"What he knows--if there is anything to know--I think you must know;
and I ask you, Aaron, what he meant."

"I know no more than the dead what he meant," gasped the old man in a
husky whisper. "He must have been mad--mad!"

"Can you attach no meaning to his words?"

"None, ma'am; none whatever. He must have been quite mad."

"No, he was not mad, I think. He spoke those words as a truthful man
speaks. It seemed to me then, it seems to me still, that there was
truth in them: though I don't know how much."

"Miss Ella," cried the old man eagerly, "you know what has been
said--that a keg o' spirits was on board below. Hubert must have got
to it."

That this was to a certain extent true, she believed; but not that he
had taken sufficient to induce him to invent such a thing.

"His mother died in an asylum, poor thing," resumed Aaron, catching up
his labouring breath; "and at times--only at times, you know, ma'am--I
have not been able to rightly make him out, and I've fancied that he
might have a touch of her complaint, and wasn't altogether his own
master. It must have been so that afternoon."

Aaron's hands trembled like those of a man afflicted with palsy, and
the muscles of his face twitched convulsively as he spoke. His
mistress could scarcely find in her heart to question him further.

"And yet it was a very strange assertion for Hubert to make," she
said, speaking gently. "He stated distinctly that I held Heron Dyke by
fraud. Now, were such the case, Aaron, you, as my uncle's confidential
servant, must surely be aware of it. Hubert would not know what you do
not, especially of a grave secret."

"That he'd not," affirmed the old man. "I knew more of the Squire's
secrets, Miss Ella, than any man living. Were he alive this moment
he'd tell you so."

"Then there was--there is--no fraud, as far as you are aware?"

"Certainly not, ma'am. How would it be possible?"

"That I cannot guess."

"Look here now, Miss Ella, there _couldn't be_. The Squire's will was
drawn up by Lawyer Daventry, and signed by himself in the presence of
witnesses. Everything but a few legacies was to come to you, as he had
meant it to all his life. Fraud, ma'am! if he had left it away from
you one might talk of fraud; not as it is. No, no! That wretched
lad--and won't I give it him!--was in one of his wild fits when he
said such words, not rightly accountable."

Could Miss Winter say more? She asked Aaron no further questions, but
let him go. Still, in her own mind she could not feel satisfied. What
brought that look of terror into Aaron's face when she repeated to him
Hubert's words? Why had he trembled to that strange excess? and why
had his emotion been so great?

And the more Miss Winter strove to assure herself that there was no
cause to fear things were not honest and straightforward, the less she
thought them so, and she resolved to speak to her uncle's lawyer, Mr.
Daventry. Walking into Nullington, she found him at his office, and
saw him alone.

"I have come to seek your advice on what seems to me a very important
matter," she began, when she was seated. "I could not rest without
coming to you."

"I need hardly say, my dear Miss Winter, that I am entirely at your
service," he replied.

"It has been intimated to me that fraud of some kind has been at work
in connection with my inheritance of Heron Dyke," she continued,
having previously determined to avoid if possible the mention of
Hubert's name. "I am precluded from telling you in what way this
information reached me; but it was declared to me, in unmistakable
terms, that I had no more right to the property than you have."

Lawyer Daventry's eyebrows went up in utter surprise. He drew his
chair a little closer to that of Miss Winter, and began to bite his
quill pen meditatively, as he waited to hear more.

"You, Mr. Daventry, had the management of all my uncle's most
important affairs. You drew up his will; you were, I believe, present
when he signed it; and you, I am sure, would not lend yourself to
deceit of any kind; tell me then what, in your opinion, this
information can mean."

"My opinion, Miss Winter, is that there is not an iota of truth in it.
The chances are that it will turn out to be nothing more than an
attempt to extort money."

"It will certainly not prove to be that," replied Ella, decisively.
"On that point I can speak with confidence."

"You will not tell me who it was who gave you this information?"

"I would rather not; at least, at present. It was--I think I may say,"
she added somewhat hesitatingly--"an old friend."

"A very queer friend, it seems to me. He must have had a motive: what
was it?"

"Pardon me," she rejoined, "but that is not the question. Let us
assume, if you like, that the motive is not altogether unknown to me.
What then? We are still no nearer what I want to know: whether it is
possible that there can be any truth in the allegation."

"But the motive might be a malicious one. In which case----"

"Pardon me again, but the point is this," she interposed. "Is there
anything within your knowledge of my uncle's affairs which would lead
you to believe that the slightest possibility of fraud, in connection
with my inheritance of his property, can exist?"

"No. It does not appear to me that the slightest possibility can exist
of anything of the kind," continued Mr. Daventry. "I drew up your
uncle's will in accordance with his instructions and his well-known
wishes, and the will was duly signed and witnessed. Had he died before
his seventieth birthday, the will would have been worthless, so far as
the estate went, which would have lapsed to the other Gilbert Denison.
Your uncle's savings you would still inherit, but not Heron Dyke. On
the other hand, if he lived over his birthday, the property would be
yours beyond possibility of dispute."

"And, as you can testify, he did live over it," returned Ella, feeling
relieved.

Mr. Daventry smiled. "My dear young lady, I could not testify to
anything of the kind. We lawyers are cautious men. As I did not see
your uncle subsequently to his birthday, I could not testify to it."

"But others saw him! Others know that he lived over it!" cried Ella
with a kind of gasp.

"Undoubtedly. I spoke only of my own personal knowledge."

"When did you see him last?--how long before his death? Perhaps you
don't remember?"

"I remember perfectly well. It was on the 24th of November, the day he
signed his will. I went to the Hall by appointment, with one of my
clerks, and I was struck by the change I saw in the Squire. To me he
looked like a dying man."

"But surely you saw him after that?" cried Ella, in surprise.

"No, I did not. I went up to call once or twice, but did not get to
see him. That doctor, Jago, would admit nobody; and the last time the
Squire sent out a curt message to the effect that when he wanted me he
would send for me. On the 28th of April, early in the morning, a
peremptory message came for me----"

"Then you did see him after his birthday," interrupted Ella.

"A moment yet, please. I did not see him: I had gone to London the day
before, and was not back. This answer was despatched to the Squire. He
would not wait; Webb must go if I could not, came back the mandate;
and by ten o'clock in the morning, Webb was at the Hall. He is my
managing clerk, as you are aware, himself a qualified solicitor. He
knew nothing much of the Squire's business, not having then long
joined me."

"Did he see my uncle?"

"Oh, of course. The Squire was in bed; frightfully feeble, as it
seemed to Webb. He wanted his will read over to him, and a short
codicil added--which was done, and signed.

"Did Mr. Webb think him much changed?"

"Webb had never seen him before. He thought he looked curiously ill
and feeble, so far as he could see of him in the darkened room. The
Squire lay on the pillow, his black velvet skull-cap on, and his long
white hair straggling on each side his shrunken face. Webb, describing
this to me when I reached home at night, said he looked like a fine
old picture. His voice had sunk to little more than a whisper; but his
mind was clear nay, vigorous."

The tears rose to Ella's eyes. She could see, in imagination, her poor
uncle lying there.

"No, my dear young lady, rely upon it, there's no flaw in your
succession to Heron Dyke," concluded the experienced lawyer. "My
advice to you is, think no more of the affair. There's nothing in it,
save, as Shakespeare says, 'A pure invention of the enemy.' Set your
mind at rest."

Ella, somewhat reassured, though not wholly, went on her way. She
could not forget the intense truth that had shone forth in Hubert
Stone's countenance and tones. That _he_ believed what he had asserted
had been to her mind clearly apparent.

It was a few days subsequent to this visit to Mr. Daventry, that Miss
Winter was engaged to take afternoon tea at The Lilacs. Some ladies
were forming themselves into a committee for the purpose of
ameliorating the condition of the poor of Nullington during the
ensuing winter, and they were to meet that afternoon, Thursday, at
Mrs. Ducie's. However, Miss Winter could not go, some friends having
come to the Hall, unexpectedly, from a distance, and she sent Mrs.
Toynbee to represent her.

So the new carriage from London, that had been so great an eyesore to
old Aaron, conveyed her thither in state. Mrs. Toynbee enjoyed her
afternoon immensely: she met Lady Cleeve, Maria Kettle, and other
ladies with whom she had a slight acquaintance, who were already
there. As Miss Winter's representative she found herself and her
opinions deferred to, which was what she liked. Moreover, Mrs. Toynbee
had some extraordinary news to tell, and was bursting with its
importance.

Not until quite the last did she get a suitable opportunity; so much
close discussion of the business in hand had taken place. Philip
Cleeve had come in then; his mother had asked him to call for her. He
was the only gentleman present, Captain Lennox having gone to Norwich.
A remark made by some one gave the opportunity to Mrs. Toynbee.

"We had a most startling adventure at the Hall this morning," began
she: and at the word "startling," the whole company fell into silence,
and looked up. "Several rooms at the Hall, as I am given to
understand, have been shut up for a great number of years; it was the
late Mr. Denison's pleasure to keep them so----"

"Is Katherine Keen found?" interrupted one of the listeners, in
excitement.

"Katherine Keen! oh dear, no," returned Mrs. Toynbee, stiffly. "In one
of these unused rooms there stood a curiously carved escritoire, or
bureau, of polished black oak, a family heirloom, the panels of which
bear the date of 1714. Miss Winter took a fancy to examine this relic,
for so I may term it; she had it removed to her morning-room, and
to-day, after breakfast, she set to work to examine its contents,
calling me to her aid. They proved to be nothing more valuable than a
number of expired leases, and other papers connected with the farm
property. But while thus engaged we made a very curious discovery. By
some means or other, probably from the accidental touching of a hidden
spring, a secret recess at the back of the escritoire was suddenly
exposed to view."

"Oh dear, how delightful! A secret recess!"

"We were, as you may imagine, on the tiptoe of curiosity in a moment.
I was, and I could see that Miss Winter was: she had seemed to me to
be searching for some particular document, by the way she examined all
the old papers."

"But what did you find in the recess?"

"What we found, hidden away from the light for it is hard to guess how
many years, was a large parcel of jewels," replied Mrs. Toynbee in
slow and important tones.

"Jewels! good gracious!"

"Beautiful jewels. Rings, brooches, necklets, earrings, and lockets;
nearly all set with precious stones of great apparent value. Of course
their setting is sadly old-fashioned; but that can easily be altered
by-and-by."

The ladies went into fresh excitement; one and all declaring how much
they should like to see the jewels.

"What have you done with them, Mrs. Toynbee?"

"Miss Winter has put them back into the cabinet. At the lowest
estimation, the stones alone must be worth a thousand pounds."

"Articles of that value ought to be at the bankers'," remarked Philip
Cleeve. He was standing by the mantelpiece, a little apart from the
circle. An anxiety bordering on restlessness sat in his countenance,
sufficiently apparent to one of those around him--Maria Kettle; and
his hand, which had met hers on his entrance, felt dry and feverish.

"I dare say Miss Winter will send them to the bankers' in a few days'
time," said Mrs. Toynbee in answer to the remark. "But she wants Mr.
Daventry to see them first, and he is not at home. She----"

"Daventry is in London," interrupted Philip. "He won't be back till
the beginning of next week--Monday or Tuesday."

"True," assented Mrs. Toynbee. "I called at the office as I drove in,
and found that only Mr. Webb was there. Miss Winter--really she is
ultra-scrupulous in many things--does not feel sure whether the jewels
rightly belong to her; she will do nothing with them before she gets
Mr. Daventry's opinion. Until then they will remain where they are,
untouched."

"I hope they will be safe," laughed Philip.

"Safe!" echoed Mrs. Toynbee: "why should they not be safe? They are
where they have been lying hidden all these years. None of the
servants have been told of the discovery; not even old Aaron and his
wife."

"By the way," cried Margaret Ducie, lifting her head from the
pencilled notes she had been making of the suggested plans for the
relief of the poor, "has that relative of theirs, young Stone, turned
up yet?"

"Not yet," said Mrs. Toynbee. "Nobody can imagine where he is staying.
We think he must be unavoidably detained somewhere--though it is
strange he does not write to say so."

The meeting and conversation recorded above took place on Thursday
afternoon. On the following Monday morning old Aaron Stone proceeded,
as usual, to open the doors and windows of the Hall--for he would not
allow that duty to be performed by anybody but himself. At an
unearthly hour, as the maids considered it, whom he obliged to be also
up in readiness for their work, old Aaron would be on the move. As he
was on this day; there was only just light enough yet for him to see
his way about.

After unbolting the outer doors, he first turned into Miss Winter's
morning-room, as it was called, which opened from the large hall. The
moment he entered it, he saw that some one had been there before him.
The lower sash of the window was thrown up, one of the shutters had
been forced open, while sundry papers scattered about the floor
betrayed that the escritoire had been visited. Aaron knew nothing
about the jewels that had been found and left there; but the evidence
of robbery was enough for him. Hurrying up to Miss Winter's chamber,
he aroused her from sleep with his news. She partly dressed herself
and followed him down.

Her first thought was of the jewels, and she proceeded to examine the
secret recess. Yes, it stood open. The jewels had disappeared; they
were stolen. But not another article in the room, save the bureau, had
been touched.

Whilst his mistress was slowly gathering in these particulars, Aaron
opened the other shutter, and stepped over the low sill into the
garden. The hard gravelled path came close up to the window, so that
he had little hope of finding any footmarks which might serve as a
clue to the thief or thieves. But Aaron, glancing keenly about, saw
something lying under a holly-bush, a little distance away, that for
the moment caused his heart to stand still. To his old eyes it almost
looked like Hubert; Hubert lying on his back.

The sleepy maids were beginning to come downstairs then. One of
them--it was Betsy Tucker--entered the morning-room, and stood
half-dazed at what she saw. The window open, papers scattered on the
carpet, her mistress, partially dressed, standing before the bureau,
and Aaron hastening down the gravel path outside.

A low cry, growing into an agonised shriek, burst upon the girl's ear
and that of her mistress. It came from the old man. He had dropped on
one knee, and was trying to lift what was lying there: Hubert Stone.
Ah, never more, never more would he be lifted in life. His wide-open
eyes, staring upwards, saw nothing, his form was rigid, his hair wet
with the night's dews. He had been dead some hours, stabbed by some
villain through the heart.

END OF VOL. II.

________________________________________________________
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.

_S. & Sons_.