The Brown Mask Read online

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE LEATHER CASE

  Her rescue had been so sudden, so unexpected, that it was difficult forBarbara to realise that she was alone in the coach, that she need nolonger shrink away from a man she hated, that her ears were no moreassailed by threats and vile insinuations. The relief was so intensethat for a little while she revelled in her liberty, and cried a littlefor very joy. Why did not the man who had delivered her come to the doorof the coach and talk to her? Not as he had done just now, calling herMistress Lanison and seeming not to hear when she had called himGilbert, but as he had spoken to her that other night in her prison inDorchester. She leaned forward to listen. Yes, he was on the road behindher, she could hear the steady canter of his horse; why did he not ridewhere she could see him? He must know that she would want him closebeside her. Did he know it? He wore the brown mask to-night, and, oh,the difference it made! With that silken disguise, and with his coatclose fastened at the throat, she would never have recognised him in themoonlight had she not known who he was. Involuntarily she shuddered alittle at the thought that he was indeed two men, so distinct that evenshe, had she not known, would have failed to see her lover in the wearerof the brown mask. Why did he not come to the window, come as himself,without that hideous disguise which distressed her and brought so manyhorrible fancies and fears into her mind? Should she call to him? Shewas much tempted to do so, but surely he knew what was best for herto-night. There might be other enemies upon the road, she was saferperhaps in the charge of the brown mask than she would have been had heridden beside her as Gilbert Crosby.

  The coach rolled steadily on through the night, now in the shadow ofdark woods, now across a stretch of common land where the mistymoonlight seemed to turn the landscape into a dream world, silent andempty save for the sound of the grinding wheels and the steady beatingof the horses' hoofs. The long monotony of the sound became a lullaby tothe girl, tired in body and mind. Last night, and the night before, shehad slept little; now, with a sense of security, she closed her eyes,only that she might think the more clearly. There were many things shemust think of. Gilbert Crosby would not easily let her go, this sheknew, and to-morrow, perhaps, she would have to answer his question,would have to decide which way she would take. The lullaby of thegrinding wheels became softer, more musical; the corner of the coachseemed to grow more comfortable; once she started slightly, for sheseemed to have stepped suddenly back into her prison in Dorchester, thenshe smiled, knowing that she was free, that Lord Rosmore was bound andhelpless, that Gilbert Crosby was near her. The smile remained upon herlips, but she did not move again. She was asleep. Even the jolting uponthe rougher by-road along which the coach was driven presently did notrouse her. She did not see the dawn creeping out of the east, she wasnot conscious that the highwayman came to the window and looked at her,that he stopped the coach for a moment, nor did she feel the touch ofgentle hands as he folded her cloak more closely about her lest thechill breath of the morning air should hurt her.

  The dawn came slowly, very slowly, to the man bound securely to the treeby the roadside. When the sound of the wheels had died away, Lord Rosmorestruggled to free himself, but the post-boy had done his work too well.Every knot was securely fastened and out of reach. Once or twice heshouted for help, and the only answer was an echo from the woods. Unlessa chance traveller came along the road he could not get released untilthe day broke. It was wasting strength to shout, and he wanted all hisstrength to help him through the strain of the night. All his will wasbent on not allowing his cramped position to so weaken him thatto-morrow he would be unable to pursue his enemy. Crosby had outwittedhim for the moment, but to-morrow the game might be in his hands again,and he must retain his strength to play it. Many a man would have lostconsciousness during the night, but Lord Rosmore's determined spirit andfierce lust for revenge helped him. He would not allow his limbs to growstiff, the cords gave a little, and every few minutes he twisted himselfinto a slightly different position. He would not close his weary eyes,but set his brain to work out a scheme for Crosby's downfall. The coachwould certainly make for the coast presently. Some delay there must bebefore reaching it, and further delay before a vessel could be found tocarry the fugitives into safety. Crosby could not possibly be preparedfor what had happened, and time must be wasted in making up his mind howto use to the best advantage the trick in the game which had fallen tohim. Galloping Hermit, the highwayman, must be cautious how he went, andcaution meant delay at every turn. He would not easily escape.

  So the dawn found Lord Rosmore with aching limbs but with a clear brain,and he looked about him, as far as he was able, wondering from whichdirection help would most likely come. On the ground, at a littledistance from him, lay a heavy coat, just as Barbara had thrown it fromthe coach last night, and a growling oath came from Rosmore's dry lips.He wished with all his heart that he had delivered her into JudgeJeffreys' hands in Dorchester. She would have been just such a delicatemorsel as the loathsome brute would have gloated over. How easily, too,he might have had Crosby hanged in chains. He had been a fool to letlove influence him. Then his eyes turned slowly to the groundimmediately in front of him. The turf was cut and trampled where thehighwayman had been, by the impatient hoofs of his pawing horse, andthere lay in the very centre of the trampled patch a leather case. Itmust have fallen from Crosby's pocket last night. Had the highwaymanunwittingly left behind him a clue that would be his ruin?

  The thought excited the helpless man, and he began to listen for comingsuccour, and once or twice he shouted, but it was only a feeble sound,for his throat was parched, and his tongue had swollen in his mouth.

  Chance came to his aid at last; a dog bounding from the woods not fardistant saw him, and racing to the tree tore round and round it, barkingfuriously, bringing a man out into the open to see what so excited theanimal. The woodman hastened forward.

  "Eh, master, but what's been adoing?"

  "Highwayman--last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at handhis strength seemed to dwindle to nothing.

  The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards andfell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an efforthe crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case.

  "The coat," he muttered. "The pocket--a flask."

  The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sittingposture.

  "'Galloping Hermit'--the brown mask--last night," he said.

  "The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as ifhe expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."

  "It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"

  "Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."

  "Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who wasbreathless from long running.

  "There's the village over yonder, two miles away."

  "Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn aguinea or two and help me to the village."

  "Can you walk at all?" asked the man.

  "The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Twomiles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it'searly. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!"

  "Who?"

  "Both of them, the man and the woman."

  "The woman!"

  "Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can'ttalk."

  At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and whilehe did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case. Therewas a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyesbrightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand withexcitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea andpurpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted ahorse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. Hewas in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate thathe had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought
no more of BarbaraLanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day,to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself ashe felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the gamehe had lost, but the winning trick was his.

  It was dark when he reached the woods which lay on the opposite bank ofthe stream below Aylingford. He tethered his horse to a tree and went onfoot towards one of the bridges which led to the terrace, and there hewaited, leaning against the stone wall, looking at the house. Lightsshone from a few of the windows, but the Abbey did not look as if itwere full of guests. There was, perhaps, the more need to exercisecaution. The balmy air of the night might tempt visitors on to theterrace if the play did not prove exciting, and if the talk became staleand wearisome. So Rosmore waited. He did not intend to enter the house,and a little delay was of no consequence. Only one man besides himselfcould know the secret which the leather case held, and that other manwas far away from Aylingford.

  Most of the windows in the Abbey were dark when Rosmore crossed thebridge to the terrace and walked lightly towards the ruins, careful tolet the shadows hide him as much as possible. Entering the ruins, hedrew the case from his pocket and took out the key. By Martin's tower hestood for a moment to listen, but no sound came to startle him, and hefitted the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and Rosmoreentered, closing it again and locking it on the inside. Gently as he didit, the sound echoed weirdly up the winding stairs. The door at the top,and that of Martin's room, hung broken on their hinges. Nothing had beendone to them since the night they were forced open in the attempt tocapture Gilbert Crosby; nor did it appear that Martin had occupied hisroom since then. The piece of candle was still upon the shelf, fastenedto it with its own grease, and Lord Rosmore lit it. Then he drew thepapers from the case, and turned to one portion of the writing. He hadalready studied it carefully, but he read it once again, and, bendingdown to the hearth, felt eagerly along the coping which surrounded it.His fingers touched a slight projection, which he pressed inwards anddownwards. It moved a little, but some few moments elapsed before hesucceeded in making the exact motion necessary, when the front portionof the hearth was depressed and slid back silently.--Taking the piece ofcandle in his hand, Rosmore stepped into the opening and went cautiouslydown the narrow twisting stairs, without attempting to shut the secretentrance. The instructions contained in the leather case were exact,even to a rough calculation of the value of the treasure hidden belowthe Abbey ruins. Rosmore came at last to a wide chamber, bare wall onone side, but on the other three sides were a series of arches, some ofthem framing recesses merely which were not uniform in depth, some ofthem forming entrances into other rooms. The corner arch at the furtherend was the one mentioned in the papers, and Rosmore went slowly acrossthe stone floor, the feeble light of the candle casting weird shadowsabout him. For the first time the eeriness of the place forced itselfupon him. These stone walls must have sheltered many a secret besidesthe one he had come to solve. Unholy deeds might well have happenedhere, and into his memory came crowding many a legend he had heard ofAylingford Abbey. Phantoms of the past might yet haunt these darkplaces, and to the man breaking into this silence alone ghosts were easyto believe in. Phantoms of the present might be there, too, for to-dayvice was the ruling spirit of the Abbey, and there were those whodeclared that evil might take shape and in an appointed hour deal outpunishment to its votaries.

  Rosmore found an effort necessary to retain his courage as he wenttowards the opposite corner. The light, held above his head, fellquivering into the recess there, and touched a great oak coffer,massively made, and heavily bound with iron. It was exactly as thepapers said, and therein lay the treasure, gold and jewels--the wealthof the Indies, as the writing called it. He stood for a moment lookingat the recess, and then, as he took a hasty step forward, he started,and a sharp hiss of indrawn breath came from his lips. A sudden soundhad struck upon his ear, a grating noise, then silence, then lightfootsteps. In a moment Rosmore had blown out the candle, his one ideabeing to hide himself; fear caught him, the darkness was so great. Whowas it? What was it coming towards him with those stealthy steps? Nearerthey came, and from one of the arches a faint glimmer of light, asthough the old walls were growing luminous, and a man carrying a lanternentered the chamber and stood there, raising the lantern above his head.It was Sir John Lanison. A little sigh of relief escaped from Rosmore.He had only flesh and blood to deal with, a man full of foolishsuperstition. He, too, must have come seeking treasure, but which wayhad he come, and how had he found the courage to embark on such anadventure? Must two participate in this treasure after all! No, howevergreat it might be, Rosmore wanted it all. He would not share it with anyman. A word growled in the darkness would terrify the superstitious SirJohn; he would flee as though ten thousand devils were at his heels, orperchance the sudden terror might kill him. The alternative did nottrouble Lord Rosmore, and he smiled as Sir John came slowly towards him,holding the lantern close to the floor that he might not step into somehole. As the light came close to his motionless figure, Rosmore uttereda low cry, weird enough to startle the bravest man. It may have startledSir John, but he did not shriek out in fear nor turn to flee. He raisedthe lantern sharply, and it hardly trembled in his hand.

  "Rosmore!" he exclaimed.

  Rosmore was so taken back by this strange courage that he did not answerat once, and the two men stood with the raised lantern lighting boththeir faces.

  * * * * *

  When Martin Fairley had left him down in the Nun's Room, Sir John hadbeen terrified. He had shouted for help to no purpose, and he was notreleased until early on the following morning. How he came to be therehe did not explain. He went to his own room, and gave instructions thathe was not to be disturbed. Once alone, his mind became active, and heshook himself free from his fear. Wealth was within his grasp. ThatMartin had run away and left him did not shake his belief. Martin was amadman, not responsible for his actions from one moment to another, butin his trance he had seen this treasure, therefore it was there, SirJohn argued. More, the entrance to it lay behind the Nun's hard couch;only a stone slab blocked the entrance. Greed took the place of fear,and it may be that Sir John was a little off his mental balance, andforgot to think of fear. He was certainly cunning enough to make plansand to carry them out secretly. He left his room unseen, and the Abbeyby a small door seldom used; and, having secured a pick and a length ofrope while the stable men were at their dinner, he went to the Nun'sRoom. He would chance anyone coming into the ruins and hearing him atwork, and nobody did come. He fastened the rope round a piece of fallenmasonry which was firmly embedded in the ground and lowered himself. Heworked all the afternoon, and the stone slab was loose before he climbedout of the Nun's Room again. Then he went back and mixed with his guestsfor an hour or two, so that they might not grow anxious about him andcome to look for him. Escaping from them with an excuse that he couldnot play to-night, and must retire early, he went again to the ruins andresumed his work by the light of a lantern. He had succeeded in gainingan entrance, the hidden treasure was a fact; his one idea was to getpossession of it, and, absorbed in this thought, other sensations weredormant for the time being. He was so savage that anyone else shouldknow the secret that he forgot to be afraid. When the lantern showed himwho his rival was, there was no need to be afraid, for Lord Rosmorewould assume that they could be partners in this as they had been inmuch else, and Sir John smiled, for he intended to free himself fromsuch a partnership. He had a pistol with him, and since Rosmore hadevidently come to the Abbey secretly, no one would be likely to look forhim there.

  "There are evidently two ways to the treasure, Sir John?" said Rosmoreafter a pause.

  "And we have found them," was the answer. "It is lucky that no one elseforestalled us. The treasure first. We may count it, and tell each otherhow we found it afterwards."

  Lord Rosmore turned to the recess, and Sir John went eagerly forwardwith the lantern. The exact
position of the treasure he had not known,but catching sight of the iron-bound box, he determined that no oneshould share its contents with him. He set down the lantern.

  "The key in the lock!" he exclaimed. "It was foolish to leave it in thelock."

  "Who would come to this infernal tomb?" said Rosmore.

  "Two of us have come," said Sir John, as he turned the key and raisedthe heavy lid.

  A few crumpled pieces of paper, one or two torn pieces of cloth, anempty canvas bag, half of a broken jewel case, and in one corner theglitter of two or three links of a gold chain. This was all the greatchest contained!

  "You forgot that bit of chain when you removed the treasure, Sir John,"said Rosmore, pointing to it.

  "Liar! Robber! Where is it?"

  Rosmore laughed; perhaps he was unconscious that he did so.

  The empty chest seemed to have paralysed his brain for a moment. Hecould not think. He could not devise a scheme for forcing the truth fromhis rival.

  Sir John had only one idea--revenge. This man had robbed him. Thetreasure was gone, but the thief was before him. With an oath he sprangforward, there was a flash in Rosmore's face, and a report which echoedback from every side sharply. The bullet missed its mark, chipping thestone wall behind. Then the two men were locked together in a silent,deadly struggle. Lord Rosmore was the stronger and the younger man, buthe had not recovered from the cramped position in which he had spent thelong hours of last night, and perhaps Sir John was mad and had somethingof a madman's strength. Neither could throw the other off, nor gain theadvantage. Fingers found throats, and gripped and pressed inwards withdeadly meaning. Never a word was spoken. The lamp was overturned andwent out, each man holding to his adversary the tighter lest he shouldescape in the darkness. Shuffling feet and gasping breaths, then a heavyfall, then silence.

  * * * * *

  Daylight crept down into the Nun's Room and into Martin's room, with itsgaping hearth, but no one came out through the hole behind the Nun'shard bed, nor climbed the narrow stairs into the tower room. The daypassed, and the night, and another dawn came. The door of the tower wasstill locked on the inside, and the rope was still hanging into thesunken room. That morning the rope was seen when the ruins weresearched, and presently two of the guests climbed down and entered theunderground chamber, carrying lanterns and walking carefully.

  Sir John Lanison and Lord Rosmore were both dead. Both faces werediscoloured and told of a horrible struggle. It looked as if Rosmore hadsuccumbed first, for he lay on his back, his arms flung out. Sir Johnwas lying partly across his body; it seemed as though his fingers hadjust relaxed their hold on Rosmore's throat.

  Why this awful tragedy? One of the guests noticed the iron-bound chest,and, looking in, saw the broken gold chain gleaming in the lanternlight.

  "A treasure!" he exclaimed, holding it up. "All that is left of it!"

  Then they looked at the dead men, so suggestive in their ghastlyattitude, and they thought they understood. Those old monks, thinkingperhaps that they would one day return to their old home, must certainlyhave buried a treasure under the walls of Aylingford.