Part 75 (1/2)

(”Yes. I am sure of it.”)

”They have broken your little cupboard, I fear.” said Mary again. (”Tell me your plan, if you have one.”)

And so step by step a plan was built up. It had been maturing in Mr.

Buxton's mind gradually after he had learnt the ladies might sup with him; and little by little he conveyed it to them. He managed to write down the outline of it as he sat at table, and then pa.s.sed it to each to read, and commented on it and answered their questions about it, all in the same noiseless undertone, with his lips indeed scarcely moving. There were many additions and alterations made in it as the two ladies worked upon it too, but by the time supper was over it was tolerably complete.

It seemed, indeed, almost desperate, but the case was desperate. It was certain that the garden-house would be searched next day; Lackington's suspicions were plainly roused, and it was too much to hope that searchers who had found three hiding-places in one afternoon would fail to find a fourth. It appeared then that it was this plan or none.

They supped slowly, in order to give time to think out and work out the scheme, and to foresee any difficulties beyond those they had already counted on; and it was fully half-past nine before the two ladies rose.

Their host went with them to the door, called up Mr. Graves' man, and watched them pa.s.s down the path out of sight. He stood a minute or two longer looking across towards the house at the dusky shapes in the garden and the strip of gravel, gra.s.s, and yew that was illuminated from his open door. Then he spoke to the men that he knew were just out of sight.

”I am going to bed presently. Kindly do not disturb me.” There was no answer; and he closed the two high doors and bolted them securely.

He dared not yet do what he wished, for fear of arousing suspicion, so he went to the other window and looked out into the lane. He could just make out the glimmer of steel on the opposite bank.

”Good-night, my man,” he called out cheerfully.

Again there was no answer. There was something sinister in these watching presences that would not speak, and his heart sank a little as he put-to the window without closing it. He went next to the pile of rugs and pillows that his men had brought across, and arranged them in the corner, just clear of the trap-door. Then he knelt and said his evening prayers, and here at least was no acting. Then he rose again and took off his doublet and ruff and shoes so that he was dressed only in a s.h.i.+rt, trunks and hose. Then he went across to the supper-table, where the tapers still burned, and blew them out, leaving the room in complete darkness. Then he went back to his bed, and sat and listened.

Up to this point he had been aware that probably at least one pair of eyes had been watching him; for, although the windows were of bottle-end gla.s.s, yet it was exceedingly likely that there would be some clear gla.s.s in them; and, with the tapers burning inside, his movements would all have been visible to either of Lackington's men who cared to put his eye to the window. But now he was invisible. Yet, as he thought of it, he slipped on his doublet again to hide the possible glimmer of his white s.h.i.+rt. There was the silence of the summer night about him--the silence only emphasised by its faint sounds. The house was quiet across the garden, though once or twice he thought he heard a horse stamp. Once there came a little stifled cough from outside his window; there was the silky rustle of the faint breeze in the trees outside; and now and again came the snoring of a young owl in the ivy somewhere overhead.

He counted five hundred deliberately, to compel himself to wait; and meanwhile his sub-conscious self laboured at the scheme. Then he glanced this way and that with wide eyes; his ears sang with intentness of listening. Then, very softly he s.h.i.+fted his position, and found with his fingers the ring that lifted the trap-door above the stairs.

There was no concealment about this, and without any difficulty he lifted the door with his right hand and leaned it against the wall; then he looked round again and listened. From below came up the damp earthy breath of the bas.e.m.e.nt, and he heard a rat scamper suddenly to shelter.

Then he lifted his feet from the rugs and dropped them noiselessly on the stairs, and supporting himself by his hands on the floor went down a step or two. Then a stair creaked under his weight; and he stopped in an agony, hearing only the mad throbbing in his own ears. But all was silent outside. And so step by step he descended into the cool darkness. He hesitated as to whether he should close the trap-door or not, there was a risk either way; but he decided to do so, as he would be obliged to make some noise in opening the secret doors and communicating with Anthony. At last his feet touched the earth floor, and he turned as he sat and counted the steps--the fourth, the fifth, and tapped upon it. There was no answer; he put his lips to it and whispered sharply:

”Anthony, Anthony, dear lad.”

Still there was no answer. Then he lifted the lid, and managed to hold the woodwork below, as he knelt on the third step, so that it descended noiselessly. He put out his other hand and felt the boards. Anthony had retired into the pa.s.sage then, he told himself, as he found the s.p.a.ce empty. He climbed into the hole, pushed himself along and counted the bricks--the fourth of the fourth--pressed it, and pushed at the door; and it was fast.

For the first time a horrible spasm of terror seized him. Had he forgotten? or was it all a mistake, and Anthony not there? He turned in his place, put his shoulders against the door and his feet against the woodwork of the stairs, and pushed steadily; there were one or two loud creaks, and the door began to yield. Then he knew Anthony was there; a rush of relief came into his heart--and he turned and whispered again.

”Anthony, dear lad, Anthony, open quickly; it is I.”

The brickwork slid back and a hand touched his face out of the pitch darkness of the tunnel.

”Who is it? Is it you?” came a whisper.

”It is I, yes. Thank G.o.d you are here. I feared----”

”How could I tell?” came the whisper again. ”But what is the news? Are you escaped?”

”No, I am a prisoner, and on parole. But there is no time for that. You must escape--we have a plan--but there is not much time.”

”Why should I not remain here?”

”They will search to-morrow--and--and this end of the tunnel is not so well concealed as the other. They would find you. They suspect you are here, and there are guards round this place.”

There was a movement in the dark.