R. Austin Freeman

The Great Portrait Mystery and Other Stories

Warsaw 2017

Contents

I. THE GREAT PORTRAIT MYSTERY

II. THE BRONZE PARROT

III. THE MISSING MORTGAGEE

IV. POWDER BLUE AND HAWTHORN

V. PERCIVAL BLAND’S PROXY

VI. THE ATTORNEY’S CONSCIENCE

VII. THE LUCK OF BARNABAS MUDGE

I. THE GREAT PORTRAIT MYSTERY

PART I

AS a collection of human oddments, the National Gallery on copying day surpasses even the Reading Room of the British Museum, and almost equals the House of Commons. The spectacle that it afforded was a source of perennial interest to Mr. Joseph Fittleworth, as were also the productions of the professional copyists, humorously described in official parlance as students. For Joseph Fittleworth was himself a painter, with a leaning to the methods of the past rather than to those of the future, a circumstance which accounted for his professional failure. Which illustrates the remarkable fact that in these days, when even indifferent Old Masters sell at famine prices, while the unsold work of contemporary genius grows mouldy in the studios, an artist’s only chance of popularity is to diverge as far as possible from the methods of those great men of the past whose productions are in such demand.

Hence it had happened that Fittleworth had accepted with avidity a not very lucrative supernumerary post at the National Gallery where he could, at least, have his being amidst the objects of his worship, which we may remark included an exceedingly comely young lady, who came regularly to the gallery to copy pictures, principally of the Flemish school.

On this particular Thursday morning Mr. Fittleworth walked slowly through the rooms, stopping now and again to look at the work of the copyists, and dropping an occasional word of judicious and valued criticism. He had made a tour of the greater part of the building and was about to turn back, when he bethought him of a rather interesting copy that he had seen in progress in a small, isolated room at the end of the British Galleries, and turned his steps thither. The room was approached by a short corridor in which a man was seated copying in water-colour a small Constable, and copying it so execrably that Fittleworth instinctively looked the other way and passed hurriedly to the room beyond. The work in progress here interested him exceedingly. The original was a portrait of James the Second by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and the copy was so perfect a reproduction that Fittleworth halted by the easel lost in admiration of the technical skill displayed. The artist, whose name appeared from an inscription on his colour box to be Guildford Dudley, was seated, looking at his picture and the original, as he deliberately mixed a number of tints on his palette.

“I see you haven’t begun work yet,” Fittleworth remarked.

The painter looked up at him, owlishly through a pair of very large, double focus spectacles, and shook his head, which was adorned by a tangled mass of very long, reddish hair.

“No,” he replied, “I am just having a preliminary look before starting.”

“Do you think your copy wants anything done to it at all?” asked Fittleworth. “It’s excellent as it stands, though just a trifle low in tone.”

“Not lower than the original, is it?” demanded the artist.

“No,” replied Fittleworth, “but it will be in a year or so, when the medium has darkened, and it’s a good deal lower than the original was when first painted.”

The painter reflected. “I’m inclined to think you’re right,” said he. “I ought to have kept it one or two degrees higher. But it isn’t too late,” he added, briskly. “A day’s work or so ought to bring it up to the proper key.”

Fittleworth was doubtful and rather sorry he had spoken. Raising the tone meant practically going over the entire picture afresh, which seemed a risky proceeding in the case of a finished, and highly successful, painting. He attempted gentle dissuasion, but, finding the painter resolved on the alteration, refrained from urging him further.

“I see,” said he, “that the glass is on the original. Wouldn’t you like to have it taken off?”

“Oh, no, thanks,” was the reply. “There’s no reflection in it from here.”

“The glass lets the tone down a little,” Fittleworth began; but there he paused, with his mouth slightly open, and the painter started and fell into a rigid posture, with his palette-knife poised motionless in mid-air. Astonishment was writ large on the faces of both men as they listened. And not without cause; for, clear and distinct, came the notes of a hautboy, playing a lively melody, and most evidently from somewhere within the sacred precincts of the building. Fittleworth remained for some seconds rigid as a statue, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed on those of the painter; but suddenly he recovered himself, and, without a word, darted from the room. Passing the water-colourist, who was looking over his shoulder and grinning, he entered the larger gallery, to find the easels deserted and the students trooping out of the door; and, following them, soon found himself in a momentarily-augmenting crowd of copyists, all surging towards the source of the music and all on the broad grin.

It was in the Venetian room that Fittleworth finally ran the musician to earth. There he found a dense crowd, collected round Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne, and at its centre, a tall, thin man of grotesque and whimsical aspect, who wore a steeple-crowned felt hat and a long cloak, apparently quite oblivious of his audience. At the moment of Fittleworth’s arrival, he was giving a spirited and skilful rendering of the “Carnival de Venise” with somewhat florid variations, and meanwhile keeping a pensive eye fixed on the picture. Fittleworth, controlling his features as well as he could, pushed through the crowd and touched the stranger lightly on the shoulder.

“I am sorry,” said he, “to interrupt your really admirable performance, but I’m afraid we can’t allow it to continue here.”

The stranger rolled a solemn, and somewhat reproachful, eye towards the official, and pausing for a moment on a low note, sprang up an octave and opened a fresh suite of variations, of really surprising agility. Fittleworth smothered a grin and waited patiently until the bravura passage came to an end with a most astonishing flourish, when he once more entered his polite demurrer. The stranger removed the instrument from his mouth and, having waited for the applause to subside, turned gravely to Fittleworth.

“Do I understand,” said he, “that you object to music in this establishment?”

Fittleworth replied in the affirmative.

The stranger shook his head solemnly. “That,” said he, “seems to be an extraordinarily mistaken view. Surely you do not dispute the essential kinship of the fine arts?”

Fittleworth smiled evasively, and the stranger continued, amidst a murmur of encouraging giggles from the students:

“You will not deny, sir, that the different fine arts are but various modes of a general sense of beauty.”

Fittleworth was not denying anything; he only objected to the hautboy.

“Then,” the stranger persisted, unmoved, “you will admit that each of the modes of beauty is reinforced by exposition and illustration through the other modes. For my part,” he added finally, “I regard appropriate and sympathetic music as indispensable to the due appreciation of pictorial beauty,” and with this, he turned away and moved off through the gallery followed, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, by an attendant multitude.

Fittleworth was in somewhat of a dilemma. There was no explicit rule against the playing of musical instruments in the galleries and the act was not in itself unlawful; moreover, the stranger’s plea, though fantastic and absurd, was advanced so suavely and plausibly that it was difficult to deal with. He was still smilingly considering what it were best to do, when the stranger halted before Claude’s “Embarkation of St. Ursula” and forthwith began a plaintive rendering of “Partant pour la Syrie.” For awhile the humour of the situation was too much for Fittleworth, and the performance was nearly at an end before he had recovered himself sufficiently to renew his protests; but as the stranger moved away, he once more addressed him with polite, but urgent, remonstrance. The musician regarded him with reproachful surprise and again urged him to consider the intimate relation between the different modes of beauty, instancing the performances of Miss Maud Allen as a familiar and popular example; and even while Fittleworth was racking his brain for a suitable rejoinder, the stranger drew up abruptly before David’s portrait of Elisa Bonaparte, and fixing a fiery eye upon the picture, burst into the “Marseillaise.”

Fittleworth felt himself becoming hysterical as the students cheered and the stirring phrases of the warlike melody rang through the building. It was useless to protest. The stranger only frowned, and rolled a compelling eye that demanded silence. Bewildered attendants watched the performance from afar with horrified stares and the crowd grew from moment to moment. After a brief appreciation of Fragonard’s “Happy Mother” (to the air of “La Vierge a la Creche”), he moved on into the Dutch Gallery, and pausing before a picture of Van Ostade’s, struck up with surprising spirit and verve “The Dutchman’s Little Wee Dog”; which brought down the house and, incidentally, put a term to the performance. For at this point, to Fittleworth’s great relief, an irritable old lady, who was copying a Rembrandt, came forward and demanded how she could “be expected to work in this disgusting hubbub.” Fittleworth took the opportunity to point out to the musician that the galleries were at present filled with workers to whom his admirable performance, though delightful on a more seasonable occasion, was, just now, a distraction and a hindrance.

The stranger turned, and raised his steeple-crowned hat. “That,” said he, with a low bow to the old lady, “is an entirely different matter. If my presence is a source of disturbance, there is nothing for it but for me to wish you a very good morning.”

With this and another low bow, and an elaborate flourish of his hat, he turned, and adjusting the mouth piece of his instrument, walked away briskly towards the entrance hall, playing “The Girl I left behind me.”

It was some considerable time before the galleries settled down again. The students, gathered into groups, eagerly discussed the fantastic stranger, and Fittleworth, passing from one group to another, was assailed by innumerable questions. It was getting on for lunch time when he found himself once more in the neighbourhood of the isolated room where the portrait was in progress, and he noticed, as he passed through the corridor, that the water-colourist had already left. He found Mr. Dudley staring discontentedly through his great spectacles at the picture on his easel, and a single glance showed him that there was abundant cause for discontent.

“What do you think of it?” the painter asked, looking up doubtfully.

Fittleworth pursed up his lips. “I’m afraid,” said he, “you haven’t improved it. The tone is certainly higher but the likeness has suffered, and the whole thing looks coarse and patchy.”

Dudley gazed gloomily at the canvas and nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right,” said he. “I’ve mucked it up. That’s the plain truth.”

“You certainly haven’t improved it,” agreed Fittleworth, “and, if I might venture to advise, I would recommend you to clean off this morning’s work and consider the picture finished.”

The painter stood up and surveyed his work savagely. “You’re perfectly right,” said he, “and I’ll follow your advice.” He closed his folding-palette and began rapidly to pack up his materials, while Fittleworth stood, gazing regretfully at the spoiled painting. When he had packed his box and brush-case, Dudley proceeded to secure the canvas, which was very neatly arranged for safe transport, being fixed by catches to the bottom of a shallow box, the sliding lid of which served to protect the wet surface.

“Are you going to take it away with you?” Fittleworth asked, as the painter slid the lid into its groove and fixed on the carrying straps.

“Yes,” replied Dudley, “I will take it home and then I shan’t be tempted to tinker at it again when I’ve cleaned this mess off.”

Having closed and packed his easel, he picked up his heavy colour-box, his brush case and a leather bag, and Fittleworth, seeing him thus encumbered, politely offered to carry the box which contained the painting; and so they walked together to the entrance-hall, where Fittleworth delivered up the shallow box to its owner, wishing him luck in his efforts to obliterate the traces of the unfortunate morning’s work.

About eleven o’clock on the following forenoon, Fittleworth halted by the easel appertaining to Miss Katharine Hyde for a few minutes’ confidential chat. He did not often allow himself this luxury, for the two young people had agreed that their relations inside the building had better be kept on a business footing. But every rule has its exceptions, and besides, as Katharine had not been present on the previous morning, she had to be told about the musical stranger. Fittleworth was in the midst of a spirited narration of the incident, when one of the attendants approached with a mysterious air.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said he, “but there’s a Mr. Dudley has come to work at his picture and we can’t find it.”

Fittleworth frowned. “Dudley, Dudley,” he muttered, “isn’t that the–yes, of course.” And, as a red-haired person with large spectacles advanced in the wake of the attendant, he said, “Have you been asking for your picture, Mr. Dudley?” The artist replied that he had. “But, my dear sir,” laughed Fittleworth, “you took it away with you yesterday morning.”

The painter gazed at him with owlish surprise. “I wasn’t here yesterday morning,” said he.

Fittleworth stared at him, in silent astonishment, for a few moments. Then he exclaimed impatiently:

“Oh, nonsense, Mr. Dudley. You can’t have forgotten. You were working at the picture all the morning, and I helped you myself to carry it to the entrance hall.”

The painter shook his head. “I was working the whole of yesterday in the National Portrait Gallery. You must have helped some one else out with my picture.”

Fittleworth started, and was sensible of a chill of vague alarm. The painter’s appearance was so remarkable that a mistake seemed impossible. And yet he began to have an uneasy feeling that this was not the same man. There was the same long, red hair and the same enormous spectacles, but the face was not quite that of the man whom he had talked to yesterday, and the voice and manner seemed appreciably different. And again, a vague and chilly terror clutched at his heart.

“Shall we go and look at the attendance book?” said he; and as the painter agreed with alacrity, they hurried away.

“Your name is Guildford Dudley, I think,” said Fittleworth, with his finger on the page that recorded yesterday’s attendances.

“Yes,” replied Dudley, “but that’s not my handwriting.”

Fittleworth reflected for a moment in a state bordering on panic.

“I’m afraid,” said he, “there’s something wrong; but we’d better run round to the Portrait Gallery and verify your statement.”

They hurried out together, and turning round into St. Martin’s Place, entered the Portrait Gallery, where a very brief investigation proved that Mr. Dudley had been engaged the whole of the previous day.

Fittleworth broke out into a cold sweat. It was evident that a fraud had been committed; and a most elaborate fraud for, among other matters, an attendance card must have been counterfeited. But what could be the object of that fraud? A copy, no matter how good, seemed hardly worth such deliberate and carefully-considered plans. Fittleworth and the painter looked at one another, and with the same horrible suspicion in both their minds they hurried away together to put it to the test.

As Fittleworth entered the small, isolated room where the counterfeit Dudley had been at work on the previous day, he drew a breath of relief; for there, at least, was the original, secure in its frame. But his relief was short-lived; for Dudley, who had followed him closely, strode up to the picture and, after a quick, critical glance, turned to him with raised eyebrows.

“That is my copy,” said he.

Fittleworth felt all his terror reviving, and yet this awful thing seemed impossible.

“How can it be?” he exclaimed. “You see that the canvas is quite uninjured and the frame is screwed to the wall.”

“I know nothing about that,” replied Dudley. “I only know that that’s my copy.”

Fittleworth directed an agonised stare through the glass, and as he looked more closely, he felt a growing suspicion that the painter was right. The brush work and even the surface of the original had been closely and cleverly imitated, but still–here Fittleworth turned sharply to an attendant, who had followed them into the room.

“Go and fetch a screwdriver,” said he, “and bring another man with you.”

The attendant hurried away and returned almost immediately accompanied by a workman, carrying a screwdriver. The frame of the picture, unlike some others in the gallery, was fitted with brass plates which were screwed to hard wood plugs let into the wall. By Fittleworth’s direction, the workman proceeded to unscrew one of the plates while his assistant grasped the picture frame. Fittleworth impatiently watched the screwdriver as it made about a dozen turns, when the man stopped and looked up at him.

“There’s something rummy about this screw, sir,” he remarked.

“It seems to turn all right,” said Fittleworth.

“Oh, it turns all right,” said the man, “but it don’t git no forrader. Let’s try another.”

He did so, but the second screw developed the same peculiar properties. And then a most remarkable thing happened. As the workman stepped back to direct a puzzled look at the screw-plates, his assistant must have pulled slightly at the frame for it began to separate visibly from the wall. The workman dropped his screwdriver and seized the frame which, with another pull, came away bodily, with the four screws loose in the plates.

Fittleworth uttered a cry of despair. A single glance at the back of the brand-new canvas put the fraud beyond all doubt, and another glance at the screws left little to be explained as to the methods adopted by the robber. To Dudley, however, who was unaware of the events of the previous day, the whole affair was a profound mystery.

“I don’t see how they managed it at all,” said he, “unless they got in in the night.”

“I’ll tell you about it presently,” said Fittleworth. “Meanwhile, if you will lend us your copy for a few days, we will put the frame back; and mind,” he added, addressing the attendants, “nothing is to be said about this at present.”

When the picture had been replaced and the men had gone away, Fittleworth gave the artist a brief account of the happenings of the previous day, to which Dudley listened thoughtfully.

“I see the general scheme,” said he, “but what I don’t understand is how that man managed to do it all in such a short time, and with people moving about the galleries, too.”

“I think that’s all clear enough,” said Fittleworth, “see, the actual exchange of the pictures need have taken less than a minute. Everything had been carefully prepared beforehand. The thieves must have come here on previous days with the dummy screws in their pockets, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to take out the screws one at a time and push the dummies in in their place. And as to loosening the canvas in the frame, two men could easily do that in a minute or two, when once the screws were removed, if they had a sentinel posted in the corridor. Comparatively few people come to this room, you know.”

“But that would need three men at least,” objected Dudley.

“Exactly,” replied Fittleworth, “and I think there were three men; the hautboy player was one; his business being to draw every one away from the scene of action, and I feel no doubt that the water-colourist was another; a sentinel posted in the corridor to keep watch while the third man made the exchange.”

“I see,” said Dudley; “and when he’d made the exchange he oiled out the original, rubbed on some colour and put in a few touches on the high lights.”

Fittleworth nodded. “Yes,” said he, “that is what he must have done; and it would have been fairly easy since the picture was in such good condition and there were no cracks to cover up.”

“Yes,” agreed Dudley. “It would, it would. But, all the same, he must have been a pretty fair colourist and uncommonly skilful with his brush.”

“Yes, he must,” agreed Fittleworth, “and that suggests a very important question: this man obviously knew you well, as is proved by the exactness with which he personated you. He also knew exactly what you were doing and has known for some time past, for this was evidently a premeditated scheme, most carefully thought out. Moreover, the personator was clearly a painter of some skill, and even allowing for his make-up must have resembled you somewhat in appearance. Now, Mr. Dudley, can you think of anyone to whom that description could apply?”

The painter reflected awhile, and Fittleworth added, somewhat abruptly: “Who commissioned this picture?”

“This copy,” replied Dudley, “and the one I was doing next door were commissioned by an American gentleman, named Strauss, who is staying at the Savoy.”

“What is Mr. Strauss like?” Fittleworth asked.

“He is a tall, lean man, somewhat like the portraits of Abraham Lincoln.”

“Ah,” murmured Fittleworth, recalling the hautboy player. “How did you come to make Mr. Strauss’ acquaintance?”

“He introduced himself to me a month or so ago, when I was copying at the Luxembourg; in fact,” added Dudley, with a sudden flash of reminiscence, “it was he who suggested that excellent box to protect one’s work. He had one made for a copy that I did in Paris, and he provided me with two more for these two copies.”

Fittleworth reflected profoundly. The modus operandi of this clever fraud was becoming more and more obvious. Clearly, it would be necessary to make inquiries about Mr. Strauss, and meanwhile, the Director of the Gallery would have to be told about the catastrophe; a horrible duty, to the execution of which Fittleworth braced himself with a sinking heart and with a suspicion that his official days were numbered.

An unwonted air of depression brooded that evening over the modest apartments of Miss Katharine Hyde, for Fittleworth had just recounted, in minute detail, and a hushed, funereal voice, the appalling history of the robbery.

“It’s a hideous affair,” he groaned, in conclusion. “The Director took it very well, considering all things, but, of course, I shall have to go.”

“Did he say so?” asked Katharine.

“No, but you know the sort of howl that will be raised when the thing becomes known. It’ll be frightfully uncomfortable for him, and the least I can do is to take the full blame, seeing that I actually carried the picture out. I shall have to offer to resign and he’ll have to accept my resignation. What I shall do or a livelihood after that, the Lord only knows.”

“It’s dreadful for you,” said Katharine, “with all your talents and accomplishments, too.”

“It is hard,” agreed Fittleworth; “just as there seemed a chance of our being able to marry after all these years. I suppose I ought to release you, Katie, now that our prospects seem hopeless.”

“Why?” she asked simply. “I shouldn’t want anyone else, you know; and as to my freedom, well, I’m free to be a spinster now if you don’t marry me. But we won’t give up hope. Perhaps the picture will be found, after all, and then you won’t have to resign. Is it a very valuable picture?

“It’s worse than that,” said Fittleworth. “It was a loan, and I should say of priceless value to the owners for sentimental reasons.”

Katharine looked interested, and being anxious to divert her lover from the subject of their personal misfortunes, asked for more particulars.

“The picture has quite an interesting history,” said Fittleworth. “It was painted by Kneller in 1688, and the story goes that the king was actually sitting to the painter when a messenger arrived with the news that the Prince of Orange had landed in Torbay. The portrait was intended as a gift to Samuel Pepys to whom the king was greatly attached, and in spite of the agitation that the bad tidings naturally produced, he commanded Kneller to proceed and get the portrait finished so that his old friend and loyal servant should not be disappointed.”

“And did Pepys get the picture?” Katharine asked.

“Yes; and what’s more, it remains in the possession of the family to this day, or, at least, it did until it was stolen. So you see, apart from its intrinsic value as a painting, it has this especial value to the family. I had sooner those brutes had stolen almost any other picture in the gallery, even the Raphael Madonna.”

“Is there no clue whatever to the identity of the thief?” Katharine asked.

“There was one clue,” Fittleworth replied, “but it has broken off short; an American gentleman, named Strauss, who commissioned the portrait. We looked him up at the Savoy, but he has disappeared, and nothing whatever is known as to whence he came or whither he has gone. He was undoubtedly one of the robbers, but he seems to have vanished into thin air.”

“Oh, well,” said Katherine, “I daresay the police will soon catch him and he’ll be sure to have taken care of the picture;” and with this hopeful prognosis, the subject was dismissed, at least from speech, though in the minds of both the young people the missing picture remained as a sombre background to all other thought.

As he walked to the gallery on the following morning, Fittleworth considered, for the hundredth time, the most prudent form of procedure. Should he write an official letter tendering his resignation, or should he adopt the less final and deadly plan of offering verbally to resign? He was undecided when he turned in at the gate and began to ascend the steps; but he reached a decision as he reached the third step from the top, at the very moment when he collided with a commissionaire who was also ascending in company with a brown paper parcel. He would resign, in the first place, at any rate, by word of mouth and see how they took it.

And having formed this decision, he proceeded without further delay to put it in execution.

The Director and the Keeper had apparently talked the matter over, anticipating this course of action. “Well, Fittleworth,” said the former, “the matter doesn’t rest with me. If it did, I should say–Who’s this from, Jenkins?” The question was addressed to an attendant who had just brought in a brown paper parcel, addressed by name to the Director.

“Don’t know, Sir John,” was the reply. “A commissionaire brought it. He said there was no answer and he’s gone.”

The Director nodded, and as the man went out he scrutinised the parcel critically and examined the typewritten address label. “If the matter rested entirely with me,” he resumed, “I should say–er–now, what the deuce can this be?” He turned the flattish, oblong parcel, over and over, and finally, picking up the office penknife, applied its edge abstractedly to the string. “I should say,” he repeated–“if the matter rested with me, that is, which, of course, it doesn’t, that–it’s a box. I haven’t ordered any box. I wonder what the deuce–” Here he pulled the paper fairly open and Fittleworth uttered a cry of astonishment.

“What is it, Fittleworth?” Sir John asked; to which the former made no reply, but leaning across the table, quickly pulled out the sliding lid of the box. And then there fell on the room the silence of utter amazement, for, from the shallow box, there looked out composedly the familiar features of James the Second.

“Well,” Sir John exclaimed, at length, “this is the most astonishing affair of all. I suppose it’s all right,” he added suspiciously, unclamping the picture and lifting it out of the box. “They’re such uncommonly artful dodgers; still, I think there’s no doubt this is the genuine original. But why on earth have they returned it, after taking all that trouble to steal it?”

The three men pored over the canvas, searching suspiciously for any sign of change or substitution. But there was none. The surface of the painting was unaltered and apparently none the worse for its recent vicissitudes.

“They seem to have handled it carefully,” Mr. Barnard remarked. “No one would dream that it had been covered up with fresh paint.”

“No,” agreed Sir John; “it hasn’t left a trace. They must have used a slow-drying oil and cleaned it off immediately. But,” he added, turning the picture over, “they had the canvas off the stretcher. Do you notice?” He held the picture towards the other two, who eyed it narrowly.

“It seems to me, Sir John,” said Fittleworth, after running his eye round the edge of the canvas, “that it’s only been off at one end. The tacks at the top and the upper part of the sides don’t seem to have been disturbed.”

The Director looked at the picture once more. “You’re quite right, Fittleworth,” said he. “The canvas has been off the stretcher at the lower end only; and what’s more, the bottom bar of the stretcher has been removed and replaced by a fresh piece. Do you see that? The piece that has been inserted is old wood but it’s different from the other three, and you can clearly make out the fresh surface that has been left in cutting the tenons. It is a very astonishing thing. What do you make of it, Barnard?”

Mr. Barnard could make nothing of it and said so. “The whole thing is a complete mystery to me,” said he. “They may have damaged the old stretcher bar and had to replace it; but I don’t see why they wanted to unfasten the canvas at all.”

“Neither do I,” said Sir John, “but the main thing is that we’ve got the picture back uninjured, and, that being so, perhaps you would like to reconsider your resignation, Fittleworth.”

“I don’t think I will, Sir John,” replied the latter. “The affair is known to several people and there’s bound to be some sort of inquiry.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” rejoined the Director. “At any rate, we will hear what the Trustees say. Of course, if the matter rested with me–but it doesn’t; so, for the time being, I must accept your resignation.”

PART II

IT was perhaps fortunate that Saturday is a public day at most galleries, and so, an off-day for copyists; for in any case there would have been no work on this disastrous morning for Miss Katharine. Within a few minutes of Fittleworth’s arrival at the Gallery, she had taken up a position at the foot of the Nelson Column to await the promised report on the course of events. Fittleworth, on leaving the Director’s room, made straight for the trysting place, and was received with a bright smile and a small, outstretched hand, as they turned away together towards Whitehall.

“Well,” asked Kate, “what has happened?”

“I’ve offered to resign,” replied Fittleworth.

“And of course Sir John scouted the idea?” said Katharine.

“Oh, did he?” exclaimed Fittleworth. “Not at all. He did say that if the matter rested with him, he’d–”

“What?”

“I don’t quite know, but the great news is that the picture has come back.”

“Oh, good!” exclaimed Katharine. “But, if it has come back, why on earth should you resign?”

“You’ll see if I tell you how it came back;” and here Fittleworth described the mysterious return of the picture and the still more mysterious change of the stretcher bar.

“But I still don’t see why you’re resigning,” Katharine persisted.

“Then,” said Fittleworth, “I’ll explain. You see, Sir John and Barnard are concerned with the picture, qua picture, and from that point of view, a stretcher-bar is just a stretcher-bar and nothing else. But there’s one point that they’ve overlooked–at least, I think they have. This was not only a picture: it was a family relic.”

“But what has that to do with it?” asked Katharine.

“That question, my dear girl, is best answered by another. What did those men want with the old stretcher-bar?

“Well, what did they?”

“I don’t know,” replied Fittleworth; “but as soon, as I saw that the bar had been changed, I realised that there was something more in this robbery than met the eye. Consider the facts, Katie. First you will see that these men were not common thieves, for they have not only returned the property, but have obviously been most careful not to injure it; which is quite unlike a criminal, who is usually perfectly regardless of the amount of damage he does. In the second place, you will notice that these men wanted the bottom stretcher-bar of the canvas, and wanted it so badly that they were willing to go to great trouble and expense to get it. Next, you will see that these are men of very superior intelligence. One of them is quite a skilful painter, and another an expert musician, and one of them, at least, is a person of great ingenuity. And now, consider the picture itself. It was painted for the King when the Revolution had actually begun and was to be given into the custody of a man who was the King’s trusty friend, who was a man of unswerving loyalty, of infallible judgment and discretion, and who was so perfect a man of the world that he was practically certain not to be involved in any of the troubles that were to follow. What does this suggest to you?”

“It doesn’t suggest anything,” she replied, with a vague little shake of the head. “What does it suggest to you?”

“Well,” he replied, “you will agree that for a small and precious object, the stretcher-bar of a valuable picture would furnish an ideal hiding-place; and seeing that three men who are obviously not fools have gone to immense trouble to get possession of this bar, I am inclined to assume that it had been used for that purpose.”

“Really, Joe!” exclaimed Katharine, “what a delightfully romantic idea! And how Machiavellian of you to have thought of it! Shall we turn into the Park for a little while?”

Fittleworth assented, and as they had now reached the gates of the Horse Guards, they passed through, furtively watched by the gaudy sentinel, who stood, like some gorgeous tropical bird, keeping guard over the tunnel-like entry. The two lovers walked soberly across the great gravel expanse, and it was not until they had passed through the small gate into the Park, that they took up the thread of their talk. It was Katharine who spoke first.

“Have you made any sort of guess as to what it was that was hidden in that bar?”

“No, I haven’t,” replied Fittleworth; “and it’s no use guessing. But this much I think is plain: those men must have had some pretty definite information, and as they couldn’t have got it from the picture, they must have got it from somewhere else; and the question is, where else could they have got it?

“Could some one have told them?” Katharine suggested.

“No, certainly not, for if anyone had known of the hiding-place, the hidden object would have been removed long ago. The only possible conclusion seems to be that a written record of the hiding-place exists and has been overlooked.”

“I see,” said Katharine. “You mean among some of the old family papers.”

“Possibly,” said Fittleworth, “but I think not. You see that, wherever the record is, these men have obtained access to it. Now, they can hardly be members of the family, for if they had been, they could have abstracted the stretcher-bar when the picture was in the private collection instead of waiting until it was in a public gallery. So that it seems to follow that the record that they have seen, is in some place which is accessible to the public. And if it is accessible to the public, why, you see, Katie dear, that it must be accessible to us.”

“Yes,” agreed Katharine. “I suppose it must; ii we only knew where to look for it. But perhaps my Machiavellian Joseph has thought of that, too.”

“I haven’t had much time to think about it at all,” replied Fittleworth; “but there is one likely place that occurs to me, and probably much the most likely: my old college.”

“At Cambridge?”

“Yes, Magdalene. That was Pepys’s college, you know, and he bequeathed to it, not only the famous Diary, but a large number of manuscript memoirs on naval and political affairs, as well as prints and collections of ancient paintings. It is highly probable that the document of which we are assuming the existence is among the papers in the Pepysian library; but if it is, there is one little difficulty which will have to be got over.”

“What is that?

“Why, you remember that the prudent and secretive Samuel had a way of writing his private memoranda in shorthand, which he evidently used for security rather than brevity; and that being so, we may be pretty certain that our hypothetical document would be in shorthand, too. That is rather a serious difficulty, though I fancy that the system that he used was not a very complicated one. I must find out what Rich’s system is like.”

Katharine clapped her hands. “Rich’s!” she exclaimed. “How delightful! Have you forgotten that I am an expert in Rich’s shorthand?”

“I never knew,” said Fittleworth.

“Oh, but I’m sure that I told you. It was when I used to copy drawings and manuscripts at the British Museum that I got a commission to make a facsimile of a volume written in Rich’s shorthand. Of course, it was necessary to know something about the system or I should have got the characters wrong, so I learnt it up from an old handbook, and by the time I had done my task I had become rather skilful. It’s really quite simple, you know, as compared with modern systems like Pitman’s.”

Fittleworth regarded Katharine with admiring surprise. “What a clever little lady it is!” he remarked, “and how opportunely clever, too! Do you think it would take you long to teach me?”

“But what is it that you propose to do?” she asked.

“I propose to go down to Magdalene, and go through all the Pepys papers of the Revolution period, keeping an especially sharp look-out for any written in short hand. There are not likely to be many of these, for poor old Pepys’s eyesight became so bad that he had to give up keeping a shorthand diary after 1670.”

Katharine reflected earnestly, and as they took possession of an empty seat in a secluded path, she wrapped her hand coaxingly around his arm.

“I’m going to make a rather bold proposition, Joe. Of course you can learn Rich’s shorthand without any difficulty. But it would take some time and a good deal of trouble, whereas I already know it and have had quite a lot of experience in copying and reading the characters. Now, why shouldn’t you take me with you to Cambridge and let me decipher the shorthand papers?”

Fittleworth took a critical survey of the toe of his boot, and reflected on the personal peculiarities of a a mythical female of the name of Grundy; and Katharine, stealing a cautious glance at him, deciphered a cryptogram that was easier than Rich’s.

“Maggie Flinders would put me up, I know,” she said a propos of the decipherment. “She’s a something at Newnham, and we’re quite old friends.”

Fittleworth’s face cleared. “That gets rid of one difficulty,” said he, “and the other difficulty I must get over as best I can.”

“You mean the expense that the inquiry will involve?” said Katharine.

“Yes. You see, I have no doubt that something of considerable value has been stolen, and stolen through my thick-headedness; and if that something can be recovered, it’s my duty to get it back if I spend my last halfpenny in doing it.”

“Yes,” said Katharine. “I quite agree with you, excepting as to the thick-headedness, which is all nonsense; for of course the Director himself would have been taken in if he’d been in your place. So I’m going to make another proposition. I am just as keen on your getting this thing back as you are; in fact, your credit is my credit. Now, I have a little capital put by for a contingency that doesn’t seem likely to arise just at present, and I should like to invest some of it in our joint undertaking.”

It is needless to say that Fittleworth objected violently. It is equally needless to say that Katharine trampled on his objections with scorn, and that when they rose from the seat, the inevitable thing had happened. As the poet expresses it: “Man has his will but Woman has her way.” The joint expedition to Cambridge was an accepted fact.

PART III

THE services of Miss Flinders were not required after all. An old friend of Fittleworth’s, a tutor and fellow of the college, who had married and settled down in Cambridge, had accommodation in his house for a pair of industriously studious turtledoves, and was even willing to provide them with a small study in which to carry out their researches.

So, Mrs. Grundy being thus appeased on extremely advantageous terms, the doves aforesaid took up their abode in the residence of Mr. Arthur Winton, M.A., and the permission of the Master of the College that of the Curator of the Pepysian Library having been applied for and obtained, the great investigation began.

It was a Tuesday morning, bright and sunny, when Fittleworth set forth on his quest. He carried with him, in addition to a quarto notebook, a half-plate camera of wooden construction, the property of Mr. Winton, who was an expert photographer and who had made the excellent suggestion that any likely documents should be photographed in order that they might be studied quietly at home and facsimile copies retained permanently for subsequent reference. So Fittleworth went forth with the camera in his hand and bright hope in his heart, picturing himself already restoring to its unconscious owner that (presumably precious) object of unknown nature, the very existence of which was unsuspected by anyone but himself. It would be a great achievement. His credit would be thereby completely restored and he must infallibly be reinstated in his not very lucrative office.

The first cool draught which blew upon his enthusiasm came from the material placed at his disposal. It was a colossal mass. Apart from the prints, drawings, maps and collections of poetry, none of which could be entirely disregarded–for even the poems might contain a concealed hint–there was an enormous bulk of miscellaneous papers, all of which must be gone through before any could be rejected. And, as he gazed at the collection with growing dismay, he realised for the first time the extraordinary vagueness of his quest. What was it, after all, that he was looking for? The question admitted only of the most ambiguous answer. He had but two fixed points; the Revolution and the portrait by Kneller. Of the connection between them he was totally ignorant, and so might easily miss the clue even if it were under his very eyes.

The famous Diary he dismissed after a brief glance of fond curiosity, for its last sad entry of May the 3rd 1669, was long before the stormy days when the catholic obstinacy of James brought its inevitable catastrophe. Other dated papers, too, could be set aside; but when all that was possible in this way had been done, the residue that remained to be studied was still appalling in its bulk. The first day was entirely taken up by a preliminary inspection, of which the chief result was profound discouragement. There followed a fortnight of close and strenuous labour, involving the minute study of countless documents on every possible subject, with fruitless efforts to extract from them some information bearing even indirectly on the picture. Day after day did he return to Katharine with the same dismal report of utter failure; and though his spirits revived under the influence of her bright hopefulness, yet as the the job ran on and the joint capital dwindled, so did his optimism grow less. It was a bigger undertaking than he had bargained for. The mass of material and the formalities accompanying the examination of precious relics involved an expenditure of time and labour that was quite beyond his calculations.

And there was another discouraging element, of which for the present he said nothing to Katharine. As the days passed without a hint of any clue, a horrible suspicion began to creep into his mind. Suppose the whole thing was a delusion! That the substitution of the stretcher-bar was due merely to some chance accident, and that he was searching for something that had no existence save in his own imagination. Then all this labour and time and ill-spared money were utterly thrown away. It was a dreadful thought; and as it came to him again and again at increasingly frequent intervals, his heart sank and the future grew dark and hopeless.

It was on the fifteenth day that the first faint ray of hope pierced the gloom of his growing despair. On that day, amidst a collection of unclassified papers, he lit on something that at least invited inquiry. The find consisted of three small sheets of paper, evidently torn from a pocket memorandum book, each about four inches by two and a half, and all covered with microscopic writing in a strange, crabbed character which Fittleworth immediately recognised as some kind of shorthand. There was nothing to indicate the date, and, on applying to the librarian, Fittleworth was informed that nothing was known about the little papers excepting that they had belonged to Pepys, and were almost certainly in his handwriting. The script on them had never been deciphered, although several persons–one quite recently–had examined them; and the librarian was of opinion that they were never likely to be, as the writing was so small und so excessively shaky and badly written that it appeared to be practically undecipherable.

The librarian’s report was, on the face of it, discouraging. But to Fittleworth the very illegibility of the writing gave it an added interest, hinting, as it did, at a late period when the use of the shorthand had become difficult. At his request the Diary was produced for comparison of the style of handwriting; and, on comparing the first of the six volumes with the List, it was evident that there was a change in the character of the script, though even the last entry, where Pepys records the failure of his eyesight, was much clearer and better written than the microscopic scrawl on these three loose leaves. Which was highly satisfactory, provided only that the illegibility was not so complete as to render decipherment utterly impossible.

Having applied for and obtained permission to photograph the three leaves–each of which had writing on one side only–Fittleworth exposed three plates, and then, suspending his labours for the day, set forth homeward full of excitement and revived hope.

He was, just approaching the house when Katharine overtook him and, judging by his early return that something had happened, asked eagerly: “Have you got it, Joe?”

Fittleworth smiled. “I’ve got some sort of document in shorthand,” he replied.

“Do you think it says anything about the picture?” asked Katharine. “But there,” she added, with a laugh, “my excitement is making me talk nonsense. Of course, I’ve got to find out what it says.”

“Yes,” said Fittleworth, “you have; and I wish you joy of the job. It’s a fearful scrawl; so bad that nobody has been able to decipher it yet. The librarian tells me,” he added, with a knowing glance at her, “that only three months ago, an American scholar, who had obtained permission to go through the collection, spent more than a week trying to decipher it with the aid of a watchmaker’s lens and had to give it up after all. So you see, my dear, that you have a very pretty little task before you.”

Katharine looked at him thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” she said; and then, after a pause, during which she reflected profoundly, with her usually smooth forehead furrowed by cogitative wrinkles, she looked up suddenly. “I suppose, Joe, he didn’t make anything of it after all.”

Fittleworth laughed genially. “I was waiting for that,” said he. “You are thinking that the American scholar may be a gentleman of musical tastes. I expect you are right and I hope you are, as that would prove that we are really on the track of our friends; but we shall be able to judge better when you have given us a sample of your skill. We shall be rather up a tree if you’re not able to decipher the thing.”

The latter contingency Katharine declined to entertain, and the pair, resisting the attractions of tea, made straight for Mr. Winton’s dark-room. The three plates were developed without a hitch, and while two were drying in the rack, the third was taken to the window for inspection.

“Well,” said Fittleworth, as Katharine stood at lie window, holding out the wet negative towards the sky, “what do you think of it?”

For some seconds Katharine made no reply, but continued to gaze at the crabbed lines on the black background with a frown that gradually deepened.

“It’s very small writing,” she replied, at length, “and frightfully indistinct.”

“Yes, I was afraid it was,” said Fittleworth; “but can you make out anything of the–er–purport, or–er–or, what it’s about, in fact?”

There was a brief pause; then Katharine, looking him tragically in the eyes, exclaimed:

“My dear Joe, I can’t make out a single word. It’s absolute scribble.”

There was another pause, at the end of which Fittleworth murmured the single and highly irrelevant word, “Moses!”

The impatience of the investigators would not allow them to wait for the natural drying of the negatives One after another, the plates were plunged into methylated spirit, and when dry, printed off rapidly on glossy bromide paper; and with the prints before her on a table by the study window, the agonised Katharine fell to work with Fittleworth’s pocket lens and a most portentous frown.

Five minutes passed. Fittleworth moved stealthily, but uneasily, about the room on tiptoe, now forcing himself to sit on the edge of a chair, and now forced by his excitement to rise and tiptoe across to another. At length, unable to contain himself any longer, he asked in a hushed voice: “Is it very awful stuff, Katie?”

Katharine laid down the lens and looked round at him despairingly.

“It’s perfectly frightful, Joe,” she exclaimed. “I simply can’t make anything of it.”

“Perhaps it isn’t Rich’s shorthand at all,” suggested Fittleworth.

“Oh, yes it is. I can see that much and I’ve made out a ‘with’ and two ‘the’s,’ but the rest of it looks like mere scribble.”

Fittleworth sprang from the chair on which he had been seated nearly ten seconds. “Oh, come,” said he; “if you can make out that much, you can make out the rest. Only we shall have to go to work systematically. The best way will be to mark each word as you decipher it and write it down on a piece of paper. That’s the best of working from a photograph which it doesn’t matter about spoiling.”

“I don’t quite see what you mean,” said Katharine.

“The method I suggest is this,” he replied. “First mark the three photographs A, B and C. Then, number the lines of each and prepare three sheets of paper lettered and numbered in the same way. Then, when you decipher a word, say on photograph A line 6, write it down on the sheet marked A, on the sixth line and the proper part of that line; and so on. Could I help you?”

Katharine thought that he could, and accordingly, he drew a chair to the table and proceeded to prepare three sheets of paper in the way he had suggested and to mark the photographs.

There is something about a really methodical procedure, that inspires confidence. Of this Katharine was immediately sensible, and when the two “the’s” and the “with” had been set down in their proper places, she felt that a beginning had really been made and returned to her task with renewed spirit.

“There’s a ‘his,’” she announced presently, “at the end of line 1, page B, and the first word of the next line is a longish one ending in ‘ty.’”

“It isn’t ‘Majesty,’ I suppose,” suggested Fittleworth.

“Yes, of course it is,” exclaimed Katharine, “and the next word is ‘wt,’ followed by two short words ending in ‘ll.’”

“White Hall?” queried Fittleworth; and White Hall it turned out to be on further examination. The next proceeding was to search for a recurrence of these words with the result that “His Majesty” occurred six times in all, and “‘White Hall” twice.

“Now try the words adjoining ‘His Majesty,’” Fittleworth suggested. “Take the one on page B. We’ve got ‘His Majesty at White Hall.’ Now, what is before that?”

“There’s a ‘me’ and then ‘attack’ or ‘attach.’”

“‘Me attack His Majesty,’” murmured Fittleworth. “That doesn’t sound right. Could it be ‘attend’?”

“Yes, I believe it is, and then the word before it must be ‘bidding.’ We’re getting on splendidly. Let us try the ‘His Majestys’ on page A. Line 5 seems to begin: ‘As to its’ something, ‘His Majesty has’ something, ‘his’–now, what has His Majesty done? Oh, I see, ‘written.’ ‘His Majesty has written his–”

“Instructions,” suggested Fittleworth.

“No, nor wishes, nor–oh, I see ‘commands,’ and the next words are ‘in full in a’ something, ‘which he’ something ‘to me in a small’ something ‘box.’ Now, let us see if we can fill in that sentence. ‘As to its’ something, ‘His Majesty has written his commands’; now, as to his what? It seems to begin with a ‘d’.”

“Destiny?” suggested Fittleworth, and as Katharine shook her head he proposed “destruction,” “deposition,” and finally, “disposition.”

“No, it’s not ‘disposition.’ It’s ‘disposal.’ ‘As to its disposal His Majesty has written his commands in full in a paper which he’–something ‘to me in a small’ something ‘box which he–’”

“Gave, sent, presented, showed, exhibited…”

“‘Delivered,’ that’s it. ‘Delivered to me in a small’ something ‘box.’”

“Wooden, ivory, leather, silver–”

“Gold,” announced Katharine triumphantly, “‘a small, gold box’; and the sentence runs on: ‘the said box being’ something ‘with His Majesty’s’ something, something, ‘and this box he bid me put by in some safe and ‘–it looks like ‘secret place.’ I’m getting to read it much more easily now. Let us go hack to that ‘box.’ ‘With His Majesty’s’ something seal,’ I think.”

“Private seal, perhaps.”

“Yes, of course. Then it reads: ‘The said box being sealed with His Majesty’s private seal and this box he bid me put by in some safe and secret place.’ This is splendid, Joe. We shall make it out yet and you can see already that we’re on the right track.”

“Yes; and we can see how those other gentlemen got on the track. But as you seem to be getting more used to the writing, wouldn’t it be as well now to try to begin at the beginning and go straight on?”

“Perhaps it would. But the question is, which is the beginning?”

“The best way to solve that difficulty would be to work out the first line of each page. Don’t you think so, Katie?

“Yes, of course; and I’ll begin with page A. Now, the first line seems to read: ‘bids me to carry ‘–no, it isn’t ‘carry’; I think it’s ‘convey’–‘convey it to Sir’–Andrew, I think–‘Sir Andrew Hyde–’”

At this point Katharine laid down the lens and turned to gaze at Fittleworth with a very curious expression of surprise and bewilderment.

“A namesake of yours, Katie,” he remarked; “an ancestor, perhaps.”

“Yes, Joe, that’s just it. Only, in that case it would be ‘Sir Andreas.’” She scrutinised the paper again through the lens and at length exclaimed triumphantly, “and it is ‘Andreas.’ Let us see how it goes on: ‘To Sir Andreas Hyde, a cousin of my Lord Clarendon’–yes, that is the man–‘who is to deposit it in some secure place in one of his houses in Kent.’ I wonder if he means the picture!”

“We shall see presently,” said Fittleworth; “but meanwhile it is evident that this is not the first page. Just have a look at page C.”

Katharine transferred her attention, as well as her excitement would permit, to the latter page; but after a prolonged examination she shook her head.

“This isn’t the first,” she said, “for the top line begins with the words: ‘had concluded the business.’ Then page B must be the first. Let us try that.” She brought the lens to bear on the opening words of page B, but after a brief inspection she sat up with an exclamation of disappointment.

“Oh, Joe, how tantalising! This isn’t the first either! There’s a page missing. You will have to go back to the library and see if you can find it.”

“That’s rather a facer,” said Fittleworth; “but I think, Katie dear, we’d better work out what we’ve got as these pages will have to be deciphered in any case, and then we shall be able to judge how much is missing. Let us have the first line of page B.”

With a dejected air Katharine picked up the lens and resumed her task, slowly reading out, with many a halt to puzzle over a difficult word, the contents of page B.

“…to me a messenger bidding me attend His Majesty at White Hall. Whereupon I set forth and found the King in the Matted Gallery, talking with divers officers and noblemen. When I had kissed his hand he spoke to me openly on the affairs of the navy, but presently, making an occasion to carry me to his closet, did there open the matter concerning which he had sent for me. It appeareth that he hath caught some rumours of certain noblemen and bishops–even the Archbishop as he do think–having invited the Prince of Orange; which he did condemn as most fowle, unhandsome and treasonable. Now, recalling the misfortunes of his brother the late King and their royal father, he would make some provision lest he should be driven into exile, which God forbid. Here upon he spake very graciously of our long friendship and was pleased to mention most handsomely my faithful service and judgement in the service of the navy, and then he did come to the matter in hand. First he spake of Sir William Pepys who did bring his ship the ‘James and Mary’…”

That was the end of page B, and, as Katharine eagerly to scan the already deciphered first the other two pages, her eyes filled.

“Oh! Joe dear!” she exclaimed in an agonised voice, “what an awful disappointment! Don’t you see? It doesn’t run on at all. These are only odd leaves.”

“M’yes,” said Fittleworth. “It does look rather a take in. Still, we’d better go on. And as page C seems to refer to the conclusion of the business, whatever it was, we may as well take A next. Keep up your courage, little woman. I may be able to find the missing pages at the library. Now, what has page A got to say?”

Once more Katharine addressed herself to her task, wiping her eyes as a preliminary measure; and slowly and with many a halt to wrestle with an almost undecipherable word, the crabbed scrawl was translated into good, legible longhand.

“…bids me to convey it to Sir Andreas Hide, a cousin of my Lord Clarendon, who is to deposit it in some secure place in one of his houses in Kent. As to its disposal, His Majesty hath written his commands in full in a paper which he delivered to me in a small golde box, the said box being sealed with His Majesty’s private seale, and this box he bid me put by in some safe and secret place, and to speake of the matter to none, not even Sir Andreas himselfe, until after His Majesty’s death and that of the Prince of Wales (if God should spare me so long) unless, in my discretion it should seeme goode to do so. Also that I do make some provision for the delivery of the said paper in the event of my own death.

“When I had returned home I considered at length where I should bestowe the golde box, and presently I bethought me of the King’s picture which Sir Godfrey is now about Painting and which His Majesty do design to give to me, and it did appear to me that the wooden frame whereon the canvass is strained should furnish a moste secure hiding-place. I made no delay to seek out Sir Andreas at his house at Lee in Kent, to whom the King had already spoken about the matter, and did deliver into his hand the said…”

Here the page ended, and, when she had written the last word, Katherine, alter a brief interval of numb silence, fairly burst into tears.

Fittleworth stroked her hand consolingly. “There now, Katie darling,” he said in a soothing tone. “We won’t cry about it, though it is most confoundedly disappointing. You have done splendidly; and we are really picking up quite a lot of information.”

“But what was it that he gave Sir Andreas? It couldn’t have been the picture, because he hadn’t got it then.”

“No, evidently not. Let us work out page C. This is quite a short piece and looks rather like the end of the record.”

Once again, Katherine dried her eyes and took up the discarded lens; and slowly–but less slowly than before–the decipherment proceeded.

“…had concluded the business, the tide serving, I did take boate to White Hall and there reported to His Majesty what I had done but said naught about the picture, reflecting that the secret shall be safer if t’is known to none save myselfe.

“This is a weighty business and do trouble me somewhat; indeede I do mistruste the King’s plan which hath too much of secrecie, and leaveth too much in the hands of one man, though that man be, God knows, honest in intention and wishful to serve His Majesty in all things, especially at this sorrowfull time. But I shall do as I am bid and if it please God that the affaire miscarry, at leaste it shall be through no lacke of zeale on my parte.”

As Katharine wrote the last word, she closed the lens and handed it back to Fittleworth. “There!” she exclaimed, “that is certainly the end of the record and we are just as wise as to what it was that he gave to Sir Andreas as we were before. You will have to go back to the library to-morrow and search for the missing leaves.”

Fittleworth held up an admonitory finger. “Now don’t be an impatient and unreasonable little person, Katie. It is most likely that the missing pages have disappeared altogether, so, before we spend precious time in searching for them, let us consider what we have got out of these.

“First, we know that the lost stretcher-bar contained a small gold box in which was an important document. That is a great point scored; a very great point, Katie; because, you will please to remember, it was pure guess-work as to whether there was anything at all in the stretcher until you deciphered these papers.

“Then we know that Pepys handed to Sir Andreas a something that was evidently of considerable value. We don’t know what that something was, but we know where it was deposited–at least we should if we could find out where Sir Andreas’s houses in Kent were.”

“I can tell you that,” said Katharine.

“You can!” exclaimed Fittleworth, gazing at her in astonishment.

“Yes,” she replied complacently, “I can tell you all about it. You seem to forget that I am a Hyde. This Sir Andreas was the head of our branch of the family and I know all about him. We were just plain country gentlefolk, unlike our great connections, the Clarendons, and the Rochesters, but we have pretty complete family records, and I have studied them in great detail. Sir Andreas had three houses; one at Lee, near London, one at Snodland, near Maidstone, and a third, a small place called Bartholomew Grange, in the Isle of Thanet. Sir Andreas, who was a Catholic, was killed at the Battle of the Boyne, and the family seems to have become considerably impoverished soon after, for his son, Matthew Hyde, sold the houses at Lee and Snodland and went out to New England.”

“And what became of those two houses?”

“I believe they were both pulled down and rebuilt. At any rate, they went out of the family. Well, Matthew remained out in New England until the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign–1703, I think–and then he set sail for home in a merchant ship called the Harvest Moon. The Harvest Moon sailed out of Boston Harbour in December, 1703, and was never heard of again, nor, of course, was Matthew Hyde; and the estate–what little there was of it–went to his son, Robert, who had remained in England.”

Fittleworth considered these facts in silence for some time, toying abstractedly with the papers. At length he spoke.

“I think we can guess what happened. Pepys kept his own counsel during the whole reign of Dutch William, but when Anne came to the throne (she was a daughter of Anne Hyde, by the way, and a kinswoman of yours), he looked on the succession as settled, and being then an old man, thought it time to inform Matthew of the existence of the document hidden in the picture and that other something that he had given into the custody of Sir Andreas. I imagine that he sent a messenger to Matthew with a sealed letter containing this information, that Matthew immediately sailed for England and was lost at sea; and that before the news of the shipwreck reached this country Pepys himself was dead (he died on the twenty-first of May, 1704). Thus the secret was lost, even as wise old Samuel Pepys had feared that it might be.”

“But it isn’t lost completely,” Katharine reminded him, “for this ingenious ‘American scholar’ seems to have got on the track of it; and the question is how are we to get on his track?”

“Do you know who owns the third house–Bartholomew Grange?” Fittleworth asked.

“Yes,” replied Katharine. “I own it.”

“You do!” exclaimed Fittleworth, staring at her incredulously.

“Yes. I thought you knew. My father was the last male of this branch of the family and I am actually the last descendant. The little house in Thanet is all that remains of the family estates, and the rent of it is what I live on–that and my copying.”

“Then you could get access to it?

“Of course I could. The present lease runs out next year, I am sorry to say–for my rent will cease then and I shall have to pay the wages of the housekeeper, who is an old servant of our family. So I could easily ask to make a survey of the premises. But of what use would it be? We have no evidence that the mysterious ‘it’ is hidden there, and if we had, we don’t know what it is or where it is concealed.”

“No, my dear, that is perfectly true. But you are forgetting that we are in search of three men who probably believe (and perhaps with good reason) that they have the clue; and who almost certainly have the stolen gold box with them. If Bartholomew Grange is the only house remaining in the family, those gentlemen will undoubtedly look round there first; and if we are not too late, there we shall find them; and if we can’t make them disgorge by fair means I shall have them arrested for the robbery of the picture. Remember, the gold box is our immediate object; the rest of the inquiry can wait.”

“And what do you propose to do next?” Katharine asked, as a flush of pleasurable excitement mounted to her cheek.

“I propose that you send a letter to your tenant to-night and that we start for town the first thing to-morrow morning and from there go straight on to Thanet. We can talk over details as we go.”

Katherine gazed at her lover admiringly. “What a clever old thing you are, Joe!” she exclaimed.

“I should think I am!” laughed Fittleworth. “If it hadn’t been for my expert knowledge of Rich’s shorthand and the neat way in which I deciphered that–”

“Oh, go along, you old humbug!” Katharine exclaimed, making not very alarming hostile demonstrations. And, in a symbolical and strictly Pickwickian sense, he went along.

PART IV

THE Isle of Thanet has a certain peculiar charm which lingers even to this day, despite the too-successful efforts of the speculative builder to annihilate it. A few years ago–at the date of this history, for instance–before the unlovely suburban streets had arisen to disfigure it, the north-eastern quarter of the island wore a pleasant air of remoteness that disguised its proximity to busy Margate and prosperous Broadstairs. It was in this quarter that the business of our adventurers lay, and, having risen with the lark and been fortunate in the matter of trains, they reached it quite early in the day.

“Ah!” exclaimed Fittleworth, sniffing the salt air with the joy of an escaped Londoner, as they left the outskirts of Margate behind, and took their way along the broad path by the cliff’s edge; “your worthy ancestor wasn’t such a bad judge, Katie. I shouldn’t mind living here myself. By the way, I suppose there is no chance of your tenant objecting to our looking over the house?”

“She can’t; and if she could, she would not. She is quite a nice person, a widow lady with two daughters. I told her in my letter who you were, and that we wanted to see what would have to be done to the place if the tenancy was not renewed. I also mentioned that you were an artist, and greatly interested in old houses; which is perfectly true, isn’t it?”

“Certainly, my dear. But I am a good deal more interested just now in three very ingenious gentlemen and a small gold box.”

“It will be frightfully disappointing if they haven’t been here after all,” said Katharine.

“It will be much more frightful if they have been here and gone away. That’s what I am afraid of. They have had a pretty long start.”

“They have; but they couldn’t have ransacked the place without the consent of Mrs. Matthews, my tenant. But we shall soon know everything; that is the house, in among those trees.”

The sight of their goal stimulated them to quicken their steps. Soon they came to a high flint wall enclosing thickly wooded grounds, and, skirting this reached a gate on the landward side. Entering, and advancing along a moss-grown path, they presently came in sight of the house, a smallish building of cut flint and brick, with the quaint, curved Flemish gables that are so characteristic of this part of the world.

“What a jolly old house!” exclaimed Fittleworth, halting to run his eye admiringly over the picturesque building with its time-softened angles and its rich clothing of moss, lichen, and house-leek.

“Sixteen-thirty-one, I see,” he added, glancing at the date-tablet over the porch, “so it was a nearly new house when Sir Andreas had it.”

He rang the bell, and the door was almost immediately opened by a staid-looking middle-aged maidservant, who was evidently expecting them, and who greeted Katharine affectionately and cast an interested glance at Fittleworth.

“I am sorry, Miss Kate,” she said, “that Mrs. Matthews is not at home. She had to take the young ladies up to town this morning, and she won’t be back for a week or more; but she left all the keys for you, and this note, and she said that you were to make yourself quite at home and do whatever you please. There are three gentlemen looking over the place, but they won’t be in your way.”

At the last sentence, Fittleworth’s eyes lighted with a warlike gleam, and he glanced at Katharine. “Do you know what these three gentlemen are, Rachel, and why they are looking over the place?

“I heard Mrs. Matthews say, sir, that they are architects, whatever that may be. But they are wonderfully interested in the house. They have been about the place for more than a week, making sketches of the rooms and staircases, drawing plans of the grounds, tapping at the walls, and looking up the chimneys. I never saw such goings-on. They spent two whole days in the cellars, making sketches, though what they can see in a plain brick cellar beats me, sir. They went all round them tapping the walls with a mallet, and they even wanted to take up some of the floor, but, of course, Mrs. Matthews told them she couldn’t allow that without the landlady’s permission. Perhaps you’d like to see them, miss.”

“Are they here now?” asked Katharine.

“One of them is–Mr. Simpson. He is in the Chancellor’s Parlour, making sketches of the wood work.”

Katharine glanced at Fittleworth. “I think we had better see Mr. Simpson,” said he; and on this, the maid ushered them through a long corridor to a remote wing of the building, where, at a massive door she halted and turned the handle.

“Why, he’s bolted himself in!” she exclaimed; and added under her breath, as she applied somewhat peremptory knuckles to the door: “Like his impudence!”

The knocking evoked no response, nor was there any answering sound from within when it was repeated and reinforced by loud rapping with Fittleworth’s walking-stick. Rachel listened at the keyhole, and, as still no sound was audible, she exclaimed indignantly:

“Well, I’m sure! It’s a pretty state of things when strangers come to bolt people out of their own rooms.”

“But,” said Fittleworth, “the odd thing is that there doesn’t seem to be anybody in there. Can we see in through any of the windows?

“Oh, yes, sir,” answered Rachel. “The window looks out on the Chancellor’s Garden, a little garden closed in by a yew hedge. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show it to you; though, of course, Miss Kate knows the way.”

As they followed the maid out into the grounds, Fittleworth asked: “Why is this room called the Chancellor’s Parlour?”

“It is named after the great Lord Clarendon, the head of the family, you know,” Katharine replied. “The tradition is that he used sometimes to come down here for rest and quiet, and that he occupied this wing which is cut off from the rest of the house and has its own separate garden. This is the garden, and that is the window of the parlour, fortunately not fastened.”

The old-fashioned leaded casement was slightly open, so that Rachel could reach in and unhook it from the strut. As she threw it wide open, she announced:

“There’s no one in the room, but I can see that the bolt is shot. He must have got out of the window. I call that pretty cool, in another person’s house. And why wasn’t the door good enough for him, I should like to know?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want his work disturbed,” suggested Fittleworth. “I see he has a large drawing on an easel. However, I will step in through the window and unbolt the door, while you go round.”

He climbed in easily through the window, and, having unbolted the door cast an inquisitive glance at the absent Simpson’s arrangements. On a sketching-easel was a large drawing board covered with a sheet of Whatman, on which was the earliest beginning of a drawing of the carved mantelpiece. A table close by bore one or two pencils, a water-colour palette, a jar of water, a slab of rubber, and a number of brushes. The drawing–what there was of it–was expertly done, but represented, at the most, half an hour’s work.

“How long had Mr. Simpson been in this room?” he asked, as Rachel and Katharine entered.

“The three gentlemen came here yesterday and made some sketches, but Mr. Simpson didn’t bring his things till this morning. He came about nine, and at half-past eleven he came to me for a jar of water.”

Fittleworth reflected, with a cogitative eye on the drawing.

“Well,” he said at length, with a glance at Katharine; “I think we can manage without Mr. Simpson. As we are here, we may as well begin our survey with this room. Don’t you think so?”

Katharine agreed; and when she had explained to the hospitable Rachel that they had lunched in the train, the maid said:

“Then I will leave you now. If you want anything you have only to ring. It’s an old room, but it has an electric bell. And if I might make a suggestion, it would be as well to close the window, so that Mr. Simpson will have to come in by the door in a proper and decent way.”

As soon as she was gone, Fittleworth and Katharine looked at one another significantly, and the latter exclaimed: “What an extraordinary thing, Joe. Do you really think he got out of the window?”

“I doubt it very much, Katie. But, at any rate, we will adopt Miss Rachel’s suggestion, and see that he doesn’t come back that way; and then we will have a good look round.”

He closed and fastened the window, and stood awhile surveying the room. It was a smallish apartment, rather barely furnished with five carved walnut hairs, an oaken livery cupboard, and a ponderous draw-table with the thick foot-rests and massive melon-bulb legs of the period. A wide fireplace with a richly-carved mantel, and a door–apparently that of a built-in cupboard–were the only constructive features that presented themselves for consideration, excepting the panelling, which extended over the whole of the walls.

“There’s evidently something queer about Mr. Simpson’s proceedings, as we might expect,” said Fittleworth. “According to Rachel, he was in this room from nine o’clock until at least half-past eleven. Now, what was he doing? He wasn’t drawing. If you look at the work on his board you can see that either you or I could have done it in ten minutes. But the handling shows that he is not a duffer. Then it being eleven-thirty, he went to the kitchen for a jar of water. What did he want that water for? He wasn’t going to colour. He had barely begun his outline, and there is a good day’s drawing in that mantelpiece.”

“Yes,” said Katharine, “that is rather suspicious. It looks as if he had gone there to see what the servants were about.”

“Yes. Or to make a demonstration of being at work before he bolted himself in. That would suggest that he had already made a discovery. I wonder, by the way, what he has in that bag. Would it be improper to look into it?”

Whether it was improper or not, he did so, and as he opened the flap of the large sketching bag, which hung by its strap from a chair back, Katharine approached and peered in.

“That’s rather a queer outfit for a water-colour artist,” she remarked, as he fished out a leather roll-up case of tools.

“Very quaint,” replied Fittleworth. “So is this: what ironmongers describe as a case opener, and Mr. Sikes would call a jemmy. And what might this coil of rope be for? It is thin stuff–what sailors call a ‘lead-line,’ I think–‘but it is too thick for an easel-guy, and there’s too much of it. There seems to be about a dozen yards. But there! It’s of no use looking at his appliances; we know what Mr. Simpson was after. The question now is: Where is Mr. Simpson?

“I suppose,” said Katharine, “he couldn’t be in that cupboard?”

Fittleworth stepped across and gave a pull at the projecting key. “Locked,” he announced. “He couldn’t very well have locked himself in and left the key outside. I wonder if there is anything to be seen in the chimney. These wide old chimneys were favourite places for hiding-holes.”

He slid the old dog grate out of the way, and, stooping under the lintel, stood up inside the roomy chimney. It was evident that the flue was not straight, for no light came from above, and, as very little light was reflected up from the floor, the cavity was in almost total darkness. Fittleworth struck a wax match, and, by the aid of its feeble light, explored that part of the interior that was within the range of vision. But closely as he examined it, nothing met his eye but the uninterrupted surface of blackened brickwork. Reflecting, however, that hiding-holes would not be made ostentatiously conspicuous, he stooped, and, reaching out to the andirons, picked up the poker.

“You are not going to hit him with that poker, I hope, Joe,” laughed Katharine, who had unlocked the cupboard, and was now standing with the open door in her hand. Fittleworth reassured her as to his intentions, and, ducking under the lintel, stood up once more in the dark chimney. Having lit another match he began systematically to sound the brick work, comparing critically the notes given out by the successive blows of the poker, and noting the resistance and feeling of solidity. But the result was no more encouraging than that of the ocular inspection; the “percussion note” exhibited a disappointing uniformity, and the sense of resistance conveyed through the poker was that of a very solid brick wall.

He had been working several minutes, his attention concentrated on the unresponsive mass of brickwork, when he was startled by the slamming of a door. He stopped to listen, and then, after a brief interval, he was aware of a muffled cry and the sound of thumping on hollow woodwork. Instantly he stooped to look out, blinking at the unaccustomed light, and as he looked he uttered a cry of amazement.

The room was empty.

He sprang out across the hearth, and as he reached the floor the muffled call was repeated in a familiar voice, framing the word “Joe!” and the thumping recommenced, both sounds clearly proceeding from the cupboard. Striding across to the latter, he seized the key and pulled at it vigorously, but the door refused to yield. Then he gave the key a turn, where upon the lock clicked, the door flew open, and out stepped Katharine, laughing heartily, and yet not a little agitated.

“Oh, my dear Joe!” she exclaimed, “that wretched door gave me such a fright. I believe it is possessed with a devil. It seemed to entrap me with intelligent, calculating malice.”

“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Fittleworth. “How did you get in there?”

“I walked in, of course, you old absurdity. You see, while you were rummaging about in the chimney, I stood here with the door open, looking at all that clutter on the shelves. Then my eye caught that delightful old jar on the top shelf, and I stepped in to reach it down; but no sooner was I inside than that miserable door slammed to, and the wretched lock snapped, and there I was, like a mouse in a trap. It’s a mercy you were at hand.”

“It is, indeed. But now that we’ve got you out, I think we will have a good look at that trap. It’s a queer arrangement for a cupboard. It has a spring lock, and you notice that the very solid brass hinges are of the skew pattern to make the door self-closing. I don’t see any reason for either.”

“No; that was what I was thinking when I was inside. You want to keep people out of a cupboard, not to fasten them in.”

“Exactly. So we will just prop this door open with a chair and examine this singular cupboard, or closet, minutely.”

He pulled the door wide open, and, having fixed it in that position by means of an elbow chair, began his investigations, taking the door itself as the first item. Having tried the lock and examined the exterior, he ran his eye critically over the inner surface, and then he made a discovery. Near the top of the door was a small, square patch of wood, which yielded to pressure, and on pressing which the bolt of the lock slid back.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “I smell a fox, Katie. Do you see? This is an internal release. Now what could that be for?

“Why, obviously, to enable a person who was shut in to let himself out. It is a hiding-place, Joe. Don’t you see? A fugitive who was closely pursued could step in and the door would shut behind him. Then the pursuers would come and give a pull at the key, and say, as you did, that a man couldn’t lock himself in a cupboard and leave the key outside. And then they’d go away.”

Fittleworth smiled, and shook his head. “That is all very well, my dear girl, but suppose there happened to be a Katie among them who would have the curiosity to turn the key and open the door? That wouldn’t do. No, my dear, you may take it as practically certain that there is a way out of this cupboard. Your inquisitive pursuer would open the door and find the cupboard empty, and then the outside key would be highly convincing. Let us investigate.”

He stepped into the cupboard which was about four feet deep and of which the back was occupied by five massive but rather narrow shelves, and looked inquisitively around. The whole interior–sides, floor and ceiling–was lined with solid oak boards, and the shelves were occupied by various articles that, to judge by their appearance, had slowly accumulated in the course of years. It was to these shelves that Fittleworth specially directed his attention and that Katharine.

“You notice,” said he, “that all the shelves are more or less filled up with what you call ‘clutter,’ excepting the second one from the top, which has evidently been cleared, and quite recently, too, as you can see by the dust marks. Also that the back boarding has a hollow space behind it.”

By way of demonstrating this, he gave one or two noisy thumps on the hollow-sounding back; but at the third blow he paused and turned excitedly to Katharine.

“We’ve hit it–literally–Kate. Do you see? This board is beginning to give. It is a hinged flap, of which the joints were hidden by the shelves. We’ll soon run Mr. Simpson to earth now.”

As Katharine craned forward to peer into the cupboard, Fittleworth gave a vigorous shove at the movable board, driving it back several inches. Instantly there followed a loud snap and a thunderous rumbling, and the entire cupboard began to descend rapidly. Fittleworth clutched frantically at the shelf to steady himself, while Katharine, with a little cry of alarm, leaned over the brink of the well-like shaft, looking down, as if petrified, at her vanishing companion.

The cupboard continued to descend for about ten feet. Then it stopped, and, at the same moment, the bottom fell down, swinging like a trap-door on invisible hinges. It was well for Fittleworth that he had kept his grasp of the shelf, for otherwise he must have been precipitated down the shaft that yawned beneath him, a dark, apparently unfathomable, well. As it was, he had nearly been jerked from his none too secure hold, and he now hung by his hands, only his feet kicking in mid-air; an impossible position for more than a bare minute, as he realised at once from the strain on his fingers. However, after some cautious groping with one foot he managed to find the bottom shelf, and when he had got both his feet securely planted on this, the strain on his hands was relieved and he was able to look about him. Glancing up, he saw that only the back half of the cupboard ceiling had come down, so that there was a two-foot space above him, through which he could see the agonised face of Katharine thrust over the brink of the well.

“Can’t I do anything, Joe?” she cried in a terrified voice.

“Yes,” he replied. “Get that rope of Simpson’s and throw one end down to me and tie the other end securely to the leg of the table.”

Her face disappeared, and, as the sound of hurried movement came from above, Fittleworth looked over his shoulder at the side of the well that was visible to him; which presented the smooth surface of the chalk through which the shaft had been cut, and at its middle a shallow recess fitted with massive iron rings, and forming a fixed ladder, which apparently gave access to the bottom of the shaft. He looked longingly at those solid rungs, rusty as they were, and considered whether he could reach across and grasp one, but his hold was too insecure to allow of his reaching out with that horrible dark pit, of unknown depth, yawning beneath. There was nothing for it but to cling to the shelf, though his fingers ached with the tension and his muscles were beginning to tremble with the continuous strain. He gazed up at the narrow opening, and listened eagerly for the sounds from above that told him of Katharine’s hurried efforts to rescue him; and as he listened, there came to his ears another sound–from beneath–a hollow, sepulchral voice, echoing strangely from the sides of the shaft.

“Is that you, Warren?”

“All right,” answered Fittleworth. “We’ll get down to you presently. Are you hurt?”

“Yes; broken my ankle, I think. But don’t you hurry. Be careful how you come down.”

Fittleworth was about to reply, when Katharine’s face reappeared at the opening above. “Here’s the rope, Joe,” said she. “I’ve tied it quite firmly to the table leg, and I shall keep hold of it as well. Catch.”

The rope came rattling down the shalt, and, as Katharine dexterously swung it towards him, Fittleworth caught it with one hand, and hauled on it as well as he could in the hope that the cupboard, partly relieved of his weight, would rise. But the force that he could exert with one hand was not enough for this. Pull as he might, the cupboard remained immovable.

Finding that this was so, and that the repeated efforts were only fatiguing him, he decided to risk grasping the rope with both hands; but the instant he let go his hold on the upper shelf he swung right out over the well, and his feet began to slip from the lower shelf. In another moment he would have been dangling free over the deep chasm–unless the thin rope had broken; but now, as he swung out within reach of the ladder, he made a snatch with one hand at an iron rung. Grasping this firmly, he was able, without difficulty, to spring across on to the ladder, and, as his feet finally left the shelf, the cupboard began, with loud rumblings, to ascend.

Fittleworth stood on the ladder looking up at the receding cupboard and at Katharine’s anxious face, and wondering what would happen next. His curiosity was soon satisfied. As the cupboard approached the top of the shaft, the floor began to rise, and would have closed completely but for the rope, on which it jammed, leaving a narrow chink through which came a glimmer of light. It was an awkward predicament, and Fittleworth was doubtful what to do; but, as he was considering, Katharine’s voice came through the chink.

“Are you all right, Joe?”

“Yes.”

“You had better go down a little farther out of the way. The cupboard is coming down again.”

Fittleworth hastily descended a few rungs to avoid a knock on the head and then stopped, wondering how Katharine proposed to send the cupboard down. Before he had reached any conclusion, the rope was smartly drawn up, there was a jarring sound above and the cupboard began to descend, but more slowly this time, as if checked in some way. When it had descended a few feet, the floor, not having risen far enough to reach its catch, owing to the rope, began to fall down; and then Fittleworth, looking up, saw to his amazement that Katharine was clinging to the interior. As the cupboard reached the bottom of its run and came to rest, he climbed up the ladder until he was opposite and then looked round anxiously. But Katharine’s position was much more secure than his had been, for she was holding firmly with one hand to a massive brass peg that was fixed on the side of the cupboard, and with the other was grasping the rope which she had passed round a stout hook that was fixed near the floor–apparently for that very purpose–and then round the peg; thus she had been able easily to check the descent of the cupboard. These arrangements, however, Fittleworth was not able to see in the dim light which prevailed in the shaft, and remembering his own difficulties, he looked at Katharine in some consternation.

“How on earth are we going to get you up again, Katie?” he asked.

“Why,” she replied, “you just run up the ladder and pull at the rope. I’ve got it firmly fixed to this hook.”

Fittleworth crawled up a few rungs and gave a cautious pull at the rope, when the cupboard moved an inch or two upwards, whereupon he began to climb rapidly up the ladder. He was only hall-way up, how ever, when a hollow voice from below echoed appealingly.

“Don’t be longer than you can help, Warren.”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Katharine. “What on earth was that?”

“Hush!” said Fittleworth. “That’s our friend Simpson.” Then, raising his voice, he called out: “We’ll come down to you as soon as we can,” and continued his ascent to the top of the ladder.

As soon as he reached the solid floor of the room, he seized the rope and began cautiously to haul on it; and as the tension increased, the great bronze chain which suspended the cupboard began to rumble over its pulley-wheel. In a few seconds the cupboard itself appeared in the opening; as its floor came flush with that of the room it stopped, and a double snap announced that the two catches–the one which supported the cupboard itself and the other which held the floor–had slipped into their places. Then Katharine, having tried the floor with infinite caution, let go the peg and stepped out into the room.

“Well,” said Fittleworth as he handed her out, “I’m proud of you, Katie. It was positively heroic of you to come down for me in that way; and how cleverly you managed it, too. It’s not for nothing that you are a yachtsman’s daughter.”

Katharine received these commendations with calm satisfaction, but her mind was evidently running on the unearthly voice that had hailed them from the depths, for she asked anxiously:

“How are we going to get that poor creature up, Joe?”

“We will consider that presently,” replied Fittleworth. “Meanwhile, we will just put away the rope and make things ship-shape while we talk matters over.”

“But,” persisted Katharine, “we can’t leave the poor wretch down there in that horrible pit. Can’t we get him up now?”

“I think he’ll have to stay there until we’ve settled what to do. We shall want some further appliances, and probably some help. But listen!”

He coiled up the rope quickly and had just replaced it in Simpson’s bag, when the door opened and Rachel reappeared.

“If you please, miss,” said she, “the two gentlemen, Mr. Furse and Mr. Tanner, have come to look for Mr. Simpson. I told them what had happened, and that you were here. Will you see them, miss? They’re in a most awful taking about Mr. Simpson.”

As she finished speaking, footsteps were heard in the corridor and the two gentlemen entered without further ceremony, upon which Rachel introduced them, somewhat stiffly, and departed. Fittleworth looked at the two strangers curiously and had no difficulty in recognising in them the hautboy player and the water-colour copyist respectively, though it was clear that neither of them recognised him. Both were in, a state of great agitation, especially the musician, and it was he who addressed Fittleworth.

“This is a most astonishing and alarming thing, sir. Our friend Simpson appears to have vanished completely.”

“Yes,” replied Fittleworth, “a most surprising affair. I can’t imagine why he should have gone out through the window.”

“Are you quite sure that he did?” asked the musician.

“Well,” replied Fittleworth, “he’s not here, as you see, and he couldn’t have got out through the door, so he must have left by the window, unless he went up the chimney.”

Here Fittleworth caught a reproachful glance from Katharine, and the musician, who had been introduced as Mr. Furse, rejoined: “I can’t help thinking that he must be somewhere on the premises. Would you object to our looking round?”

Fittleworth reflected awhile and ultimately ventured on a chance shot. “I think, perhaps, you may be right, Mr. Warren–”

The two men started visibly, and the musician interrupted: “My name, sir, is Furse.”

“Very well,” said Fittleworth, “Mr. Furse, then I think we had better have an explanation, as our activities overlap somewhat. I am acting on behalf of Miss Hyde, the owner of this house.”

“But what has that to do with us?” asked Mr. Furse.

“I think you will see when I explain my business, which is connected with certain property of Miss Hyde’s, to wit, a small gold box, containing certain documents, relating to some of her other property.”

For some seconds the two men stared at Fittleworth in speechless amazement; then Furse asked hesitatingly: “But what has this to do with us?

“Oh, come, come, sir,” said Fittleworth impatiently, “it’s of no use to try to keep up this pretence. We know that you took the box and that it is in your possession at this moment.”

The two men, who appeared completely dumbfounded, glanced quickly at one another, and Furse asked: “Do I understand that this box, of which you are speaking, is the property of this lady?

“Undoubtedly,” replied Fittleworth. “This is Miss Katharine Hyde, the heir and only surviving descendant of Sir Andreas Hyde, whose name will be familiar to you.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Furse. “I had no idea there were any descendants living. Perhaps you will allow my friend and me to consult together on the matter.”

Fittleworth was quite ready to agree to this, but he had no intention of leaving them alone in the room. Accordingly, he suggested the Chancellor’s Garden as a retired spot where they could converse at their ease, and proceeded to usher them out by the side door. Returning to the parlour, he found Katharine with the cupboard door open, listening intently for any sounds which might come up through the floor.

“You cold-blooded old wretch, Joe!” she exclaimed, “to sit there calmly discussing that trumpery box, while poor Mr. Simpson may be dying at the bottom of that horrible shaft.”

“My dear Kate,” protested Fittleworth, “we didn’t put him there. He shall be got up as soon as possible, but, meanwhile, it is quite a valuable aid to our negotiations.”

Katharine was shocked at his callousness and urged an immediate rescue, but Fittleworth, unmoved by her reproaches, calmly watched the two men through the window, as they paced the little green, evidently engaged in anxious discussion. The discussion was, however, quite a brief one, for in about a couple of minutes they turned, with an air of finality, and walked briskly towards the side door.

“They haven’t been long,” Fittleworth remarked as they passed out of view and the side door was heard to open. “I wonder what they’ve decided to do? They can’t very well say they haven’t got the box now.”

Fittleworth was right. As soon as the two men entered the room, Mr. Furse opened the proceedings in a manner quite frank and business-like.

“We’d like you to tell us, sir,” said he, “exactly what you know about this affair and what you wish us to do.”

“As to what we know,” said Fittleworth, “I may say we know everything. The box, which was sealed with King James’ seal and contained an important document, was removed by you–very cleverly, I must admit–from the National Gallery seventeen days ago, and you have come here to search for the property that was deposited by Sir Andreas Hyde. As to what we wish, we simply desire you to restore the box to its owner.”

Mr. Furse seated himself in a large elbow-chair and, placing his finger-tips together, addressed himself to Fittleworth.

“Now, see here,” said he. “That box was never in Miss Hyde’s possession, and I guess no one knew of its existence, or of the existence of the other property that you mention; and I guess you don’t know, now, what that property is or where it’s stowed.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Fittleworth, rather casuistically; “we know exactly where it’s hidden, which is, I think, more than you do; but surely, all this is irrelevant. The property belongs to Miss Hyde and there’s an end of the matter. You’re not disputing her title, are you?”

“No, sir, we are not. To be perfectly frank with you, our position is this: we lit on the trail of this property by chance, and, being under the impression that it was without an owner, we laid ourselves out to salve it, and I may tell you that we have spent a great deal of time, money and trouble on locating it. Now, it turns out that this is not treasure trove at all; that there is a rightful owner living; and my friend, Tanner, and I have talked the matter over and have decided that we, personally, are prepared to surrender our claim on certain conditions, but of course we can’t answer for Mr. Simpson, nor can we act without his consent.”

“What are your conditions?” asked Fittleworth.

“We should want our expenses refunded, and we want permission to search these premises for our friend.”

“That’s not unreasonable,” said Fittleworth, “and as regards the property of Sir Andreas, I am willing to agree; but I must stipulate that you hand us over immediately the box and its contents. You have them with you, probably.”

“No, we haven’t,” said Furse. “We could produce them, but, first of all, we want to look for Simpson. His case is actually urgent, for the probability is that he has got boxed up in some confounded secret chamber and can’t get out.”

“You are quite right,” said Fittleworth. “I know exactly where he is, and I will make conditions with you. You produce the box and its contents, and I will produce Mr. Simpson.”

“And supposing we don’t agree?” asked Furse.

“Then I am afraid we shall have to retain Mr. Simpson as security.”

The long, humorous face of Mr. Furse wrinkled into a grim smile, as he glanced inquiringly at his companion.

“What do you say to that?” he asked.

Mr. Tanner raised his eyebrows. “It seems to me, Warren,” said he, “that this gentleman has got us in a cleft stick. I guess we’ve got to agree.”

Mr. Furse rose and looked at his watch.

“It’ll take us well over an hour to produce that box. Say we are back here in an hour and a half?”

“Then,” said Fittleworth, “I think we can promise that you shall find Mr. Simpson here when you return.”

This arrangement having been agreed to, the two gentlemen departed, Fittleworth and Katharine escorting them to the front door. As they disappeared down the drive, the former turned to Katharine:

“Now, my dear, to the work of rescue. I think we shall have to take Rachel into our confidence, as we shall want her assistance.”

As a matter of fact, Rachel was lurking in the background, having scented some sort of mystery, and Fittleworth forthwith put her in possession of such of the circumstances as it was necessary for her to know; whereat she was profoundly thrilled and highly gratified.

“There, now,” she remarked, “that’s what comes of poking and prying about in other people’s houses. But how are you going to get him out, sir?”

“He’ll have to be hoisted up, I suppose,” said Fittleworth. “Do you happen to have such a thing as a length of strong rope?”

He asked the question somewhat hopelessly, stout rope not being a common domestic appliance; but Rachel answered promptly: “There’s the well rope, sir, if you could get it off the windlass.”

“I think we could manage that,” said Fittleworth; “and then we shall want some weights, about two hundredweight altogether.”

This presented more difficulty, until Katharine conceived the luminous idea of filling a couple of small sacks with earth, which solved the problem perfectly.

In a few minutes they had collected these appliances and a lantern, and carried them to the Chancellor’s Parlour, when, having bolted the door, they fell to work forthwith. First, the door of the cupboard was propped open with a chair; then Fittleworth laid the two small, but heavy, sacks of earth on the bottom shelf, and, the cupboard now being weighted, he set the point of his walking-stick against the movable board at the back, and gave a heavy thrust. Instantly there was a loud snap and the cupboard rumbled away down the shaft, like a primitive lift, and as the great bronze chain ran out, an enormous stone counterpoise was seen to rise at the side. As on the first occasion, the cupboard stopped about ten feet down and the floor dropped like the trap of a gallows. The next proceeding was to light the lantern and attach it to one end of the rope–the other end being secured, as before, to the table–by which Fittleworth lowered it carefully down the shaft until he had paid out some twenty-five feet. Then as its glimmer still showed nothing but the walls of the shaft, and the view was somewhat obstructed by the cupboard, he decided to go down and reconnoitre.

“I suppose that ladder’s all right?” said Katharine.

“It seems to be,” he answered. “The rungs are rusty, but they seem quite firm and strong, and you may trust me to be mighty careful.”

With this, he let himself over the brink and began slowly to descend, watched anxiously by the two women from above, testing each rung cautiously with his foot before throwing his weight on it. As he passed the suspended cupboard the voice of Simpson from below hailed him with the inquiry:

“Is that you, Warren?”

“No,” answered Fittleworth, and continued to descend.

“Is it Bell?” asked Simpson.

Fittleworth again replied in the negative, but made a mental note of the name. As he passed the lantern he saw that it had descended to within six or seven feet from the bottom of the shaft, which was covered by a considerable heap of ancient rags and mouldering straw and twigs, thrown down apparently, by some humane person to mitigate the effects of an accidental fall. At one side was a narrow doorway, cut in the chalk, opening upon a short flight of steps, and on the top step a man was sitting, nursing his bare foot.

It was a curious meeting. The light of the lantern reflected from the walls of the narrow cavity, rendered the two men plainly visible to one another, and the recognition was instantaneous. Fittleworth, of course, “placed” his man without difficulty, but the other was evidently at a loss.

“I seem to know your face,” he said, looking critically at Fittleworth; “but yet–where have I met you?”

“In the National Gallery,” Fittleworth replied; and as the other’s face took on an expression of unmistakable alarm, he added: “I’ve not come with hostile intentions. We will talk over our little business later; for the present we have to consider how to get you out of this hole.”

“I’m afraid,” said Simpson, “that I can’t climb the ladder.’

“No, of course you can’t,” replied Fittleworth, “we shall have to haul you up. But if I fix you in a loop at the end of the rope, you can help us by hauling yourself up with your hands. What do you say?”

Simpson thought the plan would answer admirably, and Fittleworth forthwith set about executing it. First, he called up to Katharine to lower a dozen feet more rope. Then, detaching the lantern from the end of the rope, he made a good-sized bowline knot in the latter, and fitted the loop round Simpson’s hips.

“There,” said he, “I will go up now and help them to hoist, and, when I give the word, you take hold of the ladder and sit down in the loop of the rope. As we haul, you must help yourself up by the ladder, and be careful that you don’t knock that unfortunate foot of yours, which we must have attended to as soon as we get you up.”

“It’s very good of you,” Simpson began; but Fittleworth, considering that this was no time for the exchange of politenesses, began to re-ascend the ladder. As he stepped out on to the floor of the parlour, he briefly explained the arrangements to his two assistants, and then, having shouted down a warning to the prisoner below, the three began to haul steadily at the rope. It was probably an uncomfortable experience to Simpson, but the plan was highly effective, and in a minute or so the captive appeared at the top of the shaft, and was tenderly helped over the perilous edge.

As he stood on one foot, supported by Fittleworth, he gazed confusedly about the room, and asked:

“Where are the others? Warren and Bell, I mean.”

“They’ve gone into Margate,” replied Fittleworth, “but they’ll be back shortly. Meanwhile, if Mistress Rachel can lend us a bedroom, we will see you comfortably settled, and send for a doctor.”

“There’s a spare bedroom over this,” said Rachel, “and, as it’s all ready, we can take Mr. Simpson up at once, and then the boy can go off on his bicycle and fetch Dr. Finlay.”

“I’m sure,” said Simpson, “it’s exceedingly charitable of you all to take so much trouble about me. It’s more than I deserve, after–” he paused to look doubtfully at Rachel, who, for her part, looked as expressionless as a moderately benevolent graven image, and was equally uncommunicative.

“For the present,” said Fittleworth, “we’ll confine our attention to your foot. When that has been attended to, and your friends arrive, we can discuss other matters.”

As soon as Simpson had been comfortably settled in the cosy, old-fashioned bedroom, with a wet handkerchief applied to his ankle, the party returned to the Chancellor’s Parlour.

“Well,” asked Katharine, “what is the next thing to be done?”

“The next thing,” said Fittleworth, “is to make a little exploration on our own account. There is evidently a chamber or tunnel at the bottom of the shaft, and I propose to go down and see what’s in it.”

“Then I’m coming down, too,” said Katharine.

At this Rachel protested most emphatically. “You’d much better not, miss,” she exclaimed. “Supposing you were to fall off the ladder!”

“I’m not going to suppose anything of the kind, Rachel. You’ll let me come down, won’t you, Joe?” she added wheedlingly.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” replied Fittleworth, “it’s quite an easy ladder to climb. But we shall want Rachel to keep guard at the top, as we do not want those two good gentlemen; so the housemaid had better be told that, if they arrive before we have finished our explorations, they are to be shown up to Mr. Simpson’s room, and are to wait there for us.”

The disapproving, but obedient, Rachel received the instructions with resignation, and, having executed them and bolted the door, took her place at the edge of the shaft with an expression of deep foreboding. First, the rope was lowered to its former position, when Fittleworth, steadying himself by it, got on the ladder and descended a few rungs; then Katharine, also grasping the rope and herself frantically grasped by Rachel, essayed the first few perilous steps.

“It’s really quite safe and easy, Rachel,” she said, as she clung tenaciously to the rusty bars and let herself down cautiously, rung by rung; and, with this assurance, the faithful handmaid was somewhat comforted, though she continued to watch the disappearance of her young mistress into the depths of the shaft with a face of horror and dismay.

The progress down the ladder occupied little more than a minute, and its completion was duly announced for the benefit of the watcher above.

“I suppose,” said Katharine, as Fittleworth picked up the lantern, “that you didn’t see anything of the mysterious ‘it’ when you were down here before?

“No,” he replied, “we are going to find ‘it’ together, Katie; at least, I hope so. Be careful of those steps.”

They descended the rudely cut steps, rounded by the damp and slimy with fungous growths, and entered a narrow passage, of which the end was lost in obscurity, and of which the floor descended at a sharp angle. Fittleworth held the lantern aloft, throwing its light on the greenish, sweating wails and the roughly-vaulted roof. There was something weirdly impressive in the aspect of this ancient tunnel, which had probably seen no light for centuries but that which now glimmered from the lantern. The lapse of time was marked not only by that eerie vegetation that clothed the wails, but by little stalactites that drooped from projections on the roof, and sparkling stalagmitic masses which had begun to grow up from the floor. But of traces of visitors there were none, excepting that, in one place, under the mantle of vegetation there could be seen on the wail some indistinct initials with a heart and the date 1594. Slowly the explorers advanced down the sloping tunnel, descending at intervals short flights of steps, which were placed at points where the direction of the tunnel changed, and still there was no sign of any concealed object or of any hiding-place. At length, on descending another short flight of steps, they turned into a straight length of tunnel, at the end of which appeared a bright spot of light, cold and bluish in tone as compared with the yellow glimmer of the lantern–evidently daylight. They hurried forward, and, passing a massive wooden gate, which had fallen back on its decayed hinges, came to a roughly-built wall of chalk masonry which blocked the tunnel. The spot of light corresponded to a space from which one of the stones had fallen or crumbled, and Fittleworth had no difficulty in climbing up and applying his eye to the hole.

“What are you smiling at, Joe?” Katharine asked, as a faint grin appeared on Fittleworth’s face.

His reply was to descend and assist her to take his place. It was a very curious scene that she looked upon as she peered through the opening; curious by reason of the contrast that it offered with this grim, old tunnel, wrapt in sepulchral darkness and charged with mystery and memories of a generation long since dead and forgotten. A sea cave with a floor of weed strewn sand and the shining beach beyond; and near its entrance a pair of very modern lovers, the swain industriously carving their joint initials with a very conspicuous heart, while the maiden stood by and encouraged him with admiring exclamations.

“So,” said Fittleworth, as Katharine stepped down, “the world wags pretty much in our days as it did in the year 1594. But, meanwhile, we seem to be at the end of our explorations, and ‘it’ still remains an unknown quantity. I wish I hadn’t been so beastly cocksure with Warren, now.”

“But it must be hidden here, somewhere in this tunnel,” said Katharine.

“That doesn’t follow at all. The purpose of these works is pretty obvious, especially when we consider that the tunnel was cut at least as early as the time of Elizabeth. They form a combined escape and death trap. You see that we are looking in near the roof of the cave, and this wall is probably built over a flight of steps. The idea clearly was that a Catholic, or Protestant, as the case might be, could escape down the shaft and out through the cave to a boat. If the pursuers discovered the secret of the cupboard, they would probably be shot down the shaft and killed; and even if they came down the ladder, they could be ambushed at any one of these sharp turns in the tunnel.”

“Then,” said Katharine, in a tone of disappointment, “you think that ‘it’ may be hidden in some other part of the house?”

“I’m afraid that’s what it looks like,” replied Fittleworth, “and, as we don’t know what ‘it’ is, or what its size may be, the search for it isn’t so very hopeful.”

They turned and retraced their steps slowly through the zigzag tunnel and, as they went, they spoke little and apparently thought much. Arrived at the foot of the shaft, Fittleworth, with a reflective air, tied the lantern to the end of the rope, and called out to Rachel to pull it up to the level of the cupboard. Then they began the ascent, Katharine going first.

When they reached the level of the cupboard, Fittleworth paused and looked round.

“Wait a minute, Katie,” said he. “I’m going to try a little experiment.”

Katharine stopped in her climb and, looking-down on him inquisitively, saw him reach across and grasp one of the bags of earth. A good pull dislodged it from the shelf and it fell to the bottom of the shaft with a dull thump.

“Be careful, Joe!” exclaimed Katharine. “You’ll have the cupboard going up and shutting us in.”

“I want it to go up a little way,” he replied; and descending a couple of rungs, he put his hand to the bottom of the cupboard and pushed steadily upwards; when the cupboard, relieved of a portion of its weight, rose three or four feet and again came to rest.

“Eureka!” Fittleworth exclaimed excitedly. “I was right. I thought our secretive friends would not waste such an excellent opportunity.”

He followed the cupboard up a few steps and, giving it another shove, sent it up a good six feet. Katharine gave a little cry of delight. In the side of the shaft, at the spot that had been hidden by the suspended cupboard, was a deepish recess, fitted with iron hand-holds, and pierced by a narrow doorway. Grasping one of the hand-holds, Fittleworth stepped on the ledge of the recess and entered the doorway.

“You’re not to go in without me,” Katharine commanded, letting herself down in a mighty hurry.

“Very well,” said Fittleworth. “Pass me the lantern across, and get a good hold of that handle before you step on the ledge.”

He took the lantern from her and, backing into the doorway, watched her anxiously as she crossed to the ledge. The perilous passage accomplished, he backed into the doorway with the lantern, and she followed him into a short passage, and from this, into a small, square chamber. As he turned and held the lantern aloft they both uttered an exclamation of joy; for a single glance around the little cell, showed them that they had found the object of their quest. On the floor, near to one wall, raised from the damp surface on blocks of cut chalk, were three rudely-made chests, clamped with iron bands and guarded by massive locks. Fittleworth threw the light of the lantern on each in succession. All of them were roughly fashioned, as if by a ship’s carpenter, and each bore on the lid, in incised lettering, the same inscription: “Shipp, James and Mary. Stowe in ye lazaret”; and then in dotted lettering, as if marked with an awl or marline spike, “His Majesty’s Portion, W.P.”

“‘W.P.,’” mused Fittleworth. “That would be Sir William Phips, whoever he was. Now, the question is, whose property is this? It’s His Majesty’s portion, but did the king hand it to Sir Andreas as a gift, or only to hold in trust for safe keeping?”

“Does it matter?” inquired Katharine, with feminine disregard for these niceties.

“Yes, it does,” replied Fittleworth. “If it belonged to Sir Andreas, it is your property, but if it was the king’s, it’s treasure trove.”

“Rubbish!” exclaimed Katharine. “King James’ family is extinct, so there’s no question about his heirs; and finding is keeping. Besides, it’s in my house and was put here by my ancestor.”

“You’re a dishonest little baggage!” laughed Fittleworth, whose private opinions, however, on the moral aspects of treasure trove were much the same as those of most other sensible men, “but perhaps the document may give us some further information. At any rate, it is satisfactory to have found ‘it’ ourselves. And now we had better go up and see if our understudies have arrived yet.”

He helped Katharine across to the ladder and, as they emerged from the shaft, to Rachel’s unspeakable relief, the front door bell rang.

“That’ll be Mr. Furse and his friend,” remarked Rachel. “The doctor has been and gone away again.”

“Then,” said Fittleworth, “they had better be shown up to Mr. Simpson’s room, and, when they are ready to see us, perhaps you will kindly let us know.”

He closed the door of the cupboard, and, as Rachel departed on her mission, he drew two chairs up to the table.

“There’s one thing I want to say to you,” said Katharine. “Of course we have found this property, whatever it is, ourselves, but we should never have found it if it had not been for those three men. They are the real discoverers.”

Fittleworth assented somewhat dryly, and Katharine went on: “They’ve had an awful lot of trouble, Joe, and they’ve been most clever and ingenious, and when we broke in upon them they were on the very point of winning the reward for all their labour.”

“They hadn’t found the hiding-place,” objected Fittleworth.

“No, but I feel sure they would have found it. They are evidently exceedingly clever men–almost as clever as you, Joe.”

“Rather more so, I should say,” laughed Fittleworth. “They did me in the eye pretty neatly.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Katharine, ignoring this, “they discovered it by sheer cleverness, did by taking infinite trouble, and it will be an awful disappointment to the poor things to have it snatched from them at the last moment.”

“Well?” said Fittleworth, as Katharine paused interrogatively.

“Well, don’t you think we ought to let them have at least a substantial share of whatever is in those chests?”

Fittleworth smiled grimly. “It’s a most irregular business altogether, Katie. In the first place, I, an official of the Gallery, propose to compound a felony by receiving the stolen property, which I fancy we are not going to restore to the owner of the picture.”

“Certainly not,” said Katharine. “It wasn’t his. It’s mine.”

“And then,” continued Fittleworth, “we propose to make a perfectly illegal arrangement with the robbers for disposing of certain treasure trove which is the property of the Crown.”

“Oh, stuff, Joe!” exclaimed Katharine. “It’s my property, or at least ours, and we’re going to keep it, you know we are. Now, how much are we going to give these poor creatures?”

“It’s your property, Kate,” said Fittleworth, with a grin; “at least, you say it is, so you must decide.”

“Very well,” said she, “let us consider. There are three chests, one for you, one for me and one for them. What do you say to that?”

Fittleworth, though secretly approving, was disposed to adopt the cantankerous attitude of a trustee or adviser; but Katharine saw through him at once.

“I’m glad you agree with me,” she said, ignoring his protests. “We shall enjoy our windfall so much more if we’re not greedy. So that’s settled. And I think I hear Rachel coming.”

A moment later the handmaid entered to announce that Mr. Furse and his friends were ready to see them, and they adjourned, forthwith, to the bedroom above.

“I hope,” said Katharine, as they entered, “that the doctor has given a favourable report, and that you are in less pain now, Mr. Simpson.”

“Thank you,” was the reply, “I am quite comfortable now. It seems that it was only a severe sprain, after all.”

Katharine congratulated him on his escape, and Mr. Furse–or Warren–then opened the business with characteristic briskness.

“Now, sir, my friend, Pedley, late Simpson, is quite agreeable to our handing over the box and contents on the terms mentioned, which, however, must include immunity from any proceedings in respect of the picture.”

“So far as I am concerned,” said Fittleworth, “I agree, although such an agreement is quite illegal, as you know. But the arrangement is between ourselves and need go no farther.”

“Quite so,” said Warren. “But, does anyone besides Miss Hyde know that you were on our track?”

“No. We acted quite secretly, and as the picture has been restored, no action is likely to be taken by the authorities.”

“Then in that case,” said Warren, “and as you agree to our terms, I will hand the property to Miss Hyde, and will let you have an account of our expenses later.”

With this he produced from his pocket a small paper packet, and, opening it, displayed a small, plain, gold box, somewhat like an exceedingly flat cigar case, which he handed to Katharine.

“The paper,” said he, “is inside; and I may say, madam, that I believe you will find it an exceedingly interesting document.”

Katharine, having thanked him, opened the little box and took from it a sheet of very thin paper, folded twice, and covered with writing of an antiquated style and very pale and faded. Opening the paper, she ran her eye quickly the writing, and then handed the document to Fittleworth. “Perhaps you had better read it aloud,” said she. Fittleworth took the paper and examined it curiously. One side of it was occupied by what seemed to be a list or schedule; the document proper occupied the other, and it was with this that Fittleworth began:

“James, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, unto our trusty and well-beloved Andreas Hide and all other such persons as may be concerned with these presents. Whereas the saide Andreas Hide hath on sundry occasions contributed divers sums of money for our use and service Now We do convey to the saide Andreas Our portion of the treasure which Captain Sir William Phips of New England did lift from the Spanish wracke at Hispaniola the saide share being of the value of thirty thousand pounds sterling as sett forth in the accompt on the backe hereof to be disposed of in manner following namely the saide treasure to be secured by the saide Andreas Hide in some safe and secret place to be held intact for Our use as occasion may require while the present troubles continue and soe to be held if need bee during Our life and that of Our Son James Prince of Wales to be faithfully rendered up to Us or to the saide Prince upon Our or his demand as Our or his necessities may require but upon Our death and that of the saide Prince the saide Treasure to revert absolutely and become the sole property of the saide Andreas Hide or the heirs of his body.

“Given under Our hand at Our Palace of White Hall on the twentieth day of September in the Year of our Lord God 1688.

“JAMES R.”

As Fittleworth finished reading, he glanced significantly at Katharine, and Mr. Warren gave an approving nod. “So you see, Miss Hyde,” said the latter, “there is no question of treasure trove. This is your own property, if you know where to find it. I need not say that if we had known of your existence, we would have notified you. Rather foolishly, we assumed that there were no heirs in existence–that the family was derelict, and, of course, the good old laws of treasure trove don’t appeal much to an American.”

“Naturally,” said Katharine. “May we see what’s on the other side?”

Fittleworth turned the paper over and began to read from the inventory on the back:

“Three chests containing the King’s share of Captain Phips’ treasure as follows:

“The first chest containeth,

“Twenty-one bars of golde

“Two large baggs pieces of eight

“Six parcels dust golde

“Three baggs coyned golde

“One bagg two hundred large pearls

“Two baggs unpolished stones (divers).”

At this point Fittleworth paused. “Is it worth while,” he asked, “to go right through the list? We shall have to verify the contents of the chests presently, and we know the total value.”

“Yes,” said Warren, “I guess you’ll find enough to pay our little expenses, with a trifle over. And that reminds me that we should like, if possible, to have the sum–which we will put at two hundred pounds–paid in the actual contents of these chests. It has been quite a little romance for us, and we should like some memento of it.”

Katharine glanced significantly at Fittleworth, who then said: “I understand that Miss Hyde wishes you to consider yourselves as partners in this enterprise, and to take a substantial share of the treasure–”

“A third,” said Katharine, “if you think that’s fair.”

“Fair!” exclaimed Warren. “It’s a great deal more than fair, it’s exceedingly handsome; but I really don’t–”

“You see,” interrupted Katharine, “you are really the discoverers, and it would seem such a tame ending to your little romance if you only took away a few trifles.”

Warren was about to protest, but Katharine continued: “We shall be very unhappy if you don’t take a fair share. Remember, we should never have known anything about it but for your cleverness, and the daring way in which you borrowed that picture. Come, Mr. Warren, I will make a condition; you shall tell us how you did it, and then help us to get the chests out.”

To these not very onerous conditions the three Americans agreed after some further protests and consultation between themselves, and Simpson, or rather, Pedley, then asked: “I suppose the chests are stowed in that place at the bottom of the shaft?”

“No, they’re not,” replied Fittleworth. “They’re less than half-way down; but I hope you’ll be able to be present when they’re lifted, which is the next business that we have to consider, and a rather troublesome business it will be, I expect.”

The business, however, turned out to be less troublesome than Fittleworth had anticipated, for the three enterprising American gentlemen, having read the inventory, and knowing the nature of the treasure, had already provided themselves with the appliances necessary for dealing with the ponderous chests.

These appliances, consisting of a powerful tackle, a set of chain slings, some wooden rollers, and one or two crowbars, were stored at their hotel, from whence Warren and Bell proceeded to fetch them without delay. Then Pedley, with his foot in a splint, was carried down to the Chancellor’s Parlour, and, the door being bolted, salvage operations began forthwith. The tackle was hooked on to the great bronze chain that suspended the cupboard, and the chests, one by one, secured in the slings, were dragged on rollers to the opening into the shalt, and finally hoisted up to the floor of the parlour.

The old room had doubtless looked on many a strange scene, but on none stranger than that which was revealed by the light of the hanging lamp and the candles that burned in the old silver candlesticks. The three chests, wrenched open, despite their massive locks, by vigorously-wielded crowbars, stood empty in a corner, and the five conspirators, seated round the ancient draw-table, gazed upon a treasure that made even its sturdy legs creak protestingly. Bars of gold–dull, soapy, and worthless in aspect–bags of gold dust, uncut gems and antiquated coins, lay cheek by jowl, with heaps of rings, trinkets, and ornaments of a suspiciously ecclesiastical character. At the head of the table Katharine sat, with the inventory before her, checking the items as they were called out by Fittleworth, with the impressive manner of an auctioneer. It was late at night before the ceremony was concluded; by which time the spoil, divided into three approximately equal portions, had been returned to the chests, of which one, allocated to the three adventurers, was duly marked and secured with the chain slings, ready for removal.

“There is one thing,” said Fittleworth, “that I should like to know before we part. I can see pretty well how you got on the track of the treasure, but I cannot see how you ascertained which of the stretchers contained the gold box. I noticed that the canvas had been unfastened only at the one end, so you must either have known beforehand, or made a lucky guess.”

Warren laughed complacently. “We Americans are a progressive people,” said he, “and we have a way of applying recent scientific knowledge to useful ends. We didn’t know beforehand where that gold box was, and we didn’t have to make a shot. We just took the picture, in its case, round to an electrical instrument maker’s, and got him to pass the X-rays through it, while we looked at it through a fluorescent screen. We couldn’t see much of the picture, but we could see the gold box plain enough, so we just made a pencil mark over the spot on the paper in which the case was wrapped. Is there anything more you would like to know?”

“If it wouldn’t seem inquisitive,” said Fittleworth, “I think we should like to know with whom we have had the pleasure of sharing the plunder.”

Warren rubbed his chin, and cast a comical look of inquiry at his two friends; then, having received an assenting nod from each of them, he replied: “We are sharing one or two secrets already, sir, and if I mention that one of us is a Professor of History at a well-known university in the United States and that the other two of us are respectively Professor of European Architecture at the same academic institution and Conservator of a famous Museum, why, then, we shall share one secret more.”

Three days later there arrived at the Captain Digby, where Fittleworth was staying, a letter from the Director asking him to withdraw his resignation. It was a gratifying circumstance, and he hastened to communicate it to Katharine. But in the meantime she had also received a letter–from her tenant, Mrs. Matthews–asking to be allowed to determine the tenancy in a month’s time. Katharine read her letter to Fittleworth, and then, laying it down, asked somewhat abstractedly:

“Didn’t you once say, Joe, that you would like to live in this old house yourself?”

“I did,” he replied, “and I repeat it most emphatically.”

“Then,” said Katharine, “Sir John will have to accept your resignation.”

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