Chapter Twenty Three. Tactics of the Enemy.

Walter Wyman, a thorough-going man of the world, was quick of resource. Indeed, it was his shrewdness and clever ingenuity that had extricated him from many a tight corner during his long journeys of exploration. More than once had he carried his life in his hand on that perilous trip from the Albert Nyanza up to Darfur and Kordofan, which he boldly undertook for the intelligence department of the war office prior to Kitchener’s march to Omdurman; and more than once it was his quick foresight and promptness of action that had saved him.

The picture of health, he was an ideal British officer, well set-up, well-groomed, and well-clad; and as he stood there in a suit of grey tweed and Panama hat, a thoughtful frown crossed his merry countenance reddened by African suns.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Allan, old chap. We ought to ascertain how the enemy intend to start their campaign. There’s something decidedly funny about your old Italian hunchback being over here. Are you quite certain you’ve made no mistake?”

“Absolutely. Graniani has gone past with the Earl.”

“But the latter is believed by everyone in town to be still in India. His own servants must, of course, be in the know, but the whole circumstances are suspicious. Now, the hunchback doesn’t know me, therefore I shall have a much better chance of following them than if you came. They mustn’t know that you are here.”

“No. Go and see what their game is. I’ll remain here and wait for you. They’ve evidently gone through into the abbey, and will be poking about there. Keep a sharp eye on them, and we may learn something from their movements.”

“All right,” he answered, and without another word went out, closing the door after him.

The maid came in and cleared the table. Then I was left alone standing at the window, the wire blind of which fortunately prevented me from being seen from the street.

An hour passed, tolled out by the musical bells in the tower, but my friend did not return. Something important was transpiring, no doubt.

To pass the time, I took from my pocket the transcript of the old record, and reread it from beginning to end. I made a note of various books to obtain in the reading-room of the British Museum, in order to verify the statements both regarding the doings of the Borgias and the events in Galloway in the middle of the sixteenth century, as recorded by the old chronicles. My own antiquarian tastes told me that, in order to properly pursue this investigation, we must be armed with historical facts and data; and that in all probability this might be obtained either at the British Museum or at the record office. In the history of the Borgias I had been interested for years, and had read many works dealing with that celebrated family of prelates and poisoners; but of the history of Galloway I confess that I was in almost total ignorance.

True, I had been in Galloway, shooting with my old friend Fred Fenwicke of Crailloch, when my eyesight was better than it now is, and had admired the wild beauties of the country—a land of hills, streams, and lochs, and full of charming spots as beautiful as any in Scotland. I had crossed the purple heather of Lochenbreck, had traversed the giant solitudes of Carsphaim and the boulder-strewn plains of Dromore; and had shot grouse at Shirmer’s—the locale of my friend Mr Crockett’s charming story, “The Lilac Sunbonnet,”—and fished the Dee for salmon at Tongland Bridge and in the murmuring Garpal where it runs over its grey rocks through the deep wooded glen in front of Fred Fenwicke’s fine old mansion of Crailloch; yet with its historic associations I had never before had occasion to trouble myself.

I knew the titles of several books which, however, I thought might assist me, and put these down for reference.

But through it all—indeed, through all the day—thoughts of Judith Gordon, that beautiful yet tragic figure that had stood beside me on that cliff beside the summer sea, haunted me continually.

Sitting there, impatiently awaiting Walter’s return, I reflected upon her attitude towards me, and saw that she held me more in terror than in abhorrence.

You may dub me a fool for this piece of folly of the heart. Nevertheless, I tell you that this was no mere idle fancy based upon a sudden admiration, but a deep and genuine attraction, such as men experience only once in their lives.

I had never lived before that hour. Though she had shown no sign of tenderness to me, she was woman in all that could render woman adorable to man. All my days, those long weary youthful days of work and worry in London, and those years of lazy, idle lotus-eating by the Mediterranean, had been passed in striving and in longing, and my ideal had ever fled from my grasp, leaving me tantalised, athirst, unblessed. But everything had now altered. Here, in the midst of this storm and stress of mystery, one woman had suddenly come to me, and I had stood by her side enchanted. I was not sorry now that the plenitude of happiness had so long been denied me; I was glad that fate had kept me unsated.

But these pages are simply pages of record, not of argument.

When Walter re-entered the room, his clothes dusty and his face perspiring, I saw from his countenance that something curious had occurred.

“I’ve watched them the whole time,” he said breathlessly, as he closed the door behind him. “They’ve put up at the ‘White Hart,’ opposite the old bridge, and have been over the fields round about the ruins with a plan drawn on tracing-paper. They evidently know what they are about, for they haven’t been in the ruins proper at all, fortunately perhaps for me, for I concealed myself there and watched all their movements. The old hunchback speaks English quite well.”

“Speaks English?” I cried, surprised. “Why, in Leghorn he always feigned ignorance of any single word of English.”

“For his own purposes, no doubt,” laughed my friend. “Ten minutes ago I overheard him talking English with his lordship quite fluently. It seems as though this old Italian has a plan,—a tracing, no doubt,—and from it they are locating the whereabouts of the treasure. They have a measuring-tape with them, and have taken a lot of measurements, all from the southern buttress of the central tower. Their measurements, however, extended much farther than ours, indeed right away into the field beyond the one where are the remains of the fish ponds. You recollect where a footpath crosses, which, it appears, leads to a place called Anchor Church House, whatever that may be. Well, they measured, took angles by the buttress of the tower, and here and there stuck into the grass little pieces of whitewashed wood like labels gardeners use. They’ve evidently been marking out the ground in a long oblong patch, and both were exceedingly careful that their measurements should tally exactly with what was given upon the plan. Lord Glenelg went about sounding various spots by tapping the earth with his cane. The latter I discovered was a bar of iron painted dark-brown, and hooked to represent a walking stick—a clever contrivance to escape attention. He evidently expected to find some hollow spot.”

“But that is not borne out by the record left by old Godfrey, is it? Why should they expect to discover a hollow?”

“Ah! that’s a mystery,” he responded. “I merely tell you what I’ve just seen—namely, that they have some plan from which they are working in a slow, scientific, and methodical manner, not in our field, but in the one beyond, in what I’ve ascertained is called the Great Postland. They have a compass with them, and have taken proper bearings.”

“Well, they’ll have to get the permission of the owner of the land before they can dig, that’s certain. I wonder to whom it belongs?”

“To the Church, no doubt. If we warn our friend, the rector, we’ll no doubt be able to stop their little game, at least for the present,” remarked Walter. “Unless, of course, the magic of an earl’s name carries more weight than ours. Recollect that Lord Glenelg is a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries and a well-known archaeologist.”

“But why is he investigating a spot that is not mentioned in The Closed Book?” I queried. “This seems to me an independent search altogether.”

“Perhaps; but it is directed towards the same end—namely, the discovery of the abbey treasure. Yet, where the hunchback obtained his plan is certainly a mystery. They marked out an oblong on the grass about twenty feet long by ten feet, and then gauged the center of it. At the exact spot the old Italian placed a piece of newspaper under a big flint which he found on the footpath, and then took up the whitened pieces of wood with which he marked the ground.”

“And then?”

“They went back to the inn together, and as soon as they were out of sight I cut down a big bunch of nettles at the spot with my stick, and then moved the stone and bit of newspaper about fifty feet westward.” He laughed.

“So, if they make any attempt at investigation, they’ll be entirely out of it,” I remarked with satisfaction.

“Of course. We don’t intend that they shall make any find, even if they possess the missing leaf from The Closed Book, which seems more than possible.”

What possible connection there could be between old Graniani and the Earl of Glenelg was to me an entire enigma. Everyone knew the Earl to be a man who had made archaeology a profound study, for he was author of the standard work upon medieval domestic architecture, and possessed at his seat, Twycross Hall, in Staffordshire, a very fine library of early printed books, including a splendid example of Caxton’s “The Mirrour of the World,” and “The Boke of the Hoole Lyf of Jasan,”—purchased at the Ashburnham sale for two thousand one hundred pounds,—besides such treasures as “The Boke named Corydale,” “The Proffytable Boke for Manne’s Soule,”—1490,—and the Perkins copy of the first book printed in England; truly a magnificent collection, unique, as every bibliophile is aware.

I listened to my friend’s description of how, concealed behind the crumbling ruins, he had watched intently every movement on the part of these two men so widely different in social standing and even in nationality. His opinion coincided with mine that they had returned to the inn to await the darkness before setting to work to excavate; whereupon the question arose as to whether it were best to warn the rector of their intentions, or to allow them to proceed and watch the result.

To me it seemed probable that his lordship, patron of twenty odd livings as he was, would not deign to ask permission to make the search, but just make it in secret as he felt inclined. Certainly, neither of the pair had any idea of my presence there, or they would never have gone openly to work to take these measurements. As matters now stood, we had the spot marked, while the scene of their investigations had been transferred some distance away. Even if the treasure were concealed in that farther field, they certainly would not secure it.

“Well, is it worth while seeing Mr Mason and making an explanation to him?” I asked. “For my own part, I think not. We have only to watch their failure.”

“And if they have retained the missing leaf they may post up to Scotland and forestall us there,” My companion remarked dubiously. “Without doubt the search about to be made here is the outcome of the curious conspiracy which is puzzling us.”

“But why did the prior and his accomplices sell me the Arnoldus if they wished to retain it in their possession?” I asked. “Why did Graniani follow me to Florence, and watch me through the church window; why did my servant Nello warn me against possessing the forbidden volume, and why did that dark-eyed woman, the confidante of the prior, steal it and carry it post-haste across Europe, transferring it in Paris to a second woman, who carried it to London? To me the whole thing is an enigma.”

“And to me,” Wyman admitted. “This is certainly no ordinary affair. We have, however, at present to remain in patience and watch in secret the development of events—a development which I feel confident will bring with it some almost unheard-of revelations.”