The Unspeakable Thing

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue VIII, 22 August 1903, Page 506

The Unspeakable Thing

By

HARRIS BURLAND,

Author of " Dacobra," Etc.

CHAPTER XV 111.— (Continued.) “Lunch is waiting for you, sir,” she said. “I hope you’ll excuse the cooking, sir. We have all been rather upset.” With these words she left the room, and Walroyd started to go upstairs. Then he suddenly changed his mind, and, going into the dining-room, rang the bell for lunch. He was an eminently practical man, and he did not know what might be awaiting him in the Red Room. It was possible t'halt he might not eare for any lunch after he had seen it.

Afterwards he lit a cigar and went upstairs. Walroyd had lived many years in a part of the world where human life is held cheap, and it did not occur to him that it would be more reverent not to smoke in the presence of the dead.

The room was in semi-darkness as he entered it. The red blinds were pulled down, and the lurid light that came through them only served to intensify the general gloominess of the apartment. Walroyd could see something lying on the bed, covered with a sneer. He walked over to the windows and drew up the blinds. The sunlight streamed into the room.

Then he went back to the bed and drew down the sheet from the faee. The eyes had been closed, but even through the white lids he seemed to see the expression of horror which would have been in keeping with the rest of the dead man's countenance. Walroyd touched the forehead. It was quite cold. Then he carefully examined the head and shoulders. There were five faint blue marks on the white throat, and a small piece of flesh had been torn away.

He covered up the face again, drew down the blinds, and went downstairs. Martin was waiting for him in the porch. He went into his study, examined the revolver in his pocket—he never went out in those days of terror without this serviceable weapbn —took half-a-dozen more cartridges from a box, and joined the groom outside. The latter carried a doubled barrelled gun. The two men crossed the lawn, and passed through a small wicket gate into the woods. The sunlight filtered through the green arch of leaves overhead, and it was perfectly light. They could see clearly in every direction through the thin stems of the oaks.

At first Walroyd looked carefully on the ground and arnons? the undergrowth for some signs of any n * having passed through the woods. Then he remembered that half-a-dozen men had already been before him. and that any clue of this sort would be utterly useless. So he confined his attention to the distant view through the trees, in the hope that something might move across his line of vision. He made Martin walk in front. He was not quite sure of his groom’s familiarity with a gun, and he did not want a charge of No. five shot in his back.

The wood appeared to be entirely deserted. and they saw nothing but a few rabbits and squirrels. At last, however, they came to the rope w b wh' h Tredegar had seen on the night h • had followed Walroyd to the rocks. It had evidently been discovered by the people who had already searched the wood, for all the ropes had been cut. and it lay in a tangled heap on the ground. Walroyd picked it up and examined it carefully, but he could make nothing of it, and it did not appear - to him to have any connection with the man they were in search of. Indeed in its pres nt state it would hardly have conveyed anything to Tredegar's own mind, if he had not seen it before, for the knotted

mass of ropes scarcely bore any resemblance to a spider’s web.

Then they came to the foot of the mound, and Walroyd stopped. “Do you think he’s down that old shall sir,” tlhe groom whispered “It would be a tidy hiding place.” “I should doubt it, Martin,” Walroyd answered. “Tire shaft would be a hard place to get in and out of. But I will go up and have a look at it. You sit down here and keep careful watch,” For reasons of his own John Walroyd did not want his groom to inspect the shaft too carefully.

He climbed up the dreary looking mound of grey rock and shale, and carefully examined the railings round the edge of the shaft. He noticed that in one place the wooden bars had been broken. He looked at the edges of one of the pieces. The fracture was recent, and the wood was still bright and yellow. Then he stepped over the frail barrier and inspected the mouth of the shaft.

A yard from the edge there was a small pile of stones. They were arranged so as to appear a natural heap of debris. He lifted one or two of them, and the end of a steel bar appeared. It was driven deep into the ground. He showed no surprise, for the very good reason that he had placed it there himself. A few yards away a long coil of rope lay concealed under a large boulder. He would like to have had a look at that as well, and see if it had been discovered or disturbed, but it was impossible with Martin keeping watch below. The top of the mound was partly hidden from the groom's sight, and he could examine the bar without fear of detection. It showed signs of recent use. The steel was still bright and polished.

Then he fell down on his knees anl peered into the dark pit beneath him. The rugged sides, shored up here and there with balks of timber, and glistening with moisture that had oozed out of the earth, disappeared into absolute blackness. He listened attentively for any sound that might possibly come out from its depths, but the silence was only broken by the drip, drip, of the water that trickled down its sides.

Then he noticed that the shale on one side of the shaft had been furrowed and disturbed, and that several of the pieces of slate were marked with light grey lines as though they bad been recently scratched with a knife. He took up one or two, and examining them, threw them impatiently down the shaft. They gave him no clue. It was even possible that one of the search party had been to the edge, and left the marks of his boots on the soft slate.

He descended the slopes and rejoined the groom. The latter had neither seen nor heard anything during his master’s absence. Then they continued their search through the wood.

Before they had gone a hundred yards, however, Martin, who was walking in front, stopped and picked up something from the ground. It was a piece of thin gold chain, about nine inches in length, One of the links was broken.

Walroyd took it from his servant’s hand and scrutinised it closely. It was of curious workmanship, every link being of a different design. It seemed to him that he had seen it before, or that he had at any rate come across one of a similar pattern. But he racked his brain in vain to remember to whom it belonged. Then the idea struck him that it had probably belonged to Mavanwy Morgan, and had been torn off in her struggles. But he could not recollect for certain that he had ever seen it on her wrist. He put it in his pocket.

The two men searched the wood till sunset, and then returned to Plas Tre-

degar. There Walroyd learnt from the butler that no trace had been found of the missing girl, nor had they come across any signs of the murderer or Mr

Morgan. After dinner Walroyd lit a cigar, and strolled down the drive. He had decided to go to the Cantrips’ house and ask Cynthia about the bracelet. If it had belonged to Mavanwy, she would probably recognise it. Women have a keen eye for trinkets.

When he got to the foot of the hill he heard the distant throb of a motor along the Llanfihangel road, and saw a broad white fan of light sweeping swiftly through the darkness towards Garth.

Before he reached the first house in the village, the machine came whizzing down the slope of the hill behind him. He stepped off' the road on to the shingle. He had no great confidence in the accuracy of motor-drivers in the dark. And Garth was as black as a country lane. Hardly a light shone down all the long street. Most of the inhabitants went to bed at nine o’clock.

But when the motor - was fifty yards away from him, the throbbing suddenly slowed down, and died away in a dull rattle. The car ran up level with him and stopped. A man’s voice was uplifted in a string of oaths. The whole motor industry was cursed in carefully selected language. The maker of that particular car was consigned, to-

gether with all his relations, to a place that was even hotter than the bearings of the engines. Walroyd smiled. He disliked motors, and an accident was pure pleasure to his soul. He stepped forward into the light of the Bleriot lamps. He was pretty sure that he could not be of the slightest use in tinkering with the machinery, and was in no danger of being asked to do so. The two occupants unhooked the side lamps and directed their rays into a smoking mass of machinery.

“We must let hei - cool, sir,” said the mecanicien. Then he tried to start the engines, but unsuccessfully. Walroyd walked up to them. The smoke and smell of frizzling oil made an inferno of the autumn night. “Can I help you?” he said.

"No, 1 thank you.” said one of the men, with a strong American accent. “We’ve just got to let her cool down — well you might help us to move her to the nearest hotel. We stay here the night I guess. Dawkins, you’ve got to overhaul all that machinery before you go to bed.” Then the stranger looked up. He was in darkness, but the light of the lamp he held was full in Walroyd’s face. Be started, and slowly scrutinized the latter’s features. Then he turned to the mecanicien. Go right away, Dawkins,” he said, “and get some of those fisherfolk to come and shove the car along, and just call at the hotel and say they can expect company, and an unholy smell in their yard for a bit.”

The man left. Then the stranger came close up to Walroyd.

“Wai. Peterson,” lie said. Who would have thought of seeing you here? How’s the old shop?” Walroyd quickly placed his hand in his pocket and touched the butt of his revolver. Then he smiled politely.

CHAPTER XIX. THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. “I am afraid, sir,” Walroyd said, “that you have made a mistake. My name is not Peterson. I cannot see your face, but I do not think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance.” The stranger for reply turned the light on his own face. He was a small red haired man with a short squarely trimmed beard. He had no moustache or whiskers,and the thin firm line of his mouth would have given an air of puritan austerity to his features, if it had not been belied by the humourous twinkle in his eyes. He wore a black leather coat and cap. Walroyd looked at him as though trying hard to recollect who it might be. As a matter of fac-t he recognised him at the first glance. “Wai,” said the man, “I guess you’ve seen enough. I am sorry you have such a bad memory, Peterson. It’s only eight years since we met, and I ain’t altered one bit. Neither have you, for that matter. I’m doing real well, just now, and you don’t look very low down yourself.” “I am most interested in your conversation,” Walroyd answered in an insulting voice. “I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but shall be most happy to hear all about you.”

“I’m in motor cars now,” said the little man, taking no notice of Walroyd’s insolence, “and they are the thing, I can tell you, Peterson. I just travel about the country in this and get orders. It’s a soft job, you bet. Let me sell you one. Buzz and Rattle, of Chicago! The first line in the business! They are bang up machines.”

“So I should say,” Walroyd answered drily. “Are they very heavy to push along the roads?” “Bah, that’s nothing. Just a little over-heated, Peterson, that’s all. Might happen to any ear. We’ve come two hundred miles to-day, Peterson.” “I have no objection to the name of Peterson,” said Walroyd; “but I think I prefer my own name better. It is Walroyd, if you care to know. Might I inquire yours?” “Denis B. Riley,” the little man replied with a grin. “I have had no reason to change it.”

"Of course not. It is a most excellent name.”

"It is a pity we can’t change our faces, eh, Peterson?” said Riley; “that is to say, if we want to. It would be most convenient.”

Walroyd could have strangled him where he stood, but he restrained himself.

“I am satisfied with mine,” he replied sarcastically. “Quite right,” said Riley, once more throwing the light of the lantern on the other’s face. “But I always thought that little mole on the left cheek, and that small scar under the right ear ■” “I have had enough of your impertinence. sir,” broke in Walroyd, fairly losing his temper, “and I must leave you. If you are staying in the place you will soon find out who I am, and you’ll probably find yourself in jail, if you go about insulting people in my position. I wish you good-night.” With these words he turned on his heel and strode down the village.

“Wai,” said Riley, looking after hiretreating form. “What’s Bill Peterson up to anyway. No, good, I reckon. I must ask about this Mr. Walroyd. Ha! Ha! He’s a peach, he is.” Walroyd went down the sfieet with hell in his heart. He had fairly controlled himself, till the little red-haireu man had begun to enumerate the various marks on his face, which would always be indelible clues to his identity. He cursed fate which had brought him into the light of the lamp, before he had seen the other’s face. If only it had been the other way about, he could have slipped away into the darkness, and kept out of sight till the little fool had left the village. He wished now that he had told Cynthia his true name, and invented some plausible reason for changing it. She eould scarcely blame him for Heatherbutt having been lost at sea. He could even have brought forward conclusive evidence of his death and have set her mind at rest on that point. She would probably have been grateful to him, but on the other hand, it was hardly ...;ely that a friend and companion of her husband would find much favour in her eyes. At any rate it was impossible to tell her now. His previous concealment would excite suspicions in her mind, and she would suspect the worst. The truth must be kept from her at any cost. Riley must be silenced. He must be bought, if possible, but at any rate silenced. His mind was a wild tumult of schemes and fears. It was difficult to know what course to pursue. But before he reached the Cantrips’ house he resolved to see Riley again that night, and come to some arrangement with him before the fool blurted out anything. He guessed that Riley would not wittingly let out so valuable a secret. The little red-haired man was full of business Instincts. The secret, if kept, was worth money, but if once told was valueless. Mr. Riley would know which side his bread was buttered, and if not —well, he would have to be taught. John Walroyd was a man who Jet. nothing stand between him and his desire, if he was strong enough or clever enough to move it from his path. In his own mind he guaranteed the silence of Mr. Riley.

He came to the door of the Cantrips’ lodgings, and walked past it. A light was burning in the window of their sit-ting-room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. Fifty yards further on he stopped, and hesitated, whether to turn back or go on to the “Tredegar Arms”—the hotel, as Riley had called it. Personally, he was not much interested in the death of Mr. Morgan or the disappearance of his daughter. Self-preservation is the first instinct of every animal, and he knew that he had to fight hard to preserve his good name. He decided to see Riley at once, and put the whole matter on a definite basis. He would not give the man a chance of blurting out the truth, under the influence of drink. He would meet him openly, and he flattered himself that he was a match for most men. whether the battle was waged by subtlety or force. He -walked back to the Cantrips’ house, and looked longingly at the window. Then he walked swiftly down the road, and passing the “Tredegar Arms.” reached a spot where the houses on thsea side of the street came to an end.

Then he lit another cigar, and looked out across the sea. trying to arrang * hi< future plan of action. He saw nothing of the beauty of the night, the steely surface of the sea crossed with a long bar of moonlight, the faint stars in the dark blue vault overhead, the hng sweep of black cliffs, the white fringe on the water’s edge, the great solitude where the nobiest part of man can stand face to face with the eternal—none of these things he saw: if he had seen them they would have bad no meaning for him. H< only looked into the seething fires of his own soul, and the very heavens seemed lurid with the flames. He waited for ten minutes, but there was no sign of Riley’s motor coming down the* road. In the far distance, at the end of the street, Walroyd could see the white light of the lamps, but they seemed to be motionless. He stamped his foot impatiently, and then decided to go into the (.antrips’ house for a few minutes. He was longing to see Cynthia. It seemed to him that probably he would not be able to have a quiet conversation with Riley for at least an hour. The man would want some food, and people are always more amenable after they have fed. Riley, too. was a man who rarely went to bed before two o’clock in the morning, and there would be ample time that night to say all that was necessary. Yes, he would certainly

see Cynthia. The mere desire to look upon her was stronger than any wish to find out the truth about the bracelet. It was possible—and he ground his teeth as he thought 01 it—that the dark cloud which was gathering on his horizon might one day shut her out altogether from his sight.

He knocked at the door, and was :d--mitted by the landlady’s daughter. He found Cynthia and her father in the sit-ting-room. The former was engaged in the homely occupation of mending some socks, and the latter was reading the “Cambrian News,” which contained a full and glaring account of Mr. Morgan’s death.

Cynthia was annoyed at the interruption. but she concealed her feelings as best she could. Her father chuckled, and after a few minutes general conversation, yawned somewhat ostentatiously, and rose from his seat.

“I’ll give you young folks half an hour,” he said, with a grin; “and then, Mr. Walroyd. you must r*o. Goodnight ! ” And, leaving the room, he went up to bed.

Cynthia’s face flushed with annoyance, and she sighed wearily, as though she, too, was longing to retire to her couch. Walroyd noticed her manner, and resolved to leave in ten minutes’ time.

“You must excuse this late visit, Cynthia,” he said; “but I have come on a matter of some importance. She smiled.

“I am. of course, glad to see you,” she replied: “but I am naturally much upset at what has happened to-day. I am afraid I shall not be very entertaining.” “I and my groom have been searching the Tredegar woods all day.” he continued. “in the hope of finding out something about Miss Morgan. We found this. Do you know if it belonged to

her! ” He took the bracelet out of his pocket and laid it on the table. Cynthia looked at it for a moment or two as if she had seen a ghost. Then she took it in her hand and examined it. Then suddenly her face went white as a sheet, and she rose to her feet with a cry of horror. “Where did you find it?” she said, hoarsely. “This is some trick—some devilry. It is Oh. my God! tell me the truth!” “You recognise it?” Walroyd replied. “1 thought you might have seen it on her wrist. We found it, as 1 have just told you, in the Tredegar woods. 1 am afraid, though, that it will not be much of a clue.” She passed one hand across her brow, as though trying to think, and held on to the table with the ether. She looked as though she were going to fall, and Walroyd stepped forward ami caught her in his arms. “My darling.” he said, tenderly, “don’t be upset about it. Probably Mavanwy ” She broke from his embrace, and faced him with horror in her eyes. “Mavanwy!” she cried. “This never belonged to Mavanwy Morgan! 1 gave this bracelet to my husband a month after we were married! He swore to wear it always for my sake!” It was now Walroyd’s turn to grow pale. In a iiasn he had remembered where he had seen it before. Heatherbutt, in spite of all his heartless conduct towards his wife, had worn it round his wrist. How had it come here, in a Welsh village, from the body of a dead man? To Cynthia it was merely a relic of the past, but to Walroyd it rose up like some spectre from a sea of blood, and he could almost fancy that it was crimson in the lamplight. The man’s nerves, however, were of iron, and his capacity for lying was boundless.

“I don’t think, Cynthia,” he said, after a pause, “that you need be horrified at

the strange appearance of this thing. You say your husband deserted you? It is hardly likely that such a man would cherish any memento you may have given him. He probably sold it. and it has in some way passed into the possession of Mavanwy. or perhaps of someone else in tin* district. Besides, it is quite possible that the pattern is not unique.” His words had a strange effect on the agitated woman. In a moment her fear and horror vanished, and gave way to a Hood of passionate wrath. Her eyes blazed, and her cheeks flushed. She had no thought of pity for Mavanwy. She only saw one thing clearly. Tredegar had taken this bracelet from the wrist of her dead husband, and had given it to the girl he loved. Walroyd shrank from the awful look in her face. He did not know that all her wrath was for another man. “I am sorry if I have offended you,” he said, taking up his hat and stick. “No. no!” she cried. “You do not understand. \\ by should I be offended with you? But please leave me. I am not myself to-night.” He strode up to her. and caught her in his arms. “Good-night!” he said, kissing her passionately. “Good-night! And. Cynthia, if anything comes to separate us, remember that, whatever my faults, I have loved you!” He loosed her, and rushed out of the house like a madman. Horror was accumulating upon horror, and some strange mystery was arising from the past to overwhelm him. One thing, at any rate, he could do that night. He eould square matters with Dennis Riley. He walked quickly to the “Tredegar Arms” and knocked at the door. He was shown into the small parlour at the back of the taproom. A fire blazed cheerfully in the grate, and the remains of supper were still on the table. Riley was seated in a plain wooden with a large cigar in his mouth. A glass

of whisky-and-water was on another 'hair by his side. He was apparently wrapped in thought, for he started as Walroyd entered, and, turning round, blinked his eyes as though he could hardly believe what he saw. Then he rose to Ins feet with a smile.

“Good evening. Mr. Walroyd.” he said, with a slight accent on the name.

Walroyd closed the door. His face was not pleasant to look upon, and Riley wondered if these was a poker in the fireplace, in ease it might be wanted. “Good-evening, Riley,” he replied. “I want a word with vou.”

“Sit down right here and talk,” Riley answered, pointing to a chair, “And if a drink will help you any ”

“Yes. I will have a drink,” Walroyd answered, seating himself in the chair. Riley poured out a stiff whisky-and-soda. and handed it to him.

“Sorry they haven’t got rye,” he said, settling himself down before the fire. Walroyd took a long pull from the glass, and, taking a cigar from his case, leisurely cut off the end.

“I must apologise for my rudeness this evening,” Walroyd said, after an awkward pause. “But anyone might have been listening. 1 was, of course, only bluffing. I knew you as well as you knew me, Riley.” The little man laughed.

“What’s the game, Pet ” “Drop the name, Riley,” Walroyd broke in sharply. The game is that you have got to keep your mouth shut. I have no doubt you have asked the people here all about me. Possibly you may see that it would not be very pleasant for me if they learnt that I was living under an assumed name, and that I had been a pawnbroker.”

“I should say not. But why call yourself Walroyd?” “That is my own business. T have a very good reason for not calling myself Peterson. But that does not concern you. All you’ve got to do is to keep vour mouth shut.”

"That is easy enough,” Riley said, thoughtfully gazing at the smoke of his cigar.

“Mark you, Riley,” Walroyd continued. “I don’t eare a cent, for people’s opinions. lam rich, and even if it were known that I had been a pawnbroker, and that I had changed my name, I should get an the respect, and flattery I wanted. But I am engaged to be married, and if the woman I love were to I now of this, I should lose her.” “I see. So you are going to settle ('own. Pet—Walroyd?”

"1 have been settling down,” Walroyd replied. “I am a very wealthy man. I can afford a wife.”

Riley laughed. “I don’t want to spoil sport,” he said. "But I shall make no promises.” “What is your price?” Walroyd asked, curtly.

“I don’t blackmail,” Riley answered: “I earn my money. I should like you to b iv a motor-car.”

“Put me down for three.” said Walroyd. “I shall want them if I once start driving.”

"You’re the man 1 like to meet. T hear you have a fine house. I should like to stay with you for a few days. I can tench you to drive the car. It’s as easy as talking.” "1 shall be most pleased,” Walroyd

replied, in a rather dubious voice. “Come up to-morrow in time for lunch. You ean take me for a ride in the afternoon. And you swear you will keep your mouth shut ?”

“I won’t swear a thing,” Riley said, pleasantly. “I am not making a price for my silence. I don’t blackmail. So long as we are good friends—wal, one will do things to oblige a friend.”

“very good, Riley,” said Walroyd. rising to his feet. “And you come up tomorrow. I shall expect you to lunch. Good-night.” Riley got up from his chair, and saw his visitor out of the house, shaking hands cordially with him before he left. Then he returned to the fireside, and the geniality died out of his face, and a look of cunning came into his little eyes. He foresaw many pleasant things in the future.

Walroyd walked quickly along the dark street, and up the hill to the Plus Tredegar. He kept his right hand in his pocket on the butt of his revolver, for he knew that he might have to be quick with it to save his life. But his thoughts were far away from the terror that overhung the whole neighbourhood. His mind was fixed on the shadow that was rising to darken his life, and a hundred fears ; pun round in his brain. Yet uppermost was a single thought. Dennis Riley must be silenced—at any cost! CHAPTER XX. THE SILENCE OF DENIS RILEY. The next morning Riley appeared at the Plus Tredegar in time for lunch, and the mecanicien took the motor round to the stables to overhaul it for the afternoon’s run. Riley was proud of his machine, and wished it to look its best and run its smoothest when he was showing off its paces before Walroyd. During lunch the two men talked over old times, and Walroyd told, on an average, about one lie in every minute. His long and cleverly-constructed story of successful speculation made his guest’s mouth water, and Riley began to regard him with reverence as one who had come out “right on top.”

When they had finished their meal, they sat for a few minutes at the table, and smoked their cigarettes, till the footman came and said that the moto.was at the door.

Walroyd put on a thick overcoat, awl stood on the doorstep, regarding th? machine somewhat doubtfully. It throb bed and shook as though it were going to fall to pieces. To an unpractised eye it did not appear a desirable conveyance. He took his seat by Riley. They decided to leave the “mecanicien” at home. It was possible they might like to talk about things that it was not desirable for a third party to hear. Riley pulled over one of the levers, and the throbbing died away as the ear glided down the drive. “How far ean we go without stopping?” Walroyd asked. “Filled her tank up yesterday,” Riley answered, “at Llanfihangel. She’ll run near two hundred miles. Take you rip to London if vou like.”

“I shall be satisfied if we get home all right,” said Walroyd drily. But before they had gone three miles, Iris views on motors were considerably modified. Like most people who > have a

rooted objection to this form of locomotion he had never been in one in his life. He had always regarded them from the point of view of a man who has to get out of their way, and quiet his restive horses as they pass. To him they represented a certain amount of smell and dust, and a large amount of danger to all other traffic. But now as they swept along the smooth road, with less vibration than might be be felt in a railway train, he saw that there was another side to the question. The sense of speed and power appealed to him. He was a man who liked to do things quickly, and to carry them through with a strong hand. The motor was the mechanical embodiment of his own nature. Woe betide anything that stood in its path. Yet he did not realise that in one essential thing it had the advantage of him. Its brakes were powerful enough to stop it in its headlong career.

Before they had gone ten miles, he had become an enthusiast. Riley, who was a first-class driver, and knew his machine from the smallest nut to the largest piece of the framework, gloried in exhibiting every phase of its powers. Now he would send it spinning along the level road at its top speed, now he would run it up an incline of one in seven at twelve miles an hour’; now he would take it down a long slope, till the air sang past them, and Walroyd felt as though he would be blown off his seat. Now he would bring it to a dead stop, or turn it round in the centre of the road, or take a sharp corner with an inch to spare. He displayed every trick and gambol that was in it, and he showed the perfect control he had of its enormous powers, till to Walroyd it seemed almost a living thing of intelligence and judgment. He explained the use of the levers, and the steering gear, and then allowed Walroyd to take his place and steer at the lowest speed along a straight open piece of road. Then he let him go on the second and third speed's, keeping one hand in readiness to come to his rescue. But Walroyd’s nerve did not fail him, and after five minutes he guided the machine with as much composure and confidence as though he had driven one for years.

After that he was allowed to manipulate the levers, change the speeds, put on the brake, stop the ear, and re-start it, till he appeared to have a thorough grasp of the subject. He thought the whole thing ridiculously easy, till Riley pointed out that he had just begun to learn his business, and that only a complete knowledge of the machinery would fit him to cope with any emergency or accident.

However, the iron had entered into Walroyd’s soul, and he gloried in his new found strength. The rush of the air and the hum of the machinery were music to him. He saw now that being driven in a ear was nothing to the driving of it. It was the fact of controlling and guiding sixteen horse power of machinery that appealed to him. Already he saw infinite possibilities. In less than two and a half hours

they were fifty miles away from Garth, tains. Some of the gradients had been one in five, and they had elimbed over one road to a height of two thousand feet. They stopped at a small inn, and had some bread and cheese and beer—all that the place could provide. The swift run through the mountain air had made them both as ravenous as wolves. But Riley would only allow a hurried meal. It was after half past five and if they were to be back in time to dress for dinner, he would have to get every ounce of power out of the machine. He expressed his intention of driving himself, and Walroyd was not sorry to give up the control. The latter was not used to the strain, and he found that his hands were a bit shaky and that his eyes ached painfully. They sped through the purple mountains towards the sunset. The western sky flamed with gold, and behind them the light clouds hung like rosy feathers against the blue of the heavens. It was the loneliest part of Wales, and nothing could be seen but the intermin:'ble ranges of the hills, clothed with wood at the bases, and covered with rock and heather at their summits. But the wild and rugged grandeur of the scenery passed by unnoticed by the occupants of the ear. They crawled up the long slopes and spun down the long descents without giving a thought to what lay on either side of them. All Riley’s attention was required for the car, which he was driving at a reckless speed, and Walroyd occupied his time in telling his companion about the long list of the Cardiganshire murders, and of the terror which lay over the whole countryside.

“S’pose you’re armed,” Riley said, when Walroyd came to the encl of the narrative. ‘I ain’t. I didn’t reckon I’d want a gun in this part of the world.” “Yes, I’m armed,” Walroyd replied, putting his hand to his pocket. “But I don’t think we’ll need to shoot if we meet Tredegar. He won’t run his head against this ear.” “I dunno,” Riley answered. “We go pretty slowly up some of these hills, and he might board us. I reckon from all you say, he might twist our necks if you didn’t plug him.”

At last they reached the eastern side of the hills above Llynglas. This was the steepest gradient of the whole journey. The road rose in a straight line from the bottom to the summit, without a curve or angle to lessen the steepness of the ascent. On either side of it were woods of oak and larch. Sheltered from the western gales, these trees had grown to a greater height and breadth than their less fortunate comrades on the western slopes over Llynglas. Even in the middle of summer the sun never shone on this side of the hill after four o’clock, and on this particular evening, late in the autumn, it was almost in darkness, though the top of the range behind glowed with light. Where the road passed over the summit, the trees were silhouetted against the crimson sky, but at the foot there was nothing but dull grey twilight.

They ascended on the lowest speed, slowly but surely, though the engine

seemed to require a little coaxing, and there was a faint squeak in the machinery. that Riley was not at all pleased to hear.

When they were half-way np the slope the figure of a man showed dark against the sky at the top of the hill. Then it appeared to descend on the other side, and vanished out of sight. Riley glanced nervously at Walroyd. His mind was full of the stories he had just heard.

“Might board us now, eht"”’lie said- “ Wouldn’t get hurt by the car, I reckon.”

Walroyd smiled, and pulling out his revolver, slid it back into his pocket. Riley seemed reassured. “You were always handy with your gun, Peterson,” he said. “I only wish I had a chance,” Walroyd replied grimly. At last they reached the summit, and the broad panorama of sea and marsh lay before them. The sun had sunk to a. half ball of red fire, and a mist was rising from the earth and sea. Riley stopped the car on a piece of level ground -at the top. The engines began to throb and rattle.

“Guess I’ll light the lamps,” he said. “We shall need them through these trees, and it’ll be dark enough before we are home.”

He descended from the ear, and struck a match. A steady breeze was blowing off the -sea and it eame strongly over the top of the hill. The match went out. Riley swore under his breath, and retreated behind the shelter of the car. Walroyd leant forward and opened the front of the lamps- Neither man saw a dusky figure creep out of the woods and crouch in the shadows by the side of the wood.

Then suddenly something sprang out from the darkness, and grasped Riley in an iron embrace. Walroyd’s hand went to his pocket and he leaned back over the seat with the revolver in his hand. An enormous figure stood out In the last glow of the sunset. It was brown from head to foot, and apparently covered with a mass of tawny hair. Walroyd saw that it was certainly not Emrys Tredegar. Riley’s black figure wriggled like a stoat in a trap. “Shoot,” he yelled; “for God’s sake shoot.”

Walroyd levelled his revolver. .Then he smiled grimly, and placing the weapon on the seat, pulled a lever towards him. The car began to move slowly forward. Riley clutched at it with one hand, but it slid from his grasp. Then he. screamed like a wounded animal. The car shot forward over the brow of the hill- Two hundred yards down the slope Walroyd applied the brakes, and brought it to a dead stop. He looked back- and saw nothing. Then ho heard a long wail of agony. He raised his revolver and fired six shots into the air. Then he released the brakes, and the machine dropped down the slope like a falling stone. ?/„. . ,ll , ’ CHAPTER XXI. THE ODD TREDEGAR DEAD MINE. When Tredegar dropped off the luggage train as it slowed down into Trethol Junction, the last light of day was glowing in the western horizon. He had been twenty-four hours in the truck, and had spent half the time in a siding thirty miles south of his destination. He had no clear conception of how he should act. He was a' hunted man, and could not openly join any rescue party, or give any assistance in the search for Mavanwy. Before he left Cardiff he had bought an evening paper, and had gathered from its columns that the missing girl had not yet been found, though every inch of the neighbourhood had been secured, and every man within a radius of ten miles had given his services on her behalf. He read also of the death of Dennis Riley, and how John Walroyd had been carried down the hill on a runaway motor car, which in his ignorance he could neither stop nor control, and how lie had, at risk of loosing the steering wheel, leant over the back and fired every barrel of his revolver at the murderer. There was a graphic account of the swift run down the hill in the dark, and a realistic picture of the man who knew nothing of motor cars, steering ■the machine through the dusk at the Tate of sixty miles an hour. Eyewitnesses in Trcthol described how he had shot past them like an arrow, crying out to them to go to the top of the hill and save a man from death. ,

But this new horror made only slight impression on Tredegar’s mind. Mavanwy occupied all his thoughts. Perhaps at that very moment she was lying dead. Indeed it scarcely seemed possible that she could be alive after all these days. He hardly dared to think of how she might eventually be found. For the last twelve hours he had been in a living hell, and they had left a deeper mark on his face and character than all the past months of suffering and misery. His face was almost bloodless, and the lines on it were such as might have been graven on the face of an invalid after years of bodily agony. All through the long night he had lain on the rattling, jolting truck, and faced the horftble thoughts which had crowded round him in the darkness, like fiends waiting to tear him in pieces. No single ray of hope had pierced the glooni. Yet he had resolved to find Mavanwy—dead or alive —and his own safety was nothing tq him. If she were dead, he would avenge her—and avenge her terribly. The lust of blood was in his soul, and he swore that even the innocent should sutler, if Mavanwy were dead. He crept unobserved from the railway line to the Llynglas woods. Before he started he had taken the precaution of filling all his pockets with food, and had even provided himself with a knapsack, which was stuffed to bursting point with bread and cold bacon and cheese. He did not know how long it would be before he could enter a shop and purchase anything. But he had not been able to quench his thirst for twenty-four hours. His mouth and throat were dry and burning. He made his way straight to the little waterfall in the woods, and lying down, drank deeply.-. . When he had satisfied his craving, he ate some bread and cheese, took another draught of water from the stream, and set off through the woods in the darkness. He had made up his mind to skirt the open bog, and walk round by the hills and woods to the I’las Tredegar. There, if anywhere, he expected to find some traces of the monster—-the homicidal maniac that he now believed him to be. It was even possible that he might get to close quarters with this half human beast. But first he must find Mavanwy—alive or dead—and then he could deal with the “Cardiganshire Terror,” as the “South Wales Daily News” had termed it. He almost smiled as he thought of the phrase. It had been applied to himself, as the supposed murderer.

He took two hours to reach the Tredegar woods. The moon was now up, but only a faint grey light filtered through the leaves overhead. It was difficult to see even the trunks of the trees, and it took much time and many fruitless searches to discover the shaft of the old Tredegar mine. It was very quiet in the heart of the wood, and Ins footsteps seemed to crash in the silence. An owl hooted mournfully in the distance. But no other live thing seemed to be awake.

At last, after a long and tiring search, Tredegar came to the foot of the mound, and retracing his steps a few yards, discovered the remnants of the web. His heart sank as he fingered the severed cords. “They have evidently, searched the wood thoroughly,” he said to himself, “and have found nothing—but this.” He decided, however, to pass the night in the wood, and trust to fortune to reward his patience. He lay down in the shelter of some undergrowth cluse to the edge of the clearing, lit his pipe, and kept his eyes fixed on the tall grey mound that rose before him in the moonlight.

He watched for an hour and saw nothing except the slim body of a fox slinking across the shale towards the Bias Tredegar. Then at last be heard a faint sound in the distance, as though something were moving stealthily through the wood. It was not continuous, but every now and then a twig would snap or a stone rattle, or these would be the swish of boughs being brushed aside. The noises came nearer and nearer, till at last he could judge the direction from whence they came. In a few minutes* time a gigantic figure crept on all fours out of the wood into the moonlight, and began to scale the mound. Tredegar’s heart stood still, and every muscle in his great body quivered. He longed to rush from his hiding place, and grapple with this loathsome creature and tear it limb from limb. He swiftly counted up the number of its

victims. Teu had already died in its grasp, and he shuddered as- he thought that one more might yet be added to the list. He cursed the fate that had up to then prevented it from attacking him. He alone, of all the men in the district, could have met it on equal terms, and laughed at its ferocious strength. And as he saw it creeping up the bank of sliale towards the mouth of the shaft lie eould hardly keep himself from following it and forcing it to fight for its life.

He restrained himself, however. His business was to discover what had happened to Mavanwy, and not to destroy this monster tilt it had given him some clue to her fate. He watched it crawl to the top of the mound, for all the world like some gigantic erab or spider. There was something uncanny in this creature terrorising the whole of a county. A single well aimed shot from a rifle or a gun would have killed it, and its gigantic strength would have availed it nothing. But it had appeared to bear a charmed life, or else fortune had been with it, and its lack of intelligence had called forth the pity of the gods. In half a dozen instances, it ought, in all human probability, to have been killed. But everything had fought on its side, and it still lived.

Tredegar watched it crawl to a spot close to the mouth of the shaft and begin to scratch furiously among the stones. Then he saw it pull out something and carry it to the top of the mound. Then it again stopped and flung a few bits of slate down the slope. A few moments afterwards it disappeared.

He watched for five minutes and then crept, cautiously up the bank. When he reached the summit he saw to his surprise that the end of a steel bar was protruding from the ground, and that a rope was attached to it, and that the rope trailed over the edge of the shaft and disappeared into blackness. He listened for a minute or two, but heard nothing except the drip-drip of water down the walls of the shaft. The rope hung slack, and it was evident that whatever had descended by it had reached the bottom. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Heaven. The murderer was in a trap. Tredegar had only to decide whether to wait till it appeared once more above ground, or to follow it into the bowels of the earth. He resolved to follow it, and swinging himself to the. edge of the shaft, Jet himself down hand over hand till lie reached the bottom, and stood ankle-

deep in Hie water. Then he looked up and saw a faint square of dark blue above him. Half a dozen stars glowed clear and bright in the sky, as though seen through a long telescope. He groped his way round the walls till he came to an opening. He remembered it well. More than onee in his boyhood lie had braved the ghostly terror of the dead miners, and had descended with a companion to the first passage ofc the old workings. They had never ventured very far into the mine, but he recollected that the experience had been glorious and unique, and that those days had been full to the brim with the wild adventures that they had imagined in sueh weird and unconventional surroundings. He moved cautiously down the tunnel, keeping one hand on the slimy wall, and oi the alert, to catch the faintest sound. But he eould hear nothing save the beating of his own heart and the light scrape of his boots on the rock under his feet. He had a full box of wax matches in liis pocket, but was afraid to strike one for fear of disclosing his presence. As far as he remembered, the tunnel ran for at least three hundred yards without joining any other passages, and he was in no danger of taking the wrong pat li.

Then came the place where the great fall of rock had occurred in 1873. He had never penetrated beyond that fatal spet.

At last he struck his foot against a piece of loose rock lying on the floor of tl-.e tunnel, and he knew that he had readied the scene of the disaster. In a few seconds ft pile of debris breast-high lay in his path. He stopped and lit. a match. It was hopeless to try and find his way any further without light.

The feeble yellow flame showed a great mass of fallen rock stretching as far a.s the eye eould reach. The roof above was ten feet higher than in the rest of the turnel, and the floor wits raised to within three feed of it. It had taken a hundred men ten days to move that top layer of rock and find a way into th« workings two hundred yards beyond. Most of the victims had been starved to death. But some had been taken from the debris, and two had never been found. Tredegar shuddered as he thought that even then their bodies might be lying under those thousands of tons of slate.

He crawled to the top of the heap, and moved along on his hands and knees. In places he had to iie down and wriggle along. He was sparing with his matches, a.id proceeded for the most part in th? daikness. He hoped he would not

meet hi, quarry till he had passed the scene of the disaster. It would have been an awkward place for a fight to the death.

At last, however, he catne to the end of' his arduous task, and lit another match to accomplish his descent. As he did so, something large and brown moved swiftly from under the shadow of a great mass of slate, and disappeared in the darlfiiess beyond. Tredegar picked up a heavy stone and hurled it after the retreating figure. He heard his missile clatter against the wall of the tunnel. Then he descended to the level, and started off in pursuit. But the chase was hopeless from the first. Little tunnels began to diverge in every direction. Every now and then he stopped and lit a match. More than once he found himself in some large chamber hollowed out from the rock, and half a dozen passages led from it in various directions. The pursuit was bewildering. In less than five minutes he had lost all traces of the thing he pursued, ai».l he listened in vain for any sound of footsteps. Then he began to realise that his own position was not a very cheerful one. He had no idea of the route he had taken. In his eagerness he had forgotten to mark out a path by which he might return. He was lost in a labyrinth of passages, and with no light but such as he could get from the fitful flare of a few matches.

Tredegar’s purpose, however, was strong, and he thought little of his own danger. He was amply provided with food, and water dripped from every crevice in the rock. He was determined to explore the place till starvation stared him in the face. Here, at any rate, was the thing he sought. It might escape him. but at least he would do his best to run it to earth. It was also possible that Mavanwy might be somewhere in these labyrinthine depths. But' he thought in his own heart that he should find her dead.

And so hour after hour, he blundered on through the silence and the gloom, every now and then returning to the same spot, but never once coming back to the place where he had crossed the fallen rock. He neither saw nor heard anything. His stock of matches were almost exhausted, and he felt sick and tired. The atmosphere of the mine was none too good. At last he resolved to sit down and have something to eat. He made a hearty meal off bread and bacon. He had to tear of! pieces of the latter with his teeth, as he had forgotten to bring a knife with him. But, for all that, he enjoyed the food, which put fresh strength into his weary brain and body. When he had finished, he groped his way once more through the blackness.

In half an hour’s time he came to a passage which seemed to descend. When he had proceeded along it for about two hundred yards, it turned suddenly to the left, and as he crept cautiously round the corner he saw a faint glow of light in the distance. He stopped and listened, but he could hear nothing. Tie took off his boots, and moved silently along the rocky floor. When he was within twenty yards of the light he saw that it came from the side of the rock, and seemed like the light of a eandle. But, if so, the candle itself was hid from observation, either in a niche or round another corner-

Then suddenly his foot went splash into a pool of water several inches deep, and the noise reverberated down the

passages. Almost simultaneously the light went out.

He cursed his carelessness, and, running swiftly forward, came to a cornerSomething stirred as he turned to the right, and he thought he heard the sound of breathing. He stretched out his arm, and, touching the wall, swept it lightly with his fingers as he moved. Then he encountered some’ hair, and at the same time a piercing shriek rang through the vault of the passage, and there was the thud of a falling body, and then silence. He struck a match and saw a huddled heap at his feet. He leant down, and looked at the face. It was Mavanwy Morgan. CHAPTER XXII. THE PALACE OF THE DEAD. Tredegar found a lantern on the floor by her side, and, lighting it, placed it on a ledge of rock. He hurried back to the pool he had just put his foot into, and filling his sailor’s cap with water, dashed some in the face of the unconscious girl. Then he fell on his knees and kissed her forehead. In a few minutes she opened her eyes and shivered. Then she stared at him, as though she could hardly believe her senses, and gave a little cry of surprise. “Emrys,” she said, sitting up, and brushing back the wet hair from her face. “Emrys! Oh, thank God you have come to me! But how 1 thought you had left England? Ido not understand. And my father?” And she looked eagerly into his face. “He is dead! ” Tredegar replied, in a low voice. “I saw it in the papers. I saw, too, that you were missing. Do you think I could go after that? I returned at once; the paper was four days old when I saw' it. Thank God I have come in time, and that I have found you. I thought-—I hardly dared to hope ” “How long have I been here?” she broke in, struggling to her feet. “I have lost all count of time. It has been an endless night—hour after hour of darkness and fear. I think I should have killed myself if I had had the means to do so. I do not know where I am. I have wandered miles and miles in this tomb, seeking for some glimmer of lightOh, it has been awful!” And she buried her face in her handsTredegar stepped towards her and made as though he would take her in his arms and shield her from all the terrors she had imagined. But she shrank from him, and looked at him piteously. “No, Emrys,” she said, faintly. “All that is past! But where am I?” “You are in the old Tredegar lead mine,” he answered, coldly. “The shaft is in the woods by the house.” And he told her how he had followed the murderer and lost his wav in the darkness. “And you, Mavanwy?” he asked, when he had concluded his narrative. “How did you come here?” (Tte be continued.)