University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE ROOM WITH THE LIGHT THAT FLICKERED.

Now, all might have gone well for the little conspirators but for Evelyn herself. But when the girls, tired with talking, tired with the spirit of adventure, had lain down — Sylvia in Jasper's bed and Evelyn in the new little white couch which had been got so lovingly ready for her — Sylvia, tired out, soon fell asleep; but Evelyn could not rest. She was pleased, excited, relieved, but at the same time she had a curious sense of disappointment about her. Her heart beat fast; she wondered what was happening. It seemed to her that in this tiny room at the back of the kitchen she was in a sort of prison. The sense of being in prison was anything but pleasant to this child of a free country and of an untrained mother. She slipped softly out of bed, and going to the window, unbarred the heavy shutters and looked out.

There was a moon in the sky, and the garden stood in streaks of bright light, and of dense shadow where the thick yew-hedge shut away the cold rays of the moon. Evelyn's white little face was pressed against the pane. Pilot stalked up and down outside, now and then baying to the moon, now and then uttering a suspicious bark, but he never glanced in the direction of the window out of which Evelyn looked. To the right of the window lay the hens' run and hen-house which have already been mentioned in

these pages. Evelyn knew nothing about them, however; she thought the view ugly and uninteresting. She disliked the thick yew-hedge and the gnarled old yew-tree, and grumbling under her breath, she turned from the window, having quite forgotten to close the shutters. She got into bed now and fell asleep, little knowing what mischief she had done.

For it was on that very same night that Mr. Leeson determined, not to bury his bags of gold, but to dig them up. He was in a weak and trembling condition, and what he considered the most terrible misfortune had overpowered him, for the large sums which he had lately invested in the Kilcolman Gold-mines had teen irretrievably lost; the gold-mines were nothing more nor less than a huge fraud, and all the shareholders had lost their money. The daily papers were full of the fraudulent scheme, and indignation was rife against the promoters of the company. But little cared Mr. Leeson for that; one fact alone concerned him. He, who grudged a penny to give his only child warmth and comfort, had by one fell blow lost thousands of pounds. He was almost like a man bereft of his senses. When Sylvia had left him that evening he had stood for some time in the cold and desolate parlor; then he sat down and began to think. His money was invested in more than one apparently promising speculation. He meant to call it all in — to collect it all and leave the country. He would not trust another sovereign in any bank in the kingdom; he would guard his own money; above all things, he would guard his precious savings. He had saved during his residence at The Priory something over twelve hundred pounds. This money, which really represented income, not capital, had been taken from what ought to have been spent on the necessaries of life. More and more had he

saved, until a penny saved was more valuable in his eyes than any virtue under the sun; and as he saved and added sovereign to sovereign, he buried his money in canvas bags in the garden. But the time had come now to dig up his gold and fly. There were three trunks in the box-room; he would divide the money between the three. They were strong, covered with cow-hide, old-fashioned, safe to endure even such a weight as was to be put into them. He had made all his plans. He meant to take Sylvia, leave The Priory, and go. What further savings he could effect in a foreign land he knew not; he only wanted to be up and doing. This night, just when the moon set, would be the very time for his purpose. He was anxious — very anxious — about those fresh trunks which had been put into the attic; there was something also about Sylvia which aroused his suspicions. He felt certain that she was not quite so open with him as formerly. Those suppers were too good, too delicate, too tasty to be eaten without suspicion. At the best she was burning too much fuel. He would go round to the kitchen this very night and see for himself that the fire was out — dead out. Why should Sylvia warm herself by the kitchen fire while he shivered fireless and almost candleless in the desolate parlor? Soon after ten o'clock, therefore, he started on his rounds. He went through room after room, looking into each; he had never been so restless. He felt that a great and terrible task lay before him, and so bewildered was his mind, so much was his balance shaken, that he thought more of the twelve hundred pounds which he had saved than of the thousands which he had lost by foolish investment. The desolate rooms in the old Priory were all as they had ever been — scarcely any furniture in some, no furniture at all in others; they were bare and bleak and ugly. He went to the kitchen; the door was locked. He shook it and called aloud; there was no answer.

"The child has gone to bed," he said to himself. "That is well."

He stooped down and tried to look through the keyhole; only darkness met his gaze. He turned and shambled upstairs. He turned the handle of Sylvia's door. How wise had been Jasper when she had guessed that the master of the house would do just what he did do!

"Sylvia!" he called aloud — "Sylvia!"

"Yes, father," said a voice which seemed to be quite the voice of his daughter.

"Are you in bed?"

"Yes. Do you want me?"

"No; stay where you are. Good-night."

"Good-night," answered the pretended Sylvia.

But Mr Leeson, as he went downstairs, did not hear the stifled laughter which was smothered in the pillows. He waited until the moon was on the wane, and then, armed with the necessary implements, went into the garden. He would certainly remove half the bags that night; the remainder might wait until to-morrow.

He reached the garden; he arrived at the spot where his treasure was buried, and then he stood still for a moment, and looked around him. Everything seemed all right — silent as the grave — still as death. It was a windless night; the moon would very soon set and there would be darkness. He wanted darkness for his purpose. Pilot came shuffling up.

"Good Dog! guard — guard. Good dog!" said his master.

Pilot had been trained to know what this meant,

and he went immediately and stood within a foot or two of the main entrance. Mr. Leeson did not know that a gate at the back entrance was no longer firmly secured and chained, as he imagined it to be. He thought himself safe, and began to work.

He had dug up six of the bags, and there were six more yet to be unearthed, when, suddenly raising his head, he saw a light in a window on the ground floor. It was a very faint light and seemed to come and go.

He was much puzzled. His heart beat strangely; suspicion visited him. Had any one seen him? If so he was lost. He dared not wait another moment; he took two of the bags of gold and dragged them as best he could into the house. He went out again to fetch another two, and yet another two. He put the six canvas bags in the empty hall, and then returning to the garden, he pressed down the earth and covered it with gravel, and tried to make it look as if no one had been there — as if no one had disturbed it. But he was trembling all over, and as he did so he looked again at the flickering, broken light which came dimly, like something gray and uncertain, from within the room.

He went on tiptoe softly, very softly, up to the window and peered in. He could not see much — nothing, in fact, except one thing. The room had a fire. That was enough for him.

Furious anger shook the man to his depths. He hurried into the house.