence. Andthen, in stern accents:

"How many more times am I to remind you, Alfred, of theindecorousness of sneezing in public places?"

"Please, sir, it wasn't me," piped a small, protestingvoice.

"'It wasn't me'! You mean, I presume, 'It was notI.' And don't make your bad manners and bad grammar worse byprevarication. I heard you. Let us move on."

They moved on. The solemn exposition continued. And then theymoved off. As their footsteps retreated, I made a tentative attackon the front window, but hardly had I grasped the webbing strapwhen my ear caught a faint creak. There was someone in the room,still, a person with one slightly creaky boot. I heard the creaktravel slowly round the room, halting at intervals. Then it made aprolonged halt—in the neighbourhood of the mirror, as Ijudged by the sound. And meanwhile I sat and perspired withanxiety.

Presently the creaking boot moved on again. It travelled morequickly now; and it began to travel in my direction. Slowly,gradually it approached, nearer and nearer it came, until, at last,it was opposite my prison. And there it paused. I held my breathuntil I was like to burst. How much longer was the idiot going tostand there staring like a fool at an ordinary, commonplace sedanchair?

I was on the very verge of suffocation when something touchedthe handle. Then it turned slowly; the door opened, andthere—yes—my prophetic soul! it was—my highlygifted friend. He looked in at me with sour surprise and hastilyclosed his note book. But he made no remark. After a prolongedstare he made an attempt to shut the door, but I had the presenceof mind to stick my foot out. Then he turned away. I listened tohis footsteps retreating down the passage at a slow saunter untilthey were faint in the distance, when their rhythm suddenly changedto that of a quick walk. He was off somewhere in a greathurry—probably to the library to consult Boteler.

I stepped out of my prison with my mind made up. I would go andmake a preliminary inspection of Elham Manor and read up Botelerwhen I had seen it. Striding briskly down the passage and throughthe galleries I came out into the street and turned towards theroad to Sturry. I knew my way, for I had looked it up on theOrdnance Map. The old house stood on a side road between Sturry andthe village of Bouldersby, only a mile or two out of the town.

It was a pleasant summer evening and the sun was still shiningbrightly as I came out on the country road and took my way blithelypast farm and meadow and tree-shaded oast. About a mile and a halffrom the city I came upon a finger-post inscribed "Bouldersby andHawkham," and pointing up a byroad bordered by lofty elms. Takingthis direction I walked on for another mile or so until a bend inthe road brought me suddenly to what I recognised at once as mydestination, a low, red-brick wall abutting on the road and aboveit the stepped gables and lichen-covered roof of an ancient andhighly picturesque house.

I walked along in front of the wall until I reached the irongates, and here I halted to reconnoitre. For that ridiculous jingleof old Simon Glynn's rang in my head anew as I looked at the frontof the old house. The iron gates were hung from two massive brickpillars, each surmounted by a stone pineapple, and on the front ofone pillar was carved in high relief a shield bearing a St George'scross, while the other bore a relief of a shield with an Irishharp.

Here, then, were the Harp and Cross plain enough, but the otheritems mentioned in the doggerel were not so obvious. It is truethat, between the windows above the porch, was a carved brick nichecontaining a statue of a young woman, and a very charming littlestatue it was, evidently the portrait of a young Puritan lady; butwhether she came from the sea or the land there was nothing toshow. There was, however, a good deal to show what interpretationhad been put on the doggerel rhyme, for the flagged path from thegate to the porch seemed to have suffered from a succession ofearthquakes. And the excavators had not stopped at the path; thepillar that bore the Cross device was sensibly out of theperpendicular, showing that its very foundations had been rootedup, and the brickwork itself showed numerous patches wheretreasure-seekers had bored into it. Evidently the gifted one and Iwere by no means the first explorers in this field.

I had just taken the keys from my pocket, and was selecting theone that belonged to the gate, when the silence was broken by afaint rhythmical sound from the road round the bend. It was thecreak of a boot—one boot, not a pair—and as I listened,it seemed to me that I had heard it before. I slipped the keys backinto my pocket—for it would be better not to be seen enteringthe house—and was beginning to saunter up the road, when thecreak materialized into my gifted competitor, coming round the bendlike a lamplighter. He slowed down suddenly when he saw me, and asI strolled round another turn in the road, I observed that he hadstopped and was gazing about him with his back to the house, as ifhe had not noticed it.

I walked on towards Bouldersby considering the situation. Myrespected rival was evidently nervous and suspicious of me. Hethought I knew a good deal more than I did. And this suggested thequestion: How much did he know? Apparently that letter hadcontained some useful information which he suspected me of havingextracted. But if it was true that the treasure was stillundiscovered, and he had some private information that I had not,perhaps it would be as well to keep an eye on him and see if Icould pick up a hint or two from his proceedings.

I had just reached this sage conclusion and was on the point ofturning back, when I perceived, a little way ahead, a smallroadside inn; a picturesque little house, standing back from theroad behind a small green, on which was a signpost bearing the signof the Royal George. The pleasant aspect of the house led me toapproach and reconnoitre when I observed that it had a back wingextending into a garden and that the garden ran down to the riverand adjoined an orchard. I approached past the little bay window(in which was a card inscribed with the legend "New-laid Eggs") andlooked in at the door. It was a most primitive inn. A couple ofbarrels on stands and a row of mugs on a shelf formed its entireoutfit, and the only persons visible were an old woman, who satsewing busily in a Wycombe armchair, and a corpulent tabby cat.

The homely comfort of the place, the quiet and the proximity ofthe river, offered an agreeable suggestion. As the old lady lookedup and smiled a greeting, I advanced and ventured to enquire:

"Do you happen to have any accommodation for a lodger?"

Mine hostess nodded and smiled as she replied: "Yes, they're allnew-laid. I keeps my own fowls and feeds 'em myself."

This seemed irrelevant. Raising my voice considerably, Iasked:

"Could you put me up here for a week or so?"

"Oh, apples!" she answered doubtfully. "No, they're hardly ripeyet. It's a bit early, you see."

The reply was a little disconcerting. But its dogged as does it.I tried again. With an ear-splitting yell that was like to haveswept the mugs off the shelf, I repeated my question—and wasasked in return whether I would have mild or bitter?

It seemed hopeless. But I liked the look of the place. It wasscrupulously clean and well kept; and the rustic quiet, thepleasant garden and the river flowing past, urged me to newefforts. I scribbled my question on a scrap of paper which I handedto the old lady; but observing that this seemed to give offence, Ihastily added a line explaining that I was suffering from a sorethroat and had lost my voice. This completely appeased her and sheallowed me to continue the negotiations on paper, of which theupshot was that, if I was content to "live plain and not expect toomuch waiting on," I could have the small bedroom overlooking thegarden and move in tomorrow evening.

I walked back towards Elham Manor in high spirits. I had securedpleasant country lodgings and a convenient base from which to carryout the repairs and explorations on the old house and keep a watchon my rival. That was a good start, and now I would make apreliminary inspection of the house—if I could do sounobserved—and then look up Boteler's history.

When I came in sight of the Manor House, my rival was nowhere tobe seen. But I approached warily in case he had climbed over intothe grounds to begin his explorations, and I had a good look roundbefore inserting my key into the gate. As I turned the key, I notedthe excellent condition of the lock—which seemed to have beenrecently oiled—and the same thing struck me when I unlockedand opened the front door. Apparently our tenant, Mr Damper, hadbegun his restorations with an oil can.

I walked with echoing footsteps through the hall and into theempty rooms, wondering dimly how I should communicate with MrDamper, but thinking more of Simon Glynn and his hidden treasure.The fine old house was falling slowly but surely into decay. Suchrepairs as would make it really habitable would leave no corner ofit undisturbed and must surely bring to light the secret hidingplace if it really existed. Thus reflecting, I wandered from roomto room, noting the dilapidations and speculating as to thewhereabouts of the treasure, until I came to a chamber at the endof the building which was at a slightly lower level. Descending theshort flight of stairs, I tried the massive door, and, finding itlocked, produced the bunch of labelled keys. As I inserted thefirst key, I thought I detected a faint sound of movement fromwithin, and the unpleasant idea of rats suggested itself, but Iworked away until I found a key—labelled "Butler'sPantry"—that turned in the lock. The heavy door swung openwith a loud creak, and I entered the room, which was in almosttotal darkness, the only source of light being a few chinks in theshutters.

Dark as it was, however, there was light enough for me to see avery strange and unexpected object, to wit, a small but massivechest which stood on the bumpy oaken floor near to one window. Idrew near to examine it, and then found that it was fastened onlyby a bolt, though it was clearly intended to be secured with apadlock. In mere idle curiosity, I drew back the bolt and raisedthe lid, and then I got a mighty surprise. For even in that dimlight it was easy to see that the contents were of no ordinaryvalue. Rings, pendants, bracelets, brooches, glittered and sparkledin the dim light; gold chains were heaped together like samples ofcable in a ship-chandler's, and the interstices of the pile werefilled in with a litter of unmounted stones.

I was positively staggered. What made it still more astonishingwas that this was obviously not Simon Glynn's treasure. The chestwas a new one and the jewels were not only fresh and bright butwere manifestly modern in character. That I could see at a glance.But what this treasure was, how it came here, and to whom itbelonged, were questions to which I could suggest no answer.

I knelt down by the chest and began to turn over the articlesone by one. I am no great judge of jewellery, but it was evidentthat some of these things were of very great value. Here was apendant, for instance, of which the central diamond was half aninch in diameter. That alone must be worth some hundreds of pounds.I picked it up to look at it more closely—and at that instantboth my wrists were seized in a vice-like grip. I dropped thependant and, uttering a yell of surprise, began to struggle to freemyself. But the grip only tightened; gradually my hands were forcedtogether on my chest; something cold touched my wrists; there was ametallic click, and, glancing down, my astonished gaze lighted on apair of handcuffs.

"Now, it's no use kicking up a dust," said a voice close to myear. "I've got the cuffs on you, so you'd better come alongquiet."

I twisted my head round to get a view of the speaker, andsucceeded in catching a glimpse of half a face. But that wasenough. It was—my prophetic soul again—the giftedinvestigator. And one of his peculiar gifts I was now able tosample—a most uncommon degree of muscular strength.

"I've got you, you know," he resumed unpleasantly. "You can'tget away, so you'd better chuck up the sponge and comequietly."

This was all very well, but I am not a naturally submissiveperson. I made no comment, but, straightening myself suddenly likea mechanical jumping frog, I capsized him backwards and began tomake play with my legs. It was an undignified affair, I must admit.We rolled over and over on the floor; we pummelled and prodded oneanother ambiguously and without purpose, and once I cut short aneloquent remonstrance by planting my knee in the middle of hisabdomen. But the odds were against me, and the end of it was that Ireclined on my back with his knee on my chest and listened to theterms of surrender.

But now a most astonishing thing befell. Even as he leaned overme and expounded the folly of my conduct, I was aware of a dimshape behind him, noiselessly approaching. A face—aforeign-looking face, with a waxed moustache and fiercely-co*ckedeyebrows—appeared over his shoulder and slowly drew nearerand nearer. I gazed with fascination, and the words of wisdomtrickled unheeded into my ears; and still the face drew nearer.Then came a sudden movement, a shout of surprise from the giftedone, another shout, and a sound of sixteen heavy portmanteauxfalling down a steep flight of stairs.

Released from the weight of my assailant, I sat up and watchedevents. My eyes, accustomed by now to the dim light, took in a heapof squirming humanity from which issued a stream of breathlessobjurgation. I counted six legs—all in violentmovement—and reasonably assumed the existence of threeindividuals. One pair of legs, incomparably the most active, Iidentified speculatively, by the stockinged feet, as those of mylate assailant, for he must have removed his creaky boots to haveapproached me so silently, which now placed him at a disadvantage,as the other two warriors wore their boots—and used them.

Presently, from the writhing mass, a man partially detachedhimself and began to angle for the wildly-kicking feet with a loopof cord. For some time he was unsuccessful and the feet had thebest of it— unless his head was unusually hard—but atlast the loop slipped over the ankles and was drawn tight; on whichthe gifted one made appropriate comments in terms unsuitable forverbatim report and ending in a muffled snort. The loop having beensecured by one or two round turns and a knot, the two strangersrose, breathing heavily and rubbing certain apparently painfulspots on their persons. Meanwhile, my late adversary lay motionlessand silent, his legs lashed together and his wrists secured byhandcuffs; and now I understood that curious snort that had cutshort the flow of his eloquence, for I observed that my rescuershad tied a gag over his mouth.

I ventured, at this juncture, to draw attention to my owncondition. But it was unnecessary. The two strangers approached me,still rubbing themselves. I held out my manacled hands to have thegyves unlocked, when, to my astonishment, one of the foreignrascals pushed me down and sat on my stomach while the other took afew turns with a cord round my ankles. I protested vigorously.

"Here! I say! You're making a mist—" I didn't get anyfurther, for one of the foreign brutes dabbed something into mymouth and tied it there with a string behind my neck. Then heissued a command to the other miscreant in some ridiculous jargonwhich I suppose served them in place of a language, and the othervillain hurried out of the room. He returned in less than a minuteand made some report in his wretched substitute for speech, and thetwo wretches then picked up my unfortunate and gifted acquaintanceand carried him away.

I lay on the floor reflecting, with profound misgivings, on myalarming situation. Evidently I and my rival had unwittinglydiscovered the hiding place of a gang of thieves, and thosescoundrels were going to put us out of the way of doing them anymischief. That was clear. But what was our destination? Were theygoing to drop us in the river? Or would they convey us to somecellar or vault and knock us on the head? Either possibility wasequally likely and equally unpleasant.

My meditations were cut short by the reappearance of the twomiscreants, who, without a word, picked me up by my arms and anklesand marched away with me. Up the stairs, into the hall and outthrough this on to the flagged path, we went, like a somewhathurried and premature rustic funeral; and we were just approachingthe front gates when another very singular thing happened. I wasbeing borne head first, while my captors marched facing forward,and I was thus able to command a view of the rear. Now, as weapproached the gate, chancing to turn my eyes towards the flankingwall that separated the garden from the orchard, to my unutterablesurprise I saw three heads slowly rise from behind it. Each headwas, naturally, furnished with a face, and each face was adornedwith one of the very broadest grins that I have ever seen. It wasreally a most astonishing affair.

Outside the gates a closed fly was drawn up, otherwise not acreature was in sight. The door was opened by the driver and I wasbundled in and deposited on the back seat, the other half of whichwas occupied by my gifted friend, whose boots had beenconsiderately placed on his knees. The two ruffians entered andshut the door, the driver mounted to his seat, and away we went ata smart trot.

I was relieved to note that we were not being driven towards theriver, and was rather surprised to find that our route lay towardsthe town. But it was not merely towards the town; it soon becameevident that the town itself was our objective. The audacity ofthese villains was positively staggering! Heedless of the risk ofdetection, these miscreants bore us, manacled, bound and gagged,not merely through the outlying suburbs, but into the very city.Jostling cabs, carts, vans and carriages, past the teeming footwaysand busy shops, we passed unblushingly into the High Street itself,and then, turning down a well-frequented side street, came atlength to a halt. I directed my astonished eyes out of the nearwindow, hardly able to believe in such brazen audacity; and thefirst object they encountered was a blue glass lamp bearing theinscription "Police Station."

The driver sprang down and opened the door, the two "foreigndevils" hooked me out of the seat and carried me swiftly in throughthe open doorway to a large office, where they deposited me on thefloor and hurried away without a word. A police inspector and asergeant looked in amazement from me to the departing ruffians andthen looked at one another.

"Rum go, this," said the inspector, with another doubtful glanceat me. "I hope it's all right, but they'd no authority to makearrests."

Here the two ruffians returned, bearing my unfortunatecompanion, at the sight of whom the inspector's face assumed adistinctly careworn expression.

"I seem to know this man," he said in a low voice. Then,addressing our captors, he asked: "Who are these twoprisoners?"

"Zey are two of ze gang," the senior ruffian replied carelessly;"I do not know vich two. I find zem quarrelling about ze booty. Icatch zem. Zey are here. Enough," and he began superciliously toroll a cigarette.

"Take off the gags, sergeant," said the inspector, and as hespoke he, himself, untied mine and pulled me up into a sittingposition, while the sergeant did the same for myfellow-sufferer.

"Now," said the inspector, addressing the latter, "what's yourname?"

"My name, sir," replied the gifted one with as majestic an airas is possible to a man who is seated on the floor with his feettied together, "is Burbler, Detective-Sergeant Burbler of theCriminal Investigation Department."

"Hanged if I didn't think so," murmured the inspector. "Take offthe cuffs, sergeant, and untie his feet. You've made a mistake,gentlemen. You've arrested one of our officers."

"I sink not," the foreign person replied haughtily. "Zat man isa criminal. Look at 'is face. I haf experience;" and he calmlylighted his cigarette.

"You'll have some more experience when I get these handcuffsoff," said Burbler; but here the inspector interposed, forbiddingviolence and demanding explanations.

"How did this affair happen?" he asked.

"I'll tell you," Burbler replied, savagely. "I was sent downhere to look out for this Chicago-St Petersburg gang. Frominformation received I was going to Elham Manor where I expected tofind traces of them, when I met this man Polopsky" (here heactually pointed to me!). "I recognised him at once from hisphotograph—I've got it here," and he pulled out from hispocket the photograph which I had seen in the train, and showed itto the inspector, who examined it closely, and, having remarkedthat it "seemed rather a poor likeness," returned it. "Well,"pursued Burbler, "I followed him and saw him hanging about ElhamManor, and, when he saw me and sneaked away, I got into the houseby a back window and waited. Presently he came back and let himselfin with a key and went to a locked room and entered that withanother key. I followed him in and caught him with a lot of thestolen property in his possession, a whole trunk-load of it."

"Where is the stolen property now?" the inspector asked.

"I suppose it's in the house still," replied Burbler, and hecontinued furiously: "Well, I had just overpowered Polopsky and gotthe cuffs on him, and was about to secure the property, when thesetwo blithering lunatics rushed in, and—well, you see whathappened. I'm going to prosecute them for assault and unlawfularrest."

"Better not," said the inspector. "Russian Secret Police, youknow. Exceeded their powers, of course, but better not make a fuss.You are going to charge Polopsky, I suppose?"

Burbler grunted assent, and turning to me said:

"Louis Polopsky, I arrest you on the charge of burglary andforgery, and I caution you that anything you may say will be usedin evidence against you. Do you want to make any statement?"

"I should like to remark," I replied, "that my name is notPolopsky; and that, if any damage is done to the premises of ElhamManor through your coming away and leaving the door and gatesunlocked, I shall hold you responsible."

The inspector looked at me suspiciously and asked: "What do yousay your name is?"

"My name," I replied, "is Shuttlebury Cobb, of the Firm ofMorlett and Griller, solicitors to the landlord of Elham Manor, andI am, at present, in charge of the property."

I handed the inspector some papers and a draft agreement that Ihad in my pocket, together with a bunch of labelled keys; and whilehe looked them over, the rather chap-fallen detective put on hisboots.

"It seems to me," I continued, "that you have all been makingrather free with our premises. May I ask if those other three menwere some of your people?"

"What other three men?" the inspector asked in a rather startledtone.

"The men who were watching us as we left the house."

"What men?" demanded the inspector, the two foreigndevils and Sergeant Burbler in a frantic chorus.

"The men who were in the orchard, watching us over thewall."

Burbler sprang to his feet, with one boot unlaced. For onemoment the four officers and the station sergeant stared at me insilence; for another moment they stared at one another; then, withone accord, they made a rush for the door.

I followed them out. The fly was still waiting at the kerb, andthe five men were endeavouring to enter it simultaneously by thesame doorway. I watched their frantic struggles. I saw them finallypack themselves in; and, when the inspector had snorted out thedestination, I saw the fly drive off. Then I slowly wended my wayback to the Falstaff and bespoke a substantial dinner.

CHAPTER TWO — THE SECRET CODEAND THE CASTAWAY

UP to that eventful day on which my firm sent me down toCanterbury on business connected with the tenancy of Elham Manor,the even tenor of my life had been uninterrupted by any cataclysmsor abnormal occurrences. But from the moment in which I set forthon that apparently prosaic errand, I seemed to be taken into thecharge of some exuberantly sportive jinn. The whole world appearedto go mad with one accord. I became the plaything of erraticchance, the football of circ*mstance; and circ*mstance seemed tohave a decided leaning towards the Rugby game...

After the explanation at the police station, I naturally thoughtI had heard the last of that absurd business.

But I hadn't.

Our tenant not having arrived yet, I had a good deal of time onmy hands, for I could not begin the repairs in the house until Ihad seen him; and the fact that I had found Detective-SergeantBurbler still prowling about the premises induced me to keep clearof the place for the present and devote myself to a study of thesurrounding country.

One of my earliest jaunts was along the road that leaves thecity towards the north; a pleasant, sylvan road though somewhattrying as to the gradients.

"Wot ye not wher ther stont a litel toun, Which that icleped isBob-up-and-doun Under the Ble, in Canterbury way?"

That was the road only that I passed Harbledown on my left handand "bobbed up and down" through Blean and across the hills beyonduntil I finally bobbed down past Bostal mill to the seashore atWhitstable.

It was a delightful walk—with one exception. Therehappened to be another man going the same way. That is the worst ofcountry roads. In a city street the passing multitudes leave onesolitary and undisturbed, but on a quiet country road, a singlefoot passenger, going in the same direction, destroys the solitudecompletely. Naturally he walks at about your own pace. If you tryto outwalk him or lag behind, he occupies your attention; if youtry to ignore him, his obtrusive figure ahead or his irritatingfootfall from behind break in continually on your meditations. Mypresent companion wore spectacles and looked like a German. Notthat I would reproach him on that account. I don't suppose he worespectacles by choice, and, of course, the poor creature couldn'thelp being a German. I merely record the facts.

At the top of Bostal Hill he halted to survey the Harbour downbelow through a pair of prism binoculars, and I took theopportunity to nip on ahead and rid myself of him.

It was in an oyster shop near Whitstable Harbour that the plotbegan to thicken. In spite of a substantial tea at the Falstaff,the sight of dainty and delicate natives peeping coyly from barrelsat the shop door, acted as a lodestone to draw me into the littleparlour, where already a couple of gourmets were seated before agargantuan dish, regardless of the interested observers who peeredin through the window. I ordered a dozen "royals," and, taking aseat at an empty table, entertained myself with the conversation ofthe other two customers, pending the arrival of my own meal.

"And you really think I might venture, doctor?" said one ofthem, a dyspeptic, nervous-looking young man, casting a look ofgluttonous alarm at the dish.

The jovial faced medicus peppered an oyster with deliberatecare.

"Well," said he, "it's your own affair, you know. Chances abouta million to one against enteric in these beds. Still, I shouldn'teat too many"—there were two dozen on the dish. "Of course,at my age the risk is infinitesimal, but at yours—well, youmust use your own judgment," and here the doctor diminished his ownchance of immunity by one millionth and smacked his lips.

Nearly ten minutes elapsed. I had just poured myself out a glassof stout as a preliminary to the feast, the doctor had swallowedhis sixteenth oyster with an audible "gollop," and his companionwas apprehensively munching his last slice of brown bread andbutter, when there lurched into the room a large man of seafaringaspect, wearing a sealskin cap. He ordered half a dozenoysters—"Quick, if you please"—and seated himself at mytable, apologizing civilly with a slight foreign accent, forfinishing his cigarette.

"Zome English people opject to smoke at mealtimes," heremarked.

I assured him that I had no objection whatever, on which hethanked me and began to converse affably, informing me that he wasthe master of a timber ship from Riga, that he was going to seathat very night, and that he would be glad to be clear of theapproaches to the Thames.

"Ach! But it is a bad river, zis London river. Shoals andsandts, sandts and shoals everyvere. Noding but sandts andshoals."

As he mentioned the detested shoals, he shook his head andglared at me reproachfully, as if I had put them there, so that Ifelt almost constrained to apologize for their presence, and mightactually have done so had not the stream of conversation beeninterrupted by the entry of the proprietor with a small dish.

"Not very peckish this evening, Captain Popoff," he remarked ashe set the dish before his customer.

"No," replied the captain; "my appetide is spoil. Zis night Ileave Englandt. Perhaps I come not again, and zen I see my goodtfriendts again never."

His methods of dealing with oysters were summary in the extreme.The succulent natives might have been some sort of unsavourymedicament to judge by the way in which he disposed of them. Oneafter another they vanished from their shells, unseasoned andunsavoured, even as grains of barley are spirited into the gizzardof a hungry fowl. In a couple of minutes the dish was cleared, andthe captain, having swigged off his glass of stout, heaved a sighof relief and drew from his pocket a gaily-coloured packet ofcigarettes.

"Vill you take one?" he asked, holding the packet towards me."Zey are very choice. You do not buy cigarettes like zese inEnglandt."

It was no empty boast. The cigarette that I lighted was quitethe best that I had ever smoked and I hastened to tell him so.

"Zen," said he with a gratified smile, "you will allow me topresent you the packet. I have plenty more. No? Zen, perhaps, ifyou are not occupied you vill come and see my ship, and I vill giveyou a box of cigarettes for a keepsake and you shall drink a glassof vodka with me in my cabin. How do you say?"

I accepted the invitation with pleasure, and accordingly, whenwe had paid our reckonings, the captain and I set forth togetherfor the harbour. As we passed in through the gates I became awareof that kind of awakening among the shipping that heralds theapproach of high water. The ordinary business of the day was over.The high stages from which the coal whippers take flying leaps intospace at the ends of their hoisting ropes stood idle, and the grimybaskets rested on heaps of "slack" beside the sieves. Mariners,washed and unwashed, crawled up the quay-face like geckoes with novisible means of support, on their way townward, or lounged aboutin groups, spinning interminable yarns. The last of the oystersmacks had taken up her moorings, the whelk boats lay strandedabove tidemarks on the beach outside, and everything bore an aspectof repose excepting the outgoing craft, which were all in a stateof ferment, hoisting sails and hauling on warps, all agog to getout on the top of the tide.

Alongside the end of the pier and opposite a great stack ofnewly landed timber lay a smallish barquentine; a shabby-lookingcraft with rusty white sides and a green painted underbody,intended to delude the unwary into the belief that she wascoppered. Most of her sails were hoisted, and two or three sailorswere aloft loosing the remainder as the captain and I approached.By the name Anna: Riga, painted on her counter, I judgedthis to be our destination, and I was right.

"'Zis is my ship," said Captain Popoff. "Ve have just time for aglass and a little smoke before ze tide is full. Zen I shall vishyou farewell."

He stepped down on to the rail, and, grasping a shroud, held outhis hand to me and we both dropped down on deck close to the forehatch, which was still open.

"Ve are a little untidy," said the captain, "but you villexcuse. Shall I go first?"

Rather to my surprise, he stepped to the open hatch and began todescend a fixed iron ladder. It seemed a queer way to approach thecabin, but I made no remark and cautiously let myself down afterhim until I stood on the shingle ballast.

"It is very dark," said he, peering into the pitchy gloom aft."Perhaps, as you are a stranger, I had better get a light to showyou ze vay."

With this, he returned up the ladder; but no sooner had hereached the deck, than someone clapped the covers on the hatch,leaving me in total darkness. I thought this rather odd, but stillhad no misgivings until some three or four minutes had passedwithout any sign of the captain's reappearing. Then, as a clatterof falling ropes and running gear from above bespoke activepreparations for departure, and sundry bumps and grinding noisessuggested that the vessel was actually in motion, a sudden alarmseized me. Climbing up the ladder, I tried to push up the hatchcover, and, finding that it was securely fastened above, I fell tobattering on it with my fists. This, however, produced no result,excepting a very uncomfortable soreness of my knuckles, and evenwhen I fetched up a large stone from the ballast and hammered withit for a good five minutes, my demonstrations evoked noresponse.

Reluctantly and with a sinking heart, I descended the ladder andsat down on the dry shingle to think over the situation. That thecaptain could have forgotten me was incredible; that my persistenthammering on the hatch cover had passed unnoticed was beyondbelief. The only alternative was that I had been kidnapped, that Iwas being spirited away, though for what purpose I was unable toconceive. The whole set of circ*mstances was incomprehensible.Apparently I had fallen into the hands of some sort of brigands orpirates; and yet to think of this harmless old timber knacker as apirate seemed positively grotesque. However, the one fact wasindisputable. I was being carried away forcibly to some foreignport—probably Riga; unless I was to be robbed and thrownoverboard on the way. And as I reached this conclusion, a barelyperceptible heave of the ballast on which I sat told me that theAnna was clear of harbour and fairly started on hervoyage.

I don't know how long I sat moping in the darkness of theAnna's hold. It can have been but a short time, though itseemed to me that hours had passed since I came down that fatalladder. And as I sat there, memories of the past and speculationsas to the future chased one another through my brain. I turned overthe strange events of the last few days; I thought of the queer oldsilver mirror that I had seen in the museum at Canterbury and thequaint doggerel verses inscribed on it; I conned over the absurdjingle of which I had a copy in my pocket, and which I had dimlyhoped might guide me to the discovery of Simon Glynn's treasure,hidden somewhere in the old manor house—that grand old housethat I should probably never see again, And I thought of thepleasant holiday that I was to have enjoyed in the old city and thesweet country around it; and then by a swift transition, from themight-have-been I turned to the future—dark, threatening,inscrutable.

Suddenly I was aroused by a noise overhead. The hatch coverswere raised, a shaft of light shot down into the hold, and thecaptain's head appeared in the square opening above.

"Vould you please to come up, sir?" he asked politely.

Would I not! No lamplighter ever shinned up a ladder moreactively than did I, with the purple sky above and that blackcavern beneath. In a trice I was on deck, gazing sternly into therather sheepish face of Captain Popoff.

"What is the meaning of this, Captain?" I demanded.

"You vill hear now," he replied, avoiding my eye. "It is not myaffair. I cannot help it. I do as I am toldt. Zat is all. Zis vay,if you please."

I followed him slowly along the deck, taking in the position ofaffairs as I went. The ship appeared to be crossing the estuarytowards the north, for I could see over the port rail the distantIsle of Sheppey, while, directly astern, the low Kentish shore withthe twin spires of Reculver loomed faint and far away in the warmevening light. The captain preceded me on to the low poop to thedeck-house door, which was opposite the wheel and down a shortflight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs he halted, and,pushing open the door, invited me to enter; which I accordinglydid; and got one of the biggest surprises of my life.

Seated at the small cabin table, each with a sheaf of papersbefore him, were three men. I recognized them all. One was thespectacled German who had dogged me on the Whitstable road. Theothers were the two Russian police agents who had arrested me andthe detective, Burbler, at Elham Manor. It was an astonishingmeeting. The German presided, with a fat, complacent smile; the twoRussians sat gloomily twisting their waxed moustaches as if theyintended presently to gore me with the stiff points.

"Ach!" exclaimed the German, who seemed to be a facetiousruffian, "you are zobbrised to zee us, Mr Mifflin, and you do notseem bleased. Zat is not so mit us. Ve are delighted to meetyou."

I gazed at the German and his scowling accomplices with afeeling of stupefaction and began quaveringly:

"It seems to me that there is some extraordinary mistake—"when the former interrupted: "Vot again, Herr Mifflin! No, myvreindt, it is no goot. Zat cat he vill not chomp. Ve do not makemistagues. Ve are not ze English bolice."

"Would you mind telling me who you suppose I am?" said I.

"Ve do not zubbose," he replied blandly. "Ve know. You areChacob Mifflin, alias Salter, alias Chones and zo on.Ve follow you today from Ganderbury, ve find, fortunately a Russianship chust about to sail, and ve catch you."

"What am I supposed to have done?" I asked.

"You are a burglar, you are a forger: but zat is not our affair.You make bombs for Polopsky and ze ozers, and zat is ouraffair. Vere are zose ozer men? Are zey still in Ganderbury?"

"I am sure I don't know," I replied. "I know nothing about thosem*n; and my name is not Mifflin."

"Ach! Bot you haf so many names. Berhaps you vorget. Ven did youlast see Polopsky?"

"I've never seen him at all to my knowledge," said I. "The lasttime you arrested me you said I was Polopsky."

"Zat vos ze English bolice vot zay zat. Ve do not mistague anAmerican for a Pole."

Here one of the Russians interrupted impatiently: "Ve vaste timetalking vid zis American pig, Herr von Bommel. Let us search hispockets."

They did so, with the dexterity of professional pickpockets, butgot mighty little for their pains. A pipe and tobacco pouch, amatch box, a pocket-knife, a little small change—for I had,fortunately, left most of my money at the hotel—and apocketbook formed the entire "catch;" of which the German pouncedwith avidity on the last item and began eagerly to turn over theleaves.

It was a nearly new book, and most of the entries consisted ofrough notes relating to the proposed repairs of Elham Manor House,which, being full of abbreviations and accompanied by calculationsand hastily-drawn diagrams, puzzled my Teutonic friend not alittle. But suddenly his eye lighted up, he ejacul*ted a voluminous"Ach!" and the two Russians craned forward to look over.

"Zo Mr Mifflin," he exclaimed, impressively, "you do not knowPolopsky or ze ozers, bot yet you carry in your bocket a zegredgode. Can you oxplain zis?"

He held up the pocketbook, and I could have laughedaloud—under more favourable circ*mstances; for he had lightedon the absurd doggerel verses that I had copied from the ancientsilver mirror in the Canterbury museum.

I endeavoured to "explain" how I came by the "secret code,"saying nothing, however, about the hidden treasure to which it wassupposed to refer. But my explanation was cut short by indignantsnorts from the two Russians, and the German wagged his headadmonishingly.

"Vy do you tell us zis nonsense, Mifflin, my vriendt? Haf ve notseen ze house vere your gang used to meet? Ze house vot haf a crosson von gate post, a harp on ze ozer and a statue of a yung maidabove ze door? Vy do you tell us zese foolish lies? It shall do youno goot. Moch better for you if you oxplain vot you mean by zisgode. Tell us now, like a zenzible man. Vot, vor instance, is'ankores dree'? Vot does zat mean?"

"That's just what I should like to know," said I, though itdidn't seem to matter much, as I was apparently bound forSiberia.

The two Russians again snorted impatiently and even theimpassive German showed signs of annoyance. Beckoning to thecaptain, who had been waiting by the door, he said, gruffly: "Takehim avay, Cabtain. He is an opstinate fool. Ve shall gonsider zesedoguments and zen ve vill talk to him again."

Accordingly I was conducted out of the cabin to a place on deckjust in front of the deck-house and sheltered by the projectingroof of the latter. Here the captain placed a small cask to serveas a seat, and, having furnished me with a packet of cigarettes anda box of matches, told off one of the crew to watch me and left meto my meditations. I was glad to exchange the heat of the stuffycabin for the comparative coolness of the open air, for it was asultry night and seemed to grow warmer as the light faded. Thedarkness of the short night—it was the second week inJuly—was fast closing in, for it was close on ten o'clock;the land had vanished, either in the gloom or the distance, andinnumerable lights began to wink and twinkle over the calm sea. Atone of these—a bright light on our port bow that flashed outand faded away at regular intervals—I noticed the captainstaring from time to time with an anxious and worried expression,and once he shouted out some directions to the man at thewheel.

Shortly after this, the three police officers came out on deck,and, placing each a camp stool on the main hatch a few yards awayfrom me, sat down close together conversing earnestly in low tonesand poring over my notebook by the light of a small lantern. Iwatched them with a faint grin as I smoked the captain'scigarettes, wondering what they would make of Simon Glynn'sridiculous jingle and what they would have to say to me when theyhad unravelled "the code." And so the time passed. The night closedin warm and dark; a soft breeze murmured in the sails and riggingand the ship moved (at no great pace, I suspect) over the calmsea.

It was just half past ten, as I was made aware by one of thesailors who reached past me to tap out five strokes on the ship'sbell which hung above my head, when there came a suddeninterruption of the quiet monotony. In an instant I found myself onthe deck on "all fours," the sailor who had rung the bell and theone who guarded me staggered forward and fell sprawling at fulllength, and the three police officers capsized as one man andscrambled up swearing as thirty. Then the captain rushed out of thedeck-house bellowing like a marine bull of Bashan, the deck filledup with excited mariners who had appeared the Lord knows whence,ropes thumped on the planks, blacks and parrels squealed fromaloft, canvas flapped, and a general pandemonium prevailed.

I have never seen men so deficient in self-control. The entireship's company, including the police officers, surged up and downthe deck like a herd of bullocks. They gibbered, they gesticulated,they shouted; they craned over the side—though what the deucethey expected to see there but water I can't imagine—and one,the second mate, I believe, actually burst into tears. And allbecause the Anna had taken the ground on one of those"shoals and sandts" that the captain held in such detestation.

However, there she was, immovably seated on a sand bank with afalling tide; and there she would undoubtedly remain until thereturning water rose and lifted her off. Of course, if a strongbreeze should spring up from the east—or anywhere else, forthat matter—she would undergo a rapid conversion intodriftwood; but at present the breeze was of the lightest and thesea quite calm, save for a tiny popple of wavelets.

Gradually the excitement subsided, at least to some extent. Thesails were snugged down, the sidelights taken in and an anchorlight hoisted, which activities seemed to relieve the emotionaltension. But no one turned in. The police officers were excessivelynervous, the captain was in despair, and the sailors were rathermore uneasy than sailors ordinarily are with "the shore onboard."

To me, of course, the accident was an acceptable respite andeven offered a faint chance of escape. If the ship should go topieces, so much the better. I was an excellent swimmer and had nodoubt that, with the aid of some buoyant object, such as the caskon which I was seated, I could keep afloat until some passingvessel should pick me up. I turned over in my mind the exactprocedure that I should follow in such a contingency, andconsidered whether, with the support of the floating cask, I couldpossibly reach the shore. And then, from the possibility of theship breaking up, my mind passed naturally to the consideration ofwhat I should do if she did not break up.

The tide turned at about one o'clock. The swirling and bubblingagainst the port side gradually died away and after an intervalbegan to make itself heard from the starboard side. I looked aboutme with a new interest. The police officers were seated on the mainhatch—no more camp stools for them!—hunched up andevidently dozing. The captain had retired temporarily to his cabin;the crew were sitting about, half or wholly asleep, and, in thefirst confusion, my guard had abandoned his post and had forgottento return.

The only boat that the ship carried rested in chocks on thebooms, with a canvas cover laced on and a pile of raffle heaped ontop. It would take a quarter of an hour at least to get her in thewater. The tide was now running up strongly, and a mile or so awayupstream I could see a light that winked in and out at regularintervals—a gas-buoy, beyond all doubt, for I had seen it inthe same place ever since we ran aground. That would furnish aguiding mark and perhaps a support as well.

Why not? It was a bit of a risk; but anything was better than aRussian prison.

With a last look round, I quickly slipped off my boots and thenrose silently, and, picking up the little empty cask, creptstealthily across to the bulwark. With some difficulty, I climbedup and got astride the rail; but I suppose that, being hampered bythe cask, I must have made some slight noise, for, just as I wasgetting my other leg over, some idiot of a seaman saw me and beganto bleat aloud. Instantly, of course, every imbecile on deckstarted to his feet and a universal howl arose. There was no timefor nice manoeuvres. I dropped the cask into the sea, and, catchingmy heels on the top side moulding, took a header and struck outunderwater towards the ship's stern, round which I had noticed thetide stream swirling strongly. When I came up, I was just abreastof the rudder; and the first thing of which I was sensible was arapid succession of pistol shots, mingled with a vocal hubbub suchas one might have expected to hear at the foot of the Tower ofBabel on Saturday afternoon when the hands were being paid off. Iclung to the rudder for a few moments to get a good deep breath,and watched the cask—which was apparently the mark of the notvery expert shooters—as it gyrated in the eddy and slowlydrifted out of range. Then I dived below again and struck out inthe same direction, keeping under the surface as long as my breathwould hold out.

When I came up again the ship was about twenty yards away andreceding rapidly as I was borne along on the tide. The marksmenwere still popping away briskly, and, by the instantaneous flashesand the glimmer of the anchor light, I could make out a huddle ofheads at the bulwark rail, all apparently staring at the cask, bywhich I judged that no one had yet succeeded in hitting it. I alsogot a glimpse of a party of men up on the booms clearing away theraffle from the boat; and then, as a further precaution, I quietlysank below the surface for another half-minute.

On my third emergence the ship had faded to a large, dark shaperelieved by the yellow spark of the anchor light. Occasionalflashes accompanied by sharp reports still burst out sporadically,but their diminishing frequency suggested that ammunition wasrunning short. The excited babbling of many voices and a loudclatter suggested that strenuous efforts were being made to get theboat ready for launching, and hinted to me that any attempt on mypart to recover the cask would be unwise; that it would, in fact,be desirable to get as far from it as possible. Accordingly, takingmy direction from the ship's anchor light, I struck out across thetide, paddling very gently, however, to avoid unnecessaryfatigue.

Gradually the ship faded away into the darkness until herposition could be made out only by the glimmer of her anchor light.The pistol shots ceased and the clamour from her deck grew faintwith the distance. I ceased from all effort beyond what wasnecessary barely to keep my head above the surface and let myselfjust drift on the tide. I was, so far, not at all fatigued. Thewater was comparatively warm and the slight ripple on the surfacewas not enough to cause any difficulty.

Still, it was not quite what I had bargained for. I had intendedto float quietly, hanging on to the cask until daylight came andsomeone saw me. Now I must keep afloat by my own efforts until Iwas picked up or found something to support me. And realizing thiswith sudden anxiety—for hitherto I had been entirely occupiedin getting away from the ship—I turned my attention to thefloating light that I had seen from the deck. From my low position,with my eyes but a few inches from the surface of the water, I hadat first lost sight of it entirely, but now I began to catch anoccasional glimpse of it over my low horizon; and I was ratherdismayed to notice that it did not seem appreciably nearer.Apparently it was a good deal farther off than I had thought.

The time slipped away; it seemed to me that hours passed. Andstill I drifted on, encompassed by an illimitable dark void, withthe inky ripples playing about my chin. An awesome silence was overthe dark sea, a silence that seemed the more intense for thelonesome sounds that disturbed it at long intervals; the hoot ofsome distant steamer's whistle, or the melancholy scream of a gull.The light of the gas-buoy was now continuously visible, winkingmonotonously every few seconds, but still it looked little nearerthan before. And now a new anxiety arose. Was I approaching thebuoy in a direct line? If not, I should be swept past it by thetide, and then—but I refused to think of this contingency.Keeping my face steadily towards the light I maintained a slow andeasy breaststroke. I could do no more in the absence of a secondlight to give the direction of my movement.

Quite suddenly, as it seemed, the light loomed up big andbright. I could see the lantern distinctly. I could even see theshutter. And, as I stopped paddling for a moment, I could seesomething less agreeable. The light seemed to be passing across tomy left. In a few moments more I should be swept past it and mylast hope would be gone; and as I realized this, I realized, too,that I was growing numb and weak. Setting my teeth, I turned on myside and struck out with all my remaining strength towards thespace to the left of the buoy.

The lantern towered above me. The great black shape rushed outof the darkness, looking weird and gigantic. It closed in nearerand nearer— and then began to sweep across in front of me.With a gasp of despair, I gave a final stroke, and, as the greatshadowy form swept past, I clutched at it frantically and myfingers closed on a handful of slippery seaweed.

The common bladderwrack (Fucus vesiculosus) is not ahandsome plant, but to me it is, and will ever be, more preciousthan the Rose of Sharon or the Lily of the Valley; for itscrackling, leathery fronds stood between me and a watery grave. AsI grasped that slimy handful, the tide swung me round and bumped meagainst the buoy and my free hand clutched a barnacle-encrustediron bar. That bar, I found, was the bottom rung of a rough ladder,fitted for the convenience of the Trinity House men when they arerecharging the buoy or attending to the lantern; and, having madethis discovery, I reached for the next rung and thankfully hauledmyself up, dripping and shivering, to the shoulder of the buoy.

It was bitterly cold—at least, it seemed so; though thebreeze that blew on my drenched clothing was really warm. But I wassafe; unless the Anna's boat should come so far and hit thisparticular spot, which was infinitely unlikely. So I sat, withchattering teeth, physically wretched though secure and cheerful,on the flat shoulder of the buoy, with my feet on the ladder,holding on by the cage that supported the lantern; on which cage Iwas able to make out the mystical inscription: "East Spaniard."

I had resigned myself to the idea of hanging on until daylightshould enable me to signal to some passing vessel. Without hope orexpectation of release I clung to the iron cage, growing colder andcolder, and listened to the wash of the ripples against the buoyand the monotonous click of the shutter in the lantern above me;these, and the occasional scream of a gull being the only soundsthat broke the dreary silence, until I had been on the buoy forwhat seemed like several hours. Then my ear caught some new sounds,thin and faint at first, but gradually increasing in distinctnessas if their source was approaching; the unmistakable sound of oarsworking in wide tholes, with long pauses filled by heavy splashes,bumpings and the murmur of voices, as yet afar off. I listenedintently. Though wildly improbable, it was not actually impossiblethat this might be the Anna's boat still searching for acask and a fugitive; and if it should be, I might have to get intothe water again to dodge behind the buoy.

The sounds approached very gradually, with short spells ofrowing and long intervals of bumping, splashing and the mumble ofundistinguishable talk. But suddenly the silence of the sea wasbroken by a fine brassy voice lifting itself up in song:

"Oh! I love to think of the day when I was young, Tiddleyum!"

My heart leapt. Sweeter to me than a siren's song—and muchmore to the purpose—were those homely words, bellowed out ina voice like that of an adolescent calf. Gathering my strength fora mighty shout, I let off a feeble, quavering croak.

"Boat ahoy!"

The caroller stopped short—on the word "Tiddley"—andexclaimed:

"J'ear that, Joe?"

"Ay," replied a second voice. "That was someone a-hailing, thatwas."

I croaked again; my chattering teeth giving a fine tremoloeffect.

"Hallo!" roared the first man. "Who are you?"

"I'm overboard," I squawked; "hanging on the gas-buoy."

"Right-O, mate," was the cheering rejoinder. "Hang on a bitlonger until I gets my anchor up."

There was a brief pause, a splash and a rumble, and then I heardthe oars plied with a will. The sounds rapidly grew louder, andpresently the light of the buoy's lantern fell on a boat, urgedforward by two men in yellow oilskins who stood up at their oarsfacing towards me. As she swept alongside, the forward rower helpedme to scramble off the buoy—for I was stiff with thecold—and then pushed clear.

"Where are you from, mate?" he asked.

I replied, as well as my chattering jaws would let me,"Ca-cac-anterbury."

"Lor!" was the astonished comment of my rescuer.

"What's he say, Tom?" asked the other man.

"Says he dropped overboard from Canterbury."

"My eye!" exclaimed the other. "He must have had some way onhim."

Not wishing to mislead my friends, I attempted to explain, butfailed miserably, for my teeth were rattling like castanets. Thenthe hospitable Tom peeled off his long oilskin coat, and havinghustled me into it, clapped his sou'wester on my head and tied theflaps over my ears.

"It's lucky for you as we happened to come down on the nighttide," he remarked as we paddled back to the fishingground—my friends were whelkers—"'tain't often as wedo. We likes the daylight for to pick up our floats. Feelin' a bitwarmer?"

I was feeling much warmer and somewhat like a pudding in itscloth, for the oilskin was practically air-tight and "kept in allthe juices," as the cooks say. And as I revived I gave my friends afull and true account of my adventures, to which they listenedopen-mouthed in the intervals of hauling up and re-baiting thewhelk pots. Very soon a faint glow in the eastern sky heralded thedawn and brightened by degrees until the calm sea was enveloped ina primrose-coloured haze, out of which slowly emerged the shadowyform of the barquentine, about three miles distant. Tom was thefirst to observe her, and pointed her out with gleefulderision.

"There's the old Rooshian basket, Joe. D'ye see? Why, blow me,if they ain't been and sat her on the Pan Sand! Haw! Haw!" (The joyof the angels over the repentant sinner is feeble compared withthat of the local expert over the blundering stranger.) "Seems tobe puttin' off a boat too."

They were; and I watched that boat with some anxiety, wonderinghow many more whelk pots remained to be dealt with. At first a merespeck, she crept steadily towards us on the flowing tide until Iwas able to make out details; the rag of sail, like a charwoman'sapron, the two strenuous rowers and three men in the stern. Theselatter interested me especially. They did not look like sailors;and when a gleam of sunlight, reflected from the face of one ofthem, revealed a pair of spectacles, I had no doubt that I waslooking on Herr von Bommel.

"Last pot, Tom," said Joe, hauling it into the boat and pickingout the misguided whelks. "Them Rooshians seem to be a-hailin' ofus."

I had already noticed the fact. Herr von Bommel was standing upwaving a handkerchief and over the sea came a sound like the voiceof an asthmatic merman.

The last pot was baited and sunk; the anchor was hove up and thetiller shipped; and then the great brown lug slid up the mast. TheAnna's boat was now hardly a couple of hundred yards distantand her crew and passengers were bellowing in concert. Threeforeign gentlemen wanted a passage to Whitstable, and wanted itbadly. But the fishermen took no notice; and when Tom grasped thetiller and Joe hauled in the sheet, the big lug filled and thewater began to tinkle past the run. The Anna's crew raised afinal, despairing howl and the rowers strained at their oars. Butour boat, though she hailed from Whitstable, was an East-countrycraft, deep, beamy and double-ended; and when an East-coast"Crabber" fills her enormous sail, you can take off your hat toanything astern, except, perhaps, a Deal galley-punt. When Iclimbed up the steep beach by Whitstable Pier and peeled off theoilskin coat before making a run for the station, the Anna'sboat was but a grey spot far out on the sea.

Some three hours later I sat by the coffee-room window of theFalstaff Inn looking out lazily through the wire blind. A hot bath,a dry suit and a colossal breakfast had induced a placid andcontemplative frame of mind which inclined me indolently to observethe world without. And as I looked, three men crawled wearily alongthe opposite side of the street, having apparently come from thestation. Opposite the inn, they paused, and the middle one, whowore spectacles, produced a scrap of paper from his pocket, overwhich they all pored with knitted brows. Then, as with one accord,they all yawned prodigiously; the spectacled one pocketed the paperand, slowly and languidly, they all went their way.

By which signs I gathered that the "secret code" of the Harp andCross was still undeciphered.

CHAPTER THREE — THE SECRETCHAMBER

IT is my firm and unalterable conviction that Izaak Walton wasan impostor. I am thinking, at the moment, of his observations onthe Fordidge trout, a mythical fish, "near the bigness of asalmon," which is said to inhabit the River Stour in Kent. Veryingenious and abstruse are old Izaak's explanations of thesuspicious fact that none of these leviathans of the deep have everbeen "caught with an angle;" but I can give a much simpler one.There is no such fish. That was the conclusion that I reached aftera couple of evening's angling from the boat belonging to the RoyalGeorge Inn, where I was now lodging; having had but a single biteall the time, and even then only hauled up a fat-headed gudgeon whogrinned in my face and then dropped off the hook and swam away.Fordidge trout, indeed! "I don't believe there's no sech aperson"—to borrow Mrs Gamp's immortal phrase.

Not that it really mattered to me. If it had, I suppose I shouldnot have baited my hook with three-quarters of a yard of gardenworm. But the old tub of a boat was restful, and secure, too. Icouldn't very well get pounced on unawares so long as I was mooredin midstream; and that was a consideration after what I had gonethrough. So I sat in the boat, ostensibly to fish, but actually tomeditate.

I had plenty to meditate about. The material had beenaccumulating since I came to Canterbury a little over a week ago.In that short time I had been arrested by an English detective andliberated; arrested again by the Russian Secret Police, and hadescaped. And now, to my certain knowledge, the Russian Police erestill lurking in the neighbourhood, and the British detective haddeveloped the companionable qualities of Mary's little lamb.Wherever I went, that detective was sure to go. I was continuallymeeting him; and what made it worse was the offensive fiction thathe kept of not observing me.

Sergeant Burbler's proceedings were a puzzle to me. Did he stillbelieve that I was connected with the gang of foreign criminals whohad sheltered in the old manor house? It seemed impossible. Butthere was another explanation of his adhesiveness. The sergeant andI both believed that somewhere in that old manor house wasconcealed the treasure deposited three centuries ago by SimonGlynn; and each of us suspected the other of having some privateinformation on the subject. Could it be Simon Glynn's hoard towhich I was indebted for so much of the sergeant's society? It wasimpossible to say. And here I raised my eyes—and beheld thesergeant himself, angling from the bank.

He was at his old game, pretending not to see me. Which wasridiculous; for there I was a most visible reality. But I wasn'tgoing to have any more of this nonsense. I watched him stick a lumpof cheese on his hook—in the hope, perhaps, that the Fordidgetrout favoured the purine-free diet—and when he had made hiscast, I addressed him by name. Then he pretended that he didn'tknow me. Now I am no advocate for laxity in regard to etiquette;but when two men have rolled round a room together, have dusted thefloor with one another, have prodded one another in the abdomen andpulled out handfuls of one another's hair, I say that for either ofthem to pretend that they are not acquainted is mere paltrysnobbery. I wasn't going to have it. But, as he seemed to have gota bite, I waited to renew my attack.

I saw his line tighten. I watched him strike, and then begin towind in his winch as if he were playing a little barrel organ. Isaw him reach out stealthily for his landing net and crane over thebank, and still I kept a discreet silence. It was only when I hadseen him disengage a waterlogged boot from his hook and rebait thatI ventured to reopen conversation.

"I'm getting quite used to being arrested now," I remarked.

"Oh," said Burbler. "Who's been arresting you?"

"The Russian Police have had another go at me," I replied.

"Oh," said Burbler. "Why did they let you go?"

"They didn't. I let myself go."

That excited his curiosity so far that he asked for particulars.I lashed the rudder over so as to give the boat a cast inshore andproceeded to give him a detailed account of those astonishingevents that culminated in my escape from the Russian timber ship.He was profoundly interested in my adventures; there was no doubtof that. So much so that when I had finished my story I ventured toask him a question or two about himself.

"You don't suppose that that gang of crooks is still in thisneighbourhood, do you?"

"Have I ever said I did?" was his Scottesque reply.

"No: but as you are remaining in neighbourhood yourself, Ithought that, perhaps—well, that you might have some objectin doing so."

"Sounds reasonable," he admitted, dryly. Then, after a briefpause, he remarked: "You seem to be putting in a bit of time in theneighbourhood yourself."

"Yes," I answered. "I have to superintend some repairs of ElhamManor House."

"You're taking your time about it," said he.

"Oh, I haven't begun. I'm waiting to consult with our new tenantand he hasn't turned up yet. I can't write to him because I don'tknow where he is staying. He's an American—Mr Jezreel PDamper—and these rich Americans are rather erratic in theirmovements."

"What sort of repairs are you going to do?" Burbler askedcarelessly.

Now, here I seemed to see an opportunity for pumping thetaciturn detective as to his object in shadowing me in thissingular manner. Accordingly, I replied, putting some slighttension on the actual facts:

"The repairs will probably involve some structural alterations.It's an old house, you know, and it may need to be modernized alittle."

He took the bait with avidity—unlike the Fordidge trout.His sour visage brightened with an ingratiating smile as heexclaimed enthusiastically:

"How very interesting! Excuse my curiosity, but old buildingsare rather a hobby of mine. Have you decided on any particularstructural alterations?"

"No," I replied, cramming the bait into his gizzard with bothhands, so to speak; "I have hardly looked at the house yet."

"Really!" he exclaimed. "Really! Might I just step into yourboat? More convenient for conversation, you know." And when I hadedged inshore and let him scramble on board with his neglectedtackle, he continued: "So you haven't really looked over the houseyet? I wonder at that. Don't you think it would be wise to make athorough inspection so as to be ready for your tenant when hearrives?"

As a matter of fact I had thought so. But since my twoencounters with the Russian Secret Police, I had been rather shy ofElham Manor. I knew that they were watching it and that they hadonce obtained access to it; and the lonely old house was an awkwardplace in which to be caught by gentry of that kind. I explainedthis to the sergeant—omitting to mention, however, that I hadtaken to carrying a revolver since my last adventure. Again he rosejoyously like a hungry perch.

"I quite agree with you, Mr Cobb"—the rascal let my namedrop inadvertently. "It would be most unwise of you to venture intothe house alone. But if you want to look over it, I shall bedelighted to accompany you: and, as I always carry a regulationrevolver, you will be perfectly safe. What do you say?"

I didn't quite know what to say. I wanted to look over the housebut I didn't particularly want Burbler; but still less did I wantto be haled off to some Russian gaol. In the end I acceptedBurbler's offer, resolving to keep an eye on him in case he had anyprivate information about Simon Glynn's treasure.

"When would you like me to come with you?" he asked briskly.

"Any time you like," said I.

"Well, why not now? There are several hours of daylightleft."

He tried to disguise his eagerness and failed miserably.Obviously he was, as Mr Bumble would have said, "on broken bottles"with anxiety to start.

"Don't you want to have a try for the other boot?" I askedcallously.

He cast a baleful glance at his last catch, which lay strandedon the bank, and, without reply other than a sour smile, proceededto heave up our little hairpin of an anchor. A few minutes later welanded at the stairs belonging to the Royal George and passedunmolested through the garden and taproom out into the road.

As we trudged along together many thoughts passed through mymind. Obviously the sergeant was hot on the scent of Simon Glynn'shoard and proposed to use me as a cat's-paw to hook it out of itshiding place. But the question was, how much did he know? Had hesome information about it that I had not? If so, I must watch himclosely. As to my own knowledge on the subject, it was summed up ina passage in Boteler's "Manor Houses of Kent," which I had lookedup at the Public Library in Canterbury. It read thus:

"In 1734, during some repairs, an aumbry was discovered behindthe panelling of the dining room and in this was found a curioussilver mirror, probably Glynn's own handiwork, the frame of whichbore this strange inscription:

"A harp and a Cross and good redd golde Beneath ye cross with yeharp full nigh, Ankores three atte ye foot of a tree And a Maidfrom ye sea on high. Take itt. 'Tis thine. Others have steppedover.

"Simon Glynn, 1683."

"The meaning of this inscription has never been ascertained. Thegateposts of Elham Manor House bear a harp and a crossrespectively, and above the porch is a statue of a young Puritanlady, presumably Mistress Glynn. Hence it has been inferred thatthe lines refer to a treasure buried under the gatepost which bearsthe cross; but repeated excavations have failed to discover anysuch treasure.

"Simon Glynn is said to have had a mania for secret hidingplaces. Tradition speaks of several in the manor house—in oneof which Axell, the regicide, is said to have lain concealed forsome time—but their position (if they ever existed) has beenforgotten. Perhaps Glynn's hoard is still lying in some forgotten,secret strongroom."

Thus the learned Boteler. He hadn't very much to tell exceptingthat the treasure was still "untrove." But one thing was clear tome: the people who had dug under the gatepost were fools. If themeaning of the doggerel had been as simple as that, Simon might aswell have laid his treasure in the road for the first passingimbecile to pick up. There was some deeper meaning in that crudejingle and it must be my business to fathom it—unless Burblerhad done so already.

These reflections brought us to the gates of the manor house;and here the sergeant halted to gaze reflectively at the traces ofthe "repeated excavations" and at the statue in its niche above theporch.

"I wonder who she was," he said, nodding at the statue. "Do youthink she looks like an Englishwoman?"

It was a transparent question. He was clearly thinking of "aMaid from the sea on high." But, as it was not my business toenlighten him, I expressed ambiguous doubts, and we passed up theflagged path to the main door, into which I inserted the key.

For some time we rambled rather aimlessly through the rooms,waking the echoes with our footfalls on the massive oak floors. Itwas an eerie place, full of odd corners, little flights of stairsand great built-in cupboards. No two rooms seemed to be on the samelevel. It was a step or two up or down every time. And every roomappeared to be set at an angle to its fellow; a wastefularrangement as regards space, but an excellent one for a builderwhose hobby happened to be secret hiding places.

I watched Burbler narrowly—and found him watching me. Butall the same, his eye travelled inquisitively towards each cupboardor closet that we passed.

"Don't you think this old panelling is rather a mistake?" saidhe, rapping at it with his knuckles. "Makes the place so dark, youknow."

"It does," I agreed. "Perhaps I may have some of it down andplaster the walls if our tenant agrees." This, I regret to say, wasa sheer falsehood. Nothing would have induced me to mutilate thefine old house. But the tarradiddle served its purpose, for Burblerexclaimed excitedly:

"Shall you really? I hope you will allow me to be present whenit is done. I am so very much interested in old buildings. Andbesides," he added, as a brilliant afterthought, "it is quitepossible that there may be some of the stolen property hidden here.That St Petersburg-Chicago gang used this house for some time, youknow."

"You don't suppose they are hanging about here still, do you?" Iasked.

Burbler looked about him—we were in the large drawing roomat the time—and listened as if apprehensive of eavesdroppers.Then he replied:

"I don't personally. But they haven't turned up anywhere else;and my orders are to keep a watch on this house until they are runto earth or seen somewhere else. So, of course, I ought to bepresent when any structural alterations are made here, in case theyhave secreted the booty here. And, between you and me, Mr Cobb, itwouldn't be a bad plan, if you thought of doing away with thatpanelling, for us to take some of it down ourselves, and avoid theinconvenience of inquisitive workmen. What do you say?"

I said I would think the matter over; and at that he was contentto leave it for the present. But from that moment he developed atendency to lag behind or stray away on various pretences: andwhenever he did so, there came from adjoining rooms sundrymysterious tappings, as if some gigantic woodpecker had got loosein the house. But nothing of special interest occurred until weentered a large room at the back of the building, distinguished bypeculiarly fine woodwork. It was a rather uncanny room, in spite ofits beauty, for its panelling was carved throughout in high reliefwith very realistic grotesque figures, which seemed to start outfrom the walls in a manner that was really quite disturbing. Andmore alarming still was the broad, carved oak frieze thatsurmounted the walls below the heavy cornice, of which the chiefornament was a row of life-size masks, each one different from theothers, and all, apparently, grotesque portraits of actual persons.The aspect of those masks was most diabolical. They grinned, theyscowled, they sneered, and some of them stuck out their tongues;and their eyes—represented by deep-sunk holes—seemed toleer down on us with positively devilish malice. I wouldn't havelived in that room for a thousand a year.

But this was not all. A further attraction in that ghostlyapartment was a large armoire or cupboard of sepulchral aspect,built into the wall. I opened one of the folding doors and lookedin; and then I shut it again rather quickly and turned away with ascareless and uninterested a manner as I could assume at such shortnotice. For I had observed that it was fitted with massive, fixedshelves. Now everybody who knows anything about secret chambers isfamiliar with the cupboard with the sliding shelf that conceals amovable panel. Of course I couldn't tell whether any of theseshelves would slide out; but they looked uncommonly likely, and Ithought I should prefer to try when I was alone. So I turned awayand endeavoured to distract the sergeant's attention from thecupboard.

But, bless you! he didn't want any distracting. Not he! The oneplain and palpable fact was that Sergeant Burbler hadn't noticedthe cupboard at all. He stared at the walls and the ceiling and thefloor, but the cupboard had totally escaped his observation. Henever looked at it— after the first glance.

We sauntered through a doorway into an adjoining room; asmallish chamber with no outlet save by the door by which we hadentered, unless there was some concealed door in the panelling.Here we remained for a minute or two rapping at the wainscot andexamining the window seat, and then Burbler strolled back into theother room "to have another look at those quaint figures on thewalls." I continued my investigations, which presently brought meto the disproportionately large open fireplace, the brick back ofwhich I proceeded to test by a series of interrogatory thumps. Itall sounded solid enough, but when I had delivered an extra heavythump on the left-hand side, to my astonishment the brickworkitself began to move. A square patch, cleverly concealed by thejoints between the bricks, swung round slightly on its centre,being evidently balanced on a pivot. I hastily closed it by pushingat the opposite end and then stole towards the door, with theintention of luring the sergeant to some distant part of the houseand then returning alone to investigate. But Burbler was beforehandwith me. As I approached the door it closed softly and a bolt wasshot on the outside. The perfidious detective had bolted me in.

It was a quaint situation. With a self-satisfied grin I gave athump or two on the door for the sake of appearances and then stoleon tiptoe back to the fireplace. A hearty shove at the left side ofthe chimney back sent the panel of brickwork swinging on its pivotand disclosed a dark opening, Before entering I cautiously examinedthe mechanism, which was simple enough. The false brickwork wasfixed to massive oak planks which revolved, as I have said, onpivots. There was no secret spring, but there was a strong bolt onthe inside with which a fugitive could fix the panel immovably, anda handle with which to pull it open from within. Massive as it was,it moved quite easily and without a sound, which seemed strange,considering the long years of disuse —until one examined thepivot and found it smooth and bright and anointed with oil that wascertainly not two and a half centuries old.

I stepped into the opening and shut the panel, fixing it withthe bolt and reflecting gleefully on the surprise that Burblerwould get when he came to let me out of the room. Striking a waxmatch, I saw a tiny brick staircase, not more than two feet wide,apparently built in the thickness of the wall, and began to ascendit with extreme caution— for one has to beware of "mousetrapstaircases" in these old hiding holes. At the top was a passage orgallery of the same width, and on the right hand a small door. Thelatter I pushed open and entered a small chamber, about five feetby ten, well lighted from above by a false chimney, up which Ipeered, and caught the eye of a starling who was perched on top.The little room was furnished with an antique folding table, afixed bench and a fine oaken chair—which must have been builtin the room, since it was too large to come up the stairs, andwhich would have electrified Wardour Street. And that wasall— excepting two blatantly modern cabin trunks.

At those two trunks I stared open-mouthed; and especially at thesmaller of the two. For I had seen it before. It was, in fact, theidentical trunk that I had seen when I first visited the old manorhouse. I knew what it contained. It was crammed with the costlybooty of those rascals, the St Petersburg-Chicago gang. Diamonds,rubies, emeralds and golden baubles—a bushel or so ofthem—were here before me. They were mine for the mere taking!What an opportunity for a dishonest man! But I am not a dishonestman. And, incidentally, the trunk was now secured with a massivepadlock.

When I had tested the weight of the two trunks, and found thesmaller one considerably the heavier, I came out of the room andproceeded to explore the gallery. It was not quite dark. On theright-hand wall were a number of little circles of light; and as Istole silently along the brick floor, I was able to trace thesepatches of light to their source, which was a series of littleround holes in the left-hand wall. A single glance at these told mewhat they were. They were the eye-holes of those appalling masks inthe large room, and their purpose was obviously to enable afugitive to watch and listen to the talk of pursuers or traitors inthe room below.

I applied my eye to one of the holes and found that it commandedquite a large circular area; and at the centre of the circle wasDetective-Sergeant Burbler. He had noticed the cupboard at last. Infact he had both the doors wide open and was tugging frantically atthe shelves.

But he didn't seem to have had much luck. He had, apparently,begun at the bottom and tried them all in turn; and none of themhad budged a hair's breadth. I watched him with a pitying smile. Hehad now come to the top shelf but one, and, as it was a littleabove his reach, he had to stand on a lower shelf to get hold ofit. He tried it first quite gently, then more vigorously, and, asit still refused to move, he planted one foot against an uppershelf and tugged with might and main. And then it did move; and sodid he. He shot away like a spring-jack and came down on his backwith a bang that shook the house and the detached shelf clutchedtriumphantly in his paws.

He got up, stroking himself delicately and soliloquizing not atall delicately. And at that moment a quick footfall was heardapproaching from an adjacent room. Burbler snatched up the shelfand made frenzied efforts to replace it. But if it had beendifficult to get it out, it was impossible to get it back. Itcertainly entered its grooves—just enough to prevent thedoors from shutting; and there it stuck, refusing to move eitherway. And there it still was when a stranger entered the room andswam into the magic circle of my field of vision.

A stern and wrathful-looking man was the newcomer, with a redface and a very large chin, and his manner was not moreconciliatory than his appearance.

"What the deuce is the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded in arasping voice and with a distinct American accent. "Who are you?and what are you doing in this house?"

I have never seen a man look such an unutterable fool as Burblerdid at that moment. But he pulled himself together a little andretorted:

"I might ask the same question. Who are you? and what areyou doing here?"

"You might," said the stranger. "I can quite believe it of you.But I'll tell you who I am. I am the tenant of this house and myname is Damper, if you want to know; Jezreel P Damper."

"Oh," said Burbler; "I've heard Mr Cobb speak of you."

"Have you?" replied Damper. "Well, who are you, anyway?"

"I'm a police officer, sir," said Burbler, with an abortiveattempt to be impressive. "I have instructions to watch this house,as certain suspicious characters are known to have harboured init."

"Were you 'instructed' to destroy the landlord's fixtures?"asked Damper, glaring at the displaced shelf.

Burbler began a windy explanation with certain references tostolen property, but Damper cut him short.

"Is Mr Cobb in the house?" he asked.

"He was here a minute ago," replied Burbler. "He went into thenext room. Perhaps he's there still." It did seem rather likelyunder the circ*mstances; but when the sergeant had slipped back therusty bolt and looked into the room he evidently got a severeshock, for he came back looking very blank and puzzled.

"He seems to have gone away," he mumbled, "but I expect he'll beback presently."

"Now see here," said Damper. "That door was bolted and thereisn't any other. I guess you've been dreaming about Mr Cobb."

"I assure you, sir," protested Burbler, "that he was here aminute ago; and I have his full authority to search the premisesthoroughly."

Of course, that was a barefaced untruth, and I couldn't allow itto pass. Lifting up my voice, I shouted:

"Nothing of the kind, sergeant. I gave you no authoritywhatever."

My word! but that gave Burbler a start! He jumped like a catthat has sat down on an exploding cracker, and tried to look in alldirections at once. But if Burbler was startled, Mr Damper waspositively petrified; and, to be sure, it is a little disturbing toan incoming tenant to hear voices issuing apparently from the wallsor ceiling.

"Would you mind stepping this way, Mr Cobb," said the sergeant,after looking into the cupboard and up the chimney. I thought itabout time to make my appearance on the scene, and accordinglyretraced my steps along the passage, down the stairs and outthrough the concealed entrance, and finally shattered thesergeant's nerves by emerging from the room which he had just seento be empty.

Of course, Burbler had to be told about the box of "swag," so Igave him the information forthwith; on which he dived jubilantlyinto the smaller room. But Mr Damper was much less pleased. Hefollowed us with a distinctly worried expression and finallyremarked:

"This is extremely disagreeable for me, Mr Cobb. The presence ofthis stolen property in the house naturally suggests that thethieves themselves are not far off and that they have access to thepremises."

"Oh, you needn't be uneasy, sir," said Burbler. "We shall soonclear the rascals out of this. Now, Mr Cobb, if you please."

I pushed the square of brickwork open, and entering, precededthe sergeant up the stairs to the secret chamber. He pouncedgleefully on the smaller trunk and proceeded to drag it away downthe stairs, haughtily refusing my proffered assistance. I saw himstruggle out with it through the opening, I heard him dump it downon the floor, and then he returned for the larger trunk.

"Hadn't I better lend you a hand?" said I.

"Be good enough, sir, not to interfere," he replied stiffly."This is official business."

I watched him lumber out with the trunk and heard him clatterdown the stairs, which were now quite dark, owing, as I supposed,to his having pulled the panel to as he returned. When he reachedthe bottom there was a long pause, filled in with a sound offumbling and low-toned profane soliloquy. At length he called out,with a sudden return to civility:

"Just step down here, Mr Cobb. You know how this thing goesbetter than I do."

I skipped down the narrow stairs with alacrity and a littleuneasiness.

"It's quite simple," I said. "You just catch hold of this handleand pull."

"That's what I've been doing," growled Burbler.

I seized the handle and pulled at it vigorously; but the falsedoor was as immovable as the Great Pyramid. Apparently some secretcatch had released itself. I lit a wax match and examined the backof the panel, but without finding anything that could explain thephenomenon, while Burbler shouted to Mr Damper to give a good shovefrom the outside.

"Are you there, Mr Damper?" roared Burbler.

Apparently he was not, or was unable to hear us, for we heard noreply. Then we both scampered up the stairs in a mightytwitter—for it was really an exceedingly awkwardsituation—and made for the gallery, where each of us gluedhis eye to one of the peepholes preparatory to calling out. Andthen—Oh! what a sight was there, my countrymen! Mr Jezreel PDamper was certainly in full view, and no longer stern-faced andworried, but bland and smiling. But there were two other gentlemenalso; one of whom—who looked, as to his hair, like aprofessional pianist—was at that very moment hoisting theprecious cabin trunk on to his shoulder with the other man'said.

"Hi! there!" shouted Burbler. "What are you doing with thattrunk?"

Mr Damper looked up with a gracious smile. "That you, Burbey?"he asked. "Sorry I can't see your face. Let me introduce you to mytwo friends, Polopsky and Schneider. Turn round, Polly, and let thegentlemen see your beautiful hair."

"You infernal scoundrel!" shrieked Burbler. "I suppose you areJacob Mifflin?"

"You've hit it, sonny. You have indeed. Right in the middle.Clever boy!" and Mr Damper—or Mifflin—made a show, inpantomime, of patting Burbler on the head.

"You're not going to leave us locked up here to starve, areyou?" demanded the sergeant.

"Well," replied Mifflin, "we just hate leaving you behind,sonny, but I guess we haven't enough accommodation to take you withus. But you'll be happy enough. You've got furnished apartments andboard—there's a week's provisions in that trunk—and weshall send on the keys of the house with a little note to Mr Cobb'sagent in Canterbury."

"When?" I shouted.

"Quite soon, Mr Cobb. Perhaps we may send them tonight. We don'twish to inconvenience you. Oh, and there's another little matter,Mr Cobb. I inferred from the interesting conversation that Ihappened to overhear just now in the big drawing room that you andthe sergeant are looking around for some antique curios. Well,you'll find some exceedingly remarkable ones in that very room,which we are leaving behind for want of transport facilities. Theright-hand column under the arch there is a concealed door. Itisn't fastened. Give a good pull at the left corner and it willcome open. The contents of the hiding place are yours for thetaking. And now I must really tear myself away. Ta-ta, dearfriends!"

He took off his hat with a flourish and made us an elaboratebow; and then he moved away out of our circle of vision and weheard his footsteps gradually die away in the distance.

"Well," said Burbler, unglueing his eye at length, "this is apretty mess that you've got us into!"

I was too disgusted to reply. Here I was, sealed up in thisinfernal hiding hole, my very life dependent on the doubtfulgoodwill of a band of ruffians. And why? Simply because thisinquisitive booby of a policeman must go poking his nose intoplaces where he had no business. It was abominable.

The sergeant and I crept out of the gallery, and our firstproceeding was to fetch up the provision trunk. It was secured onlywith spring catches, and when we had unfastened these we found anample supply of food and drink, including a gallon can of beer andanother of water, all neatly packed in compartments. Apparently thegang had intended to remain in residence here for some time longerand had been compelled to migrate only by Burbler's ridiculousprowlings and his absurd suggestions—overheard bythem—of structural alterations. We inaugurated our tenancy bya good meal, and, as the light was now failing, we lit one of thecandles that we had found in the trunk and fell to discussing ourunsatisfactory situation.

"If those scoundrels don't take any measures to get usreleased," said I, "we shall have to make some effort to break outor else climb up the chimney."

Burbler held the candle aloft and peered up the smooth-sidedshaft.

"No," he said, shaking his head; "there's nothing to hold on by.But Mifflin will keep his word, or else why should he have told usof that stuff in the hiding hole? I wonder what it is, by the way.Can't be of much value, or they wouldn't have left it behind."

I agreed that this was self-evident, and we returned to thequestion of a possible escape but without reaching any conclusion,though we talked far into the night. Finally we blew out the candleand settled ourselves for the night, Burbler on the fixed bench andI in the arm-chair.

It was about ten o'clock on the following morning when thesergeant and I, sitting disconsolately in our prison, were thrilledby a hollow "boom" that sounded infinitely distant.

"By gum!" exclaimed Burbler, "that was the front door!"

He sprang up and made for the gallery like a rabbit scuttlingfor its burrow, and I followed. Very soon the heavenly sound of apair of creaky boots was borne to our ears and then a tremulousvoice called out: "Mr Cobb! Are you here?"

"Yes!" I howled. "I'm here!"

As a guide to my exact locality, I must admit that this was notparticularly lucid. But the boots continued to approach, and atlength there appeared in my circle of vision a very nervous-lookingyoung man, who stared about him apprehensively as he walked.

"Where are you, sir?" he asked.

"Here!" roared Burbler; on which the young man started violentlyand began to turn round like a joint of meat on a roasting-jack,staring at the walls as he turned.

"Would you go into the next room," said I, "and see if there isanything against the back of the fireplace?"

"Yessir!" he replied; and away he went like a man in a dream.But he was back in a few moments with a simple and encouragingreport.

"There's a thick walking stick, sir, jammed under the chimneybreast. Shall I remove it, sir?"

"If you please," I answered, and Burbler and I made our way backalong the gallery and down the little staircase. As we reached thebottom, I grasped the handle and gave a tentative pull. Oh, joy!Oh, unutterable relief! It yielded at once, and the panel ofbrickwork swung readily open. Our imprisonment was at an end. As Istepped out, I saw through the open doorway that estimable youngman addressing himself to the ceiling of the next room.

"I've removed the stick, sir."

"Thank you," said I; on which he spun round with a smotheredcry. But he recovered himself sufficiently to advance to meet usand hold out a bunch of keys and a note.

"Mr Damper's keys, sir, and a note for you. Can I do anythingmore for you?"

"No, thank you," I replied; and as he bustled away I opened thenote, which Burbler undisguisedly read over my shoulder. It wasunsigned and read as follows:

"I have kept my word, you see, like a burglar and a gentleman.Tell Burbey he needn't trouble about us; we're clean away. Anddon't forget those curios. It's the right-hand column thatopens."

"I wonder what the stuff is," said Burbler. "We may as well goand see, as we're here. Don't-cher think so?"

I did, though, to speak the truth, my enthusiasm in respect ofhiding holes was not quite what it had been; and accordingly wemade our way to the drawing room as it was now called. There was nodifficulty in finding the "column;" which was not a column at allbut a Corinthian pilaster of carved oak; one of a pair thatsupported an elliptical arch against the end wall. FollowingMifflin's directions, Burbler seized the left-hand corner and gavea sharp pull, whereupon the whole shaft between the capital and theplinth opened, forming a tall, narrow door, and disclosing anextremely narrow flight of steps.

Burbler was extraordinarily polite. He not only held the dooropen for me to enter first, he actually remained outside to keepguard, as I observed on looking back from the top of the stairs.But here I had something fresh to think about, for I had come upagainst a solid wooden partition, and it seemed to me that vaguesounds of movement and muffled voices proceeded from somewhere nearat hand. I opened a small but massive door, and immediately thesounds became quite distinct; so much so that I had some thoughtsof turning back and summoning the sergeant.

But pride and curiosity impelled me to advance. Passing throughthe doorway I traversed a short, narrow passage which brought me toanother partition, in which was a square trap or door secured by abolt. I drew back the bolt, and, pulling open the trap, which wasvery thick and heavy, looked into a small brick chamber, which,like my late prison, was lighted by a false chimney.

The little dungeon-like chamber contained three men; and I maysay that we looked at one another with mutual astonishment. For thethree prisoners were the Russian Police Agents who had kidnapped mebut a short time since and who had, doubtless, believed me to be atthe bottom of the sea. They looked wretched enough now, for theywere all handcuffed and loosely linked together with a chain, whichhad been passed round a beam that crossed the cell and secured witha padlock. A sack of ship's biscuit and a couple of buckets ofwater had kept them from starvation but had not induced hilariousspirits.

We stared at one another in silence for a moment or two; then Iventured to ask:

"How came you to be shut in here, Herr von Bommel?"

The German's eyes flashed behind his spectacles and heexclaimed:

"Ach! It vos zat villain Mifflin, bot I shall catch him! Heshall bay for zis. Ja! I shall catch him yet." (he didn't look muchlike it at the moment) "And you vill let us out, sir? You vill notbear a crutch for our liddle mistague?"

"Certainly, I will let you out," said I, "only you mustn't makeany more mistakes, you know."

The keys of the padlock and the handcuffs hung on a nail justout of the prisoner's reach. I unlocked the padlock, and, promisingto unfasten the handcuffs downstairs, took the precaution to slipout through the trap and hurry down in advance. The three prisonerssoon followed; and when I had released their hands, they departed,in deep dejection and in company with Sergeant Burbler, to reportthe escape of the gang.

I have never seen them since—the foreign gentlemen, Imean. As to Detective-Sergeant Burbler—but that is anotherstory, and must be reserved for another occasion.

CHAPTER FOUR — THERESURRECTIONISTS

THOUGH I do not myself profess to be a religious man, I am astrong advocate of religion in others. It generates in themagreeable and softening conventions, it accustoms them to adignified form of music and introduces them to an almost extinctvariety of speech known as the English Language; it has even beensaid to influence their morals; and it does undoubtedly cause themto erect certain admirable buildings and to furnish them withorgans, choirs, and other desirable, aesthetic adjuncts.

Thus reflecting, I opened the lychgate of Bouldersby Churchyardand entered. I have a strong liking for churchyards. They are quietand restful places where one can meditate with satisfaction on thesuperior advantages of being alive. But I had a more particularobject in this visit. I wanted to have a look at old Simon Glynn'smonument in the church; and, especially, I wanted to escape fromthe incessant "shadowing" of Detective-Sergeant Burbler.

That officer haunted me like a familiar—a much toofamiliar—spirit. I couldn't get a moment to myself. And itwas not affection that made him cling to me. Not at all. It was amere, sordid desire to spy on my actions. Even now, I had onlygiven the beggar the slip by popping behind a haystack, and hemight run me to earth at any moment. I strolled up the path in theshadow of the bordering limes. The birds sang above, and from thechurch came, faint and muffled, the voice of a solitary choristerrehearsing a solo. I couldn't make out either the tune or thewords, but I accepted the sound as an appropriate touch of localcolour, like the houseleeks on the porch or the lichen on thetombstones. The south door of the church was open and, as I reachedit, the sound swelled suddenly into a familiar melody and Idistinguished the words:

"It stopped—short—never to go again
When the—old—man—died."

I was profoundly shocked. "Decently and in order," says thechurch service, and I agree most emphatically. Secular songs shouldnot be bawled in a place of worship. Of course the singer wasreferring to "My Grandfather's Clock." I knew the song well, andhad no patience with the mawkish, sentimental doggerel—for,after all, a drop of oil applied with a feather to the rustybearings would have set the old rattletrap ticking again,grandfather or no grandfather. So I strode into the church frowningmy disapproval.

But the frown was thrown away. The singer was but a journeymanpainter, engaged in disfiguring the woodwork and carolling frommere habit. He meant no harm and was as unconscious of anyimpropriety as if he had been painting the outside of the bathroomwindow frame, while the ablutionist within hustled behind a towel.His innocence disarmed my indignation; and, besides, at the momentof my entry I got a most effectual counter-irritant; for the firstobject that met my eye was that fellow Burbler, staring like anidiot at a wall tablet. I was fairly taken aback. Could he haveguessed that I was coming here? or had he come to grind a littleprivate axe of his own? I should soon know, if I kept my eye onhim.

"How do, Mr Cobb?" he said genially. "Having a look round? Fineold place. I was just examining this very interesting tablet."

I looked at the tablet over his shoulder. It was of no interestwhatever. It merely located the carcase of a certain Major GeneralMulliger-Torney, HEIC, late of Elham Manor, and told a number ofpalpable untruths about him.

"A gallant officer, and an exemplary Christian, he served withdistinction in the Great Mutiny, slaying upwards of two hundredmutineers with his own hand. 'Blessed are the Peacemakers.'"

"What about it?" I asked.

"Don't you see? He lived at Elham Manor."

This was too thin. Obviously the sergeant was trying to distractmy attention from something else. I glanced round and saw thatsomething else on a wall hard by, a fine canopied monument withpainted stone effigies and a tablet beneath, on which I could makeout the name "Simon Glynn." I strolled over to examine it and stoodawhile gazing at it in silence. There is something impressive inthe naïve dignity of the mural monuments of this period; asimplicity of intention which is in no wise impaired by theelaborate and sumptuous workmanship. For some time the mere beautyand antiquarian interest of this quaintly splendid memorialengrossed my attention. Then, suddenly, I started. Now I understoodwhy the sergeant had tried to divert my attention, and why he wasnow watching me like a cat. There was something more in thismonument than met the eye at the first glance. Even the inscriptioncontained arresting matter where it referred to "Margery ye onelydaughter of Andreas Ozanne of ye Iland of Gurnseye Esquire;" forsurely Mistress Margery Ozanne of Guernsey might fairly bedescribed as a "Maid from the Sea."

But much more startling were the ornamental accessories of thiscurious monument. On either side of the surmounting finial reclineda winged figure, of which the one on the right held a harp, whilethe other grasped a great cross-hilted sword. Between the figureswas a shield quartered with what were presumably the arms of Glynnand his wife: the one device bearing three anchors or on a fieldgules and the other a scallop-shell argent on a field azure, whilebelow the shield was the motto: "God with us."

It was certainly what Dick Swiveller would have called a"staggerer." I repeated to myself the quaint doggerel that I hadcopied from Simon Glynn's mirror.

Well, there were all the mystic signs; the harp and the crossand the "ankores three;" and as for the "Maid from the Sea" therewas Mistress Margery herself. There was only one difficulty. The"ankores three" were not at the foot of a tree, unless the greatyew outside could be considered as fulfilling the condition. In allother respects the agreement was complete.

Was it possible that Glynn could have buried his treasure in thevault where his wife lay? It seemed incredible. And yet a man whocould bequeath his fortune to any chance stranger who might havethe wit to find it, might be capable of any eccentricity. But atthis point, my reflections—and the painter's lyricaloutpourings—were interrupted by a raucous voice.

"Now young man; don't you know no better than to make that therenoise in a sacred hedifice?"

"Why, there ain't no harm in a-singin', is there?" protested thecaroller.

"No 'arm!" exclaimed the other, whom Ijudged—correctly—to be the sexton. "No 'arm ina-bellerin' rye-bald songs in a place of worship? Where might you'ave been brought up?"

"Git out," said the painter. And the hopeless irrelevancy of therejoinder left the sexton speechless—until he perceived us;when he advanced sedately as one who scents a possiblesixpence.

"Re-markable old figgers, them, sir," he said, addressinghimself to me as the obvious social superior. "Wunnerful old, too:seven or eight hundred year old, so I've heerd say."

"Indeed," said Burbler, looking daggers at me for beingthere—but I wasn't sensitive just then. "Most interesting.And I suppose that in those days they used to bury people in thechurch; under the very pavement that we're standing on?"

"No doubt they did, sir," replied the sexton; "but not them two.They are buried in the undercroft, they are. Would you like to seethe place?"

It was useless to deny that we should, so we followed the sextonout of the church and round the exterior until we came to a smalldoorway which had once been closed by an iron gate, but was nowunguarded. Entering after our guide, we descended a flight ofmoss-grown steps and finally reached a small crypt under thechancel. There wasn't much to see. A simple groined roof carried onfour dwarf pillars; walls of unadorned masonry and a plain flaggedfloor. That was all; excepting that, against one wall, a squarestone set in the pavement exhibited the inscription:

Margery Glynn 1662
Simon Glynn 1692

Burbler struck a wax match—for the only light that enteredthe crypt was that which came down the stairway—and lookedlong and thoughtfully at the stone. I guessed what he was thinkingby the direction of my own thoughts. He was considering thedifficulties of raising that stone and the tools necessary for thejob: and he was wondering what there was beneath the slab. By itsshape it appeared to be the cover of the entrance to a vault, and,if this were so, the difficulties would not be great. If, on theother hand, it covered a grave, there would be trouble. Digging upa grave was a rather bigger undertaking—if you will pardonthe unintentional double-entendre— than either of usreckoned on.

The sergeant dropped the match and looked at his watch—inthe dark.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I mustn't stay loitering here,fascinating as these antiquities are. I shall lose my train."

"Your train!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. I've got to run up to Chatham. Nuisance, isn't it?"

I wasn't so sure of that, but, of course, I agreed that it was;and when we had each contributed a practically unearned incrementto the sexton's income, we ascended the steps and made our way outthrough the churchyard.

"Awful nuisance," repeated Burbler. "I shall probably bedetained in Chatham for two or three days. Most annoying! Just as Iwas enjoying me holiday, too!"

"I thought you were down here on business."

"So I was. But my business is finished. Another officer hastaken over the case"—and no wonder, thought I—"so I amhaving a little rest; taking a week or two's leave. They might haveleft me in peace."

Now here I was seized by an absurd and reprehensible impulse tosay what was not strictly true. The sergeant was going away. Whileunavoidably absent he might be uneasy in his mind. He might evenreturn prematurely. It would be only humane to reassure him.

"I can sympathize with you," I prevaricated, "for I'm in thesame boat myself."

The pleasure that shone from Burbler's face seemed almost tojustify me.

"Not going away?" he said brightly.

"Yes. Got to go to—er—Tunbridge Wells for my firm.They may keep me there a week or so. Nuisance for me, isn'tit?"

"Horrid," said Burbler. "Do you start today?"

Of course, I had to say "yes," and the detective immediatelypounced on me.

"What time is your train?"

Now there he had me, for I had neglected to ask the time of his.In my confusion I said "four o'clock," and he chimed ingleefully:

"I know. Four-eight. Change at Tonbridge. Mine is the four-fiftyfrom the other station. I may as well walk down with you and seeyou off."

Thus was I hoist with my own petard. For I had meant to see himoff and then prepare at my leisure for a nocturnal exploration ofthe crypt. But there was no escape. I was led like a sacrificiallamb to the station and compelled, under the sergeant's scrutiny,to waste my substance on a ticket for Tunbridge Wells. Indeed,fate, in the form of Sergeant Burbler, pursued me to the very doorof the compartment in which I didn't want to travel.

"Look out!" he exclaimed. "The train's off!" And whisking open adoor, he gave me a persuasive hoist that deposited me on the lap ofa fierce-looking, middle-aged woman.

"How dare you, sir?" demanded the lady, assisting me to risewith the aid of an extraordinarily sharp elbow. "What do you meanby this conduct?"

"I beg your pardon, Madam," I gasped, retreating to the farthestcorner. "It was purely an accident, I assure you. It wasindeed!"

"I don't know what you mean by an accident," she rejoinedbitterly; "bursting into a compartment that is plainly labelled'Ladies only'. It is an unwarrantable intrusion!"

I glanced at the window and saw that it was even as she hadsaid. However, it didn't matter. I was going to pop out at the nextstation, Chartham, in any case, and make my way back to Canterbury.I mentioned the fact in extenuation.

"Chartham indeed!" she replied scornfully. "Permit me to remarkthat this train does not stop until it reaches Tonbridge."

I was aghast. Here was a pretty kettle of fish! I should have tobuy another useless ticket and put off my exploration untiltomorrow; for the shops would all be shut when I got back toCanterbury, and I couldn't lift that stone with my fingernails. Ofcourse I could carry out my little plan just as well tomorrownight—unless Burbler should return prematurely. And here Ibroke out into a cold sweat; for nothing was more likely. He hadlocated the treasure and he knew that I had, too. He was certain tostrain every nerve to get back and forestall me. It was a horriblepredicament.

What made it worse was that my efforts to think out some escapefrom the situation were completely frustrated by my fellowpassenger; who continued to pour out an unceasing stream ofreproaches for my "unwarrantable intrusion." How she did talk, tobe sure! If some of those perpetual motion chappies could haveexamined that good woman's lower jaw, they might have got avaluable tip or two. The usual metaphor of the donkey's hind legwas inadequate; she would have talked the fifty hind legs off acentipede.

The train whizzed joyfully through station after station. Itroared through Ashford and left Pluckley behind, trundled along thestraight stretch towards Paddock Wood and Tonbridge. But presentlyit began to slow down and at length came definitely to a stop atthe little wayside halt of Helgerden.

"Now, sir," said my companion, "I'll trouble you to change intoanother compartment."

I hesitated; for the train was only waiting for the signal todrop and might move on at any moment. But eventually I was goadedinto opening the door and stepping out.

"Hi, sir! you can't get out here!" exclaimed the stationmaster,regardless of the fact that I had actually done so. And at thismoment the train began to move. I made a dash for the nearest door,but the stationmaster seized me by the arm.

"You can't enter the train when in motion," he said obscurely;and before I could wriggle myself free, the guard had hopped in andthe train had rumbled out of the station.

"What time is the next train to Canterbury?" I asked.

"Ten-forty," he replied, and added: "I must ask you, sir, not touse such language before my porter."

I apologized and pleaded extreme provocation, explaining that Ihad got into the wrong train and wished to get back quickly.

"Well, sir," he said, "there's a very good train from Ashford inabout an hour's time."

"And how long will it take me to walk into Ashford?"

"If you step out, sir," he replied, "you ought to do it in anhour and three-quarters."

I turned away hastily—appropriate remarks beingforbidden—and, striding wrathfully out of the station, walkedthrough the village until I encountered a finger-post which borethe inscription: "Ashford 7½ miles." Along this road I set forth ata brisk pace: but before I had gone two hundred yards I foundmyself face to face with a most terrible temptation. Leaningagainst a barn was an abandoned bicycle; a tradesman's machineapparently, for on the top bar was painted the name "Robert Miker."Now, with that bicycle I could easily catch the desirable trainfrom Ashford. Without it I must walk and my operations in the cryptwould have to be postponed—perhaps for ever. The catching orlosing of that train might spell the difference between gaining andlosing a fortune.

I say nothing in extenuation of my conduct. Property should notbe borrowed without the consent of the owner. But—there wasno one about from whom to ask permission. I flung my leg over thesaddle and away I went.

I have said that when I mounted there was not a soul to be seen.But before I had fairly got the wheels revolving, the entirepopulation of the place seemed to converge on the spot to speed mydeparture with valedictory hoots. A shrill voice commanded me to"come off that bike" and a deeper voice hailed me to stop. Lookingback, I saw (among others) a weedy youth shaking his fist in mydirection and a globular-bodied rural constable coming after me ata speed that was really amazing when one considered hisproportions. I had heard of the agility of the rhinoceros but I hadnever believed in it until I saw that rural constable. Still, hewas no match for a cyclist.

When I next looked round, a light carrier's cart had appeared.It soon became less light, for the constable got in; and then thedriver plied his whip and the cart came along in my wake,clattering like the horses and chariots in Pharaoh's pursuing army.I pedalled for all I was worth. It was too late to change my mindnow. And though that cart hung on doggedly, it grew smaller andsmaller in the increasing distance. The last that I saw of it wasat a crossroad, down which it turned, leaving the constable a tiny,threatening spot on the white highway.

A little way past the milestone that recorded "three miles toAshford," I came to a small inn which bore on its signboard thewords "White Cow." I had now plenty of time in which to walk therest of the way, and it seemed a wise thing to disencumber myselfof my borrowed steed. Entering, I ordered a glass of beer, and,having hastily consumed it, I asked the landlord to take charge ofthe bicycle.

"It belongs to Mr Miker," I explained. "I expect he will callfor it by and by. Will you give it to him and tell him that I ammuch obliged for the loan of it?"

The landlord promised to give the message, and I then got on theroad once more, stepping out at a good round pace andcongratulating myself on having made a skilful escape from acompromising situation. Soon after leaving the inn I came to arather steep hill, at the top of which the road ran along the levelfor some considerable distance before again descending. I hadproceeded along the level tract and was close to the brow of thehill when I became aware of the hum of a bicycle, approachingrapidly from behind. I looked quickly over my shoulder, and myheart sank. Ye Gods and little fishes! It was that confounded ruralconstable!

I gave one despairing glance at the town of Ashford, spread outbefore my yearning gaze. Another couple of miles and I had beensafe. It was a pitiful thing to be shipwrecked within sight ofport, but shipwrecked I apparently was. For the constable sweptalongside, and dismounting lightly, laid a colossal paw on myshoulder.

"Got yer!" said he.

I turned sharply, and casting on him a disdainful glance,demanded haughtily:

"What the deuce do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," he replied. "I charge you with stealingthis bicycle."

I laughed scornfully; though I didn't feel much like laughing, Ican assure you.

"My good man," said I, "how on earth can I have stolen thebicycle when you have got it in your possession?"

"Now don't argue with me," he retorted. "I've caught you inflagranto delictum. Saw yer prig it with my own eyes. Youjust come along back with me."

It was a desperate situation and called for desperate efforts. Ithought frantically for a few seconds and then burst into a hollowlaugh, pointing at the bicycle.

"Why," I exclaimed, "that's the machine that I left at the'White Cow'!"

"Quite right," said the constable.

"Ha! ha!" I shouted. "You are actually charging me with stealingmy own bicycle on which my name is legibly painted for all theworld to see. Look here!" and I pointed to the inscription.

The constable began to look puzzled. "Your name ain't RobertMiker," said he. "This here bike belongs to young Bob Miker, thewheelwright."

"Oh, I see," said I. "You are confusing me with some otherRobert Miker. How very amusing! Most ridiculous comedy of errors!But I'll soon prove to you that this is my bicycle. You noticedthat peculiar tilt of the right pedal?"

"No, I didn't," he replied.

"Didn't you really?" said I, co*cking up my right great toe. "I'msurprised at that. I had the pedal specially built to fit thisslight deformity of my right foot."

The constable stared at the pedal and then at my foot, whichcertainly had a rather quaint appearance with the toe co*cking upinside the boot.

"I don't see nothing peculiar about the pedal," said he.

"Let me show you," said I. "You'll see at once if I place myfoot on the pedal. It twists up on the inside. You'll see it betterif you stoop a little. Now."

I placed my foot on the pedal and he crouched down in theattitude of a frog preparing to spring, his mouth open and his eyesprotruding with intelligent curiosity.

"Don't you see?" I asked.

"No, I don't," he replied.

I gave his shoulder a sharp push: and, as he toppled overbackwards like an overturned china mandarin, making a franticsnatch at me as he fell, I stood up on the pedal and flung my leftleg over the saddle. The bicycle started forward and I urged itwith all my strength. But it was a near thing. The constable pickedhimself up in a moment and came bouncing along the road like agigantic football. Indeed, if it had not been for the sharp descenthe would have caught me before the machine had time to get upspeed. As it was, I went over the brow of the hill and picked upspeed in two or three revolutions. And then, of course, theconstable was nowhere. In a few seconds I was flying down the hillat twenty or thirty miles an hour, and even when I reached thelevel at the bottom, I kept up the pace so far as I was able untilI ran into the station approach at Ashford.

I had just time to take my ticket and book the bicycle (in thename of Miker) before the train rumbled into the station. Selectingan empty carriage, I took a corner seat by the door and, flingingmy hat into the rack, wiped my brow. For the moment, I was safe. Ihad run the two miles in about seven minutes and the constablecouldn't do it in much under half an hour. But he would get to thestation before I should reach Canterbury, and he would probablytelegraph my description. That was awkward. And the train did notstop at any intermediate station. It was very awkward.

The bell rang; a smartly-dressed Hebrew gentleman in a new strawhat bustled into my compartment, and the train started. I resumedmy disquieting reflections. Could a telegraphed description lead toidentification? I doubted it. I wore a common tweed suit and so didmost of the other men in the train. I was dark, with aquilinefeatures; but so were plenty of other men. The only distinctivefeature in my get-up was my hat—a green soft felt. That hatwas the weak spot in my armour. I hadn't noticed another like it onthe platform. If I had been alone I would have dropped it out ofthe window and risked going through the barrier hatless; but therewas the Hebrew chappie opposite. He would see me drop it and mightgive information.

I had not solved the problem when the train ran into Canterbury.My fellow passenger stood up and thrust his head and shoulders outof the window. I stood up, too—and—quite automatically,as it seemed— reached the Hebrew gentleman's straw hat downfrom the rack and clapped it on my head. It was a loosish fit, butthat didn't matter. Then my companion popped his head in and askedme:

"Do I change here for Margate?"

Now the fact is that he should have changed, but—well,necessity knows no law.

"No," I replied. "Stay where you are," and with this I hoppedout and walked quickly through the barrier. By the side of theticket collector I noticed a tall, burly man who seemed to eye thepassengers curiously, but he was no concern of mine. I hurriedthrough and made for the exit. But just as I was passing out, Iheard a loud commotion from the neighbourhood of the barrier. Icast an instantaneous glance back and saw that tall, burly manstruggling with a Hebrew gentleman in a green felt hat. And Iwaited to see no more.

The shops were still open when I emerged from the station anddived down the first by-street. I zigzagged through quiet lanes andcourts to the farther side of the town—dropping the cloakroomticket into a convenient letter box on my way—and, havingbought a cloth cap and deposited the straw hat (which was markedinside "I Cohen") in a deep doorway in an unfrequented by-street, Ibegan to consider the outfit necessary for my proposed raid onSimon Glynn's vault. A crowbar, a pick and a shovel were what wasreally needed; but this equipment would be just a trifleconspicuous. Besides, I really did not contemplate operations onthat scale. If there was actual digging to be done, I should haveto compound with Burbler and share the proceeds. The outfit that Ieventually purchased at the tool shop consisted of a largecase-opener—practically a small crowbar—a half-dozenwindow wedges (to prevent the stone from dropping back when I hadprised it up), one or two candles, and a botanist's trowel; afeeble set of appliances, but sufficient if it was only a questionof lifting a covering stone and exploring a vault.

"The shades of night were falling fast" when I approached thevillage of Bouldersby by a solitary footpath. I had not hurried;for time was no object. And I was not hurrying now. On thecontrary, I found my footsteps lagging more and more as thedistance lessened and the old church loomed up more distinctly inthe gathering gloom. It was not mere caution that made me linger,though I went mighty warily and kept a bright lookout. The fact is,that as I drew nearer to the church, I began to develop a mostuncommon distaste for the job. It is all very well to sneer atvulgar superstition, but there is something very revolting in theidea of breaking into the resting place of the dead in the mere,sordid search for money. Moreover, it was only now that I beganfully to realize the extreme vagueness of my quest. Supposing I gotthe vault open? What then? The treasure could not be exposed toview, or the people who buried Simon, himself, would have seen it.And if it was hidden in the vault, what clue had I to the hidingplace?

It was quite dark when, in a chastened, and even depressed,frame of mind, I sneaked in through the lychgate and creptstealthily across the churchyard. Through the open and lightedwindows of the adjoining rectory there stole out into the summernight sounds of revelry and mirth, including a mid-Victorian soloby a brassy-voiced gentleman who (according to his own statement)bore the unusual name of "Champagne Charley." The light and life,the laughter and the gay, if unmelodious song, seemed by contrastto accentuate the sordid gruesomeness of my ghoulish quest.Tremulously and guiltily I sought the little doorway and groped myway down the mossy steps, not daring to strike a light for fear ofbeing seen from the rectory windows.

The crypt was as dark as a vault. I had to back down the lastfew steps on all fours, and, when I reached the bottom, I felt myway along the wall to the farthest corner. And here I thought itsafe to strike a match and light one of my candles.

But I was loath to begin. I unpacked my parcel of tools and laidthem on the stone floor, speculating once more on what I should dowhen I got down into the vault. Then I examined the joints of thestone that I was to raise and was almost disappointed to find themamply wide enough to admit the chisel-edge of the case-opener. Atlast, violently screwing up my courage to the sticking point, Iseized the case-opener and one or two wedges and prepared to makethe first, repulsive effort. And at that moment my ear caughtdistinctly a sound of movement from somewhere above with an audiblemetallic clink.

Instantly, I blew out my candle, and, standing stock-still,listened. The sounds were repeated—nearer, this time: andthen I heard a fumbling footstep on the stone stairs and again theclink of metal. I shrank back into the uttermost corner; a uselessproceeding, for there was not cover enough to conceal an earwig.The intruder reached the floor, and, having laid on it somemetallic objects, struck a match, by the light of which I saw alarge man with his back towards me. He was lighting a sort of GuyFawkes lantern such as carters use, and, when he had got the wickalight, he turned towards me, staring into the lantern as heregulated the flame, so that the light shone full on his face. NeedI say that the face was that of Sergeant Burbler?

Having adjusted the wick, the detective threw the light of thelantern round the crypt and, naturally, its rays fell upon me;whereupon the sergeant opened his eyes and mouth unnecessarilywidely and let fall one or two unconsidered remarks which I neednot report verbatim.

"I thought you were at Tunbridge Wells, Mr Cobb!" heconcluded.

"I thought you were at Chatham!" I retorted.

"Well, I came back unexpectedly," said he.

"So did I," was my rejoinder.

An embarrassing silence followed during which we eyed oneanother with hostile stares. Finally the sergeant's face relaxedinto a sour grin.

"Well, here we are," said he, stating an incontestable truth."It's no good gaping at one another like a couple of fools. Isuppose it will have to be a partnership job. That suit you?"

"Perfectly," I replied. "We go halves, of course?"

"That's it. And, look here, Mr Cobb: we keep our mouths shutabout this little affair. This is a matter of treasure trove, and Isuppose you know how the law stands, being, I understand, a sort ofhalf-baked lawyer."

"Nothing of the kind, sir!" I exclaimed indignantly. "I am anarticled clerk and I shall be a fully qualified solicitor in a fewmonths. And I may tell you that this is not a case oftreasure-trove. We are acting on the express instructions of thedeceased. I regard that inscription on the mirror as having atestamentary character. The treasure is definitely stated to be apersonal bequest to the finder."

"I doubt if a court of law would take that view," said Burbler."Anyhow, it will be safer for us to keep our own counsel. Morallyspeaking, the stuff is ours, and that is all that matters."

This being an eminently reasonable view to take of the case, Iagreed to inviolable secrecy as to the treasure, and the sergeantthen began his preparations. His outfit was a much morebusinesslike one than mine, for it included a small spade and avery large and massive folding jemmy. The latter, when the jointswere screwed together, was about three feet long and was adecidedly hefty tool for use either as a crow or a pick; and whenthe sergeant had "jumped" its beak into the joint between thestones, one or two vigorous heaves at the knobbed handle fairlylifted the inscribed slab out of its bed.

"Now, Mr Cobb," exclaimed Burbler, "just stick that bar of yoursinto the opening while I get a fresh purchase."

I thrust in the case-opener, and the sergeant took a freshpurchase with his jemmy. Another strong heave, and the stone cameup a couple of inches. I seized its edge and held it until thesergeant, dropping the jemmy, came to my assistance. Then with aunited effort we hoisted the stone right up and turned it back,disclosing a square, black hole and the top of a flight of bricksteps.

It was an uninviting-looking entrance and we both gazed at it insilence and without any enthusiastic tendency to struggle forprecedence.

"Well," the sergeant remarked, at length, "it's a small hole, MrCobb; we can't both go down at once."

I admitted that we could not, and suggested the propriety oflowering the lantern to make sure that the air was not toofoul.

"Yes, that's true," said Burbler, "but I haven't got any string.Just hold the lantern down at arm's length and see how itburns."

I lay down on the pavement and let the lantern down as far as Icould reach. It burned quite well but failed to make the interiorof the vault clearly visible; in fact, I could see nothing at allsave an enormous cluster of horrible-looking fungi which occupiedthe lower steps and generated in me an urgent desire to see Burblergo down first.

I lifted up the lantern, and the sergeant and I gazed at oneanother irresolutely. And then the deathly silence of the crypt wassuddenly shattered by a brassy voice which shouted:

"Body-snatchers, by jingo!"

The sergeant and I leaped to our feet, and Burbler nearly felldown the hole. The light of the lantern revealed two men, one ofwhom—a fiddle-faced, red-jowled old sinner who looked like aretired military officer—was in evening dress, while theother was obviously a clergyman. The newcomers stared at us and westared at them; and a very embarrassing situation it was for thesergeant and me.

"Taken red-handed, by Jove!" said the violin-faced warrior."Caught on the bally hop! What!"

As this remark, though vulgarly expressed, stated an undeniabletruth, no comment seemed to be called for. Moreover, neither thesergeant nor I was at the moment bursting with conversationalmatter. So we continued to gape at the intruders like a couple offools.

Then the parson spoke.

"Would you kindly explain," said he, "what is the meaning ofthese very strange proceedings?"

I left the explanation to Burbler as the more expert andaccomplished liar. But he was not so ready as I should haveexpected. He gibbered confusedly for a few seconds and then repliedwith a most unconvincing stammer:

"We are—er—engagedin—er—er—archaeological research."

The parson smiled faintly and the warrior, glaring ferociouslyat Burbler, growled:

"Archaeological bunkum!" and then fixed an inquisitive eye onthe sergeant's jemmy.

"If you wish to know what is under this crypt," said the parson,"I can save you the trouble of further excavation, for I was notonly present but I personally supervised the reconstruction of theGlynn vault some twenty years ago."

"Indeed!" gasped Burbler.

"Yes. There seems to have been some silly tradition of a buriedtreasure in the vault, and as a result we suffered a good deal ofinconvenience. There was a tendency on the part of unauthorizedpersons to injure the iron gate and—and, in short, to engagein archaeological research."

Here the fiddle-faced ass flung up his fat head and roared:

"Ha! ha! Archaeological, by gum! Dam good that! Excuse me,Padre."

"So," pursued the parson, "I thought it desirable to set thematter at rest by a thorough examination of the vault. Needless tosay, nothing was discovered beyond the bones of the deceased andthe decayed remnants of two oaken coffins. I had the entire floorof the crypt dug up and the foundations examined, and then thevault was rebuilt, the remains re-coffined, and the pavement of thecrypt relaid as you see it now. Is there anything else that youwould like to know?"

"No, thank you," replied Burbler. "That settles our hash—Imean to say, that is all the information that we require."

"Then, in that case, perhaps you would like me to show you themost convenient way out of the precincts?"

"Thank you, it's very good of you, sir," said Burbler: and theparson rejoined: "Not at all."

We picked up our ridiculous tools—excepting the jemmy,which the warrior pounced on and examined attentively beforehanding it to the sergeant—and took our way sadly up thesteps and along the churchyard path. At the lychgate the parsonwished us a courteous "Good evening," and his companion leaned overthe gate and bellowed after us:

"You've had a devilish easy let-off, you two rascals. Supposeyou know it's a misdemeanour to be found at night withhousebreaking tools? What? Oh, I know a jemmy when I see one, don'tyou make any mistake!"

"I expect you do," snapped Burbler. "Done a bit in that lineyourself, eh?" and he turned away, leaving the fiddle-faced warriorgasping.

The sergeant and I trudged dejectedly along the high road, andfor a while neither of us spoke. At length I ventured toremark:

"Well, sergeant, Simon Glynn has been one too many for us thistime."

But Burbler's heart was too full for conversation. He onlyreplied with a morose growl:

"Damn Simon Glynn."

CHAPTER FIVE — A MERMAID AND ARED HERRING

THERE is a world of difference as to the resulting knowledgebetween a cursory observation that notes only generalities and anattentive examination that considers particular details. I realizedthis with great force when, having strolled out from my lodgings atthe Royal George inn to smoke my morning pipe on the little green,I turned to look up at the picturesque house. Between the middlewindows, close under the eaves, was a small square of stone inwhich were cut three initial letters and a date. I had noticed itwhen I first came to the inn and I had frequently glanced at itsince; but if I had been asked to describe the inscription I couldhave told no more than that it consisted of three initial letterssurrounding a heart with the date 1636 underneath. What the letterswere I certainly could not have told, though I should haveremembered the date.

The explanation of this is perfectly simple. A group of figuresforming a date conveys a definite meaning, whereas the initialletters of an unknown person's name have none; and meaninglessthings neither stimulate the attention nor impress the memory.

Yet I had often looked, and not without interest, at the littletablet. For these simple memorials illustrate a very prettyold-world custom. The initials—usually set in a triangleabout a heart or flower or star—are those of a man and wifeand the date below is that on which the house was finished and theyoung couple entered into possession to begin their married life.The upper letter is the initial of the joint surname and the lowerones represent the Christian names of the husband and wiferespectively.

This morning I was in a reflective vein and somewhat at a looseend. Only the previous day I had made that abortive search in thevault. The treasure, deliberately hidden by old Simon over twocenturies ago, was still undiscovered. I had been hot on the scent;and though that scent had proved a false one, the search had warmedmy blood with the treasure-hunting fever.

I looked up at the tablet and somewhat absently read the briefinscription. The upper letter was G; the lower two S and M. Andthen I started, suddenly wide awake. For these were the initials ofSimon and Margery Glynn.

At first I thought it must be a mere coincidence. Glynn was aman of means who lived in the great house of Elham Manor. Howshould his name appear on this obscure wayside inn? The initialsmust be those of some other couple; Solomon and Miriam Gobbler, forinstance. But then there was the date, 1636. I made a rapidcalculation from the dates on Glynn's tomb in Bouldersby church. Hedied in 1692, aged eighty-one. Then in 1636 he was twenty-fiveyears old; a very likely age at which to marry and settle down.Margery Glynn died in 1662, aged forty-five. Then in 1636 she wouldbe nineteen; again a very likely age. It looked uncommonly as ifthese initials were those of Glynn and his wife.

Suddenly I recalled a passage in Boteler's "Manor Houses ofKent," which stated that "from a reference to him (Glynn) in Pepys'Diary, it would seem that he had property in this neighbourhood, ofwhich he was probably a native." Now it happened that, only a dayor two previously, I had picked up on a bookstall in Canterbury anold copy of Pepys' Diary, which I had not looked at since. Full ofmy new discovery, I bustled indoors, and, running up to my room,opened the volume and eagerly ran my eye down the index, until itlighted on the name "Glynn, Simon," when, with a trembling hand, Iturned up the entry.

"23rd April (1664). Upp and to the CoffeeHouse by the Exchange to talk with Mr Gannett a Turky Merchant.While we are talking comes Mr Simon Glynn (a Goldsmith andSecretary of the Mint in Oliver's time) a pleasant fellow butwhimsicall. Much good discourse and merriment. Mr Gannett askethGlynn how he, being a widower without issue, shall devise hiswealth; to which Glynn answers that his house and lands and atavern that he hath he shall give to his sister's sons, but not hismoney. And then he makes this observation (which methought mightypretty) viz:—That some doe possess much money and little wit,and others much wit and little money, but whoso inherits hisgatherings shall have both."

Here was matter indeed! There could be very little doubt thatthe "tavern that he hath" was the very inn in which I was lodging;and that concluding observation seemed to hint that when Simondeposited his "gatherings" in a hiding place for the benefit ofsome future treasure-hunter, he intended that "wit" and not chanceshould be the instrument of its discovery. And no doubt he had madesuitable arrangements. At any rate, upwards of two centuries hadpassed, and, though, according to all accounts, there had been nolack of treasure-seekers, Simon Glynn's hoard still waited for theadventurer with wit enough to locate it.

Was it possible that I was to be that fortunate adventurer?Elham Manor house had been ransacked again and again, its gardenexcavated and its very panelling torn down; the vault under thechurch had been opened and dug out to the foundations. But no one,so far as I knew, had ever searched the tavern; indeed, itsconnection with Glynn would appear to have been forgotten. Whichmight easily have happened, seeing that the existence of hiddentreasure did not become known until nearly half a century afterSimon's death.

Since the finding of the mirror every likely place seemed tohave been searched. The Manor House had been searched; the vaultunder the monument had been explored. But no treasure had come tolight. The treasure-seekers had apparently struck the wrong placeeach time.

Could it be that Glynn had after all secreted his savingssomewhere in the inn? It was intrinsically probable enough. Thesmall house in which he had made his start in life and to which hehad brought home his young wife, must have had happier memories forhim than the stately Manor House in which he had lived a solitarywidower. It was highly probable that he would choose that place inwhich to hide his curious legacy; but—there was not theslightest evidence that he had. No vestige of any harp or cross oranchors three had I seen since I had lodged at the inn.

But wait! There was one thing that I had seen and had meant toinvestigate. On the main gable of the house—which, oddlyenough, looked on the garden and the river—was some kind oftablet or ornamental panel of carved brick. Only a corner of themoulding that framed it was visible, the whole of the remainderbeing hidden by a too-luxuriant creeper; but the size of the frameshowed that it was a work of more pretensions than the littletablet on the front of the house.

I walked through into the garden, and, backing away from thehouse until I was stopped by the great mulberry tree that dominatedthe lawn, looked up at the gable. The corner of a well-carved framepoked out from under the creeper; and, even as I looked, a breathof wind lifted the foliage and showed me the date 1640. Thatsettled it. The panel was put up in Glynn's time. The frame almostcertainly enclosed some kind of sculpture. Perhaps a harp and across—but I would soon see. For my bedroom window was justunderneath it and the principal branch of the offending creeper waswithin easy reach.

Full of my investigation and oblivious of the remoterconsequences of what I was about to do, I ran up to my bedroom andthrust my head out of the window. The panel was but a few feetabove, embedded in the mass of creeper that covered the gable. Igrasped the large branch that strayed past the jamb of the windowand gave it a gentle pull. The plant was a species of Virginiacreeper; the kind which attaches itself to the wall withoutartificial support, though not with the security of the lesshandsome ampelopsis; and, as I pulled, I could feel some of thelittle tendrils break away. I gave one or two morejerks—quite gentle ones lest I should damage the possiblyfragile ornament of the panel. At each jerk I felt more of thetendrils break and then suddenly the whole branch separated fromthe wall and came tumbling down so that I had to cut it throughwith my knife and let it drop to the ground.

Once more I thrust out my head and looked up; but crane out as Imight, I could see no more than the bottom edge of the frame,though the gable was now clear of the creeper. But if I could notsee the panel, there was somebody else who could. I observed himjust as I was withdrawing my head, and in a moment realized what anidiot I had been. The man was standing under a clump of willows onthe opposite side of the river and was in such deep shadow that Icould not see what he was like, though it was clear enough that hewas looking up at the gable and mightily interested in myproceedings. But though I could not recognize him, an uneasysuspicion as to his identity flitted through my mind; a suspicionthat this untimely observer was none other than Detective-SergeantBurbler.

If this should really turn out to be the case, then I hadbrought my pigs to a pretty fine market! For the worthy detective,who had come down to this neighbourhood on official business, wasadmittedly staying here for his own purposes. He was "taking a fewweeks' leave to enjoy the quiet and the beautiful scenery." Thatwas how he put it. The actual fact was that he had caught the scentof Simon Glynn's treasure and was hanging about in the hope ofpicking up some further clues. And, as he believed me to be inpossession of some private information respecting the hiding placeof that treasure, he had made it his special business to shadow meever since I had begun my researches. He hadn't got much by hisshadowing up to the present, for the simple reason that there hadbeen nothing to get. I knew no more than he. But now, by uncoveringthat panel for all the world to see, I had, perhaps, put him inpossession of a valuable clue.

I raced down the stairs, all agog to see what that panel reallywas. Hurrying out into the garden, I backed away under the greatmulberry tree and looked up. And as my eye lighted on the carvedbrick sculpture enclosed within the frame, a wave of mingledexultation and alarm swept over me; exultation because here was afirst-class clue; alarm lest my inveterate rival should have seenit too. For the panel exhibited in bold relief the figure of anunmistakable mermaid.

It was clearly not the work of an ordinary village mason. Theornament of the frame was but a plain and simple lattice pattern,but the figure was quite competently done; entirely unlike thecrude and childish figure-work of the rustic sculptor. Indeed, thewhole panel, in both design and finish, was singularly out ofcharacter with the homely building—little more than acottage—on which it was placed; and this suggested that bythe year 1640 Glynn had already begun to be a prosperous man.Probably he worked here at his trade, while his wife managed theinn, and found in the city hard by plenty of customers for hiswork.

But the immediate question was as to the meaning of thissculptured figure. I repeated the doggerel lines:

"Ankores three atte the foot of a tree and a maidfrom the sea on high."

And it was instantly borne in on me that I was standing at thefoot of a tree to look up at the sea-maid; and that, as there wasno other tree near, this was the only one that could possibly bereferred to. I turned to look at the mulberry tree. Obviously, itwas of great age. It might well have been—and probablywas—planted by Glynn himself. And if it was; if Glynn hadplanted it soon after he came to the house in 1636, then, at thetime when the treasure was buried—which was, apparently,about 1684—it would be nearly fifty years old and quite alarge and well-grown tree. The reasonable inference was that thiswas the tree referred to in the doggerel and that Simon Glynn'shoard was buried at its foot.

Of course there were objections to this conclusion. There was nosign of any harp or cross and the "ankores three" were nowhere tobe seen. But the harp and cross might easily have been removed byVandalic "restorers" if they were originally carved on, or affixedto, the house; and as to the anchors, they were probably incised onthe bark of the tree itself, and, if so, would naturally havedisappeared after all these years. Simon Glynn could never havereckoned that two hundred and thirty years would elapse before areally intelligent man should appear to claim his legacy. It wasunsatisfactory, I could not but admit, that those confirmatorysigns were absent; but still, there was the tree, and there was the"maid from the sea on high," and that seemed good enough to justifya careful exploration.

Already a delighted imagination was filling in the outline ofthe picture. I saw the hole at the foot of the mulberry tree andheard the thud as my pick or spade impinged on the iron-boundchest: and I was beginning to speculate on the nature of theprecious contents, when, suddenly, the recollection of Burbler camelike the shadow of the Upas Tree, to blot out the sunlight of mydreams. Had he seen me uncover the panel? or was that figure underthe willows merely a chance rustic, curious but innocuous?

I ran down to the landing stage and, getting into the boat thatbelonged to the inn, pulled upstream. But there was no one underthe willows now. I landed and searched the neighbourhood of thetowpath, but not a soul was to be seen. Rustic loiterer or watchfuldetective, that unwelcome observer had vanished and left notrace.

With mixed feelings, in which pleasurable excitementpredominated, I pulled back to the inn and landed. The suspicionthat Burbler had seen the tell-tale figure of the mermaid could notinfluence my course of action except to hasten it. At the foot ofthe mulberry tree lay Simon Glynn's "gatherings." Of that I hadvery little doubt. The course was to dig them up; and, under thecirc*mstances, the sooner the better. I had the great advantageover Burbler that I was a resident of the inn. When the premiseswere shut up for the night I should have the place practically tomyself, for old Mrs Hodger, my landlady, was the only other personwho slept in the house, and she was as deaf as a post. When onceshe had retired to her room in the front of the house, which sheusually did about ten o'clock, I was as free as if I were quitealone.

The necessary preparations were few and simple and I had the daybefore me in which to make them. First I visited the cellar, inwhich I knew the garden tools were kept. There was a good enoughassortment; two spades and three stout forks, in addition to thesmaller tools. Unfortunately, however, there was no pick. But todig a deep hole in undisturbed ground without a pick was a taskthat I felt to be beyond me; and accordingly I set forth, withoutdelay, to procure the necessary implement from a tool shop inCanterbury. I kept a sharp lookout for Burbler, whose unpleasanthabit of shadowing and spying on me I have mentioned, and when Iemerged from the shop with the pick, thinly disguised in brownpaper, I made at once for the least frequented by-streets and leftthe town by a footpath across the meadows. But it was an anxiousbusiness; for if the detective had met me with that incriminatingtool under my arm, the murder would have been out with a vengeance.I should never have got a chance to use it.

But it seemed that I was in luck, for the perilous passage wasaccomplished without my seeing any sign of Burbler. I sneaked intothe inn by the garden door and at once proceeded to deposit thepick in a corner of the cellar. So far, good. I had made mypreparations unobserved. If I had the same luck with my midnightexplorations, I might get the treasure safely stowed in my trunkbefore Burbler was ready to begin. That is, assuming that my worstsuspicions of him were correct.

In this mood of self-congratulation I slowly ascended the cellarsteps. But at the top I halted and my self-congratulations came toa sudden end. In fact, I got a most severe shock.

A deaf person somewhat resembles a telephone; which appears tobe an appliance for conveying verbal information to everybody butthe person addressed. There was a stranger in the bar. I knew hewas a stranger because he was talking to Mrs Hodger. The regularcustomers simply reached down a mug from the shelf and held itunder the tap of the selected cask. But what had filled me withconsternation was the sound of the voice. It was pitched in a lowand confidential key, and the words were indistinguishable but Iseemed to recognize it.

"Ah," said Mrs Hodger, "you're right. This hot weather do makeyou thirsty. So much the better for me. He! he!"

The stranger rejoined, a little louder; and, though I could nothear what he said, I knew that he was repeating his former remark.Strangers always did.

"Well," said Mrs Hodger, "what I says is, wooden taps isbetter'n lead pipes when all's said 'n done. More wholesome, like,you know."

Here the stranger, abandoning his former confidential and rathersecret tone, let off a howl that must have been audible half a mileaway. And that howl settled the question of the speaker'sidentity.

"I'm—asking—you," roared the unmistakable voice ofSergeant Burbler, "if you can—let—me—have—aBedroom?"

Mrs Hodger evidently had some slight misgivings as to whethershe had quite caught that last remark. But she was a woman ofspirit.

"Ho," she replied, "then you'd better get a mug down and droarit yourself. Then you'll know that you've got what you want."

There was a short pause. I knew what was coming; and it came,sure enough. It always did.

"There ain't any need to write it," said Mrs Hodger, a littlehuffily. "I may be a trifle hard of hearing, but this ain't anasylum for the deaf and dumb...Oh, I see. Got a sore throat andlost your voice? Dear, dear. Surprising what a lot o' people istook that way nowadays. There's my lodger, Mr Cobb, and the Rectorand—but you're asking about a bedroom. Well, you can have thelittle blue room if you'll take things as they come and not expectno waiting on."

Apparently the little blue room—so called from the colourof its paint—answered Burbler's requirements, for he turnedup that very day about teatime accompanied by a barrow on which wasa large cabin trunk and an elongated parcel enclosed in sacking.That parcel looked as if it contained a spade and pick, but Icouldn't be quite sure, as Burbler declined my offer to carry itupstairs for him.

Now here was a nice cheerful state of affairs! Of course, myproposed nocturnal exploration was impossible so long as Burblerwas about. And he seemed to have come to stay. At any rate he wouldprobably see my visit out, for I couldn't squeeze more than a weekor two of extended holiday out of my firm, indulgent as theywere.

It was an intolerable situation. Burbler clung to me as if I hadbeen a long-lost brother. He walked abroad with me, of course hetook meals with me, and he would even pop into my bedroomunexpectedly when I was dressing—though I put a stopper onthat by bolting the door. Even when I escaped for a few minutes'quiet, I have reason to believe that he consoled himself byvisiting my room and raking over my personal effects; an intrusionthat I was powerless to prevent, for, though every door in thehouse seemed to be fitted with massive bolts inside and out, therewas not a single workable lock.

It is true that Burbler's conduct was not without itscompensations; for if he could not afford to lose sight of me,neither could I afford to lose sight of him. And there was afurther consolation. The continual watch that he kept over mymovements and especially his repeated searchings in my room showedthat he still believed me to possess some clue to the whereaboutsof the treasure that he did not. Still, as I have said, it was anintolerable situation and something would have to be done. There, Ifelt no doubt, was the treasure, lying perdu at the foot ofthe mulberry tree, and, somehow, by hook or by crook, I must manageto get it exhumed.

Necessity is the mother of invention. During those dreary walkswith Burbler my brain was hard at work; while I sat at table withhim I turned over scheme after scheme; and especially in thewatches of the night, when I lay by the open window listening forthe sound of a surreptitious pick from the lawn below, was my mindbusy with plans for getting rid of Burbler. And at last I hit onone.

It was clear to me that the sergeant did not share my certaintyas to where the treasure was hidden. Not being gifted, like me,with a brilliant constructive imagination, he was baffled by theabsence of the Harp, the Cross and the "Ankores three." Hence hiscontinual attendance on me and his searchings of my room. Hethought I knew more than he did, and he was waiting for me to givehim a lead. Very well. I would give him one.

The inspiration of my plan came from a prehistoric monument thatstood in a field not far from the inn; a structure of the kindknown as a dolmen—a sort of rude tomb chamber roofed in by ahuge, flat "table-stone." Near to it was the hollow trunk of anancient oak, which, with it, occupied a space that was reservedfrom cultivation. There is something rather stimulating to theimagination in these prehistoric remains, especially whenassociated with an ancient and decayed oak. Not that Burbler hadmuch imagination; but it was as well to give him all the assistancepossible.

I made a preliminary sketch plan of the place and then, afterbreakfast, while Burbler was giving his boots a brush in thescullery, I sneaked out of the house and legged it as hard as Icould go. The dolmen was visible from the road across one or twoopen meadows, and I suspected that I shouldn't have it very long tomyself. Nor had I. Within five minutes of my arrival a distantfigure appeared getting over a fence and approaching; somewhatcircuitously, it is true, for the adjoining meadow, through whichthe direct footpath led, was occupied by Farmer Babbage'sshort-horn bull. I affected not to see him, and proceeded slowlyand with long strides to pace the distance from the dolmen to thetree, noting down the measurements and compass bearings on agood-sized piece of paper. When the sergeant climbed over the lastfence I looked at him with a startled expression, hurriedlypocketed the paper and walked forward to meet him.

"Rum-looking concern, that," he remarked, nodding at the dolmenand casting a suspicious glance round the field.

"Yes. Nothing to see, though," I replied indifferently, makingas if to return to the road.

"May as well have a look at it," said Burbler; and he approachedthe venerable structure, and, having stared at it blankly for awhile, remarked that it "looked as if it had been there sometime."

"Getting on for three thousand years," said I.

"You don't say so!" he exclaimed. "Three thousand years! Gad! Arepairing lease was worth something in those days."

He continued to cast puzzled glances at the dolmen and the oldtree trunk, but failing to make anything of either of them, allowedhimself ultimately to be led away.

On the following morning, having bolted my door, I prepared thefinal document, which consisted of a rough plan of the field,showing the dolmen and the tree and a number of dotted linesconnecting them. At the bottom of the paper I wrote the followingexplanatory references:

"From dolmen to harp stone, 20 yards English clothmeasure, due north.
From harp to first anchor 15...due west.
From first anchor to second anchor 5...due north.
...second anchor to third anchor 7½...due east
...third anchor to cross 7½...due south.
Three and a half feet below the surface."

It is needless to say that this was all nonsense. But it had afine, piratical, treasure-seeking appearance. I folded it neatlyand laid it on a shelf in my cupboard with a couple of half-crownson it; and having measured with my pocket dividers the exactdistances from the half-crowns to the edges of the paper, I made anote of them and then went down to breakfast. Burbler had not yetleft his room; but he appeared some ten minutes later with the mostludicrous expression of bewilderment that I have ever seen. I couldhave laughed in his face.

In the middle of breakfast I suddenly left the table and rushedupstairs as if I had forgotten something. Bolting my door, Icarefully tested the position of the half-crowns on the sheet ofpaper; and when I found that it had changed by a full sixteenth ofan inch, I knew that Burbler had gorged the bait, for Mrs Hodgerhad not left the kitchen. I accordingly pocketed the document anddescended to finish my breakfast with renewed appetite. All thepreliminaries were now arranged. I could reckon on getting rid ofBurbler for an hour or so at least, and perhaps in the interval Imight manage to lift or at any rate locate the treasure.

That very night I proceeded to carry my plan into execution.Soon after half past ten, the house being then all quiet, I stolesilently (but not too silently, you understand) out of myroom and descended to the cellar to provide myself with the needfulappliances. A bundle of half-inch iron rods, each about four feetlong and pointed at one end, stood in a corner; the remains, Isuppose, of some kind of iron fence. One of these I selected as asounding rod, and having annexed a good-sized hammer, a spade and ahalf-dozen clothes-pegs, I crept up from the cellar and listenedfor a few moments. The house was very silent, but once I thought Icould distinguish faint sounds of stealthy movement above; on whichI unbolted the front door and went out, shutting it behind me.

It was an ideal night for the purpose. The nearly full moon wascovered by a thin veil of cloud, so that there was plenty ofdiffused light, and yet one was not too conspicuous; though, forthat matter, there was not a soul about. The road was as desertedas the fields, and I arrived at the dolmen—by a slightdetour, to avoid the neighbourhood of Farmer Babbage'sbull—and without having seen a living creature.

Resting the spade against the dolmen, and taking a look througha large opening into the dark interior, I reflected awhile,studying my sketch plan and a pocket compass by the feeble light.There was no hurry. If Burbler was on my track, I must give himtime to reach the spot. And yet I must not seem to dawdle if he hadalready arrived. I kept an eye on a clump of elders that wouldcover his approach, hoping to make out some signs of his presence;but the clouds now grew more dense and the light faded until theelders were no more than a vague dark mass. There was nothing forit but to begin and assume that Burbler was there.

I paced out the first line with long strides (and an eye on theelders) and at the end of it hammered one of the clothes-pegs intothe ground. From this point I slowly paced to the "first anchor"and hammered in another peg; and so on until I had made the wholeround and arrived at the spot marked on my sketch with the cross.And still there was no sign of Burbler.

A sudden, horrible suspicion entered my mind that I was goingthrough all this tomfoolery without any audience at all. That was afrightful thought. But worse than that was the suspicion that nowseized me and chilled my very blood, that Burbler might have takenadvantage of my absence, and, even at this moment, while I wasplaying this fool's pantomime in an empty field, might be diggingat the foot of the mulberry tree!

I broke out into a cold sweat. It was an awful dilemma. Icouldn't stop my foolery for fear he might be watching after all;and yet I was in a fever to get back to the inn and see thatnothing terrible was happening.

I had stuck the sounding rod in the ground and had the hammerpoised for the first blow when a voice—a distinctlyagricultural voice— broke the stillness of the night.

"Now then, you, what are you doing here at this time o'night?"

Naturally I thought that the unseen speaker was addressing me.But he wasn't. For a familiar voice answered sheepishly:

"Nothing in particular. Just having a walk round."

"Oh. Then you just take a walk out; out of my meadows. And youthere! What are you up to?"

This question, bellowed in stentorian tones, was obviouslyaddressed to me. It being impossible to ignore it, I walked towardsthe elders, whence the voice appeared to proceed, mumblingambiguous explanations. By the fence under the trees I foundBurbler and a stout, elderly man; presumably Farmer Babbage.

"Now then," said the latter, "you just come over the fence andI'll show you the way off my land. This here is the path."

"But," I protested "there is a bull in that meadow."

"Oh, he won't hurt you," said Babbage. "He's as quiet as a lamb,he is."

"Excuse me," said Burbler, "but I think I'd rather go some otherway."

"You'll go along the footpath," the farmer began doggedly; butat this moment a roar like the blast of a colossal motor horn rentthe silence, and a huge black shape emerged from the darkness ofthe meadow.

"He won't hurt you," repeated the farmer, getting over the fencewith uncommon agility nevertheless. "He's as quiet as a—"

Now a bull is the most thick-headed of animals, literally andmetaphorically. This particular behemoth had apparently selectedBurbler as the object of assault, and he came on like—well,like a motor omnibus. I can't think of any more terrifying simile.But, of course, when he arrived Burbler wasn't there. But he didn'tcare for that. He proceeded to hurl a ton or so of beef and bonesat the place where Burbler had been; and the consequence was thathe hit the fence— a miserable row of rickety hurdles. Andthen the fence wasn't there.

What immediately followed I can't say, not being provided likethe spider with eyes in my back. I only know that Farmer Babbagecontinued to asseverate "He won't hurt you," as distinctly as couldbe expected of a stout, elderly man who is crossing a field atabout sixteen miles an hour. When I next looked back, from theshelter of another fence, Burbler appeared to be performing a kindof Druidical dance round the oak tree with the bull as an activeand sympathetic acolyte.

Presently, taking advantage of a momentary lapse of attention onthe part of the bull, the sergeant bolted across to the dolmen andshot in through the opening like a harlequin; and the last thingthat I saw as I turned away was the bull with his nose thrust inthrough the opening of the dolmen uttering sonorous greetings tothe sojourner within.

I made my way back to the inn with as little delay as possible.For the present Burbler was safe—safe, I mean, from my pointof view. And when the bull released him he would probably lurk inthe neighbourhood to see what I had been doing and to watch for myreturn. Still there was no time to be lost. I must find thetreasure quickly or put off the search to another time.

I was still carrying the sounding rod and hammer, and that factsuggested to me the desirability of probing the ground under themulberry tree before beginning to dig; for if Glynn's hoard laydeep down, out of reach of the four-foot rod, the amount of diggingrequired would be greater than circ*mstances rendered possible onthis occasion. Accordingly, having let myself in and bolted thedoor, I went straight through to the garden, and, taking my standunder the mulbery tree, looked up at the house. It was reasonableto suppose that the spot chosen would be as nearly as possibleopposite the "maid from the sea on high," and, on this supposition,I stuck the point of the rod in the ground exactly in a line withthe tablet, about a dozen feet from the tree, and drove it in withthe hammer. It entered easily enough for the first eighteen inches.After that it became more and more difficult to drive in. But itmet with no obstruction and after driving it in two feet sixinches, I pulled it up and tried a fresh place in the sameline.

I sounded in four or five places with the same discouragingresult; and then I "struck soundings." It was at about two feetfrom the surface that I felt the resistance suddenly increase, and,when I had freed the rod a little, I could make out a definitesolid obstacle. Eagerly I pulled up the rod, and, sticking thepoint in the ground about a foot nearer the tree, hammered it in.Again at about two feet down its progress was checked. There wascertainly something there, and something of considerable size. Nota block of stone, as I could tell by working the rod up and downand striking the obstruction with the point, but apparently amassive wooden object, such as, for instance, a solidly-builtchest.

I paused for a moment to consider. How long would it be beforeBurbler would be likely to return? That was a question to which Icould give no answer. And meanwhile here was a solid something onlya couple of feet down. With a pick and spade I could reach it in afew minutes. It might be a treasure chest or it might not, but inany case prudence whispered to me to take the opportunity lest Ishould never get another.

All a-tremble with excitement, I darted into the house andgroped my way to the cellar. Quickly lighting a candle-lantern, Ifound my pick and a spade and having carried them up to thepassage, I stood them against the wall and returned for thelantern. And then came the catastrophe. I was but halfway down thesteps when someone leaped on me from behind, pinioning my arms andgripping my wrists. The impact was so violent that my assailant andI flew down the remaining steps and rolled together on the brickfloor; and before I could extricate myself from the bear-likeembrace, a chilly contact and a sharp, metallic snap told me that Iwas handcuffed and helpless.

"What the deuce is the meaning of this?" I exclaimedfuriously.

"The meaning is," replied the too-familiar voice of SergeantBurbler, "that you've been a bit too artful this time, Mr Cobb.Thought I was a regular greenhorn, didn't you? But I ain't. I'vebeen watching you over the back gate for the last quarter of anhour. Now then, stop kicking, will you?"

I did stop, as a matter of fact; not voluntarily but inconsequence of his lashing my ankles together. I heaped on himevery objectionable epithet that a fairly retentive memory couldrecall; I called him a thief, a liar, a swindler and a traitor. Buthe was perfectly impassive. With a calm air of business he passed acord round my arms at the elbows, and, having tied it behind,dragged me to an oaken chest, on which he seated me with my facetowards the door.

"Now, Mr Cobb," said he, "if you'll excuse me, I'll just runaway and attend to that little business outside. I'll leave you thelantern, as I have one of my own."

With this he departed, bolting the door after him; and very soonthere came in, through the little grated ventilators, the sound ofa pick— my pick!—plied with furious energy.

I could have wept with rage and disappointment. Here was apretty end to all my scheming! I had played the jackal that thismangy Scotland Yard lion might gobble up the prey!

After a time I grew calmer. The sound of the pick continued fromwithout and I listened to it with growing resignation. Presently itintermitted and then I heard the sharper sound of the hammerstriking the sounding rod. Not a soothing sound it might bethought; and yet it comforted me. For it told me that what I hadstruck was certainly not the treasure and that, so far, the villainBurbler had drawn a blank. Supposing the treasure was not there,after all! What an anticlimax that would be! And what an awful foolthe Sergeant would look!

The old proverb that "the wish is father to the thought" nowreceived an apt illustration in the psychic phenomena that myreflections exhibited. So long as the hidden treasure waspotentially mine, I had dwelt rather exclusively on the evidencethat it was there; but now that it was potentially Burbler's Ifound myself dwelling rather on the facts that suggested that itwas not there. And, really, when one came to consider the facts, itdid look as if I had jumped at a somewhat hasty conclusion. Theharp and the cross and the anchors three, which I had brushed asideas not so very material, now began to loom up as factors of primeimportance. It seemed as if the circ*mstances required carefulreconsideration.

And now, for the first time, I began to give that mysticaljingle of old Simon's really systematic thought. I went over itline by line and applied its quaint phrases to the presentconditions. And the more I did so, the less they seemed to fit.Gradually, I came to the conclusion that I had made a false shot; amere hasty guess. That the foot of the mulberry tree could not bethe place where the treasure was buried at all, and that the wholeof the data needed to be revised.

And all the time, the sound of the pick and spade drifted inmonotonously through the little grating.

A couple of hours passed. Slowly my ideas, from a formlessambiguity, began to crystallize into something like definite shape.A few minutes more of concentrated thought and I should haveevolved a more or less complete solution of the riddle. But at thatmoment the sound of the pick ceased; heavy footsteps clumped alongthe passage; the cellar door was unbolted and flung open; andSergeant Burbler entered, wiping his forehead with a very dirtyhand.

"Look here, Mr Cobb," he said, irritably, "do you know wherethat stuff is, or don't you?"

"No, I'm hanged if I do," said I, "unless you've got it."

"Well, I haven't. And I don't believe it was ever there."

"Neither do I. But you haven't wasted your time, you know,Sergeant. It might have been there. It was just as well to makesure. I'm very much obliged to you for all the trouble you'vetaken. Perhaps you wouldn't mind unfastening these things now; thenI can help you to fill up the hole."

Sulkily and with an air of deep depression, Burbler released mefrom the handcuffs and the lashings. He offered no apology for hisconduct, and I asked for none. When I had stretched myself andsecured another spade, we went out into the garden to repairdamages. Under the mulberry tree yawned a wide and deep pit,bridged by the thick root on which my sounding rod had struck. Thesergeant and I fell to at once with our spades to fill up the hole;and though we both worked with a will, it was with very differentfeelings. Burbler was silent and gloomy. Perhaps he was consideringwhat he should say to Mrs Hodger. As to me, the "might have been"was with me no more, but only that which yet might be.

As I gleefully shovelled in the earth it seemed that perhapssuccess might, after all, rise, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of adead and gone failure.

CHAPTER SIX — THE MAGICMIRROR

HUMAN knowledge may be roughly divided into two categories: thatwhich we acquire at school, and that which is of some practicaluse. Occasionally the two divisions overlap, as in the case ofschoolmasters or crammers, who contrive to squeeze a livelihood outof their schooling; but in general they are completely separate. Noacademic course would have helped me one jot to solve the riddle ofSimon Glynn's treasure, whereas one or two items of somewhatout-of-the-way knowledge—but I am rather anticipating. Let metell the story in its proper sequence.

It was the morning after the excavation under the mulberry tree.That had failed. Previous attempts of mine had failed; and theexplorations of innumerable treasure-seekers before me had failed.And all for the same simple reason. None of us had given theproblem sufficient preliminary thought. We had all, apparently,jumped from one or two clues to the solution; and the solution hadturned out to be the wrong one every time.

I walked up and down the little green in front of the RoyalGeorge, and my fellow lodger sat in the orchard at the side of thehouse in his shirtsleeves and a pair of hideous carpet slippers,reading yesterday's paper and keeping an eye on me. For Burbler wasno longer an investigator; his rôle was to shadow me and suck mybrains. Even now, he was watching me like a cat, to see if I lookedas if I had hit on another clue.

I paced to and fro, thinking profoundly. There should be no moreguesswork. I would go over the whole set of facts from thebeginning and consider them systematically to see if I could notevolve some theory that would fit them all.

As I paced to and fro, deep in thought, I passed and repassedthe signpost. And thus, glancing at it at each turn, I noticed forthe first time what a very singular post it was. And then I beganto look at it more particularly and note those peculiarities inwhich it differed from other signposts that I had seen.

In the first place, it was not planted in the ground, but set ina socket in a great block of stone. Then its lower third wasencased in lead sheathing, very neatly finished, though nowdisguised by paint. The top was protected by a long iron cap towhich the ironwork of the sign was attached, and the wooden shaftit*elf showed, through the crust of paint, obscure traces ofstrap-work carving. Looking attentively at the iron scrollwork, Imade out with some difficulty —for here, too, generations ofpainters had left their marks—four small figures, whichtogether made the date 1636. Then the ironwork was actually thatoriginally put up by Glynn; and it looked as if the post itself wasthe original one, which, indeed, it might easily have been, for,with its stone base, its lead sheathing, and its iron cap, it wasso perfectly protected from damp that it might still last for acentury or two.

But why this extraordinary care to preserve the wooden post? Oakwas not such a very costly commodity in Glynn's time, and the stonebase must have cost more than a dozen posts. Why, then, theseelaborate precautions?

I turned this question over as I walked up and down with my eyesfixed meditatively on the sign. And then, in a flash, I saw it: andcalled myself a whole battalion of idiots for not having seen itbefore.

I looked up, I say, at the sign, which showed a portrait of aroyal personage who wore a tie-wig and had a face somewhat like awell-scrubbed mangold-wurzel—George the third, in fact. Butit was obvious that in Glynn's day the sign of this tavern couldnot have been the Royal George. And if one asked what the originalsign was, the answer came at once from the sculptured mermaid onthe back gable. That elaborate panel was not a cottage tablet but atavern sign. Hence, too, the reason why that panel was at the backof the house; for the front had the painted mermaid on thesignboard. And, of course, it was this sign and not the sculpturedfigure that was the "Maid from the Sea on high."

But, if this was so, where was the "tree" that was referred toin the rhyme? Again the answer was obvious. In Glynn's day the olduse of the word "tree" as a synonym for "wood" still lingered; as,indeed, it does today in such words as roof-tree, chess-tree,trestle-tree, axle-tree, treenail (a wooden peg), and many others.Moreover, in those days, a large post actually was a tree; anentire trunk of suitable size shaped with the adze. The signpostit*elf was the tree.

And now I understood—or believed I understood—thoseelaborate arrangements to preserve the post from decay, and toavoid disturbance of the ground if it did decay. The treasure washidden at the foot of the post; and those precautions were taken toguard against its chance discovery by workmen engaged in carryingout repairs. For Simon had specially stipulated for "wit" on thepart of the finder.

So far, it all looked very complete and consistent. But this wasnot to be guesswork. I must fairly consider the objections. Andthere were two serious defects in this theory. In the first placethere was no vestige of any harp or cross; and in the second the"ankores three" were conspicuously absent. These seemed to be fatalobjections to my theory as to the whereabouts of the treasure, and,for the moment, I was a good deal discouraged. But then Iremembered that this was a riddle intentionally made difficult, andthat if its solution had been more obvious it would not haveremained, after all these years, for me to solve. Accordingly Iaddressed myself to the first difficulty; that of the harp andcross.

Now, the association of ideas presents some very curiousphenomena. You may have two or more separate ideas, each of which,by itself, is meaningless and vague; but bring them together andforthwith they yield a compound idea of the utmost significance. Soit happened now. The words "harp and cross" had, from the first,vaguely suggested to me some half-forgotten incident which I couldnot recall. And again, when I had read on Simon Glynn's monumentthe motto, "God with us," I had felt some chord of memory vibrate,but had been too preoccupied to analyze the impression. Just now,however, I was in an analytical mood and I recalled both thesevague recollections and asked myself what they meant. And then, ina moment, the two ideas ran together and led me back straight totheir joint origin.

The incident occurred in front of one of the cabinets of acoin-collecting friend. He had just taken out a Commonwealthtwenty-shilling piece and handed it to me.

"There, Cobb," he had said, "that is a piece of old Oliver's.Observe the pious inscription, 'God with us.' This is the coin, youknow, that Pepys refers to as 'the old Harp and Cross money.'"

I recalled it now, perfectly, and the appearance of the piece,with the device of the Harp and Cross and the motto, "God with us."This, of course, was the money that was struck when Simon Glynn wasat the mint.

It was all clear enough now. The Harp and Cross were not markson the hiding place of the treasure. They were on the treasureitself. The words in the rhyme, were, in fact, a trap set by the"whimsicall" Simon to catch the unwary; and the unwary had beencaught in very considerable numbers.

The difficulty of the "ankores three" now seemed to melt away ofitself; for the quibble of the Harp and Cross suggested a simplesolution. It was a pun on Simon's coat of arms, the three anchors;as was, indeed, suggested by the ambiguous spelling of the word"ankores," which left the reader free to render it "anchors" or"ankers" according to his judgment. For my part, I had no doubtwhatever. Here was old Simon's tavern in the midst of the smugglingcountry with a tidal river flowing past its very door. Many ananker of Dutch liquor must have drifted up from Sandwich in thosegood old days, and many an empty anker must have cumbered thecellar. What more natural than that the jovial Simon should haveused these convenient vessels for treasure chests?

I trust that I am not a conceited man; but I must admit that Ipaid myself a few handsome compliments on my ingenuity. For here Ihad a complete and reasonable solution of that cryptic rhyme whichhad puzzled generations of eager treasure-seekers. Three ankersfilled with gold Harp and Cross money buried at the foot of thesignpost on top of which swung the sign of the mermaid. That wasthe solution. It was simple, and it covered every word of therhyme, which no previous solution had done. All that remained wasto gather the reward of my ingenuity. Others had "stepped over;" itwas for me, the chosen one, to "take itt" and fulfil Simon'sprophecy as to his legatee.

This was all very well. But "itt" was by no means convenientlysituated. The signpost stood some twenty yards from the house atthe side of a public road, and was, moreover, planted in a block ofstone weighing a ton or two. To disinter the ankers would involvemining operations on a scale that would attract the attention, notonly of Burbler and Mrs Hodger, but of the whole countryside.

Here was another setback. But I was not daunted by it; amoment's reflection convinced me that the difficulty—whichwas as great in Glynn's time as now—must have been providedfor. Simon could never have meant the successful candidate to digup the signpost. There must be some easier means of access to thetreasure—probably from the inside of the house. I had seen,at Elham Manor, what Glynn could do in the way of secret chambersand hidden doors; there was nothing for it but to explore theinterior of the inn. But it was a little disappointing, just when Ithought I had solved the riddle, to have a new and difficultproblem presented, especially since I knew that every movement ofmine would be eagerly watched by Burbler.

And then it was that, puzzling over this new difficulty, I had areally brilliant idea; an inspiration, in fact.

It had often struck me as a little odd that Glynn should haveelected to engrave his doggerel on the frame of a mirror. It wasvery inconvenient, for the inscription had to be zigzagged roundthe four sides in an awkwardly narrow space. A salver, or even atankard or goblet, would have offered a much more convenientsurface and would not have broken up the verse. Why had he chosen amirror frame? Had he any special reason for his choice? And if hemust have had a mirror, why a silver one? Glass mirrors were incommon use in his time.

The study of optics has always had somewhat of a fascination forme; and especially that branch of it which deals with the quaintand the marvellous; in fact, with what one may call "opticalmagic." And thus it happened that as I cogitated on Simon Glynn'smirror with its cryptic rhyme, a very curious suggestion occurredto me.

I wonder how many people are acquainted with that queer productof old Japan, the "magic mirror?" A good many specimens exist. Ihave had the privilege of examining one or two myself. In its usualform, it is a smallish hand mirror with a face of polished speculummetal and a richly-ornamented back; and the centre of the back isalways occupied by a device—usually the figure of a dragon orbird—deeply and elaborately chased. Used in the ordinary way,it presents nothing unusual. If you look into one, you see areflection of your face— just an ordinary reflection, quiteplain and free from distortion. But if you catch a gleam ofsunlight on the polished face and throw the reflection on a smoothsurface such as a whitewashed wall, a most remarkable and uncannyeffect is produced. The device on the back of the mirror is plainlyvisible in the patch of reflected light on the wall, where itappears as a dark shape with a bright halo. It sounds like a sheerimpossibility, and to an observer who isn't "in the know" it lookslike black magic. The sort of magic, by the way, that Simon Glynnwould have enjoyed. Which brings me back to my brilliant idea:Supposing Glynn's mirror should be a magic mirror!

These meditations had brought me unconsciously to a halt at theend of the green, opposite the orchard. Happening to glance up, Ibecame aware of Burbler, sitting erect in his chair and eyeing meintently. I suppose that something of the excitement that surgedwithin me was apparent in my face. That, in short, my expressionhad suggested a fresh clue.

Hang Burbler! This spying and watching was distracting to adegree. And it was worse than distracting. I was now in a fever totest my new idea; but I wasn't going to test it in Burbler'spresence. There was only one thing to be done. I had my hat andboots on and a sovereign or so in my pockets. I had better take aflying start while I had the chance.

I took one or two more turns up and down the green to putBurbler off his guard; then, when I reached the end of my walk,instead of turning yet again, I quickened my pace and strode offalong the road. As I passed the orchard Burbler leaped from hischair, dropped his newspaper and made a bolt for thehouse—obviously to put on his boots and coat; and I, havingwalked quickly to a bend in the road, vaulted over a stile and ranat the top of my speed along the footpath that formed the short cutinto Canterbury.

As I ran, I continued my speculations on Simon Glynn's mirror;and the more I thought about it the more likely did it seem thatthe little silver plate held the final clue. For, after all, themiracle of the Japanese mirror is quite a simple affair and Iexpect many of the old working goldsmiths and silversmiths knew allabout it. It is just a matter of the hardening of metal under ahammered tool.

If you work a device, with chasing tool and hammer, on the backof a plate of annealed metal, that device will show through quitedistinctly on the face in slight relief. If this relief is groundaway on a wet stone, the device will, of course, disappear. But ithas not really gone. For though the face of the plate is nowperfectly even, the device is still there in the substance of themetal. Wherever the tool has struck, the metal is hardened rightthrough; and as soon as the face is polished, the hardness of theworked area will cause the device to reappear. Its projection willbe so infinitesimal as to be imperceptible to the eye, but it willbe quite sufficient to deflect rays of parallel light and cause thedevice to be visible in the reflection. Even if the design isstoned off the back as well as the face, the hardness will remainand the device will still show in the reflection though it hasdisappeared from both surfaces of the plate. So that the processwould offer a plan after the very heart of a whimsically secretiveman like Simon Glynn.

By the time I entered the streets of Canterbury, I had shaped animmediate course of action. My first objective was a shop in whichI had seen some very efficient-looking electric torches; and, as Iknew the price and had the money ready in my hand, the purchase wasonly a matter of seconds. With the torch in my pocket, I made abeeline for the museum, and, passing through the galleries asrapidly as I dared, proceeded to the room in the annexe in whichGlynn's mirror was exhibited.

It was a critical moment. An inopportune visitor or attendantwould have spoiled all; for Burbler would, no doubt, come straightto the museum, as the only place of which he knew as connected withour common quest. But fortune was kind. The room and the adjoiningcorridor were empty, and the mirror stood in its position on a sidetable. I took the precaution to open and inspect the curtainedsedan chair, which was the only possible hiding place in the room;and, having shut it again, I looked round, listened, and then, witha thumping heart, approached the mirror.

The little silver object stood, as I have said, on a high sidetable, inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees—just theright position for me. I gave its face a hasty wipe with my silkhandkerchief, stepped back a couple of paces, pointed thebull's-eye of my torch and pressed the switch. As the beam of lightfell on the mirror, a bright oblong patch appeared on the ceilingabove it. But not a mere, plain patch of reflected light. On thebright space I could make out in dim and shadowy, but quitelegible, lettering, the words:

"Pull out ye 3rd Stepp."

I switched off the light, slipped the torch into my pocket andmade my way out of the room as quickly as I had entered. For now Iknew all that I wanted to know, and my business was to escapeBurbler, at any rate until I had decided on my next move. And I wasnone too soon. As I passed a staircase window, I saw the sergeanttaking the entrance steps two at a time, and I had barely slippedinto the picture gallery when he flew past the door on his way tothe "mirror room."

As his steps died away I came forth from the gallery and hurriedout of the building before he should return in search of me. Myimmediate need was that of a quiet place where I could reflect onwhat I had just learned and decide what to do next. The streetswere not very restful with Burbler prowling up and down in searchof me; eventually I drifted into the cathedral precincts, andsought sanctuary in a remote corner of the cloisters.

"Pull out ye 3rd Stepp."

I smiled as I repeated to myself that quaint message, whisperedto me, as it were, in confidence across the gulf of two centuries.How like the pleasant and "whimsicall" Simon! For, of course, thatdirection, intelligible enough to me, would have been perfectlymeaningless to anyone else. The question would have arisen, "whatthird step?" But I understood. The direction was addressed to theperson of "wit" who had read the riddle. To me, in fact. And I knewthat there was only one set of steps that bore any relation to thefoot of the signpost; but those steps I knew very well indeed,having sat opposite them, manacled and bound, for a matter of threehours. The cellar steps of the Royal George (late The Mermaid) innanswered the conditions exactly; and since there were five of them,the middle step was the third whichever way one counted.

It was all plain sailing so far. I should pull out the thirdstep and probably find the entrance to a forgotten smugglers'hiding hole under the signpost. That was what it looked like. Butthere was Burbler. He was the fly in the ointment; and a mighty bigfly, too; a regular bluebottle. If he spotted me going down to thecellar, he would be on my heels in a moment, and then the wholething would be blown upon. I should be lucky if I got even a shareof the treasure, for Burbler had shown himself a greedy,unscrupulous rascal.

No. Before I ventured to approach the hiding place I must, byhook or by crook, get rid of Burbler. That was the pressingnecessity of the moment.

I have remarked on a previous occasion that necessity is themother of invention. The aphorism is not mine. It has been saidbefore; and I merely quote it as an appropriate observation.Because, at the end of an hour's pacing of the cloisters and afterenough concentrated thought to furnish out a royal commission, Ihad evolved quite a pretty little scheme.

There is more than one kind of magic mirror. I have describedthe less known variety. A more familiar kind, known to us in ourchildhood and sold in the toy shops of that prehistoric age, hadsomewhat different properties. You presented it to your mostintimate and valued friend and invited him to breathe on it inorder that he might see himself as others saw him. He accordinglybreathed on it; whereupon there appeared on its surface a lifelikerepresentation of a donkey's head.

There was nothing miraculous about it. I learned the secret ofmanufacture from a Hebrew gentleman who sold second-hand furniture.He was in the habit of writing the prices on his looking-glasseswith a piece of soap, and he made the interesting discovery that ifhe wiped off the soap-marked figures with a dry cloth and polishedthe glass, although the latter then appeared perfectly clear andbright, yet the figures would reappear quite distinctly if theglass was breathed upon.

Now here was a valuable piece of knowledge—not acquiredthrough academic channels. It seemed to me that, with its aid, Imight treat Sergeant Burbler to a little communication from thelate Simon Glynn. And if the communication were discreetly worded,it might furnish him with enough occupation to keep him out ofmischief while I transacted my business with the cellar steps.There was only one really serious difficulty. Burbler had got to bemade to read that mystic message from the long-departed Simon; andI didn't quite see how to do it.

From the cathedral precincts I stole out warily into BurgateStreet and wandered about until I encountered an oil shop, where Ipurchased a small tablet of soap. Cutting a slice from this, Ishaped it to the form of a moderately sharp crayon which Icarefully wrapped in paper and dropped in my pocket. Then Iexecuted a highly strategic advance on the museum. It was adelicate affair, for if I ran against Burbler it was quite probablethat he would freeze on, and then I should have to postpone mylittle manoeuvre; which would be most exasperating. For I needhardly say that I was suffering an agony of impatience to get backto the inn and see what was behind the "third Stepp."

I walked up to the entrance, and, after a precautionary lookround, bolted in. There was no sign of Burbler. Breathlessly Ithreaded my way through the galleries, ready at a moment's noticeto slip behind a door or showcase, until I came to the corridorthat led into the "mirror room." Here I paused for a moment,looking through into the room. A party of American tourists was inoccupation at the moment, but otherwise the room seemed to beempty. I accordingly entered boldly, and, while the Americans weretaking their lightning impressions of the exhibits, I passed thetime by examining the interior of the sedan chair—to makesure that the place really was empty, after all.

The Americans, having filled their intellectual crops withcharacteristic rapidity, departed, leaving me in sole possession:whereupon I took another glance round, shut the door of the sedanchair, and stepped over to the mirror. There was no time to belost. Burbler might arrive at any moment and rob me of myopportunity. Taking out my soap crayon, I wrote carefully on thesilver surface in antique, but very legible characters thefollowing mystical words:

"Under ye floare of ye litell blew Chamber."

I was not very satisfied with the result, for, owing to thedryness of the soap, the writing was almost invisible. However,when I had polished it off with my handkerchief until every sign ofit was gone and then breathed heavily on the mirror, I was quitereassured; for the inscription stood out with the distinctness ofengraving. But only for one instant. As the steamy film faded away,the writing faded with it; and, when I turned away, the surface ofthe mirror was as bright and blank as before the guileful crayontouched it.

The problem now was how to catch Burbler—or, rather, howto let him catch me. It would take some nice management, and Imustn't be caught prematurely. I had a roughly-shaped plan, and, asthat plan was connected with the public library—which was inthe same building —I made my way thither to think it over. Ilooked round a little anxiously as I entered the reference room andwas half-relieved and half-disappointed to find that the sergeantwas not there. I didn't want him until I had completed my littlepreparations, but, on the other hand, it would be an absolutedisaster if he had given up the pursuit and gone back to theinn.

But again fortune favoured me. Before reconnoitring the shelves,I happened to glance out of the window at the street below. Andthere he was, ostensibly gaping into a shop window, but actuallykeeping a watch on the entrance of the museum. So I shouldn't haveto go out and angle for him in the town if I could attract hisattention.

I snatched a large volume from a shelf and, going close to thewindow, pored over the open book with as intent an expression as Icould assume, watching Burbler out of the tail of my eye. For sometime he failed to notice me, but continued, to my annoyance, toglance furtively up and down the street and across at the museumentrance. But at last he caught sight of me; on which his interestin the shop window lapsed and he darted across the road.

I replaced the book on the shelf, and, running my eye along thevolumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, selected the one marked"Mem—Mos," and laid it on the table. Seating myself, Iproduced a sheet of paper and a pencil, and, opening the volume atthe article "Mirror," assumed an air of eager preoccupation.Presently the door opened softly. I didn't dare to look round, butmy ear gave me the information that I wanted. For Burbler'sfavourite boots had a peculiar soft creak, almost entirely confinedto the right boot; and when I heard that creak proceedingstealthily round the room behind me I knew that the critical momenthad come. If he spoke to me my plan would have failed and I shouldhave to devise some other.

I had written large and legibly at the head of my paper thewords "Experiments on metallic mirrors," and I now began to copyout chance sentences from the article in a much smallerhandwriting. Meanwhile the creaky boot lingered behind me oppositethe book-shelves and presently began to approach by easy stagesuntil I was conscious of someone standing close behind my chair. Iscribbled frantically, almost perspiring with anxiety. Would hetake the bait? He was certainly looking over my shoulder; he couldhardly fail to make out the heading to my notes. But would he adoptthe suggestion that I was offering? It was a very obvious one andhe was no fool; but there was the danger that he might fail toreason as I was trying to make him reason. And then he wouldn't dowhat I wanted him to do.

The creak softly retreated. I heard a book returned to the shelfbehind me; and then that tell-tale boot moved stealthily but ratherquickly towards the entrance. A door opened and closed; and,listening intently, I could distinguish the creak moving awaypretty quickly in the direction of the galleries. It really lookedas if the worthy sergeant had swallowed the bait.

I didn't act precipitately. I gave him a good five minutes'start in case he should be hampered by the presence of visitors.Then I replaced the volume, and, pocketing my notes, set forth onmy third visit to the shrine of Simon Glynn. I have never been moreanxious or less confident. For it was a pure gamble. I hadendeavoured to convey into Burbler's mind the impression that I wasabout to make some experiments on Glynn's mirror; and I now had toact on the assumption that I had conveyed that impression and thatBurbler would take some measures to be present at the experiments.Whereas I might have failed utterly. And to make things moredisquieting, I had discovered, too late, that the article in theEncyclopaedia actually contained a brief description of Chinese andJapanese magic mirrors. However, it couldn't be helped.

The "mirror room" was fortunately in its normal state ofemptiness. I stole in with a secret and nervous air and lookedround. I hardly dared to look at the sedan chair, but yet Icouldn't resist just one instantaneous glance as I entered. Andthat glance yielded distinct encouragement. For the door of thechair was not completely shut. But when I had looked in last I hadbeen careful to shut it; and that door had a snap catch which couldnot be opened from within. Two very significant facts. Verbumsap.

I stole up to the mirror, and, opening my mouth wide, breathednoisily two or three times. The polished surface clouded and thesoaped inscription leaped out and grinned in my face. There was nopossibility of missing it. I stared at it fatuously for a second ortwo; then I turned and walked quickly on tiptoe out of the room anddown the corridor. But instead of turning away down the nextgallery, I quietly slipped behind a large harem screen of Cairenelattice-work which stood at the end of the corridor. Through thechinks of the lattice I could command a view of part of the room,including the sedan chair and the mirror, though quite invisiblemyself; and I accordingly glued my eye to one of the chinks andwatched in an agony of suspense.

Several seconds passed. And every second I grew more and yetmore nervous. And then came the blessed relief. Very slowly andsoftly the door of the sedan chair opened and out popped ahead—Burbler's, of course. He looked round and listened for amoment, and, seeing no one in the room or corridor, forth he camelike a cautious hermit crab emerging from a whelk shell. Shuttingthe door silently he stole across to the mirror and bent overit.

I stared through the lattice in positive ecstasy. There was nodoubt what he was doing; his muzzle was within four inches of themirror and his mouth gaped like that of a moribund haddock. But hedidn't stay long in that position. One moment I saw him gaping atthe mirror; the next he was coming down the corridor like FarmerBabbage's bull.

I gave him a few seconds' start. I heard him stamp through twogalleries and down a flight of stairs and then I took up thepursuit. When I came out into the street, he was just turning thecorner, evidently making for the short cut back to the inn. Takinga different turning, I ran as hard as I could until I reached theoutskirts of the town, when I slowed down into a jaunty walk.Presently Burbler came in sight, stepping out as if he was in forthe one-mile handicap—as, in fact, he was—on a pathwhich joined mine a couple of hundred yards farther on. As soon ashe saw me, he broke into a furious run, and, of course, I followedsuit. But I let him draw ahead so that he reached the junctionfirst; by which I secured the advantage of keeping him in sight andseeing him knock his shins on the stile. I could even hear hiscomments on the circ*mstance—which seemed to reflect unfairlyon the constructor of the stile—and note a singularalteration in his gait; but I let him maintain the lead and evenincrease it, for there was no sense in fatiguing myselfunnecessarily.

We both entered the inn by the back door in quick succession andwe both made straight for the little blue room—Burbler'sbedroom. When I arrived, the door was securely bolted on the insideand earth-quaky sounds proceeded from within. It was a mercy thatour landlady, Mrs Hodger, was stone-deaf and kept noassistants!

"Go away!" roared Burbler as I fumbled at the handle. "Go away!I'm busy."

I snigg*red softly. Busy he evidently was! But he would be morebusy before he'd finished. For it was a small room and it containeda medium-sized bed, three large chests of drawers, a washstand anda massive standing cupboard, besides other trifles. What therewasn't in that room was space to swing a cat. Not, of course, thatBurbler wanted to swing a cat. He only wanted to take up the floor.But a floor of massive oak plank is a bit of a handful in itselfwithout the contents of a pantechnicon on top of it. Burbler wasn'tgoing to be one of the unemployed. Busy indeed!

I thumped gleefully on the door, and, under cover of the noiseand Burbler's profanities from within, quietly shot the two strongbolts on the outside. Then I gave Burbler a few words in seasonthrough the keyhole, and, having listened unmoved to his obsceneresponses, I took myself off to attend to my own littlebusiness.

And now that the excitement of the chase—so tospeak—was over, a sudden chill of fear came over me.Supposing that I had misread the riddle after all! What a frightfulanticlimax that would be, after bottling up my rival so neatly,too. I ran down to the cellar almost sick with apprehension andonly just had presence of mind enough to bolt myself in.

There was no doubt as to which end of the third step I mustpull, for one end was embedded in the wall, while the other offereda very handy corner to lay hold of. This corner I grasped and gaveone or two vigorous pulls; but the massive hardwood slab, whichappeared to be fixed in its place with large treenails, gave nosign of yielding. Then I fetched a heavy mallet from the cupboardwhere the tools were kept, and, laying my folded handkerchief onthe corner of the step, delivered two or three sharp taps. At thefirst tap it became evident that the treenails were dummies, forthe step began to separate from its frame. A few more taps broughtit fairly away so that I was able to swing it round and then liftit out bodily, leaving a large oblong hole with a dark cavitybeyond.

Lighting the candle-lantern, I held it inside the hole. Thecavity was walled and floored with brick and seemed to extend awayto the left; and as the air, though close and earthy, did not seemto be foul, I climbed through the opening and began cautiously tocreep along a narrow passage. It was quite a long passage. I hadproceeded fully fifteen yards—in the direction of thesignpost, as I suddenly realized—when I came to a shortflight of brick steps, beyond which the passage opened on eitherside into a range of vaults, each of which was occupied by rows ofcasks or by racks of strange-looking, squat, short-neckedbottles.

There was something rather uncanny in the aspect of these casksand bottles, full, as I suspected, of contraband liquor and nowmantled with the soft, grey dust of centuries. But I had littleattention to bestow on them, for now the light of the lantern fellon a much more interesting object. Near the end of the passage wasa large stone baluster like the pillar of a sundial; on top of itwas a square slab of stone; and on the slab, three small kegs. Theywere not really ankers. The opportunity for a pun had tempted oldSimon to stretch the facts, but that was a small matter. I ranforward eagerly to examine the booty.

The kegs were of rather unusual finish and strength and werefitted with thick copper hoops. All three were broached, for theheads and the spare hoops lay by their sides; and each keg wascovered by a tile, thickly coated with dust. I had those tiles offin a twinkling, and found, as I had expected, a layer of neatlyarranged gold coins, each set so as to exhibit the Harp and Crossdevice and the motto, "God with us."

I drew a deep breath of relief. The lurking fear that someprevious explorer had visited the hiding place was now set at rest.And yet I was conscious of a slight disappointment—such isthe avarice begotten of treasure-hunting. For, after all, thepromised ankers had dwindled to little kegs of barely a galloncapacity. It could only be a matter of a thousand or two at themost. And yet, perhaps, it was as well; for I could probably carrythese, one at a time, to the boat (which was the means of transportthat I had selected); whereas I could not even have moved an ankerfilled with gold coins. Here I lifted one of the kegs, to test itsweight; and a most horrible shock I received. For though it wasinconveniently heavy for hasty removal, it was not heavy enough fora keg of gold. I grabbed up a handful of the gold coins; andbehold! my fist was half full of sawdust!

Horror! Was this another of Simon's beastly jokes?

I thrust my hand deep into the keg. No coins could I feel withmy groping fingers, but plenty of sawdust; and embedded in it anumber of rough, irregularly-shaped objects, one of which I fishedout and held to the lantern. And then my chagrin was changed intodelirious joy. For the object was a massive thumb-ring set with agreat green stone; apparently an emerald, and worth a hatful ofgold. I dived into another keg and brought up a pendant set withlarge, rose-cut diamonds; and the third yielded at the first cast abeautiful miniature of an elderly man —perhaps Simonhimself—with a broad, diamond-studded frame.

I waited to investigate no more. Quickly heading up the kegs, Islipped on the hoops and tapped them into place with one of thetiles. The little casks were all prepared for convenient removal,for the end hoops were fitted with strong copper rings throughwhich were rove stout slings of rawhide; and these, thanks to theprotection from rats and vermin offered by the stone pillar, wereperfectly sound and strong. I lifted the kegs down, and, findingthat I could just stagger under the weight of the three, was aboutto make my way out, when, suddenly, I bethought me of Burbler. Ishould have to carry my booty out to the landing stage, for therewas no time to move the boat to a safer place; and it was justpossible that Burbler might see me from the window; and if he did,he would certainly give chase. I should have to land somewhere, andas he could easily keep up with the boat and observe where Ilanded, I should have no chance of getting away, encumbered with soheavy a burden.

What was to be done?

I thought furiously for a few moments, and then I saw thesolution. I must have yet another red herring to draw across mytrail if necessary. The suggestion of the plan came from a pile ofempty kegs—the memorials of many a forgotten smuggling trip.The wine bins were full of sawdust and a number of short lengths ofrusty chain were stacked in a corner. I don't know what they hadbeen used for, but I know that they came in mighty useful just now;for it took me but a few minutes to fill up three of the empty kegswith them and to add a packing of sawdust and head them up. Then Iwas ready to start.

I carried the six kegs out into the cellar, and uncommonly heavythey were, especially those filled with chain. Then I carefullyreplaced the step and banged it home until there was no sign of itshaving been disturbed; after which, having put away the mallet, Iproceeded to the actual embarkation. Caution suggested that Ishould take up the three dummy kegs first, as I should have toleave them unguarded in the boat while I fetched the others, and Iaccordingly carried them up. It was growing dusk by this time, anda cloudy evening too, but not dark enough to cover my movementsfrom Burbler if he should chance to look out of the window. But hedidn't. I got the three dummies stowed in the boat safely andreturned unobserved; and loud rumblifications from the Blue Roomtold me that my rival was still busy.

I had just brought up the second three, after blowing out thecandle in the lantern, and was close to the landing stage, when acessation of the noises from above caused me to look up. And it waslucky that I did; for there was Burbler at the window in hisshirtsleeves, gazing at me with an expression that would havecurdled a can of sterilized milk. Stock-still he stood for a coupleof seconds and then vanished; and as I bolted to the landing stage,I heard him furiously shaking the door in his efforts to getout.

I lowered the kegs into the boat, jumped in myself, cast off thepainter, snatched up the sculls and pulled away franticallydownstream against the weakening flood tide. And as I moved awayinto the dusk, the shattering of glass and the raising of a windowtold me that Burbler had given up the door in favour of the easydrop down into the garden.

The gathering gloom and the mists that were rising in thewater-meadows made it difficult to see if I was being pursued; butI had no doubt that Burbler was following the boat under cover ofthe scattered bushes and the embankments of the dykes. I turned thesituation over as I plied the sculls. The only practicable place atwhich to land was Grove Ferry, some miles farther down; and Burblerknew that and would be there when I arrived. He would know that Icouldn't carry that weight across country.

But there was one place where I should lose him for a minute ortwo; a place where the river made a horseshoe bend, enclosing alittle peninsula that was cut off from the mainland by a broad anddeep dyke. The dyke was impassable as I knew from experience, andthe fringing willows would screen me for a few minutes. At thatplace, then, the next act must be played.

It took me over half an hour to get there, during which I twicecaught a glimpse of a shadowy figure climbing over a dyke gate andinstantly vanishing—presumably behind a bank. At length Ipassed the entrance to the broad dyke. The river swept away to theright and a forest of willows rose to cut me off from any possibleobservation. Instantly I ran the boat on the oppositebank—with the river between me and Burbler—and, makingfast to an overhanging tree, landed the three genuine kegs andcarried them into a meadow. Staggering along the bank of a straightdyke (or drainage ditch), I bore my burden to the first gate; andhere I regretfully sank them to the muddy bottom in about two feetof water. Returning to the river and carefully noting the positionof the tree to which I had made fast the boat, I cast off thepainter and once more took to the sculls, pulling with all my mightto make up for lost time; and as I passed the outlet of the broaddyke, I had the satisfaction of making out quite distinctly a humanhead in a hat which I recognized, peering over the lowembankment.

It was fully half a mile lower down that I made my secondlanding. At that point was a ruinous hovel—once, no doubt, ashepherd's hut, but now disused. Here, I thought I would secretethe three dummies and then pull back and recover my treasure, bywhich time Burbler would have purloined the dummies and made off,leaving the coast clear for me to pull down to Grove Ferry.

It was a neat scheme. But it didn't come off quite as I hadexpected; for I made the mistake of going ashore to reconnoitre;and I had hardly reached the hut when I heard a loud splash, andwhen I looked round, there was that confounded Burbler in the boatpulling away upstream like clockwork. It was frightfully annoying;for now it was I who was on the wrong side of the river. MoreoverBurbler would discover the fraud prematurely and then I should havehim shadowing me again and preventing me from recovering mytreasure.

But this would never do. Those kegs might be discovered atdaybreak by some shepherd or herdsman. Somehow I must recover themtonight and hide them more securely; and with this resolution, Ifaced about and headed upstream with the intention of making forFordwich Bridge.

I set off at a leisurely pace, keeping by the river until I wascut off from it by the big dyke, which I followed to the spot whereit joined the river. And here I got a great surprise; for as I cameout on the riverside path, I perceived a man a little distanceahead hurrying in the same direction. Now as no one had passed me,this man must have come from the river. With a sudden suspicion, Ibroke into a run and overtook him. And my suspicion was correct. Itwas Burbler. He thought I should return to the inn, and he meant tobe there when I arrived.

"Hallo, Mr Cobb!" he exclaimed. "You taking an evening walk,too!"

"Now, look here, Burbler," said I. "What have you done withthose kegs?"

"Kegs?" he exclaimed vacantly. "What kegs?"

"The three kegs or ankers, with Glynn's treasure in them."

"You don't mean to say you found the treasure," he cried with amiserable pretence of surprise.

"You know I did," said I; "and you've filched it."

"I assure you, Mr Cobb," he protested, "that I know nothingabout it."

Now it is useless to argue with a liar. I tried a new tack.

"Well," I said, "someone has filched it. So there's the wholething gone. Every stiver. That is, unless I should have happened totake the wrong kegs."

"The wrong kegs!" he gasped. "Why—how could you?"

"Why, you see, that old fool Glynn must needs give you nineankers to choose from instead of simply hiding the three. I tookthe three heaviest but I had no time to see what was in them. Theymay be the wrong ones. I hope they are."

"So do I," said Burbler. And then he was silent and verythoughtful.

"Now listen," I said, after a pause. "I'm going to make you anoffer. Will you share the treasure with me wherever it is?"

"I tell you I haven't got it," he replied doggedly; and I washedmy hands of him. I had given him a handsome chance and would havebeen fool enough to stand by my promise. Now he shouldn't haveany.

"Will you share with me," I said, "if I tell you where thehiding-place is?"

He shook his head and repeated that "he hadn't got it."

"Think it over," I urged. "I'll just walk on slowly and leaveyou to consider my offer. Don't refuse offhand. You can overtake meand give me your decision."

With this I strolled on and left him. I knew what he would do,for neither the boat nor the dummies could be far away. But theymust have been nearer than I thought, for I had not gone above ahalf a mile when I heard him running to overtake me and pantingheavily. I halted, and as he came up I asked:

"Well? What is your decision?"

"Phoo!" he gasped. "I've—phoo!—thought itover—Mr Cobb—and it seems—ha—only fairto—ha—let you have your half. Don't wanter begreedy."

"Where are the kegs?" I asked.

"In the boat. Boat's in the dyke."

We turned back together and presently Burbler asked:

"Er—where did you say you found the stuff?"

I shook my head. "Wait till we've had a look at the kegs," Ireplied.

A few minutes more brought us to the dyke, and there was theboat, snugly stowed out of sight under a clump of bush-willows.Burbler hauled it out by the sunken painter and displayed the threekegs—all wet from recent submersion. We both got into theboat and Burbler took the sculls, leaving me to examine thekegs—all of which had been broached and hastily reheaded.

"Before you open them," said Burbler, "tell me where you foundthem."

"In the cellar," I replied. "Pull out the middle step and you'llfind a secret passage. But I'll show you when we get back."

Burbler pulled a few strokes and then awkwardly ran into thebank. He stood up as if to push off, but instead, leaped ashorewith both sculls in his hands and, giving the bow of the boat ashove with his foot that sent her out into midstream, threw thesculls away and ran off as hard as he could go towards the inn.

I laughed joyously as he disappeared into the darkness. A fewminutes paddling with my open hand brought the boat to the oppositebank, where I landed and towed her down to the tree to which I hadsecured her before and now again made fast. But I didn't need herafter all. For just as I had hauled up my three kegs from the dyke,I heard the sound of wheels on a hidden byroad that crossed themarshes hard by. It turned out to be the rural carrier's cart,returning to Canterbury for the night, with ample accommodation forone passenger and three small kegs. Less than an hour later I satalone and at peace in a first-class carriage bound for CharingCross; and on the hat-rack above reposed the "ankores three" withtheir contents of "goode redd golde."

I live at Elham Manor nowadays, of which house I own thefreehold. The Royal George is also my property, subject to MrsHodger's tenancy. At the inn resides, as a permanent boarder, apensioner of mine; a retired police officer, who spends most of histime in the unsuccessful pursuit of the Fordidge trout. His name,by the way, is Burbler.

THE END