The Mystery of the Ravenspurs

"Here was the situation, then – I had either to press my face against those cruel bars or drown in a few inches of water. Could the mind of man imagine a more diabolical torture? I cried aloud; I believe my friend did also, but I cannot say. My face flinched involuntarily from the scar of the blistering iron; I held my breath till the green and red stars danced before my eyes.

"Flesh and blood could stand it no longer, and I was literally bound to raise my head. Into the flesh, as you have seen for yourself, those hot barriers pressed, while I filled my lungs with a deep draught of delicious air. But the agony was so great that I had to go down again. The water cooled the burns for the moment. But you can imagine how it intensified the agony afterwards.

"When I raised myself again the bars were cool. But only for an instant, for they came hot once more, this time in a horizontal direction. The same ghastly business was enacted; again there was the sense of semi-suffocation, again the long draught of pure air and the pain from the bars. And then, while wondering, half-delirious, how long it could last, something gave way and I fainted.

"That I deemed to be death; but it was nothing of the kind. When I came to I was lying on the floor writhing in agony from my wounds. Fortunately I had not lost my sight, nor had Ralph at that time. He was to discover later that the injuries received were fatal to his eyes.

"He was lying by my side and groaning with pain like myself. A more hideous and more repulsive sight than my companion's face I never wish to look upon. And doubtless he had the same thoughts of me. But I did not think of that at the moment.

"We were alone. I staggered to my feet and across to the door. It was fastened, of course. For a time we were too maddened by pain to take heed of anything, but gradually reason came back to us. My first idea was of revenge. Ralph had grasped for his robes and his revolver was in his hand.

"'Heaven help the first man who comes in!' he yelled.

"Like a drunken lunatic, I applauded the sentiment. For a minute we were both mad as the drugged Malay who runs amuck. Fortunately nobody did come in for some time, and gradually wiser counsels prevailed. We slipped into our garments and hid our revolvers. Then from raging madmen we passed to tears. We were so spent and exhausted that we cried like little children.

"But men like ourselves are not easily daunted. The pain was still great, but this only stimulated our desire to live and gain the better of those who had so cruelly used us. Later a priest conducted us into another room, where the princess awaited us.

"She smiled as she looked at our faces. That smile was nearly the end of her. Many a time since have I regretted that I didn't finish her career then and there. Had she betrayed the least sign of fear I should have done so. And by so doing your people would have been saved many a bitter sorrow."

"At the expense of your life," Geoffrey said.

Tchigorsky shrugged his shoulders.

"What matter?" he said. "The few suffer for the many. Well, as I was saying – "

The speaker paused suddenly as his eye caught something moving along the beach. It was the figure of a woman creeping along as if in search of some missing object. She proceeded very slowly until she approached the spot where the boat lay filled and sunk, and then she paused abruptly.

For a minute she stood fascinated by the sight, then she flung her hands high in the air, and a bitter wailing cry escaped her. If she had been a fisherman's wife suddenly brought face to face with the dead body of her husband or lover, her wail of anguish had not been more poignant.

"Who can she be?" Geoffrey asked.

Tchigorsky said nothing. The woman stood with her hands raised. As she turned and ran towards the cliffs, moaning as she went, Geoffrey started.

"Marion," he said. "Marion."

He would have dashed forward, but Tchigorsky restrained him.

"That is not your Marion," he said. "Your Marion does not dress like that."

Geoffrey looked again. It was Marion and yet not Marion. It was the girl in the blue serge dress and red tam-o'-shanter who resembled her so strikingly. What did this girl know about him, and why did she stand wailing over his boat? He felt he must solve this mystery.

"Sit down," Tchigorsky said slowly. "Sit down."

"But," Geoffrey cried, "I insist upon knowing – "

"And spoiling everything. Sit down, I say, or I shall have to detain you. I don't fancy you would care to measure your strength with mine."

Geoffrey dropped into his seat.

"Perhaps not," he said. "I don't believe you want me to know who that girl is."

"I have heard worse guesses," Tchigorsky said dryly.

CHAPTER XLI

WAITING

They were growing uneasy at the castle. There was a forced cheerfulness about the small party that testified to the nervous tension that held them. For some years now there had been a tacit understanding on the subject of punctuality. Such a thing was necessary when any moment might precipitate the next catastrophe. The mere fact of anybody being late for five minutes sufficed to put the rest in a fever. And Geoffrey had not come in to tea at all.

The thing was almost in itself a tragedy. Geoffrey was always so considerate of others. Nothing in the world would have induced him to stay away without first saying he was going to do so or sending a message. And tea had been a thing of the past for a good hour. What could have become of him?

Nobody asked the question, but it was uppermost in the minds of all. Vera was chattering with feverish gayety, but there was a blazing red spot on her ghastly white face, and her eyes were wild and restless.

Marion had slipped away. The only one who betrayed no anxiety was Ralph. He sat sipping his chilled tea as if he had the world to himself and there was nobody else in it.

Presently, with one excuse or another, all slipped away until Vera was alone with Ralph. He was so quiet that she had almost forgotten his presence. When she thought herself alone she rose to her feet and paced the room rapidly.

She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples.

"God spare him," she whispered, "spare him to me! Oh, it is wicked to feel like this and so utterly selfish. But if Geoffrey dies I have nothing to live for."

The tears rose to her eyes, tears of agony and reproach and self-pity. Ralph crossed the room silently. He was upon the girl ere she had heard the soft fall of his footsteps. He laid a hand on Vera's arm.

"Geoffrey is not going to die," he said.

Vera suppressed a scream. She might have cried out, but something in the expression of Ralph's face restrained her.

"Are you sure of that?" she asked.

"As sure as one can be certain of anything, child. We are alone?"

"There is nobody else here, uncle."

"One cannot be too careful," Ralph muttered. "Then Geoffrey is safe."

"Thank Heaven. You have sent him somewhere, uncle?"

"No, I have not sent him anywhere. And you are not to ask any questions. I have told you so much to spare you the agony and suspense that will overtake the others. I tell you because had you not known, the mental strain might have broken you down," continued Ralph.

"Before long it will be proved almost beyond a demonstration that Geoffrey has become a victim to the family foe. There will be evidence to convince a jury, but all the time Geoffrey will be safe."

Vera said nothing. She could only gasp. Ralph's hand lay on her shoulder with a grip that was not devoid of pain.

"You are not to show your feelings to any one," he croaked. "You are not to betray your knowledge by a single sign. Ah, if I could tell you how much depends upon your courage, reticence, and your silence!"

"I think you can trust me, Uncle Ralph."

"I think I can, dear. I like the ring of your voice. You are to be quiet and subdued as if you were unable to comprehend the full force of the disaster. Much, if not everything, depends upon the next few hours. Now go, please."

Ralph slipped away into the grounds. A little later he was making his way along the cliffs toward the village. For a brief time Vera stood still. She was trying to realize what Ralph had said.

"What did it mean?" she asked herself again and again. But she could find no answer to the puzzle. Still Geoffrey was safe. Whatever sensation the next few hours might produce Geoffrey had come to no harm. It would be hard to see the others suffer, hard to witness their grief and not lighten it by so much as a sign.

But Ralph had been emphatic on this point. Had he not said that everything hinged upon her reticence and silence? Vera went slowly to her room, her feet making no sound on the thick pile carpet. A flood of light streamed through the stained glass windows into the corridor. In the big recess at the end a white figure lay face downward on the cushions.

Vera approached softly. She saw the shoulders rise and fall as if the girl lying there were sobbing in bitter agony. It was Marion. Marion the ever cheerful! Surely her grief must be beyond the common?

"Marion," Vera whispered. "Dear Marion."

She bent over the prostrate figure with heartfelt tenderness.

Marion raised her face at length. It was wet with tears and her eyes were swollen. At first she seemed not to recognize Vera.

"Go away," she said hoarsely. "Why do you intrude upon me like this? Am I never to have a minute to myself? Am I always to carry the family troubles on my shoulders?"

She spoke fiercely, with a gleam in her eyes that Vera had never seen before. She drew back, frightened and alarmed. It seemed incredible that gentle Marion could repulse her like this. But she did not go.

Marion was beside herself with grief; she did not know what she was saying. It was impossible to leave her in this condition.

"You are grieving for Geoffrey," she said. "He will come back to us."

"Geoffrey is dead," Marion wailed. "He will never come back. And I – "

She paused; she had not lost control of herself entirely. But the look in her eyes, the expression of her face, the significant pause told Vera a story. It burst upon her with the full force of a sudden illumination.

"Marion," she whispered, "you love him as well as I do – "

So her secret was known at last! And Marion was only a woman, after all. The selfishness of her grief drove away all other emotions.

"As you do?" she cried. "What do you with your gentle nature know of love? You want the wild hot blood in your veins to feel the real fire of a lasting, devouring affection.

"I tell you I love him ten thousand times more than you do. Look at me, I am utterly lost and abased with my grief and humiliation. Am I not an object of pity? Geoffrey is dead, I tell you; I know it, I feel it. Love him as you do! And you stand there without so much as a single tear for his dear memory."

Vera flushed. The words stung her keenly. How cold and callous Marion must think her! And yet Marion would have been equally cold and self-contained had she known. And it was impossible to give her a single hint.

"My heart and soul are wrapped up in Geoffrey," she said. "If anything happens to him I shall have nothing to live for. But I am not going to give way yet. There is still hope. And I shall hope to the end."

Marion sat up suddenly and dried her tears.

"You are a reproach to me," she said with a watery smile. "Not one word of reproof has passed your lips, and yet you are a reproof to me. And to think that you should have learned my secret! I could die of shame."

Vera kissed the other tenderly.

"Why?" she asked. "Surely there is no shame in a pure and disinterested affection."

"From your point of view, no," said Marion. "But if you could place yourself in my position you would not regard it in the same light. I have cared for Geoffrey ever since I came here; all along I have loved him. I knew that he was pledged to you, and knew that he could never be anything to me and still I loved him. Who shall comprehend the waywardness of a woman's heart? And now he is dead."

Once more the tears rose to Marion's eyes; she rocked herself to and fro as if suffering from bitter anguish.

"I do not believe that Geoffrey is dead," said Vera. "Something tells me that he will be spared. But why go on like this? Anybody would imagine that you had something to do with it from the expression of your face."

Marion looked up suddenly.

"Something to do with it?" she echoed dully, mechanically.

"I wasn't speaking literally, of course." Vera went on. "But your curious expression – "

"What is curious about my expression?"

"It is so strange. It is not like grief, so much as remorse."

Marion broke into a queer laugh, a laugh she strangled. As she passed her handkerchief across her face she seemed to wipe out that strange expression.

"I hope remorse and I will remain strangers for many a long day," she said more composedly. "It is so difficult to judge from faces. And I must try to be brave like yourself. I have never given way before."

"I believe you are the bravest of us all, Marion."

"And I that I am the greatest coward. I have even been so weak as to allow the secret of my life to escape me. Vera, I want you to make me a most sacred promise."

"A dozen if you like, dear."

"Then I want you to promise that Geoffrey shall never know of your discovery. At no time are you to tell him. Promise."

Marion looked up eagerly and met Vera's eyes. They were clear and true and honest; they were filled with frankness and pity.

"I promise from my heart," she said. "Not now nor at any time shall Geoffrey know what I have learned to-day."

Marion blessed the speaker tenderly.

"I am satisfied," she said. "He will never know."

CHAPTER XLII

THE SEARCH

Mrs. May sat out on the lawn before the rose-garlanded windows of her sitting room. A Japanese umbrella was over her dainty head, a scented cigarette between her lips. For some time she had been long and earnestly sweeping the sea with a pair of binoculars.

She rose at length and made her way down the garden. There was a rugged path at the bottom, terminating in a thicket that overhung the cliffs.

Here it would be possible for a dozen men to hide without the slightest chance of being discovered. Nobody ever went there by any chance. Shaded from the house, Mrs. May paused.

A softened whistle came from her lips, and then there came from the ground the dusky form of the man who called himself Ben Heer. He salaamed profoundly.

"Well!" the woman demanded impatiently. "Well?"

"Well, indeed, my mistress," the sham Ben Heer replied calmly. "It fell out as you arranged. Behold a puff of wind carried away the masts, and behold the oars came into fragments. Then the boat began to fill and now lies bottom upward at the foot of the cliff."

"But he might have been a powerful swimmer."

"He was no swimmer at all. I saw everything."

"It was not possible for him to be picked up?"

"Not possible, my mistress. There was no boat, no sail to be seen. The boat foundered and there was an end of it. I waited for some time and I saw no more."

Mrs. May nodded carelessly. She might have been receiving the intelligence of the drowning of a refractory puppy. She betrayed neither regret nor satisfaction.

"Of course, they will guess," she said. "When they come to examine the boat and the oars they will see at once that there has been foul play. Once more they will know that the enemy has struck a blow."

"My mistress is all powerful," Ben Heer murmured.

"They will try to trace us once more, Ben Heer."

The sham Asiatic shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"And they will fail," he said. "They know not the powers arrayed against them; the dogs know not my gracious mistress. Meanwhile thy slave can see through the bushes that somebody awaits your presence."

Mrs. May glanced in the direction indicated by Ben Heer. On the lawn Rupert Ravenspur was standing. The woman smiled. There was the head of the hated house actually seeking out the foe.

"Your eyes are sharper than mine," she said. "Well, you have need of them. Meanwhile you had better discreetly disappear for the time."

Mrs. May advanced to greet her guest. He bowed with his old-fashioned grace.

"This is an unexpected honor," the woman said.

"I can claim nothing on the score of politeness or gallantry," Rupert Ravenspur replied. He was quiet and polished as usual, but there was a look of deep distress on his face. "I came here not to see you, but in the faint hope of finding my nephew Geoffrey. I have ascertained that he came to see you sometimes."

"He has been so good," Mrs. May murmured. "I assure you I appreciate the company of a gentleman in this deserted spot."

"Then he has not been here to-day?"

"I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Geoffrey to-day."

Ravenspur groaned. He turned his face away ashamed that a woman should see him in a moment of weakness. Out of the corner of her eye she regarded him. There was not a drop of pity in her heart for him.

"I hope you don't anticipate anything wrong," she said. "Mr. Geoffrey is not a boy that he cannot – "

"Oh, you do not understand! It is not that at all. In ordinary circumstances I could trust Geoffrey to the end of the world. He is a good fellow, and capable of taking care of himself and upholding the family honor. But others as strong and more cunning have fallen before the dreaded foe, until all confidence has left us. I fear much that harm has come to Geoffrey."

"But surely in the broad daylight – "

"Daylight or darkness, it is the same. You know nothing of the boy?"

"Nothing, save that he was going fishing to-day."

Ravenspur started.

"Oh," he cried. "Then I shall soon know the worst. I am sorry to have troubled you; I will go down to the beach. The others are searching in all directions. Nobody will return to the house until we know the lad's fate."

Ravenspur bowed and was gone. Mrs. May smiled after him. So the castle was going to be left for the time being.

"This is a chance not to be lost," she murmured. "The full run of the castle! Fate is playing into my hands with a vengeance."

Full of the wildest apprehensions, Ravenspur made his way to the beach. It was no easy task for a man of his years, but he made light of it, as he used to half a century ago. Two fishermen coming up touched their hats.

"Have you been out to the west of Gull Point to-day?" Ravenspur asked.

"No, sir," was the reply. "Not one of us. The mackerel came in from the east, and there were so many we had every bottom afloat. I did hear as Mr. Geoffrey had gone out in the West Bay, but I can't say for sure."

Again Ravenspur groaned; no longer had he the least doubt about what had happened. There had been more foul play, and Geoffrey had gone down under the dark waters. The old man's heart was full to bursting, but his grief was for Vera more than for himself.

"I am afraid there has been another of those tragedies that are so mournfully identified with our name," he said. "Wass and Watkins, will you come with me?"

The fishermen dropped the brown tangled nets upon their shoulders and followed. They were all tenants, vassals almost, of the Ravenspurs and ready to do their bidding. The foe would have had a hard time did he fall into the clutches of these veterans.

"I am going down to search the beach," Ravenspur explained. "I know that my nephew went out fishing this afternoon. I shall know his fate soon."

It was some time before anything was found. Wass came stumbling over the rocks, and there in a clear pool he saw the boat bottom upward. At the cry of dismay that came from him, Watkins hurried up.

"Give a hand with the painter, Bill," Wass said hoarsely. "There's the boat right enough with a good round hole under the gunwale."

Ravenspur watched in silence. He saw the boat beached; he saw the hole in her side. Wass pointed to the mast where it had been sawn off.

"Poor young gentleman," he exclaimed with a hearty outburst of grief. "And to think that we shall never see him again. Look at this, sir."

"The mast seems to have been sawn off," said Ravenspur.

"Almost off, sir," said Watkins. "Enough to give if a puff of wind came. And that hole has been plugged with soft glue or something of the kind. If I could only lay a hand on 'em!"

He shook his fist in the air in impotent rage; tears filled his eyes. Ravenspur stood motionless. He was trying to bring the force of the tragedy home to himself, trying to shape words to tell Vera without cutting her to the heart. He was long past the more violent emotions.

He turned to Wass like a man in a dream.

"Go up to the castle," he said. "See my son Gordon and bid him come here. They must all come down, all aid in the search. Not a word more; please go."

CHAPTER XLIII

NEARER

To Geoffrey the position was a strange one. There was something unreal about the whole thing. Nor was it pleasant to remember that by this time the family had missed him, and were doubtless bewailing him for dead.

"I am afraid there is no help for it," said Tchigorsky. "I could not see my way to certain conclusions and ends without inconvenience."

"Something more than inconvenience," Geoffrey murmured.

"Anxiety, troubles, what you like," Tchigorsky replied coolly. "It is necessary. I want to have the castle cleared for a time, and I could think of no better and less suspicious way of doing it. The anxiety and suspense will not last long and by daylight your people shall see you again. And the one who is most likely to suffer has been already relieved."

So Geoffrey was fain to wait in the cave listening to Tchigorsky's piquant conversation, and waiting for the time to come for action.

"There will be plenty to do presently," the Russian said. "Meanwhile I am going to leave you to yourself for a space. The woman who regards me as her servant may need me. And, remember, you are not to leave the cave in any circumstances, else all my delicately laid plans will be blown to the winds."

So saying Tchigorsky disappeared. It seemed hours before anything happened. It was safe in the cave. Nobody was likely to come there, and if they did there was not the slightest chance of discovery, for the cave went far under the cliff and was dark as the throat of a wolf.

By and by there came the sound of voices on the beach, and Rupert Ravenspur, followed by the two fishermen, appeared. Geoffrey's heart smote him as he saw his grandfather. Then they found the boat, and directly afterwards the two fishermen rushed away, leaving Ravenspur behind.

It was only the strongest self-control that prevented Geoffrey from making his presence known to the figure gazing so sadly at the boat. But he remembered Tchigorsky's warning.

After all, he reflected, it would only be for a little time. And the head of the family knew nothing of the great conspiracies working themselves out around him. His open honorable nature would have shrunk from the subtle diplomacy and cunning that appealed so powerfully to Tchigorsky.

Rupert Ravenspur would not have tolerated the position for a moment. He would have insisted upon going to Mrs. May and having the matter out at once, or he would have called in the police. And that course would be fatal.

So Geoffrey was constrained to stay and watch. Presently he saw the fishermen return, followed by the family. There was a gathering about the foundered boat, and then Geoffrey turned his eyes away, ashamed to witness the emotion caused by what they regarded as his untimely death.

He had seen them all and beheld their grief. He could see Marion bent down with a handkerchief to her streaming eyes and the head of the family comforting her. He saw Vera apart from the rest, gazing out to sea.

Beyond, a fleet of boats were coming round the point. They were small fishing smacks in search of the drowned Ravenspur.

Geoffrey pinched himself to make sure he was awake. It is not often that a live man sits watching people search for his dead body.

But there was comfort in the knowledge that Vera was aware of everything. Geoffrey could see that she had been told. That was why she kept apart from the rest. She walked along the sands past the mouth of the cave, her head bent down.