THE GREEN ARCHER - 2

THE GREEN ARCHER

EDGAR WALLACE

( INSTALMENT 2 )

17. THE NEW DOGS

The train that carried Julius into Berkshire brought also two ferocious-looking dogs, in charge of a kennel-man. Julius saw them on the platform of the little town which was nearest to Garre. They seemed a little more unfriendly than their predecessors, and one of them was muzzled. "Are they for Mr. Bellamy?" he asked the man.

"Yes, sir," was the reply, "and I wish him joy of 'em, for these fellows are fiends!" There was only one taxi at the station, and this Julius claimed. Though he was loath to do so, he invited the man in charge of the dogs to accompany him to Garre, and it was not a comfortable journey.

Once again Abe Bellamy demonstrated his extraordinary mastery over animals. The dogs seemed to respond to that which was brute in his nature, and when, immediately on their arrival, he unmuzzled the fiercer of the two and patted its tawny head, the great dog lay down at his feet. It was Abe who took them to the kennels without lead or whip, and they followed meekly at his heels and joined their fellows, submitting to the chain without so much as a bark. The old man seemed to find an unusual pleasure in his accomplishment, and walked back to the hall with Julius, who had followed him at a safe distance, almost facetious over his secretary's timidity.

"There's no real devil in you, Savini. That's what the dogs just hate. You are just poodle—one of those long-haired insects that these women carry around; these hounds are man-dogs." He looked up at the frowning keep above his head, and his eyes kindled at the sight of the hanging beam. "Those were the days, eh, Savini? If I'd lived five hundred years ago I could have set those dogs on to you, and by God I'd love to do it!" He meant all he said. Even the mental picture of the terrified Eurasian fighting back those savage beasts afforded him a thrill of pleasure. "But the police would come chasing me, I guess," he said with a sigh, "and I'd have to get up in the witness-stand and lie. There's too much law nowadays, Savini. And what is law? It is something made by weaklings to protect weaklings. Men who can't fight for themselves ought to die. I read in the Globe about a fellow in Belgium who's got a baby home and an institution for treating sick children. What does he want to cure the sick for? It's just patching up useless citizens and encouraging the cunning to beat the strong."

Julius agreed. He found it less wearing to agree than disagree with the man who paid him.

"I heard about this fellow from my lawyer," said Abe, to Savini's surprise. "There was a ... fellow I knew that was ... killed in the war." For a second the spectre of a smile hovered about his gross lips, as though he found something amusing in the tragedy. "A fool airman—yuh. This Wood was a friend of his, and after the war produced a will or sump'n that gave him all this ... this ... well, he was a relation of mine ... gave him all his property. It wasn't much," he added with satisfaction. Julius knew that he was talking about his dead nephew; he guessed the original of the photograph in the leather folder had stood in that relationship. "That's how I know him. He's not a friend of mine. I'll bet he's making money out of that baby stunt of his. All these holy guys get a bit on the side."

This, was a pet theory of Abe Bellamy's, and he was not alone in his illusion that pure altruism is a quality that exists only in the imagination of fools. He did not turn into the hall, but continued past the open door, his hands behind him, and Savini walked with him, knowing that he would probably be cursed for intruding on the old man's solitude if he stayed, and be bullied if he offered an excuse for leaving. "I've had that water-gate fixed," said Bellamy, at last, and Julius heaved a sigh of relief at the discovery that he was expected to be present, "I can't exactly settle in my mind how that green spook gets into the castle, but the water-gate seems the only way,"

They came at last to the great iron grille, which had now been backed with stout wooden planks. Over the spiked gateway barbed wire had been strung.

"If he comes this way he'll come no more," said Abe, "though how in thunder he can find a way into Garre, even if he makes the courtyard, is a puzzle to me."

"Possibly he gets into the castle during the daytime and hides himself," suggested Julius.

"Don't be a fool! Every room is searched before sunset-you know that. No; he has a way in that we haven't discovered."

Supposing that the Green Archer was human (and here the superstitious Julius had his doubts), it was little short of miraculous that he could come and go at his will. There were only two sets of windows overlooking the grounds, those in the unused dining-room, which were narrow and covered at night with steel shutters, and Mr. Bellamy's bedroom, which were well out of reach. The butler occupied a room in Sanctuary Keep, and this might also be included as a point of entry but for the fact that the narrow windows were twenty feet from the ground and the room was always occupied during the hours when the archer was most active.

Spike Holland, occupying his favourite post of observation, which was the top of the castle wall about a hundred yards from the keeper's lodge, observed the tour of inspection through a pair of powerful field- glasses, and presently saw the old man and his secretary disappear in the castle entrance. The arrival of the new dogs was the cause of Spike's vigilance.

Later, at the telephone, his news editor had a few caustic comments to offer. "That Garre ghost story is getting a trifle thin, Holland, and I don't think that the new dogs quite justify your holiday. Can't you get into the castle and interview Bellamy?"

"What's the matter with interviewing the ghost?" asked the sarcastic Spike. "It'd be easier. I'm just about as popular with the old man as a cigar lighter in a powder plant. Let me stay on, Mr. Syme. I've got a big notion that things will happen at Garre before the week's out. And I'm fixing an interview with Bellamy ... honest ... No, I'm not inventing."

Spike had a peculiar instinct for trouble, and he sensed trouble here. There were all the elements and constituents of tragedy under his hand. Strolling aimlessly through the village, he heard the harsh warning of a motor-horn and stepped aside to see Valerie pass. The car pulled up a dozen yards farther on, and she leant out and beckoned him. "Mr. Holland, will you come in?" Spike jumped into the car, wondering what was the cause of her obvious embarrassment.

"I want to ask you a favour," she said a little breathlessly. "Have you ... could you get me a revolver?" Then, seeing his eyebrows lift, she went on hurriedly and a little incoherently: "Lady's Manor is rather isolated, and it occurred to me ... well, it is lonely, isn't it? And Mr. Howett never carries firearms of any description. I wanted to buy one ... an automatic in London, but I found that there are stringent police regulations and one has to get a permit ... Then I saw you, and it occurred to me ... "

"Surely, Miss Howett," said Spike as she stopped to take breath. "I've got a gun at the hotel. I don't know why I carry it around in this peaceful land, but I certainly have one. If you'll wait I'll go get it."

He returned to the Blue Boar at a run and presently reappeared.

"It's loaded," he said as he slipped the weapon from his pocket, "but it is only a little one. And, Miss Howett, if you ever kill a burglar with it, will you give me the exclusive story?"

18. A NAME IN THE PAPER

Bellamy seldom read newspapers, but the Globe had forced itself upon his attention. The only newspaper he ever read with interest was a local weekly, the Berkshire Herald, and even this he did not read himself. It was part of Savini's duties to read this journal aloud before dinner every Thursday, the day on which it was published. Sometimes he had to read every line that was printed, from the first advertisement on the front page to the account of some obscure agricultural show on the last. At other times his master was less exacting.

Although he did not mix with 'the county' and neither invited nor accepted invitations, Abe Bellamy was interested in all that happened within the confines of Berkshire. He never refused a subscription that was asked of him, but invariably declined personal interviews. He gave largely to local funds, insisting, however, that his name should not appear. Julius used to wonder why a man so sour and naturally uncharitable gave so unsparingly. It was certainly from no desire to help his fellow-men or to contribute to the happiness of the unfortunate. Once, when he had remarked on the size of a cheque which Bellamy had sent to the funds of a Hunt Committee, the old man had growled a sentence which was, perhaps, an explanation for his generosity. "I guess Garre Castle has always given," he said.

He was carrying on the traditions of the dead overlord whose banneret had floated on the flagstaff of Sanctuary Keep.

When they had come back from the kennels Julius remembered that the Berkshire Herald awaited discussion, and groaned inwardly, for he was not in the mood for reading aloud the puerilities which filled the pages of the local sheet. He rather hoped that the arrival of the new dogs would so completely absorb the old man that he would forgo his usual Thursday recreation; but Abe's first words as he entered the library dispelled that illusion.

The old man was in his chair, his hands clasped before him, his pale eyes fixed on the blazing logs.

"Get that newspaper, Savini," he said, and Julius obeyed. Today the old man was in his most requiring mood. Julius had to read column after column of stock sales, a lengthy account of a political meeting at a neighbouring town in which Bellamy could have had no interest whatever.

"I don't get their politics—never have," he grumbled. "It's all graft, anyway."

Presently Julius reached the column which was devoted to personalities. It was a column plentifully interspersed with advertisements extolling the virtues of cattle cakes and mechanical reapers.

"Here's something about the people at Lady's Manor," he said, looking up.

"Read it," commanded his employer.

Bellamy sat, his head bent forward, his eyes closed. He seemed to be asleep. Once, and only once, Julius had made the mistake of believing that he was. He had never repeated his error.

"The new tenant of Lady's Manor," he read, "is a famous oil magnate, whose life has been something of a romance. Emigrating to America, he was a poor farmer in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania—"

"Ah!" Abel Bellamy was suddenly wide awake and sitting upright. "A farmer in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania?" he repeated. "Go on, go on." Julius was taken aback by this sudden interest. "Go on!" roared the old man.

" ... but a sudden stroke of fortune enabled him to purchase a larger farm in another part of the state, on which oil was found, a discovery that laid the foundation of his great fortune. Both Mr. Howett and his daughter, Miss Valerie Howett—"

"What?" The word was almost screamed. Abe Bellamy was on his feet glaring down at the secretary, his eye flaming. "Valerie Howett!" he yelled. "Valerie Howett! You're lying, you swine!" He snatched the paper from the man's hand and peered down at the printed page. "Valerie Howett!" He repeated the words in a whisper. "Oh, my God!" For the first time in the course of their acquaintance Julius saw his master shaken. The hand that came to his lips trembled. "Valerie Howett," he repeated, staring blankly at the secretary. "Lady's Manor ... Here! You can go," he said curtly. "Leave the newspaper. I'll ring for you when I want you. Tell them to serve my dinner quickly."

Savini had been in his own room across the hall less than ten minutes before he heard the door of the library open, and Bellamy called him. "Come here, you!" he commanded. He had recovered from his agitation and was his normal self again, though the shock he had received had left its mark. "I suppose you've been sitting over there wondering what was biting me," he said. "Well, you needn't. I knew somebody named Howett once, and a young lady whose name was Valerie. It was the coincidence that got me rattled. What is she like?"

"She's very beautiful."

"Beautiful, is she?" said the old man thoughtfully. "And her father?"

"You must have seen him, Mr. Bellamy," said Julius. "They were staying at the-Carlton, and on the same floor."

"I've never seen him," interrupted Abe impatiently. "What is he like?"

"He is rather a tall, thin man."

"Miserable looking, eh?" asked Abe keenly.

"Of course, you've seen him," said Julius.

"I haven't seen him; I'm merely asking you. And his wife—is she with him?"

"No, sir. I believe Mrs. Howett is dead."

The old man stood with his back to the fire regarding his cigar attentively. He bit off the end and lit up before he spoke. It was very unusual for Mr. Bellamy to smoke before dinner, and Julius wondered whether the cigar was a sedative to badly-damaged nerves.

"Perhaps I have seen him," he said at last. "And the girl's beautiful, eh? Clever and bright. Dark or fair?"

"She's dark."

"And full of life, eh? Vivacious—that's the word, ain't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Bellamy, I think that describes her pretty accurately."

The other man took out the cigar and looked at the ash; then he put it back between his strong, white teeth and stared up at the raftered roof.

"Her mother is dead," he repeated. "Where had she been living before she came back to England? Find out. I want to know whether she was in New York in"—he looked at his cigar again—"seven years ago. Staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Send a cable right away and see if you can get any information. I want particularly to know if she was staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel on the seventeenth of July, 1914. Go right away to the post office. If it is closed, take the car and go to London. Send it to the manager of the hotel; they are certain to have records. Now hurry!"

"If the post office is closed I can get the message through on the 'phone," said Julius, and Bellamy nodded. He looked at his watch. "Seven o'clock. It is two o'clock in New York. We ought to get a reply tonight. Tell the telegraph people that we're getting an urgent wire through. Ask them if they can keep open for us. It doesn't matter what it costs. Now, make no mistake about this, Savini: I want to know tonight! They'll know my name. I had a room there all that year. I wasn't there, but I had a room there," he added. "Now hurry!"

Julius got through on the telephone and came back five minutes later with the information that the message was on its way. He found the old man exactly where he had left him, the cigar in the corner of his mouth, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent. "Have you ever spoken to this girl?"

"Once, Mr. Bellamy. Quite by accident. I saw her at the Carlton," replied Julius.

"She never showed any interest in me, I suppose? Never asked you questions about me or my life?"

Julius met his suspicious eyes. "No, sir," he said with well- simulated surprise. "If she had I should naturally have told her nothing, and reported the circumstance to you."

"You're lying," said Bellamy. "If she had asked you for information and had paid you well enough, you would have told her all you knew. I guess there's nothing in the world, short of murder, that you wouldn't do for money."

At that precise moment Julius would have added even the crime of homicide to his many others.

19. THE GREAT ADVENTURE

Keeping in the shadow of the castle wall, which formed one side of the village street for a few hundred yards, Julius strode out in the direction of Lady's Manor. It was a fairly long walk, for the manor-house lay to the north of the town, and it seemed longer because he was in a hurry to get through with his mission.

He was reaching out his hand to open the gate when he became aware that somebody was standing in the shadow of the yew hedge. Savini almost jumped. "Who is that?" he asked sharply, and then the figure moved and he saw it was Mr. Howett.

"Mr. Savini, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Howett. I'm sorry I—er—but you gave me a start."

In the moonlight Mr. Howett's lined face seemed pale. It may have been a trick of the light, but Julius could have sworn that the pallor was unnatural. "You are going to see Miss Howett?"

"Yes, sir ... I wanted to ask her something. It isn't too late?"

"No, no. But, Mr. Savini"—he seemed to be embarrassed—"will you as a great favour not tell Miss Howett that you saw me?" he asked.

"Certainly," said the astonished Julius.

"She thinks I am in bed, and she might be alarmed if she knew I was out. I—I sometimes like to walk at night."

"I shall not mention that I saw you, sir," said Julius.

He rang the bell at the porticoed entrance, and the maid opened the door and seemed to be astonished to see him. Miss Howett was up, she said, and left him to go in search of her mistress.

Glancing back to the gate, Julius observed that Mr. Howett had disappeared. He was ushered into the big drawing-room, and found Valerie waiting for him.

"It is very late to call, Miss Howett," he said, "but there is a matter I wanted to see you about."

"You need not apologise, Mr. Savini," she said. "My father is in bed—he goes to bed early-so you can have all the time you want."

Julius had his own views on Mr. Howett's early retirement, but did not express them.

"The old man behaved in an extraordinary fashion tonight when he learnt that you and Mr. Howett were the new tenants of Lady's Manor." And he told her what had occurred. As the recital went on a light came to her eyes.

"Then it is true!" she said. "It must be true! If he behaved that way it was because his conscience was working! Why should the mention of my name excite him?"

"That is what I wondered," said Julius. "What do you think was the cause?"

But here she was not prepared to offer information.

"That is all, Miss Howett," said Julius, rising. "Why he is so frantic about you I don't know."

He was lingering at the door when she recalled her indebtedness to him.

"Really that doesn't matter, Miss Howett," he protested as she counted out the notes. "I feel I ought not to be taking money from you at all."

"The labourer is worthy of his hire," she smiled, and he was not at all sure whether he ought to regard that as a compliment.

Left alone, the girl had to face a decision. There was a great conflict progressing in Valerie Howett's mind. She had decided upon a course which, by every standard of logic and reason, was doomed to disappointment, if not to actual danger; and she had made this decision on top of Jim Featherstone's warning. She was not so perverse, she told herself, that she was contemplating doing the very thing he begged her not to attempt, just because he had begged her to refrain. Her common sense told her that the castle was impregnable to an unauthorised visitor. It would be difficult to gain entry to an ordinary house; how could she expect to pass those loopholed walls, and, even if she did so pass, to find that for which she was searching? Now, when Bellamy knew or guessed who she was, the danger was intensified. And yet-here she argued against her judgment—there was a half-hope, if the old plan of the castle which she had procured was true in every detail, and if—and this was the matter which seemed most doubtful—the renovations which had been carried out in the past two hundred years had not altogether destroyed the ingress she had discovered. On the north side of the castle was what was known as the Water Gate. At some period the building had been surrounded by a moat. There had been a stream in the hilly woods behind, and the waters had been diverted to a channel which enabled the owner of the castle to keep his moat filled in spite of the fact that the castle stood upon a gentle rise. The spring had long dried up, and the moat was overgrown with grass, and in places had been filled in. But the Water Gate remained.

She had seen it from the windows of Lady's Manor, a squat opening in the castle wall, barred by a heavy steel grille. It was through this gate that the tradesmen went on their way to the kitchens, and it was through this gate that Valerie had planned to make her entrance into the realms of Abe Bellamy's dark mystery. Common sense told her that the kitchen buildings and the outhouses, which were reached through the Water Gate, would most certainly be distinct from the living part of the castle, and that, even if she found herself within the gate, she would be no nearer to her objective. Yet she thought, for all the folly of it, that she must make the attempt. There was a burning fire within her, a light of hope that not all the checks and discouragements that had come to her had extinguished.

Her father was, as she thought, in bed. The last of three servants she dismissed at twelve, telling the man that she had some work to do. She was invariably the last to retire, and her father was a heavy sleeper, she remembered gratefully. She sat in her little drawing-room trying to kill time. In preparation for the adventure she had dressed herself with special care, and she hoped that the short-sighted Mr. Howett had not noticed that she still wore the golf skirt she had worn earlier in the day.

After the last servant had gone she went out into the garden, and with the aid of an electric torch found her way to the wall, and to the two light ladders she had had brought to the house earlier in the day by the workmen who were still engaged in retiling a portion of the roof. She lifted one from, where it lay and planted it firmly against the wall. The second she put by its side, and, mounting to the top rung, she drew it up and lowered it on the other side of the wall, fastening the two together with a cord. This done, she returned to the house. It was too early to make her attempt, and she spent an hour idly. She had written two unnecessary letters to people in whom she was only mildly interested, and had begun a third when she was reminded that she had had a very poor dinner. The kitchen lay on a lower level than the remainder of the house, and was reached down a long stone passage and a flight of steps. She carried a candle with her, for Lady's Manor was not wired for electric light.

Setting a match to a small stove, she put on the kettle and searched the pantry, being rewarded by the discovery of a plate of pastry, which she brought out and put on the table. Then she went back to the drawing- room, leaving the candle burning.

The house was painfully quiet. The silence was almost oppressive, and she wished that her new piano had arrived. Sitting down at her table, she tried to go on with the unfinished letter, but her mind was so occupied with her adventure that she could not concentrate her thoughts.

She was holding the pen in her hand, striving to bring her mind back to realities, when she heard a sound. It was a click—the sound of a key in the front door at the end of the hall. She sat for a moment frozen with fear, for her over-strained nerves were not proof against this unexpected call. A second passed, and then she heard the soft swish-swish of feet in the flagged passage. Nearer and nearer they came, and presently they passed the door.

Rousing herself, she ran to the door and flung it open. From where she stood she could see the reflected light from the kitchen candle, but nothing else was in sight.

"Is anybody there?" she asked sharply. "Is that you, Clara?"

The answer came in the shape of a crash, and then the light in the kitchen went out suddenly.

Her heart was beating fast, her breath growing shallow, but she bit her lip and restrained the cry of alarm that rose. She still had the electric torch in her pocket, and with trembling hands she pulled it forth and sent a wavering beam of light along the dark hall. And then she remembered Spike's revolver, and returned to her table to secure it. Again she looked down the dark passage.

"Is anybody there?" she asked, and her voice echoed back hollowly.

There was no other answer, and, summoning all her courage, she went slowly along the hall, down the steps, and into the kitchen. The first thing she saw was the plate of pastry. It lay smashed on the floor. That was the sound she had heard, then.

She breathed a sigh of relief. The visitor was at least human.

She rekindled the candle, the wick of which was still glowing, and then she saw a curious thing. Though the plate lay smashed on the ground, two pieces still remained on the sideboard. Somebody had picked them up. The kitchen was empty. Beyond was a scullery, and from this a door which led to the coal-cellar. She tried it; it was fast.

Where had the mysterious visitor gone? The windows were barred; there was no place where he could hide. The door leading to the little courtyard at the back of the house was bolted and barred. The garden door Valerie herself had locked when she came in, after placing her ladders, and the key was in her pocket.

She tried the cellar door again, and for a second she had a thought of waking the house and bringing down one of the men-servants to continue the search. That would mean that her own plans would have to be considerably altered. And then, in the corner of the scullery, she saw two sparks of green fire glaring at her, and jumped. In another second, with a laugh that was almost hysterical, she had lifted the cat.

"You poor thing! I thought you were a ghost," she said. "How dare you break—"

She got so far, and then she saw a green arrow. It lay on the floor, its bright steel point nearest the fragments of plate, and stationary. A green arrow, with a vividly green feathered shaft.

20. "COLDHARBOUR SMITH"

Valerie Howett did not faint. Slowly, mechanically, she put down the cat she held in her arms, and, stooping, picked up the arrow. The shaft was smooth, the point needle-sharp. The Green Archer! He had been there, in that very room. Where had he gone?

The sound of the kettle boiling over brought her back to realities. She extinguished the flame of the lamp and returned to the drawing-room, her appetite gone.

The Green Archer!-But she had nothing to fear from him. He was the enemy of Abel Bellamy. He was a friend! She tried to overcome the terror that was in her soul, and was partially successful. As one o'clock chimed from the village steeple she went out into the garden, and with knees that were curiously shaky mounted the ladder and descended into Garre Park.

Mr. Bellamy usually occupied two hours over his dinner. Sometimes a longer period, but never shorter. He broke all his rules when, half an hour after the meal had been served, he rang the bell for the servants to have the table cleared and removed.

"Phone to the lodge and tell them I'm expecting a visitor-a Mr. Smith. Have him brought up as soon as he arrives."

"Yes, sir," said Savini, understanding why the meal had been so short.

"Bring some brandy and a siphon of soda, and a box of those cheap cigars," he said. "Was Holland surprised that I asked him to come up? I suppose he told you why I sent for him?"

"No, he didn't," replied Julius, not flinching under the old man's scrutiny. "The servants are complaining about the dogs, sir," he said. "They say the kennels are so near the kitchen that they dare not pass them."

"Get new servants," snarled Abe Bellamy. "And don't carry kitchen complaints to me unless you want me to send you into the kitchen to eat." The old Adam had not disappeared, even under the chastening influence of the discovery which he had made in the Berkshire Herald. Julius hastened to carry out his employer's instructions, and wondered for what reason Coldharbour Smith had been summoned to Garre.

Later the old man varied his orders and sent Julius to the lodge to await the arrival of the visitor.

Coldharbour Smith was a man of fifty-tall, wiry, and coarse of speech; a dark, big-jawed man who might have sat as a model for a Sikes.

"Where's the old man?" he said loudly.

"He's waiting for you."

"What's he sent for me for at this time of night?" he asked truculently.

"I don't know; you had better ask him."

"You've got a lot to say for yourself," said Mr. Smith. "Who are you?"

"I'm Julius Savini."

"What, Julius? Old Julius? Thought you were in gaol. How are all the boys? And what are you doing here, Julius? Footman?"

"I'm Mr. Bellamy's secretary."

"Anybody here I know?" asked Smith as they were approaching the house. "How's the old Green Archer?" He chuckled aloud and slapped his knee at the jest. "Fancy seeing green archers! Your liquor must be a bit strong, Julius. What do you drink—wood alcohol?"

Julius did not reply, and was glad when they reached the hall.

Coldharbour Smith—named after the police station which had sheltered him most often-had drunk far too much, and once Julius had to grip him by the arm to prevent his falling. Smith came blinking into the white glare of the library lights, and at a nod from the old man, Julius, withdrawing, was not ill-pleased to be absent from that interview.

"Sit down, Smith," said Bellamy, pointing to a chair. "What about a drink?" It was then that Abe Bellamy saw the condition of the man. "You've been boozing, you dog," he said. "Didn't I tell you to come straight to me, and to come sober?"

"What's the good of being sober?" asked Smith pleadingly, "when you've got a chance of being drunk? Answer that. You can't. That's logic, Bellamy."

Abe Bellamy went to the table and poured out a glassful of neat brandy. Smith's hand was extended to take the slight refreshment when he received the burning liquid in his face. He started back with a yell, put up his hands to his eyes, and rubbed frantically.

"You've blinded me!" he howled.

"Shut up! Here, take this."

Bellamy took up a serviette that had been left behind when his dinner-table had been removed. He flung it at the man, and, moaning, the visitor wiped his face.

"That's a dirty trick to play;" he whined. "You might have blinded me."

"I hope I've sobered you, you drunken hound! If I haven't I'll find a better way. Get up!"

He gripped Smith's collar and jerked him to his feet, and, dropping one huge paw on either side of the unprepossessing face, he held it as in a vice.

"You've been drawing money for five years and you've done nothing for it, you dog, and the first time I send for you, you come boozed! Now you're getting sober, and you'd better! If pain will make you sober I'll give you pain that you'll remember to the last day of your life." He glared down at the distorted face, and the thumbs closed over the man's eyes. He struggled, gripping at the arms that held him, but he might as well have saved himself the exertion.

Presently: "Sit there!" Bellamy flung him down in a chair with such violence that the stout furniture creaked.

"I've got some work for you. You wrote me the other day saying that you're tired of this country and you want to go to South America. That means that the police are after you, and it is any betting that they'll get you. I may have a job for you that will take you away and give you spending-money for the rest of your life. May have, I say; I'm not certain. I've got to find out for sure. Are you sober?"

"I'm sober, Mr. Bellamy," said the man sullenly.

Abe Bellamy looked down at him. "You'll do," he said. "You're ugly enough. You're like a snake, Smith, and just now I want a snake, or I may want a snake," he corrected himself. "Now listen."

He walked to the door and locked it. Then he returned to his guest, and they spoke together for an hour.

21. THE CHASE

The new butler occupied, as other butlers had occupied, what was known as the king's room in Sanctuary Keep. It was approached by way of the bedroom corridor, and was the only room in the keep that was occupied. What at one time were plain uncovered loopholes had been enlarged into narrow windows that overlooked the main entrance of the castle. The butler had gone to his room long before Mr. Smith had departed, because he had work to do.

When he had arrived he had brought with him two modest grips, one of which contained a change of clothing and linen, and the other certain implements which had been prepared for him in a hurry by a scientific instrument maker. As he laid them out on the table they appeared to be steel spikes about a yard in length.

Near the point there was a broad "eye," shaped like the eye of a machine needle, in which had been inserted small thermometers, protected by semicircular shreds of glass. These he surveyed with satisfaction before he searched in his bag for a mallet, which was unlike any other mallet, its head being of rubber.

At the bottom of the grip was a knotted rope, attached at one end to an egg-shaped steel clip. This he fastened about the end of his iron bedstead and pulled. Since the bedstead was fastened against the wall nearest the windows, there was no need to look for any better attachment. He put a second suit and a pair of felt boots handy. The world was very quiet and beautiful, the half moon turned a distant river to silver and painted the park in soft, elusive hues.

The butler turned out the light and went back to the hall.

It was ten minutes off twelve, and the sound of Smith's taxicab was coming faintly to his ears when Abel Bellamy came from the kennels, his four big dogs trailing behind him. The butler was the only man up, Julius having delegated to him the task of locking up. Julius did not like dogs.

"Savini gone to bed?" said the old man as he bolted the door.

"Yes, sir," said the butler. The dogs were sniffing about his feet, and the more savage of the four was growling softly.

"You're not scared of dogs, eh?" said Abe. "Well, perhaps there's no reason why you should be whilst I'm with 'em; but don't you wander about at night, young fellow." And, as if to emphasise his master's warning, the wolfish savage lifted up his head and barked.

"Shut up, you!" said Abe, secretly pleased at this confirmation of his warning. "You can go to bed, young fellow."

The butler went upstairs, and though one of the dogs sniffed at his heels all the way up, he did not look round.

No sooner was he in his room than he locked the door and changed his clothes. Three minutes later he was passing down the rope, hand-over-hand; his instruments had been lowered previously.

He loosened the rope that held them and began his curious work. Near to the Sanctuary Keep he drove one of the spikes into the ground, the rubber mallet making little noise. This done, he walked on, keeping in the shadow of the wall. Presently he stopped and drove in another. The soil here was soft, and he had driven the spike until its head was buried before it occurred to him that he might have some difficulty in finding it again.

He took the bearing, marked it with a stone he found, and went on.

He encircled the castle and came back to the first of the rods he had driven, and drew it out, examining the face of the thermometer with a tiny flash-lamp. It showed forty degrees, a normal temperature. One by one he drew out the rods, and they each showed the same figure. One he could not find. In turning to pick up the stone which marked it he had missed the exact spot. He searched carefully, but his fingers did not touch iron.

He was still searching when he heard the sound of a window opening above his head, and crouched back against the wall, realising that he was immediately under Bellamy's room. Suddenly Bellamy's bull voice shouted: "There he is!"

For a second the butler thought that he had been detected, but, looking across the park, he saw a sight that momentarily made him forget his own precarious position.

A figure had come from the cover of the northern wall and was moving stealthily towards the bush clumps that ran laterally across slopes that dropped down to the east wall.

It was a woman, and he guessed instantly who that woman was and started off at a run towards her.

Abe had not gone to bed immediately. He had had a shock. He wanted to think. Pulling up a chair to the open window, he sat down, resting his elbows on the sill and looking out into the silent park. The moon was between full and new, but it showed enough light to allow Bellamy a clear view almost to the lodge gates.

Neither the beauty of the scene nor its mystery interested him; his mind was far away from Garre Park, and twenty-one years behind the hour which was striking as he brooded there. Was it a coincidence, he wondered. There were thousands of people named. Howett, and hundreds of Valerie Howetts in the world. But a Valerie Howett that came from Montgomery County—that was narrowing the circumstances to a definite point.

If it were she! He bared his teeth in a merciless smile. What glorious news to carry to the Grey Woman! The thought revivified him, made him young again, and brought to the steady-beating heart a flutter which he had not felt for seven years. He rose up to his feet and peered from the window. Was it a shadow or a trick of the moon? He could have sworn he saw a stealthy figure moving under cover of the rhododendron bushes.

He saw it again; now he was sure: It had crossed a gap between the clumps. It could not be the keepers; they had orders to remain indoors at night. It was then that he shouted, and, turning, rushed out into the corridor. There was a scamper of feet, and two of the dogs came running towards him to rub their heads at his knee. The remaining two were downstairs in the hall. He saw their eyes shining in the darkness and whistled to them softly. Noiselessly he pulled back the well-oiled bolts and opened the front door, restraining the dogs until he was sure.

Yes, there it was.

"Go, get him!" he roared, and the four hounds leapt as one.

Across the green they sped, silently, swiftly. The intruder had seen the danger; so, too, had the butler. Abe saw the figure dart to the cover afforded by a belt of trees that ran parallel with the wall for some distance. Two of the dogs had seen their quarry, but one alone found the scent.

Valerie Howett flew along, her heart nigh to bursting, her breath coming in short, sobbing gasps, the patter of feet growing nearer and nearer, and behind them racing footsteps of somebody human. She reached the edge of the trees and plunged headlong into their cover. Could she reach the ladder? She dared not look back, and there was no need, for the dog's laboured breathing came to her ears. Never once did she think of the revolver in her pocket, although every step she took brought the smack of it against her hip.

The wood lay on rising ground, a little hillock path led upwards, and the going became more, and more difficult. And then the dog leapt. She heard the snap of the fangs. They missed her heel by the fraction of an inch, and the dog lost ground. Her peril gave her superhuman speed, but she was coming into the open. She hardly realised this until she emerged with the crest of the hill before her.

It was her speed that carried her on, otherwise she would have dropped in her tracks in sheer terror. For, clear in the moonlight, his set, white, puffy face staring at her, was a slim green figure, and in his hand a long bow that glittered in the moonlight.

She could not stop herself. She was going from one horror to another, but her impetus carried her beyond the check of fear.

And then she saw the bow come up, heard the twang of a loosened string, and fell. Some heavy body struck her on the shoulder. She had a momentary glimpse of a great black and yellow hound as it stretched itself in death, and then she fainted.

22. THE LINK

"Mr. Howlett wishes to know whether you are coming to breakfast, madam."

Valerie sat up in bed and passed her hand over her eyes. Her head was throbbing.

"Breakfast?" she said dully. "Yes, yes. Will you please tell him I will come down?"

Had she been dreaming? She shivered at the recollection. It had been no dream. Her golf skirt, stained with dust, lay thrown across the back of the chair, and she remembered coming up to bed. Where had she been? When she had recovered consciousness she was in the drawing-room at Lady's Manor. But how had she got there? The Green Archer! She shuddered. Had he carried her across the wall? The ladders would betray her, she remembered with a start, and got out of bed.

"You need not have come down, my dear," said Mr. Howett, lifting his head to kiss her as she came into the dining-room. He put on his glasses and peered at her. "You're not looking particularly bright this morning, Val. Didn't you sleep well?"

"Very well," she said.

"Then you went to bed too late."

Breakfast was a mockery of a meal; she could eat nothing, and made an early excuse to go out and interview the servants.

"The garden door, miss? No, it was closed and bolted from the inside."

"Bolted? I thought I'd left it open," she faltered.

Of one thing she was certain: she had not reached the drawing room unaided. She must have been carried over the wall. How, then, could the garden door be bolted from the inside of the house?

She hurried into the garden and made for the wall. The first things she saw were the two ladders reposing on their sides. Then the unknown archer must have pulled up the ladders too.

She returned to the house and went into the drawing-room, hoping that there she would find something that would, give her an idea of how she had reached there. The room had been dusted, and the few odds and ends that the servants had found had, as usual, been placed upon one of the small tables. The first thing she saw was her handkerchief. It was smeared brown; somebody had used it to wipe her face. She had no recollection of using it herself. By its side was a broken sleeve-link. She looked at the link. It was of gold, with a tiny enamelled monogram. Valerie rang the bell for the maid.

"Thank you for putting these things together," she said.

"Where did this come from?"

"I found it on the floor, miss, near the sofa. I thought it was Mr. Howett's, but he says he hasn't lost one."

"But this is only a half," said Valerie. The three tiny little links of the connecting chain had been broken in the middle. "Have you found the other?"

"No, miss."

"Will you please help me look? They belong to a friend of mine."

They searched the room, and after a while the maid said: "Here it is, miss." It was under the edge of the carpet, and was the exact fellow of the other. "There were an awful lot of matches on the floor when I came to tidy up this morning, miss. One of them has left a burn." She pointed to a black stain on the brand new Brussels carpet.

"Yes, I did it last night. I couldn't find the lamp. That will do, thank you," said Valerie.

She carried the link to the window and traced the monogram again.

"J.L.F." James Lamotte Featherstone! It couldn't be. It was impossible, she told herself. She slipped the link into the pocket of her sports-coat as the maid came in to announce a visitor. It was Spike Holland, and he was full of news.

"You didn't hear the Green Archer last night, did you? Well, he was arching for old man Bellamy, and got one of his dogs. Bellamy is raising Cain. It appears he saw the archer in the grounds—the first time he's ever been seen outside the castle—and loosed his police dogs at him. Result—one perfectly dead dog; happily the one that Julius was most afraid of, so there's compensation in that. And, Miss Howett, I'm the bearer of an invitation from Abe Bellamy, Esquire, Lord of the Castle of Garre, and High Executioner of Berkshire."

"An invitation for me?" she said in amazement.

Spike nodded. "Abe has suddenly become intensely ordinary," he said. "He wants to show people his castle—or at least he wants to show you. It appears he saw your name in the paper—didn't know you were staying around here, and he has asked you to come and see the home of the ancient Bellamys, he being the most ancient of them all."

"That is very remarkable of him," she said.

Spike nodded. "The invitation doesn't extend to Mr. Howett, though I guess he wouldn't object to him going along. And it doesn't extend to me, either. But if you're going, Miss Howett, and you'll let me know the time, I've got the excuse I want for seeing over the castle; he can't very well turn me back if I appear as your escort."

She thought rapidly. "Yes, I will go—this afternoon after lunch. Will that suit Mr. Bellamy?"

"I'll phone him and find out, but I should say any old time would suit him."

"Mr. Holland," she asked, "do you know where Captain Featherstone is at this moment?"

"He was in London yesterday," replied Spike. "Julius saw him there."

"He's not in the village?"

Spike shook his head. "Why, do you want him?"

"No, no," she said hastily. "I was curious, that is all."

What could be the explanation, she wondered, when she was alone. It was Jim Featherstone who had carried her into the house-of that she was sure. There was no mystery about the bolted garden door; he must have passed through the front door and out of the house. And then she remembered the sound she had heard—the unlocking of the door, the swish of footsteps in the hall of Lady's Manor, the broken plates—and the green arrow.

"It isn't true," she said aloud. "It can't be true."

She was trying very hard to be convinced against her better judgment that Jim Featherstone, Commissioner of Police, was not the Green Archer of Garre Castle.

23. THE DUNGEONS

Knowing what she knew, Valerie was looking forward to her visit to Garre Castle with mixed feelings. She had never spoken to Abel Bellamy, though she had seen him often enough, and she wondered whether she would be able to disguise from his keen eyes the loathing she felt for him. She had had many opportunities of meeting him, but it was the fear that she would betray herself which had kept her from a closer acquaintance. She dreaded the meeting less because her mind was so completely absorbed by the discovery she had made that morning about Jim Featherstone. Every time he came back to her mind she grew more and more bewildered. What object could he have? She searched vainly for a reason. If Bellamy were under the suspicion of the police, there were scores of other ways by which they could keep him under observation. She was well enough acquainted with police methods to know that they would not hesitate to make an open search of Garre Castle if they had the slightest suspicion of the man. Why should he masquerade as the Green Archer? She shook her head hopelessly, and was glad when Spike arrived to escort her.

They found Julius Savini waiting at the lodge gates. "Bellamy said nothing about you, Holland," he said. "You'd better let me 'phone up."

"Phone nothing," said Spike. "I'm not going to allow Miss Howett to go into Garre Castle unless I am with her. I have a responsibility," he said virtuously, "which I do not intend to delegate to anybody else, Savini."

Eventually, without consulting his employer, Julius allowed the reporter to accompany the girl, and apparently the old man had expected his arrival, for he showed no sign of annoyance when Spike put in an appearance. He came out of the hall to greet her, and she braced herself for the meeting. She looked up at him, almost awe-stricken by his gigantic ugliness. The big, puffed, red face, his height, the suggestion of tremendous strength in the broad shoulders—for a moment she could not loathe him. There was something superhuman about him, something that explained his excesses, his immense hate, his wickedness. So, for the first time, Valerie met Abel Bellamy.

"Glad to have you come to the castle, Miss Howett." Her little hand was lost in the big paw that grasped it. Never once did his pale eyes leave her face. "I kind of felt that I ought to be civil to a neighbour," he said. "If I had known you were here I'd have asked you to come up before."

In the east wing of the castle, that in which the unused dining room was situated, was a long picture gallery filled with works of the old masters. This was a side of his character that Spike had never suspected. "I didn't know you were a collector, Mr. Bellamy."

For a second the old man dropped his cold eyes to the reporter. "I have collected nothing in my life except money," he said laconically. "I bought these with the castle. They cost half a million dollars, and I'm told they're worth twice that amount. I want you to see this picture, Miss Howett," he said. "It is called 'The Woman with the Scar.'"

The portrait was an example of the Flemish school. It showed a beautiful woman with a bare arm, on which was the faintest indication of a cicatrix.

"Most ladies wouldn't like to have their scars painted," he said, "but from what I've heard of this painter, who was a Dutchman, he always drew what he saw. A young lady in these days wouldn't stand for that, miss?"

It was a challenge, and, she accepted it instantly. "I'm not so sure that I should object," she said coolly. "I have a scar on my left elbow which is not at all unsightly; I fell when I was a baby and cut the skin."

She had no sooner said the words than she regretted them, but the regret was short-lived.

"You have a scar on your left elbow where you fell when you were a baby," repeated Abe Bellamy slowly, and she knew why she had been invited to come. Abe Bellamy wanted to be absolutely sure. She could and would have saved him the trouble.

Abe escorted his visitors back to the library. Of a sudden it seemed that his interest in the castle as a show-place had evaporated, and he hinted there was little more to be seen.

"You haven't shown us your dungeons yet; Mr. Bellamy," said Spike.

"Why, no," said Bellamy slowly, "but I don't think Miss Howett would like to see those gloomy places—would you, young lady?"

"I should." Her voice shook in spite of her efforts to keep control.

"Well, you shall see them, though they're less gloomy now than they used to be," said Abe. He led the way again to the hall and kept them waiting for a second while he went into Savini's room to get the keys. Julius tentatively joined the party, expecting to be sent back, but apparently Abe was oblivious to his presence.

They went again through the picture gallery, out through a small door to a square, stone room, which the old man explained had been the guard-room of the castle. In ancient times it had opened into the park, but the door was now a fixture. From the stone chamber a circular stone staircase took them to a vaulted basement.

"I'll put on the lights," said Bellamy. He turned a switch, and they saw they were in a great chamber, the roof of which was supported by three stout pillars. "This was the main prison," said the old man. "All kinds of people were kept here. Those rings you see in the pillars, Miss Howett, were used for attaching chains."

"How horrible!" she said, and he laughed heartily.

"It is a paradise to the little dungeons," he said.

At the far end of the vault he stooped and pulled up a stone trap. "If you want to go down there, you'll see the less pleasant apartments; but I shouldn't advise you to—the stairs are very steep, and you'll have to carry a light."

"I should like to go," she said, and Savini was sent back for a lantern.

The dungeons of the lower level consisted of four rooms, two of which were very large and two extraordinarily small. They were little better than kennels, not being high enough for a man to stand in or long enough for one to stretch himself in comfort. Yet in those narrow tombs men and women had lived for years, he told them, and showed them letters of a strange character cut into the stone walls.

"They call these places Little Ease," said Mr. Bellamy complacently. "That stone bench was their bed, and if you look you'll see it, is worn smooth by people who have slept there year after year, until the stone is about the shape of their bodies."

Valerie gazed in horror. "What kind of beasts were they that treated human beings like that?" she asked.

"Well, I don't know," drawled the old man. "There was something to it."

"Why not kill them outright?"

"And lose them?" he said in astonishment. "What is the good of that? Suppose you hate a man, what's the use of killing him? He just escapes you. You want to keep him in some place where you can go and see him and know he's there."

She made no reply.

"And that, I think, is about all the castle has to show you, unless you're interested in gas cookers," he said, "or towers and empty stone rooms."

"What is that?"

She pointed to a deep, ragged hole in the ground; the jagged sides showed the raw rock through which it had been blasted.

He looked up with a smile, and she followed his eyes. Above, fixed firmly into the wall, was a replica of the beam she had seen in Sanctuary Keep, and she closed her eyes tight. "They hanged a few people outside, but they hanged a whole lot inside," said Abe cheerfully.

She was glad to get back to the daylight.

"Well, I guess there's nothing more to show you," said Abe for the second time as they got back to the hall.

"Mr. Bellamy, can I see you alone?" She acted on the impulse of the moment. A second before she had no other desire than to leave this place of gloom and flee out into God's sunlight and breathe an air that was untainted with sorrow and suffering.

He shot a suspicious glance at her. "Certainly, Miss Howett," he answered slowly. His gaze fell upon the two men. "I told 'em to serve tea in the library. Maybe after tea, young lady?"

She nodded. What a fool she, was, she thought, everlastingly leaping at the call of impulse, everlastingly regretting her folly. And she was regretting it now, and trying to hunt up some excuse for a private interview.

A trim maid was in attendance. "Where's Philip?" growled the old man.

"It is his afternoon off, sir," replied Julius.

"How many afternoons off does he have a week?" began Bellamy, and then arrested a choler which was not in keeping with his role of genial host.

Spike's active mind never ceased absorbing all the details of the room. Though it was called library, there were very few books in evidence, one tall case near the door at the farther end being all he could see. Yet it was a noble room, and modern hands had done nothing to improve it out of its character. The polished wood floor was uncarpeted, a number of big rugs relieving its bareness; and even the rugs were in keeping with the tone of the room.

Bellamy, following his eyes, said: "The floor of this room is stone; you'd never guess it. I had the parquet floor fitted over. Stone is a little too chilly for a man of my age."

That was the only comment he made upon the library, and soon after Spike and Julius, who had been granted the unaccustomed honour of an invitation, rose.

"Savini will amuse you, Holland, whilst Miss Howett is talking to me," said Abe Bellamy. "I don't suppose you'll be with me very long, Miss Howett?"

"Not very long," she said.

Her courage was oozing away. Presently the door closed on the two men, and Bellamy came back, his hands in his pockets, his powerful shoulders hunched, and he stood, his legs apart, and his back to the fireplace, looking down at her. "Now, Miss Howett," he said, and his voice was harsh and held a threat, "what is it you want to see me about?"

It needed only that hint of antagonism to give her the strength she needed. "Mr. Bellamy," she said quietly, "I want you to tell me something."

"I'll tell you anything that it is good you should know," he said, and again the savage in him peeped forth.

"Then tell me this," she said, speaking deliberately. "Where is my mother?"

Not a muscle of his face moved; his eyelids did not so much as blink. Only he stared down at her, immovable.

"Where is my mother?" she said again.

His great frame was shaking; his face had gone a duller red; the mouth had curled up yet a little more. Slowly, as if it were moving against his will, his hand came out towards her, and she shrank back before the fury of him. And then: "Would you like another log on the fire, sir?"

The old man glared round at the intruder. It was the new butler—suave, deferential, remarkably unemotional. The effort the old man made to control his fury was superhuman. The veins stood out on his forehead and he shivered in his rage, but by his own amazing will he mastered himself. "I will ring for you if I want you, Philip," he said gratingly. "I thought you had a holiday."

"I came back early, sir."

"Get out!"

The words came like the shot of a gun, and the butler bowed and went, closing the door behind him. Abe Bellamy turned to the white-faced girl. "Your mother, I think you remarked?" he said huskily. "I guess you gave me a start. I never met your mother, Miss Howett. No, ma'am, I've never met your mother, and I've never met you. You had a room in the same hotel as me in London, and, I guess you had a room in the same hotel as me in New York, round about July, 1914. A whole lot of letters used to come for me, though I was in England. People wrote who thought I was in New York, and round about July the fourteenth a packet of letters was stolen, ma'am. Perhaps the thief who took those letters saw something in one of them that made her think that I knew where her mother was. That's likely; I can't help how thieves think, whether they're male thieves or female thieves. I don't know where your mother is," he went on in a monotone in which every syllable was emphasised. "I don't know where your mother is, if she isn't dead and in her grave. And if I knew where your mother was, why, it would be no business of mine to tell you, Miss Howett. I guess she's dead all right. Most people you lose trace of are dead. There's no hiding-place like the grave; it keeps you safe and snug."

"Where is my mother?" Her voice sounded hollow and faint.

"Where's your mammy?" he repeated. "Didn't I tell you? You've got fool ideas in your head, Valerie Howett. That comes of reading letters that have been stolen. If you saw a letter of hers that she sent to me, why, it would be surely easy to find her."

With a sideways jerk of his head he dismissed her as though she had been some scullery wench, and she walked unsteadily to the door. Once she looked back and saw him glaring after her, and the malignity in his eyes was terrible to see.

"Why, what's the matter?" Spike came to the swaying girl and caught her by the arm.

"Nothing, only I feel a little faint. Will you take me outside, Mr. Holland?" She looked round for the butler. He was nowhere to be seen.

"Did he do anything?" said the indignant Spike. "If he's as big as a house, I'll go in and—"

"No, no, no," she stopped him. "Will you take me home, please, and walk very slowly? And if I get hysterical, will you please shake me?"

Whilst they were walking slowly down the path Mr. Julius Savini was hurrying in search of the new butler.

"The old man wants you," he said in a low voice, "and he's raving mad."

"I'm a little mad myself," said the butler, and went with a light step to meet the wrath of Abel Bellamy.

"What's your name?" the old man bellowed at him as he came in.

"Philip, sir—Philip Jones."

"How many times have I told you not to come into this room unless I send for you?"

"I thought the party was here, sir."

"You thought that, did you? Did you hear what that girl was saying?"

"The lady was saying nothing when I came in. I thought you were showing her some parlour tricks, sir."

Not a muscle of the butler's face moved.

"You thought what?" shouted Bellamy.

"I thought, sir, from the position of your hands, you were showing her a parlour trick. Gentlemen; even in the best families, are fond of showing visitors parlour tricks," said the butler, mechanically picking a crumb from the hearthrug. "I am extremely sorry that I was de trop."

"I don't get that," said Abe, completely taken aback.

"It was a French expression."

"Well, damn you, don't use French expressions to me," roared Bellamy. "And if you come here again without being sent for, you're fired. Do you get that?"

"Quite, sir. What would you like for dinner?"

The speechless man could only point to the door.

24. THE STORY

Walking in her garden in the dusk, revolving in her chaotic mind the events of the past twenty-four hours, Valerie saw something white flutter over the wall and hurried to pick up the note.

She opened it and read he scrawled lines and put the letter away in her handbag.

At ten o'clock came a visitor in the shape of James Featherstone.

For his advent Mr. Howett was not unprepared. Valerie was waiting for him in the passage.

"I'm glad you've come," she said quickly. "I am going to tell you the story of Mrs. Held." They were alone together in the drawing-room. "First, let me give you something of yours. The maid found it here this morning." She took a little paper package from her writing-table.

"My sleeve link, I think. I looked for it, but I hadn't a great deal of time. I wanted to get out before you recovered."

"You brought me here? No, no, don't tell me." She held up her hand. "I don't want to know any more. You have been wonderfully good to me, Captain Featherstone, and I should have saved myself a great deal of trouble and prevented myself looking very foolish," she added with a faint smile, "if I had told you before what I am going to tell you now. You do not know, though you may guess—for there seems to be no limit to your cleverness-that dear Mr. Howett is not my father."

Obviously, from the look on his face, she saw this was news to him.

"Mr. Howett, twenty-three years ago, was a very poor man," she said. "He lived on a very old and very poor farm in Montgomery, at a place called Trainor, and he eked out just a bare existence by the sale of garden trucks. In those days he suffered from a terrible affliction of the eyes, which made him nearly blind. He and my dear foster-mother lived alone. They had no children, although they had been married many years, and, difficult as it was to feed and keep themselves, they advertised their willingness to adopt a child. You understand, Captain Featherstone, that I am not going to give you any information about the subsequent career of Mr. Howett, or the wonderful fortune he had when he took another farm in another part of the state and oil was discovered on his property.

"There were many replies to the advertisement, none of which was entirely satisfactory. One day Mrs. Howett, who naturally carried on all the correspondence, received a letter. Here it is."

She took a paper from the desk and handed it to the detective.

It was addressed from an hotel on Seventh Avenue, New York, and ran:

"DEAR FRIEND,

"In answer to your advertisement, I should be glad if you would adopt a little girl, aged twelve months, whose parents have recently died. I am willing to pay one thousand dollars for this service."

"At that time," continued the girl, "Mr. Howett was being hard pressed by a man who had a mortgage on the farm, and I think, fond as he was of children, and anxious as he undoubtedly was to have a little child in the house, the offer of money settled the matter in my favour, for I was the baby. He wrote and accepted. A few days later a man drove up to the farm in a buggy, got down, and lifted out a bundle, which he placed in the hands of Mrs. Howett. There used to be a hired boy on the farm in those days, whose hobby was photography. Somebody had given him a snapshot camera, and the first picture he took with it was the buggy standing at the door with the strange man just on the point of getting out. That picture might have been lost for ever, and with it all hope of tracing my parents, but for the accident that the company which manufactured the camera offered a monthly prize for the best snapshot; and the hired boy sent up this very picture, which took a prize and was reproduced in a magazine. I have since seen the original, and, indeed, I have an enlargement."

She took a thick roll of paper from her writing-desk.

"You see, I have all my data here, if I may use one of daddy's favourite words."

She unrolled the photograph and put it under the lamp on the table, and Featherstone joined her.

"There is no doubt about that," he said after a glimpse at the picture. "The man is Abe Bellamy. There's no mistaking the face."

"The curious thing is," said the, girl, 'that Mrs. Howett did not see anything remarkable about him, for she was almost as short-sighted as Mr. Howett. I was brought up as the Howett's child, as in law I am, for the deed of adoption was drawn up by an attorney, and legally I have no father but Mr. Howett. It was after the death of my foster—mother that I learnt the truth. I was not greatly interested in the discovery of my true parents; I was young, and college was wholly absorbing. It was later, when I began to think for myself, that it occurred to me that, now I was rich ... I have my share in Mr. Howett's wells, and his dear wife left me a whole lot of money—I might at least discover who they were.

"And then it was that the illustration of the man getting out of the buggy became really valuable. I had the negative looked up and an enlargement made, and instantly Abel Bellamy was recognised. Nobody knew why I wanted the photograph, of course, and I did not tell them. I had heard of him; he was one of the bad men whose reputation was common property; and the more I learnt of him the more I was certain that I was in no way related to him, and that he had not brought me to the Howetts' farm and given a thousand dollars with a desire to help anybody hut himself. I set detectives to work, and they found that the only relation he had was a brother, who had died nearly eighteen years ago. They had had two children, who were also dead. This line of inquiry did not seem very profitable, because very early on the detectives found that Abe Bellamy and his brother were bad friends and had always been bad friends, and he would be hardly likely to take trouble to help his brother.

"I said nothing to Mr. Howett, but I concentrated all my attention upon Abel Bellamy. I was only seventeen, but every day that passed made me more and more determined to unveil the mystery.

"Unknown to Mr. Howett, I employed men to examine Bellamy's correspondence. He was a great deal in Europe, and scarcely spent three months of the year in New York. To Chicago he never went at all. Then one day my agents—looking back it seems so absurd that anybody could have accepted a commission from a girl of seventeen, but they did—discovered a letter. I have the original."

She brought the paper to the light of the lamp. The ink was faded, the hand straggling. It ran: "LITTLE BETHEL STREET,

"LONDON, N.W.

"You have beaten me. Give me back the child you have taken from me, and I will agree to all your demands. I am broken—broken in heart and spirit by your never—ending persecution. You are a devil—a fiend beyond human understanding. You have taken everything I have—robbed me of all that is dear, and I have no desire to live.

"ELAINE HELD."

Beneath were some words which even Featherstone, who was an expert in these matters, found it difficult to decipher.

"Won't you be generous and tell me ... little Valerie. It is seventeen years ago last April ... "

"It was in April, twenty-four years ago, that I was taken to Mr. Howett," said the girl quietly. "Bellamy made a slip; he told Mrs. Howett my name, Valerie, and then pretended that it wasn't, and asked her to call me Jane. But Mrs. Howett was struck with the name Valerie, and I have been called by it all my life."

Featherstone paced the drawing-room slowly, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast.

"Do you think your mother is still alive?" he asked at last.

She nodded her head, her lips quivering. "I'm sure," she breathed.

"And you think he knows where she is?"

"Yes. I thought she was at the castle. I don't know what wild dreams I had of finding her."

Featherstone returned to his silent pacing. "You had an interview with the old man. Tell me what passed," he said eventually, and when she had given him a faithful account of the talk he nodded. "You have faith! I don't want to raise your hopes, Miss Howett—"

"You called me Valerie the other day. I think it was almost as much a slip of the tongue as Bellamy's. Won't you please go on calling me Valerie? Perhaps when I know you better I will call you by your name ... William, isn't it?"

"It is Jim," he said solemnly, and even in her pain she was secretly amused to see the colour rising in his face, "and you know it is Jim. Well, Valerie, you're not to go to the castle again, or to do anything that involves the slightest risk on your part."

"You don't want to raise my hopes, you were saying, but you did not finish your sentence."

"I was going to say that I have a faint share of your faith, and I am doing what I warned you against! I am making a building of hope on the sandiest of foundations. In a day or two I shall be able to tell you how solid that foundation is. By the way, have you that old plan of the castle? Will you let me have it? I think I can put it to a better use than you," he said quizzically.

She walked with him to the front gate.

"You're going to behave," he said warningly.

She nodded in the darkness; there was just enough light to see her face.

"Good night," he said, and, taking her hand, held it a little longer than was necessary.

Good night—Jim!

James Lamotte Featherstone walked back through the village with a light step and a heart that was even lighter.

25. THE NEW BUTLER SHOWS HIS TEETH

Julius Savini was a very unhappy man. His source of additional revenue had unexpectedly and provokingly dried up. He was too fond of the woman he had married to be angry with her, although she was partly the cause. A nimble-minded man, he began to look round for some new fountain of supply, and his mind vacillated between Valerie Howett and Abe himself. Abe would be a mighty difficult proposition, he realised, but in certain circumstances it was quite possible that he might surprise a secret which would bring him an income at any rate equal to that which went forth with monotonous regularity to Coldharbour Smith.

More than a year he had spent in the service of the Chicago man, without discovering any secret that was worth twopence, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to investigate. The coming of the Green Archer, with its sequel of ubiquitous police dogs, precluded any examination at leisure of Mr. Bellamy's effects by night, and in the daytime he never had a chance.

Sooner or later he must make a getaway, find a less exacting occupation in another land, and although Bellamy kept his ready money in the house behind steel doors, there were other ways.

A shrewd man of business, Julius had curtailed his wife's allowance, explaining to her why this was necessary. He had received an immediate reply, demanding his return to town. Her brother had joined a crowd that was working the cross-Atlantic boats, and there was an opening for a man of his capacity and skill. Only for a moment Julius was tempted. The risk was small—but so were the rewards. He could not afford to go after little money. There was big money here, even if the risk was correspondingly large.

He had spoken no more than the truth when he said that in certain circumstances he would arrange the early demise of Abel Bellamy. Given the certainty of escape, he would have killed the old man with as little compunction as he would have killed a rat. He might have shivered for himself in the act, for Julius was very fearful of his own future.

He declined his wife's offer, peremptorily demanding that she dismiss from her mind her half-formed plan for joining in the crowd. When to this he received a defiant answer, he himself went to town, held up the pugilistic Jerry at the point of a gun incontinently, and turned him out of the flat.

"You be a good girl, Fay, and do as you're told," he said in his silkiest voice. "You got me rattled the other day, and I allowed you to call me a fool, but I haven't forgotten it."

"You little coward!" she whimpered.

"Maybe I am," said Julius Savini. "I get frightened of some things, but I'm not frightened of you or the mob you run with. I live with a wild beast, and I'm entitled to shake in my shoes, but I'm not scared of rabbits. I tell you you'll stay here, because I may want you. If you go with that crowd I'll follow you to the end of the world and I'll kill you. I've given you my name, and maybe it is the name of a first-class crook, but all the mud that's coming to it is the mud I'll stir myself."

He left her. She stayed. He never expected she would do anything else. For the moment she felt very sore, and there was an excuse for her, because Savini was a Eurasian and by all known codes a man to be despised.

All this happened within a few days of the tea-party. Events were moving very swiftly, though there was no alteration in the routine of the castle, unless it was that Abe Bellamy was more silent than ever and less easy to get on with.

On the third night Coldharbour Smith arrived unexpectedly and was closeted with his employer for the greater part of the evening. Mr. Smith was completely sober; and when Coldharbour Smith was sober he was even more unpleasant of appearance than he was when drunk. He was a loose- framed man with a dead white face, short upper lip, and a huge jaw which the scientists call prognathic—which means no more than that his under lip extended beyond his upper lip. He may have shaved some time, but he had the misfortune to appear as though the 'sometime' was the day before yesterday. His eyes were deep-set and small, and he was slightly bald.

The new butler heard he was coming and asked Julius to let him in. "Can't you let him in yourself?" complained the secretary.

"I don't like his face; it makes me dream," was the unsatisfactory reply.

And then followed the day of tremendous happenings. It began eventfully enough soon after breakfast. Abe had gone to the kennels and had released the three remaining dogs for a run in the park. It happened that his way led past the entrance-hall, and the new butler was standing there instructing one of the younger servants in the art of blackleading a mud-scraper. Suddenly, without any warning, one of the dogs left Bellamy's side and leapt at the girl. She screamed and fell back, the dog on her, worrying her shoulder. At that moment the butler stooped, lifted the hound without an effort, and flung him a dozen yards down the grassy slope. With a yelp of fury the dog came back straight at the man.

Bellamy made no attempt to interfere. He watched, fascinated, the tiger leap of the great hound. And then he saw an amazing thing happen. As the dog left the ground for his leap, the butler stooped and jerked up his arm so that it struck the underside of the snapping jaw and closed it. There was a thud as he struck with the other fist—the dog was shot half a dozen yards away and fell exhausted.

"What have you done to that dog?" demanded Abe angrily. "If you've killed it—"

"He's not killed, he's winded," said the new butler. "I could have killed him just as easily."

Abe looked the man up and down. "You've got a hell of a nerve to beat my dog," he said.

"You've got a nerve to complain about it being beaten, after the attack it made upon that unfortunate girl," said the butler. "If you had whistled the dog he wouldn't have jumped."

Abe listened aghast. "Do you know who you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to Mr. Bellamy, I think," said the butler. "You employed me to look after your staff, not to feed your dogs," and he turned on his heel and walked into the hall to comfort the frightened and weeping girl.

Abe made to follow him, but, changing his mind, continued his walk. He came back looking for trouble and sent for Savini. "Where's Philip?"

"He's with the girl that was bitten by the dog, sir; she's hysterical."

"Fire her!" roared Bellamy. "And tell that dude butler that I don't pay him to go fooling around with the girls. Send him here!"

Presently Philip, the butler, came.

"Now see here, whatever your name is, you can pack your grip and get out, and you can take your girl with you."

"I haven't any particular girl," said the butler pleasantly, "but if there was any woman in this place for whom I was in any way responsible, I assure you she wouldn't be here at this moment. Wait, Mr. Bellamy," he said, as the other jumped up in his rage, "you're not dealing with Valerie Howett now, and you're not dealing with her mother." He saw the colour fade from Bellamy's face. It was not fear; it was blind, insane rage that was possessing him. "You can't threaten me as you threatened them—that is my point."

"You—you—!"

"Keep your distance. You're an old man, and I don't want to hurt you. That is outside my duty."

"Your—duty?" almost whispered Abel Bellamy.

The butler nodded.

"My name is Captain James Featherstone. I am a Commissioner of Scotland Yard, and I hold a warrant to search Garre Castle and, if necessary, to take you into custody for the illegal detention of a woman known as Elaine Held."

26. THE SEARCH

Abe Bellamy did not seem to understand, and Featherstone repeated the words.

"You're a policeman, are you?" said the old man at last. He was perfectly collected. The man's command of himself was admirable. "I don't know anything about your warrant, but I guess you've got authority to act. I warn you, Featherstone, or whatever your name is, that I'll make you suffer for this. I am an American citizen—"

"The woman we are seeking is also an American citizen," said Featherstone sternly. He opened the door, and to Bellamy's surprise and indignation there were a dozen men standing in the hall.

"Raiding me, eh?" he said harshly. "Well, go ahead and see what you can find."

Featherstone held out his hand, palm uppermost.

"Your keys," he said.

"I'll see you—"

"I want your keys. What is the use of making a fuss, Mr. Bellamy? We have to go through with this." Bellamy threw a bunch of keys on the table. "Now I think I'll have the key that you keep on your chain." For the fraction of a second the big fellow was motionless, and then he unfastened the chain and threw him the key.

"What does this open?"

"The safe," snarled the other. "You don't want any guiding around, do you? Maybe you'd like me to tell you where the safe is?"

"I can save you that trouble," said Featherstone coolly.

He walked to the side of the fireplace, caught one of the projections of the panelling, and pulled. A space as big as an average door slid back, revealing a black—painted steel surface. He inserted the key, turned it twice, and, pulling the recessed handle, opened the door. The safe contained a number of shelves, filled with steel boxes. There were no books, but on top of one of the boxes was a leather folder.

"Have you the keys of these boxes?"

"They're not locked," said Bellamy.

Featherstone carried a box to the table and opened it. It was filled with papers.

"I think you had better go to your room, Mr. Bellamy," he said. "I shall be some hours here. You will consider yourself under arrest for the time being."

He expected some resistance on the part of the old man, but Abel Bellamy was no fool.

"When you're through, perhaps you'll let me know. I hope you're a better policeman than a butler." With which parting shot he walked out of the library, and was escorted to his room by one of the detectives from the hall.

Box after box was emptied of its contents and carefully scrutinised. Turning out one of the deed-boxes, which at first appeared to contain nothing more interesting than particulars of old and profitable contracts which Bellamy had carried out, Featherstone suddenly called his assistant.

"Jackson, come here." Sergeant Jackson crossed to his chief. "What is this?" asked Featherstone.

It was a baton about fifteen inches in length and covered with three broad bands of felt. So thick was it that Featherstone's fingers hardly met. From one end, as he held it up, dangled lengths of whipcord, twice the length of the handle, the ends of each cord being bound tight with yellow silk. He ran the cords through his fingers; there were nine in all, and they were mottled with dark stains.

"What do you think of that, Jackson?"

The sergeant took the whip in his hand. "A cat-o'-nine-tails, sir." He looked at the butt. There was a faded red label, stamped with a crown, and the words "Property of the Prison Commissioners."

"A gift from Creager," said Featherstone, "or I'm a Dutchman." He looked at the cords. The stains were very old, and his professional eye told him that this weapon had only been used once, for there were still kinks in the cords where they had been folded when the whip had come new from the prison authorities' hands.

He could only marvel at the mentality of the man who would keep this gruesome relic, treasuring it as a souvenir, gloating over it for the pain it had caused to some suffering wretch. He put down the "cat" and turned his attention to the other boxes. He hoped, indeed expected, to find something which would enable him to trace the missing woman Held, but there was no line to her—nothing that gave him the slightest clue. Only one bundle of private letters seemed to have been preserved by Abel Bellamy.

They were letters from a man who signed himself "Michael," and they were addressed from various towns in the United States. Three of them had been sent from Chicago, but the majority had come from New York. The first letters dealt with the difficulties that the writer had in maintaining his position. He was evidently a school-teacher. He was, even more obviously, Abel Bellamy's brother. The first letters were couched in an affectionate and friendly vein, and Featherstone was able to trace not only the career, but something of the change of attitude of the writer. Michael had apparently got on in the world and made money. In Cleveland he was a real—estate man, and from real estate he seemed to have passed into the brokerage business.

Suddenly the tone of the letters began to change. Michael Bellamy was in difficulties and was relying upon the help that his brother could give. Too late he discovered that the brother whom he trusted, and to whom he looked for sympathy and assistance, was behind the organisation which was ruining him. The most significant letter of all was the last. It ran;

"DEAR ABEL,

"I am stunned by the news you have sent me. What have I ever done to you that you should so cold—bloodedly set yourself out to ruin me? For the sake of my boy, will you not, at this eleventh hour, help me to stave off the claims which are pouring into my office?" For the sake of the boy! Poor Michael Bellamy could have made no vainer appeal, could have said nothing which was more likely to inflame Abe's lust for injury. Abe Bellamy struck at those he regarded as his enemies through their children. Thus he had broken Mrs. Held. Was it likely that this remorseless man would be moved by his brother's appeal?

After three hours' inspection of the letters, Featherstone restored them to the safe. By this time his men had reported one by one. Every crook and cranny in the castle had been examined. The dungeons had been searched, but had revealed nothing.

Jim sent for Savini; the olive face of the man was pale, and his lips drooped pathetically.

"This is going to get me in bad," wailed the Eurasian. "The old man will think that I knew all about you."

"Well, didn't you?" said Jim with a smile. "Don't worry. If he says anything, you can tell him I terrorised you into keeping your mouth shut. You'll have to clear up your tarnished reputation with Spike Holland. I understand you swore that I was not the new butler. You behaved nobly," he said ironically and clapped his hand on the sloping shoulder of the other. "Now you can dash madly up to Brother Bellamy and tell him that we'll give him as near a clean bill of health as a man of his character would know what to do with."

Abe Bellamy came back to the library at his leisure, triumph in his eyes, a near approach to a smile on his huge face. "Well, have you found Mrs.—what is her name?"

"No, she isn't here, unless the plans of the castle are all wrong and there's a secret room that we haven't seen."

"You bet there is," sneered the other. "I guess you've been reading detective stories, Mr. Featherstone. It is bad for you—gets ideas into your head. You'll hear from my lawyers in the course of time."

"I'm glad to know you employ anybody so respectable," said Jim. "Your keys—"

His hand was extended towards the desk and he was in the act of dropping them when he heard a cry and stiffened.

They all heard it—Bellamy, Julius Savini, and Jackson, the detective. It was a thin tremor of sound like a baby's fretful wail, that rose and fell and ended finally in a shuddering sob.

It came from nowhere and filled the silent room with its quivering agony—the agony of a woman.

"Oo ... Oo ... Oo!" Jim Featherstone heard, and hearing, his heart stood still.

"What was that?" he asked hoarsely.

27. JIM EXPLAINS

Abe Bellamy was staring into vacancy. Slowly he turned and faced his questioner. "The water-pipes, I guess; they make that kind of noise when we set the radiators going."

Jim waited to hear the sound repeated, but it did not come. He looked hard at Bellamy, but the man met his gaze without flinching. "What is under here?" he asked, pointing to the floor.

"Nothing—the dungeons start under the hall. There used to be a stairway down to them, but that has been bricked up."

Leaving the library, Jim made a personal search of the dungeons, penetrating to the lower chambers, without, however, making any discovery. The prison chambers extended to beneath the hall. He saw the remains of the stairway to which Bellamy had referred.

Spreading the old plan of the castle upon the floor, he made a rough calculation.

According to the plan, the library stood on solid ground—though this might mean nothing, for he had already detected a number of inaccuracies in the plan, which had evidently been prepared rather from information received than from an actual survey. For example, the lower dungeons were not shown at all.

He was engaged in his examination when he heard a faint sound, and, looking up, he saw a black iron pipe fixed in an angle of the vaulting. He waited, and presently heard it again—a throaty moan. It was not the same noise as he had heard before, but it was quite possible that Abe Bellamy's explanation was correct.

Disappointed, he returned to the library, to learn that the moan had not been heard again "Have you arrested that water-pipe?" asked the old man facetiously. "Anyway, I'd be glad to have you pinch the bum plumber that fixed it, Mr. Featherstone."

Jim smiled, though he was in no mood for mirth. His men were streaming back across the park towards the lodge gates, and he was the last to leave. "Say!" Bellamy was beckoning him back. "You've forgotten something, haven't you?"

Jim put down the bag he was carrying, which contained the modest kit he had brought to the castle. "I don't think I have," he said.

The old man put his hand into his pocket and took out a banknote. "Take that," he said, and thrust it into Jim's unwilling hand. "Your wages," said Mr. Bellamy sardonically.

"That's one on me," said Jim, and pocketed the fiver.

In the village he met Spike, and the reporter had something bitter to say about the perfidy of Julius Savini.

"I asked him if it was you," he said, "and the mean little skunk swore that he'd never seen the new butler before!"

"He meant 'professionally', Spike," said Featherstone, taking his arm and walking him towards the Blue Boar. "Anyway, I'm responsible for the lie he told. I gave him explicit instructions that he was to tell nobody, and one of the first persons I mentioned whom he wasn't to tell was you."

"Did you find anything? I knew there was something doing when I woke up this morning and found the Blue Boar filled with respectable—looking men in big boots. The worst thing about a policeman is that he always looks like one," said Spike. "You can dress him like the Prince of Wales, or you can put him into a tramp's outfit, but the part of his clothes where his head sticks out always shouts 'copper'! Did you find anything?"

Featherstone shook his head.

"Nothing," he said, "that is, nothing that betrayed the whereabouts of Mrs. Held."

"Who is Mrs. Held, anyway?" asked Spike instantly, and Jim began to realise that here was a story that was more precious than police information and could not go out.

He explained as best he could, without mentioning Valerie Howett, and Spike whistled.

"A prisoner! Gee! That's a fine story if I could use it. Say, Featherstone," he wheedled, "can't I just mention the fact that the police thought there was a female in the cold, dark dungeons of Garre?"

Jim Featherstone thought not. "If the old man makes a fuss it will be bad enough. There is always a chance that he won't want to move in the matter. If you publish particulars of this raid he is certain to bring an action."

Leaving his bag at the Blue Boar, he shook off Spike and went on to Lady's Manor. Valerie was in her bedroom, and through the window she saw him coming up the path and ran down to meet him.

"Valerie, I've lost a good job."

"Has he found you out?" she said in dismay.

"No, he hasn't found me out, and unfortunately I haven't found him out either. We raided the castle this morning and conducted a very thorough search. I got the warrant down this morning. You know, in England we can't search private premises except on the authority of an order signed by a magistrate. That arrived by the early post, and Scotland Yard sent a dozen men to the village before I was up. I am afraid I shall have to see the Green Archer at a distance."

She looked at him quickly.

"Have you seen him near at hand?" she asked in a low voice.

"No," he replied, astonished. "I didn't tell you I had. He was certainly in the castle on the night of your little escapade—I mean, later in the night."

How could he pretend that he knew nothing of the Green Archer!

"Jim—" her voice was quiet—"I want to ask you something. Did you, for some purpose of your own, because you were watching Bellamy or were engaged in your police work, did you ever masquerade as the Green Archer? You did once, didn't you?"

His look of amazement was not assumed. "Never," he said. "I wouldn't dream of such a thing, even for the purpose of scaring the old man. There was nothing to be gained."

"But you said you'd never seen the archer? You saw him the night you picked me up."

He frowned at her wonderingly. "I don't know what you mean. When the old man loosed the dogs after you I was making a little inspection of my own. I was taking the temperature of the ground around the castle wall. Don't look surprised, I'm not joking. Really, it was one of the most serious occupations that I've ever engaged in. I guessed it was you immediately the dog started off in pursuit, and I ran as fast as I could in its track."

"Then it was your feet I heard following the dog?"

He nodded. "I lost sight of you and the dog too. Presently I came out into the open and I saw the dog lying dead and you by its side. There was no sign of an archer. In fact, I didn't notice at the time that the dog had been killed by an arrow. My first thought was to get you to safety, and I lifted you up and carried you back to the wall of Lady's Manor; I guessed there would be a ladder there. It took me quite a long time to get you over that wall and into the house. I was putting you comfortable when the sleeve-link broke; my cuff caught against the head of the sofa, and I spent ten minutes looking for the pieces."

She smiled faintly at the recollection, for the maid had found the floor covered with burnt matches. She knew who the offender had been, and guessed why those matches had been struck.

"I went out again into the grounds and had the good, fortune to get into the castle through the front door—which saved me a climb," he added.

She drew a long sigh of relief.

"Then you're not the Green Archer?" she asked.

"Good heavens, no! I am a butler in disgrace, and maybe I shall be a police officer in trouble, but I'm not a Green Archer."

"You found nothing about—?" She did not finish the sentence.

"Nothing," he replied, "nothing that affected you. I found some letters from his brother, but that was all." He conveniently omitted any mention of the cat-o'-nine-tails—it was not a pleasant thing to tell a woman.

He went back to the Blue Boar soon after, trying to decide in his mind what would be the best course to take. His car was garaged in the next village; it was the means by which he made his daily visit to London during such slack periods as enabled him to slip out through the castle gates, leaving Julius to cover his absence. Mr. Bellamy allowed his butler one clear day's holiday a week, and it was Savini's job to explain, if Featherstone was asked for, that that was the day he had chosen.

He had been in the castle when the tea-party was in progress, but he had thought it discreet to keep away from the library while Spike Holland and the girl were present. It was only when Valerie was alone with the old man that, by a prearranged signal, Savini had shepherded Spike into his room and left the coast clear for the new butler to interfere, as it proved, at the psychological moment.

"I have decided to return to London, but I shall be here off and on, and I'm keeping a room at the Blue Boar. You can do a little unofficial police work, Spike, and notify me if anything out of the ordinary happens. I'm leaving a man here."

"To watch Bellamy?"

"No," replied Featherstone, "just to look around."

"To watch Miss Howett," said Spike shrewdly.

On the way to town Jim Featherstone considered from another angle the problem which Abe Bellamy offered. There was danger ahead; of that he was sure, and it was danger for Valerie Howett.

He could not help associating the visit of Coldharbour Smith with that contingency and one of the first steps he decided to take was to pay a visit to the Golden East.

28. THE GOLDEN EAST

The Golden East had once been a reputable club, the membership of which was confined to officers of the mercantile marine who were in the Indian trade. Because no club can live upon the takings from so limited a membership, its qualifications had been extended until it included almost anybody who could, by a stretch of imagination, describe himself as being interested in the China trade. Even this stage of the club's life was ancient history.

Gradually it had fallen from its dignified estate, and when the conditions were altered to admit a mixed membership the Golden East went rapidly on its downward course.

Coldharbour Smith had come into the club at its intermediate stage, and, being alive to its possibilities, had purchased a controlling interest, which had still further extended until he became sole proprietor. And probably at no period in its history had the club been quite so prosperous. Strange things happened in the Golden East; offences were committed against all laws regulating the conduct of clubs, which would have justified the police in closing the establishment again and again. But the Golden East served a very useful purpose from the point of view of police headquarters. It was the sink into which strange flotsam floated.

Its very immunity from the attention of the police gave more help to headquarters in the arrest of wanted men than if the place had been closed.

Coldharbour Smith was certainly liberal in his largesse, and was quite under the impression that his judicious gifts to certain local members of the constabulary were responsible for his freedom from any serious interference. He would have been a surprised man if he knew that the money he slipped into the hands of a local detective-inspector every Saturday went to the Police Orphanage and was duly acknowledged by the officer in charge of the fund.

The Golden East was fashionable. Visitors to London 'did' it the same way as they 'did' the slums and the cathedrals and the Cheshire Cheese and the Temple Church.

The laughter and noise was at its greatest, a syncopated band at its most violent, when Jim Featherstone came through the hall and, with a nod to the doorkeeper, went up the carpeted stairs.

The doorkeeper pressed a bell-push unostentatiously, and by the time Jim had reached the dance-room something like silence reigned. The orchestra had stopped, the dancers had gone back to their tables, with a pleasant thrill in the case of those who were unused to the place, for Coldharbour Smith had uttered the magic word: "Police!"

"Glad to see you, Captain." Coldharbour came half-way across the ballroom and offered a jewelled hand.

"Quiet tonight, Smith."

"Why, yes," said Coldharbour, "but nothing unusual. We don't make much noise here."

Jim had made a swift and professional scrutiny of the company.

"Very respectable lot of people you've got tonight. Who was at that table?"

"Oh, some fellows who went out half an hour ago."

"And left a bottle of wine untouched, with the bubbles still rising? And four nice glasses all fizzing up?"

"Anyway, they're nobody you know, Captain," said Coldharbour. "They're some swells from the West End. I suppose they didn't want to be seen here."

He edged for the bar-room, and Jim Featherstone followed.

"Going to have a drink, Captain?" Coldharbour Smith cast a quick glance at his jacketed barman.

"I think not," said the visitor. "I came here for a little quiet talk, Smith. Have you a room where we can be alone?"

There was a room at the back of the bar apparently, and he followed the proprietor of the Golden East through the barkeeper's private domain and into a small room. As Coldharbour switched on the light, Jim raised his delicate nostrils and sniffed.

Then his cold eyes fell upon the uncomfortable Coldharbour. "Cut out smoking, Smith," he said sharply. "We'll stand for a lot, but—cut out smoking."

"It was one of those Portugooses," said Coldharbour hastily. "My manager let them come in here; I don't allow a pipe on the premises, I swear to you, Captain. It was done when I was out, and as soon as I knew I kicked the man out of the club."

"That may be true or it may be a lie, but don't let it occur again. Now!" He pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning his arms on the table and looking up at the watchful man. "You were at the castle the other night?"

"You mean Garre Castle—Mr. Bellamy's place? Yes, that's true, Captain, I was. I've been there twice lately to see Mr. Bellamy on a matter of business. However did you know that?" he asked innocently, and Jim smiled.

"The old man's been on the telephone to you today, telling you that I raided the castle this morning. Don't deny it; we had a man at the exchange listening in."

It was the sheerest bluff on Jim's part, but there was an air of expectancy about the place when he had arrived, and he guessed that the old man must have warned his tool to expect a visit.

"I certainly was talking to Mr. Bellamy on the 'phone this morning over a private matter," admitted Smith, and seemed inclined to talk about something else.

"What is your business with old man Bellamy?"

"He's been a good friend of mine," said Coldharbour glibly. "Lent me a lot of money to buy this place."

"You didn't save his life, I suppose—didn't jump into the water and pull him out?"

"No, sir, I didn't," admitted Coldharbour: Smith. His tone was gracious and his manner unexceptional, yet there was a cold, snaky glint in his eye which told Jim all he wanted to know.

"So he lent you the money? You're very grateful, and now I suppose you are paying him back? By the way, Smith, where did you live before you came here? I haven't looked you up in the records."

"I lived in this neighbourhood for a little while," said the man sullenly. "I used to live in Camden Town."

"What part of Camden Town?" asked Jim quickly.

"Little Bethel Street."

"Little Bethel Street!" Jim was on his feet, his finger pointed accusingly. "You knew Mrs. Held!"

"I never heard of Mrs. Held." Smith's denial was loud. "What do you mean, Captain? Who is Mrs. Held, anyway?"

"You knew Mrs. Held, and you helped spirit her away."

Smith's face had gone a shade paler.

"Now, come across, Smith. I'll make it right for you if you tell. If you don't"—he brought his fist down on the table—"I'll shut the Golden East in a week."

To his astonishment a smile dawned upon the unhealthy face of the man. "That won't worry me, Captain. I've sold the Golden East and got half the money." He slapped his pocket. "If you closed it, it wouldn't hurt me that much!" He was speaking the truth—Jim saw that at a glance.

"Anyway, Captain, what's the good of roasting me? I'm straight; you've got nothing against me. I try to live friendly with the police, and if I don't it isn't my fault. Have a drink, Captain."

There were three happenings that had not escaped Jim Featherstone's notice. The first was the quick glance that the man had given to his barman, the second his insistence upon Featherstone having a drink, though he knew Jim had been there before and that such a request had been invariably refused. As Coldharbour Smith had taken a sidelong look at the barman, the man in white had signalled with his eyes to somebody in the room, and, following the direction of his glance, Jim had seen a man whom he had not noticed before and who must have come in after him. But for that event he would have interviewed Smith in a more public place.

"What's the idea?" he asked. "That drink idea of yours. You know I never take anything here."

"Aren't you going to be friendly for once?" grinned Smith.

There was a telephone on a shelf in the corner of the room. Jim had seen it when he came in. "Do you mind if I call a friend of mine?" he asked suddenly.

Smith hesitated. "This 'phone's out of order," he said.

"Let me see," said Jim coolly and picked up the instrument. Almost immediately he received the signal from the exchange and gave a number. He saw Smith standing in the centre of the room, biting his nails nervously, and he understood dimly just what was happening.

"Who is it? The sergeant in charge at Limehouse? Captain Featherstone speaking. I am at the Golden East. Yes ... I want four men to meet me outside the club at once. Thank you."

He hung up the receiver. And now Smith's perturbation dispelled any doubts he might have had. "You had arranged a little party for me outside, hadn't you, Smith?" he bantered. "I saw the man who followed me in and gave you the tip that I'd come alone. What was it going to be—an unfortunate street fight, in which I was involved? Too simple, Smith."

With a nod he passed to the door and turned the handle. The door was locked, and he spun round.

"I expect my barman locked it," said Smith huskily. "There's another way out, Captain." He opened a door and disclosed a stairway.

"You'll find a door at the bottom, Captain—" he began.

"Suppose you find it," said Jim pleasantly, and the man accepted the invitation with alacrity. He ran down the stairs ahead of the detective and opened the door. Jim saw the grey oblong of light and the outline of Coldharbour's figure against the wall.

"Good night, Captain," said Smith loudly.

"Good night," said Jim.

He made as though to pass the master of the Golden East, and then, with a sudden twist, caught the man by the collar, and before he could say a word had thrown him through the open doorway. Scarcely had Smith staggered into the street when somebody hidden in the shadow of a wall struck at him twice with a loaded stick, and Smith fell with a groan.

Instantly Jim was in the street, following the flying figure of the thug. In twenty yards he had overtaken him, and with a quick kick at his heels, an old rugger trick, had sent him sprawling.

Jim gripped him and jerked him to his feet.

"I'm going quietly," growled the man, dropping his weapon with a clatter. "This ain't my job. Coldharbour Smith hired me to hit a man when he came out of the club."

"At this present moment, my friend," said Jim, "Coldharbour Smith is wishing that he hadn't!"

He dragged his prisoner to the light of a street lamp and jerked up his chin, bringing his face into view. As he expected, it was the man who had followed him into the club. The recognition was mutual. The man wilted in Jim's grasp.

"Coldharbour'll kill me for this," he wailed.

They found Mr. Smith sitting up, nursing a wet and painful head, and to the exchange of recriminations which followed Jim listened with interest and a certain pleasure.

"If you say I told you to wait for this gentleman, you're a liar," said Smith, "and when I get my hands on you I'll beat the life out of you, you dirty little river-shark. Lock him up, officer!"

"Lock him up!" sneered the other. "If you ain't pinched, Smith, it is because you've got the police straight. You'd look fine in gaol, you would, you crimping hound!" Smarting under the treachery of his employer, the assailant grew more and more violent in Jim's hand. "You wouldn't have any drinks here; you wouldn't have no Valerie—"

The words were scarcely out of his lips before Jim jerked him round. "What's that?" he asked sharply.

"Valerie Howett—Mrs. Smith to be," screamed the prisoner, and Jim felt his blood go cold.

29. A WARNING TO SMITH

"Don't you take any notice of him, Captain," said Smith hoarsely. "He's mad, he always has been mad. I tell you, he's dippy, Captain. You've been in a lunatic asylum, haven't you, Isaacs?"

"That's right," agreed the other with relish. "I'm not quite responsible for what I say."

By this time the four policemen Featherstone had sent for had arrived. "Take this man to the station, charge him with common assault. I'll come along and see him." When they had taken the prisoner away he turned to Smith. "Smith, I guess you've been praying for trouble for a long time, and your prayer is in a fair way to being answered. When I've finished with this man I'm coming back to see you."

"You don't scare me, Captain," said Smith, his hand to his bruised head.

"It isn't a question of your being scared, it is a question of your being killed. Keep that in your nut," said Jim.

He followed the policeman to the station and had the prisoner lodged in a cell. "Isaacs told the truth, Captain Featherstone," said the sergeant in charge. "He is a little mad. He's been in and out of an insane asylum as long as I can remember."

"What is his record?"

"A very bad one. He's been at the Old Bailey three times—assault and robbery. Of late he's been working at the Golden East. Coldharbour Smith has practically kept him." It was a fairly hopeless proposition, thought Jim. He was certain it could have been no accident, that reference to Valerie. Mrs. Smith! What devilish work were they contemplating, this evil old man and his vicious servant?

Going down to the cell with another police officer, he interrogated the prisoner, but from the first it was waste of time. Isaacs was a little wry-necked man with a low, receding forehead, who was not only mentally deficient, but was cunning enough to employ that deficiency to suit his own purpose. He met Jim's questions with a blank stare.

"I can't remember having said anything about—what's the lady's name? ... "

"It is hopeless;" said Jim, returning to the charge room. "I don't know whether it is worth while holding him. And, anyway, it is Smith's business to charge him. If he doesn't come along, release him."

Smith had no intention of charging his handy man, and said so frankly. "I lost my temper with the little devil. Wasn't it enough to make me lose my temper when I knew that he was waiting there to cosh you? Thank heavens," said Mr. Smith virtuously, "that he hit me and not you!"

"You touch me deeply," said Jim. "And now we will discuss Miss Valerie Howett and the reason Isaacs associated her name with yours." They were back in the little room behind the bar, but this time there was a policeman stationed at the door below and another in the front hall.

"I know no more than you what he meant. These lunatics are very curious people—they get hold of names—"

"Change your mind, Smith," said Jim with dangerous quiet. "You're sane, at any rate."

"Captain, I know nothing; I've never heard the lady's name before. I can't help what Isaacs said, can I?"

"Isaacs said what you must have said when you were drunk, Smith. You're in danger. You can take that smile off your face, because I don't mean the danger that you mean. I'm not thinking of the danger of imprisonment. I can put you behind bars just when I want. You think you're safe because nobody troubles you. You're a fool; there is no safety for a man like you. One doesn't even have to frame up anything to get you. You're in danger—" he raised his finger again warningly "—danger from me, greater danger from one who will have no mercy on you."

The street door closed on the detective, and still Coldharbour Smith remained in the attitude he had been throughout the interview, one hand holding his elbow, the other yellow hand fingering his unshaven chin. Then he opened the door communicating with the bar and spoke a gruff word to the barman.

"Send that dago skipper in," he said. "And you'd better bring a bottle of wine and some cigars. I shall be here the best part of the night."

30. JOHN WOOD TALKS

In response to an urgent telegram, John Wood had left his children and come post-haste to London, reporting immediately on his arrival at Scotland Yard. It was Jim Featherstone's first meeting with the philanthropist, though he dimly remembered having seen him seated at the next table at the Carlton the day he lunched with the Howetts.

It was impossible to meet or even to see Wood without being impressed. Men carry in their faces the written book of their lives, and the story that Jim Featherstone read in the smiling eyes of John Wood warmed him towards his visitor.

"I am afraid I have given you a long and uncomfortable journey, Mr. Wood," he said. "But you quite understand that the Commissioner will pay all your expenses, though we cannot compensate you for the loss of what, I believe, is you favourite amusement."

John Wood laughed. "I gather Mr. Spike Holland has been talking about my babies," he said; "and I more than suspect that he has been telling you a little story which I told him in confidence. Not," he added, "that I object to his telling you; indeed, I expected he would sooner or later. You want to see me about Bellamy?"

Jim nodded. "I want to see you particularly about the child whom you say Bellamy murdered."

Wood had not accepted the chair that was offered to him, but was standing, his hands clasped before him, his eyes far away. "The child," he said slowly; and then: "What can I tell you? The story belongs to the dim past, and is quite forgotten by everybody but myself, and, I hope, Abe Bellamy—though I doubt very much whether those black records of his ever troubled him seriously."

For a while he seemed to be communing with himself. "The case to which you refer," he said at last, "belongs rightly to the American police, and I doubt very much, even if I placed you in full possession of the details, of this crime—which I am unable to do—whether you could take any action, Captain Featherstone. Bellamy is a man who seems to have employed the wealth that came to him very early in life in breaking down such opposition as was offered to him. I am not suggesting that he was a vicious man in the generally accepted sense of that word. On that side his history is a fairly clean one. The man's god has been power, and to secure power he has never hesitated to employ the foulest methods. Opposition to any plan of his, however unimportant or futile it might have been, roused the devil in him; and when that opposition came from somebody whom he could hurt, his blow was delivered swiftly and surely.

"He has always had one method whenever it was feasible, and that was to strike at his enemies through their children. There are two authentic cases within my knowledge where, to revenge himself for some real or fancied slight, or some act of defiance on the part of those who he thought should have bowed before his wishes, he has set himself to strike back that way. On one occasion the children were grown up, and in this particular case the child was a baby. I shall not tell you, Captain Featherstone, what caused Abel Bellamy's hatred in the instance I am giving you. Indeed, I am not quite certain what was the immediate cause, though I have guessed, and probably guessed rightly.

"One day the child of these people disappeared. The father was frantic, the mother was prostrate with grief. I have reason to believe that some communication passed between the mother and Abe Bellamy, but if that was so the father knew nothing. The child had been taken out by a nursemaid, who came back with an incoherent story to the effect that, whilst she was talking with a friend, the child had disappeared from the baby-carriage in which it had been sleeping.

"A fortnight later there was a head-on collision at a place called River Bend. Scores of people were killed—burnt to death. And amongst the debris was found a baby's shoe, which was identified by the grief- stricken father as the shoe which the child was wearing when it disappeared. Witnesses were found who saw a woman carrying a baby into the train, and there can be no doubt that the child was one of many who perished in that terrible disaster.

"The theory formed then was that the kidnapper was on his way to some unknown destination when the accident overtook him or his agent."

"Was this matter reported to the police?"

To his surprise John Wood shook his head. "That is why I am perfectly certain the mother knew who was responsible for the child's abduction, and, fearing for its fate, withheld the information which might have brought about its recovery. That Abe Bellamy was responsible I have no doubt."

"You're perfectly certain the child was killed?" asked Jim, and the man nodded. "When did this happen?"

"I am able to fix the date by the date of the accident. In fact, that is the only date I have to go on, for I had to piece together the story with practically no assistance. The child was lost in August, 1890."

Jim's face fell. "I was hoping to be able to tell you that the child was still alive, but I'm afraid the dates were wrong, unless the old man made a practice of this sort of thing."

"I don't think this was his only offence," said Wood. "It seems a fantastic charge to bring against a reputable man of Bellamy's position, but in the space of five years I have traced two mysterious disappearances, and in each case it was the child of a man who had stood out against him. As I said, the dominant passion in his life has been power. He may be mad, though I have had no corroboration of that excuse."

"Perhaps, Mr. Wood, you will tell me a little more," began Jim, but John Wood of Belgium shook his head.

"I am afraid I can't," he said.

"The name of the father of this child?"

"I can't even tell you that," said the other quietly. "You see, Captain Featherstone, I have a certain responsibility in the matter."

Before he left, John Wood asked a question that was on his mind. "You talked about the dates being wrong, Captain Featherstone. Have you traced some other victim of Abe Bellamy's villainy?" Jim nodded. "Will you tell me who it was?"

"I am afraid I must follow your example and ask you not to press me on that point," said Jim with a smile. "You are perfectly sure that the kidnapping you referred to occurred in '90?"

"There is no doubt at all," said the other. "The accident occurred at a place called River Bend. It was known as the River Bend disaster, and it happened on the twenty-ninth of August, 1890."

John Wood made one call before he caught the afternoon train back to Belgium, and to his disappointment Spike was out of town. Mr. Syme saw the visitor, and Mr. Syme interviewing members of the general public was altogether a different Mr. Syme from that which Spike knew. "Holland is still at Garre, but I'm withdrawing him tomorrow," he said. "The public interest in the Green Archer has evaporated. He hasn't made another appearance, so I guess the archer is dead. And maybe," he added hopefully, "he will be if I bring Holland back to London."

31. THE MAN WHO APPEARED

Since the departure of the "new butler" many of that gentleman's duties had devolved upon Julius Savini. It was his business in the morning to open the little door which led to the storeroom and admit from the kitchen buildings, which connected with the store-room, the servants whose business it was to clean up and dust, sweep, and scrub. Abe Bellamy's household was arranged to afford him the minimum of discomfort. His library was cleaned whilst he was taking his morning walk through the park—a practice which he followed wet or fine—the bedrooms and corridors were tidied immediately after.

Yet, despite his apparent indispensability, Julius knew that the old man was contemplating a change. Perhaps the uncanny mildness of his manner aroused the Eurasian's suspicion. Having this conviction, Julius Savini began to look around with the idea of making a profitable get-away.

Bellamy kept very little money in the house. He had a small account at a local branch of his London bank, but when he required any large sums it was Savini's duty to take the car to London and collect it. "Large" is a relative term, and so far the sums which Julius had drawn had not been of sufficient importance to justify his taking a risk.

Bellamy left to him the filling in of cheques, and he had access to the cheque-book; and when he had finally decided that the time had arrived to make his killing, Julius adopted a plan which had the advantage of simplicity. One morning he took in a bunch of cheques for the old man to sign; they were mostly small tradesmen's accounts, and the last was for the local newsagent and was for a trifling sum.

"Why don't you pay this by cash?" grumbled Abe as he scrawled his signature to the cheque.

He could not guess that Julius had already made up his mind to pay that particular account by cash, and that afternoon, instead of posting the cheque, he called at the store and paid the account. The cheque itself he carefully put away in his notecase, and as the date, the amount, and the name of the payee had been written in ink that faded within three hours of its writing, when Julius again inspected the cheque it was blank save for Abe Bellamy's signature.

That afternoon he went to town and saw his wife.

"I'll go alone," he said. "You can join me a few months later. It will be easy for you to slip from the sleuths, go to New York, and work down to Rio. I'll write you to the old place." The old place was El Moro's, to which many letters, strangely addressed, came every day and were furtively collected.

On his return to Garre, in his room after the house was quiet, Julius took out the cheque from his notecase—and made it out for a hundred thousand dollars—Abe Bellamy's was a dollar account, for just about that time the exchange was fluctuating against sterling. As he expected, the first words of Bellamy the next morning were: "I'll be sending you to town tomorrow to get some money, Savini."

"I might go today," said Julius, remembering that he had dated the cheque that day. "I have nothing much to do."

"You can go tomorrow early," snapped Abe. "Make the cheque out for five thousand dollars."

Julius came back with the cheque, and with it a letter addressed to the manager of the bank. "What is this?" asked Abe suspiciously.

"The last time I drew five thousand," said the glib Julius, "Mr. Sturges said he didn't like paying out large sums unless he had a covering letter with the cheque."

"They ought to know you by now," complained Abe as he scribbled his signature at the bottom of a letter which authorised the banker to pay bearer the cheque presented.

It was simple, thought Julius, and had a glow of malicious satisfaction as he anticipated the old man's rage when the discovery of the robbery was known. By that time Julius Savini would be beyond the reach of his tongue and his huge hands—especially those huge hands.

In the afternoon Abe Bellamy ordered the car and drove to some unknown destination. Julius guessed that he was meeting Coldharbour Smith, for there had been a call put through to Limehouse that morning, and Abel Bellamy had spent a quarter of an hour behind locked doors. His absence was welcome, for there were many things that Julius had to do—letters that had to be destroyed, clothes that he was leaving behind to be searched, so that nothing was left which would trace him. The last letter had been burnt, the last waistcoat rigorously examined, and he came out of his room into the long corridor wondering if his nerves would give way under the strain of living with Bellamy for the next twelve hours.

At the farther end of the passage, near to the staircase, was the small door through which the cleaners were admitted, and through which the Green Archer had disappeared. The door was opened and closed by Julius since the butler had gone, and he had noticed it standing ajar as he had passed on his way to his room, and had mentally resolved to return and lock up, for after lunch the only communication between the kitchen and the hall was through the service doors opposite the dining-room.

As Julius stood, his mind intent upon his coming flight, he saw the door opening slowly outward, and for a second his heart stopped beating, though it was broad daylight, and there was every possibility that the intruder was a servant who had come back to finish her belated work.

But there was something so furtive, so cautious, in the movement of the door that his mind leapt to the Green Archer, and he stood rooted to the spot. Very slowly the door opened, and then round its edge a man stepped cautiously—a tall, cadaverous, bareheaded man, wearing a pair of horn—rimmed glasses. He could only have caught a glimpse of the dumbfounded figure of Julius Savini, but he leapt back and pulled the door to with a crash.

Still, Julius did not move, but stood there open—mouthed, staring at the closed door. The man who had made so dramatic, so inexplicable an appearance, was Mr. Howett.

32. THE THERMOMETER

It was Mr. Howett! Mr. Howett, who was using the door that the Green Archer had used, who could find his way into the very heart of the castle, despite all Abel Bellamy's precautions. Julius drew a long sigh, and returned to his bedroom, took out the forged cheque and burnt it in the fireplace. He saw a more profitable and less dangerous course. Howett was a rich man, and Howett would pay!

Then at his leisure he took his keys and unlocked the little door—it fastened with a spring catch—and went slowly down the stone stairs to the store-house. As he expected, the room was empty. The door leading to the kitchen was unlocked, and he passed into the domain of the cook.

"No, sir, nobody's been through there," she said, shaking her head. "The cleaners went hours ago."

It mattered little to Julius now whether or not the old man discharged him. He had a source of income for the rest of his life. Strolling out into the park, he surveyed Lady's Manor with the air of a proprietor, and dreamt dreams of easy money. The sight of a man swinging up the drive from the lodge diverted his attention, and his heart came into his mouth when he recognised the visitor. It was Jim Featherstone.

"Jumping snakes! What are you doing here, Featherstone?" he asked, his roseate dreams suddenly dispelled.

"I'm improving the shining hour. They tell me the old man's out, though I expected him to be at home when I left London."

"You can't come into the castle, Captain Featherstone," said the agitated Julius. "I've as good as lost my job as it is."

"So I gathered," said Featherstone.

"So you gathered?" faltered Julius, and Jim Featherstone nodded.

"Savini," he said, "when a man like you begins making inquiries at shipping offices and collecting data about the German ships that run from Vigo to Rio, I gather that you are in imminent danger of being fired and that you are contemplating a change of air and scenery. I can only tell you this, that if Abe Bellamy were the devil himself, it is my job to protect him from robbery, and I warn you, Mr. Savini, that you will be severely scrutinised if you attempt to leave London, either by the prosaic boat-train or the more romantic airway."

Julius could have swooned. What an escape he had had! "I don't know why you should think these things about me, Captain," he said with an air of injured innocence. "I'm trying to go straight, but you police fellows don't give a man a chance."

Jim laughed. "That early Christian martyr tone of yours certainly refreshes me," he said. "Now, Julius, you can make yourself useful. I'm looking for something in the garden. I don't want to go into the baronial hall."

"What is it?" asked Julius, his curiosity overcoming his panic.

"The other night I drove a number of spikes into the ground, and I found them all except one. It was the night the dogs chased the Green Archer."

"A spike?" said Julius, thinking for the moment that Captain Featherstone was being facetious. "The only Spike—"

"This wasn't a human spike," interrupted Jim. "I'm not going to explain to you the why and wherefore of it. Help me search. It was in that garden bed close under the wall. By the way, that is the back of Bellamy's library, isn't it?" He pointed to the grey and broken wall.

Julius nodded. "You ought to know every location by now, Captain Featherstone," he said. "If the old man had any idea that I knew who you were there'd have been trouble."

"Have you got a new butler?"

"I'm the new butler," said Julius savagely. "The old devil is treating me like a domestic servant!"

The search proved to be short in duration. Jim had not been looking for five minutes before he saw the dull gleam of steel, and, scooping out the earth, he drew up the bar he had planted.

"What is it?"

"It is a thermometer, and the temperature is forty degrees. I can tell you that before I look at it," said the detective.

He wiped the mould from the glass-shielded face of the instrument and examined the record. Then he whistled. "Eighty degrees!" he said, half to himself. There was no doubt on the matter. The instrument was self registering, and a thread of scarlet touched the eighty line.

"Eighty degrees," he repeated, and looked at the puzzled Julius. "The earth here, Savini, is forty degrees hotter than the earth in any part of the grounds—which I think," he added, "accounts for the gas bill."

"But what does it matter, anyway?" asked Julius. "And how does the gas bill come in? You don't think that he is heating the ground?"

"That is just what I do think," said Featherstone.

He examined the thermometer again. The actual temperature stood at fifty-five, but at some period between the placing of the indicator and its recovery the thermometer had been subjected to a heat of eighty.

"I cannot understand what this is all about, Featherstone," said Julius irritably. "What have I to tell the old man when he comes back?"

"You'll tell him nothing," was the suave reply. "You'll maintain that discretion which so admirably distinguished your conduct when I had the honour of sleeping under the same roof as you."

Julius was saved the necessity for lying, for even as Featherstone turned to go Abe Bellamy's car swept up the drive, and the big fellow jumped out almost before it was at a standstill.

"Got another—what do you call it—warrant?" he asked. "Glad to see you, Captain Featherstone. What I like about England is the way people call without invitation. What's that?" he demanded sharply.

Without a word Jim handed him the long steel rod, and the old man frowned at it.

"A few nights before I left your employ, Mr. Bellamy, I took the liberty of going round the castle grounds planting instruments very similar to this. They each contained a self-recording thermometer, and all except this, which I did not find, showed a ground temperature of forty degrees. The last thermometer shows eighty."

Abe Bellamy did not move a muscle.

"Maybe you've found a volcano," he said, "or a hot spring. Are you thinking of gaoling me because the ground is hot?"

"I only remark that it is curious."

Abe laughed harshly. "I hate to disappoint a clever fellow like you, Featherstone," he said, "but if you'll make inquiries at the lodge you will find that, with true American thoroughness, I had hot water laid on for the use of the keeper. You have struck the hot—water pipe—that's the second pipe you've had!" He chuckled as if he was enjoying a good joke at the expense of the detective. "All the same," he went on, "I'm mighty curious to know what you thought you'd found."

"I certainly did not expect to find a hot—water pipe driven through a twelve—foot way," said Featherstone.

The old man's explanation was a perfectly logical one, and he felt that for once Abel Bellamy had scored. Inquiries at the lodge, which he did not hesitate to make, confirmed this statement. He confessed his failure to a sympathetic Spike Holland.

"I don't exactly know what I expected to find," he said, "except that, if this gas was used, it was employed somewhere out of sight. Whilst I was at the castle I had an opportunity of examining the meter, and more gas is used in Garre Castle than the stoves or the range can account for."

"It is up to you, Holland," he added, when they had exhausted the problem of the gas, 'to help me all you know how. I will let you into my confidence to this extent, that I believe Miss Howett is in very grave danger. The nature of that danger I cannot tell you because I don't know. I do know this, however, that for some reason, which is beyond me, Bellamy has conceived a bitter hatred towards this girl; and unless I am greatly mistaken he is plotting some harm to her. If you're willing to stay on I'll see your editor and put you right with him. I can tell him enough to make him realise that there's still a big story to come out of Garre Castle. And if you stand by me I'll see that you get it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to spend most of your days in bed and most of your nights somewhere within reach of Lady's Manor."

"Is it the archer you're looking for?"

Featherstone shook his head. "I'm not worrying about the archer," he said. "He can look after himself, and I'm satisfied that he means no mischief to Miss Howett. The archer I'm watching is Coldharbour Smith, and believe me he's more dangerous to my peace of mind than the most deadly bowman that ever wore green!"

As he drove back to town that evening he stopped his car on the crest of the road that runs up Garre Hill and looked back.

The grim outlines of the castle were silhouetted against the wine hues of the west, menacing and sinister. What secret did those walls hold, he wondered? What tragedy lay hidden? That its mystery was not yet revealed he was certain.

33. THE GREY LADY

At eight o'clock that evening a maid pushed into Abel Bellamy's study the wheeled table on which his huge meal was laid. She placed it in the clear space behind his desk, set a chair, and with a frightened "Your dinner is served, sir," made her escape.

Abel Bellamy started at the sound of her voice and growled something under his breath, which she did not hear. He walked slowly to the door and locked it; then, without sitting at the table, began to arrange food on plates. When he had finished he approached his desk and pushed it until it was clear of the rug on which it stood. This he rolled methodically, exposing the parquet flooring beneath.

From a desk drawer he took a small vacuum cup, the presence of which had often puzzled Julius. He pressed it on one of the small wooden squares that made the pattern of the floor, and it lifted, exposing a small keyhole. Into this he turned the key he carried on his chain. Then, gripping the edge of the wood, it came up in the form of a trap-door with a regular edging, so cunningly devised that the shape of the trap could not be detected when it was in place. Beneath was apparently solid stone flags, into which a small gun-metal lock had been fitted.

Again he used the key, and, putting his foot on the stone, pressed. Balanced on a steel axis, it half turned, revealing a flight of stone stairs. He went back to the table, took a plate in his hand, and walked into the chamber beneath. Although it was dark, he made his way to a bench, where he put down the plate, and, striking a match, lit a gas-jet. At the far end of the room was a door, which he unbolted with one hand and pushed open.

In the direction he was now moving he was outside the walls of the castle; indeed, the door through which he passed was built in the foundation of the wall, which was so thick at this point that, when the door opened, he appeared to be walking through a short tunnel. Beyond was a large room, out of which were two smaller apartments. The room was illuminated by six gas-jets that burnt behind opaque globes. It was the most remarkable room in the castle, with its massive stone pillars and the sombre vault of its roof. It had been furnished regardless of cost. Beautiful rugs covered the stone floor, priceless tapestries hid the walls, and easy chairs and couches were plentiful. On a small table was a great silver vase, in which a few blossoms drooped. Every article of furniture in that room Abel Bellamy had carried there himself, smuggling them in one by one.

He put down the plate on the table and looked round. The room was empty. He went to one of the doors and pushed it open. It was fitted up as a small kitchen and was completely equipped. Beyond, through an open door, he caught a glimpse of a long bath, and with a grunt came back to the main room.

"Elaine!" he called sharply, and a woman came slowly from the third room. She wore a shapeless dark gown and her movements were slow and listless. "Here's your dinner," barked Bellamy. "Do you ever think what'd happen if I forgot you, eh? Suppose I dropped dead?" He rumbled with laughter at the thought. "Who'd find you? You'd starve down here, Elaine. In hundreds of years' time—thousands perhaps—they'd find you and put you with one of those old queens—eh, Elaine?"

She had heard this so often that she gave it no attention. The only sign she gave that she had heard him was when she slowly pulled a chair to the table to sit down. He watched her as she ate, almost mechanically. Eight years of solitary confinement were written in the transparent pallor of her face. Yet not all her trials, not the humiliation to which she had been subjected daily, the insults and taunts, the studied brutality which Abel Bellamy had imposed upon her, had broken her spirit or brought a line to that singularly beautiful face. She might have been a woman of thirty, and the grey in her hair was the only betrayal of a greater age. He stood against one of the big pillars, his arms folded, looking down at her.

"I saw Valerie today, Elaine Held," he said. "She would have sent her love if she had known. She'll be a happy bride in a month, my dear. You remember Coldharbour Smith?"

The woman looked up. "I don't believe you when you tell me that you have seen Valerie, or that she is anywhere near. It is just a lie of yours. Everything you told me has been a lie."

"Do you know Coldharbour Smith?" he repeated.

She did not answer, but the hand that carried a glass of water to her lips was shaking.

"You had better remember him," he said, raising his voice threateningly. "I thought you'd be seeing him again soon. There's been a fly cop nosing round the castle, and when you were in your tantrums the other day he heard you! Yes, ma'am, he was standing right over your head and heard you squealing." He laughed, a sound that echoed through the subterranean chamber. "A clever lad, he took the temperature of the ground and found your kitchen. He's been guessing right, but I fooled him." Still she made no reply. He was so used to these silences that he had ceased to be irritated, and he went on: "Valerie's lovely. Yes, ma'am, that girl is Elaine Held all over again—the same eyes, the same hair, the same damned stuck-up ways. They're marrying in a month."

She got up from her chair with a sigh, looked at him steadily for a second or two, and then: "I think of Valerie as dead," she said.

"You're a fool and you always were a fool. You had a chance when I wanted to marry you. I don't want to marry you now."

"That is the kindest thing you've said to me. Oh, God, I wish I was dead!" She covered her face with her hands, and her body shook.

"Why don't you die?" said the old man contemptuously. "Because you're a coward! Why don't you die? It is easy. Turn on any of these gas faucets and go to sleep. You've got knives—can't you sharpen them?"

"I don't want to die that way. I will live to see you punished for all the evil you have done in the world, for all the sorrow you have brought to human hearts, Abe Bellamy."

Up went his lips to show his teeth. He moved swiftly towards her and caught her by the shoulder. "You're afraid of death!" he said, glaring into her face. "I'm not! I look for the day when I shall be stricken down—me up above, and you down here, nobody dreaming of you! That will be a good thought to take with me. And when they carry me out of the castle they'll walk over your tomb, Elaine, and they won't know, and you won't know, and I shan't know!"

She shivered. "You aren't human!" she muttered.

Abel released his hold of her, took up the plate, and balanced it on the palm of his hand, looking at her speculatively. "They'll never find you," he said, speaking to himself, "never! I'll keep you here. If I took you away I'd only bring you back again."

Abruptly he turned from her and went through the door, slamming it and thrusting home the bolt. He took the plate that he had set down, brought it up the stairs, and replaced it on the table in his library. Then the stone slab swung into its position and held with a click.

CONTINUED IN

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