chapter xxxi.for a second mona's courage fails her, and then it returns with threefold force. in truth, she is nearer death at this moment than she herself quite knows.

"put down your pistol, sir," she says, hastily. "would you fire on a woman?" her tone, though hurried, is not oppressed with fear. she even advances a few steps in his direction. her words, her whole manner, fill him with admiration. the extreme courage she betrays is, indeed worthy of any man's laudation, but the implied trust in his chivalry touches paul rodney more than anything has ever had power to touch him before.

he lowers the weapon at her command, but says nothing. indeed, what is there to say?

"place it on the table," says mona, who, though rich in presence of mind, has yet all a woman's wholesome horror of anything that may go off.

again he obeys her.

"now, perhaps, you will explain why you are here?" says mrs. geoffrey, speaking as sternly as her soft voice will permit. "how did you get in?"

"through the window. i was passing, and found it open." there is some note in his voice that might well be termed mocking.

"open at this hour of the morning?"

"wide open."

"and the lamp, did you find it burning?"

"brilliantly."

he lifts his head here, and laughs aloud, a short, unmirthful laugh.

"you are lying, sir," says mona, contemptuously.

"yes, deliberately," returns he, with wilful recklessness.

he moves as though to take up the pistol again; but mona is beforehand with him, and, closing her fingers round it, holds it firmly.

"do you think you are stronger than i am?" he says, amusement blended with the old admiration in his eyes.

"no, but they are," she says, pointing to her two faithful companions, who are staring hungrily at rodney and evidently only awaiting the word from mona to fling themselves upon him.

she beckons to them, and, rising slowly, they advance towards rodney, who involuntarily moves back a little. and in truth they are formidable foes, with their bloodshot eyes, and bristling coats, and huge jaws that, being now parted, show the gleaming teeth within.

"on guard," says mona, whereupon both the brutes crouch upon the ground right before rodney, and fix him seriously and menacingly with their eyes.

"you are certainly too strong for me," says rodney, with a frown and a peculiar smile.

"as you have refused to explain your presence here to me, you shall remain where you now are until help arrives," says mona, with evident determination.

"i am content to stay here until the day dawns, if you keep me company," replies he, easily.

"insolence, sir, is perhaps another part of your role," returns she, with cold but excessive anger.

she is clad in a long white dressing-gown, loose, yet clinging, that betrays each curve of her svelte, lissom figure. it is bordered with swansdown, and some rich white lace, that sits high to her neck and falls over her small hands. her hair is drawn back into a loose knot, that looks as if it would tumble down her back should she shake her head. she is pale, and her eyes are peculiarly large and dark from excitement. they are fixed upon rodney with a gaze that belies all idea of fear, and her lips are compressed and somewhat dangerous.

"is truth insolence?" asks rodney. "if so, i demand your pardon. my speech, no doubt, was a betise, yet it came from my heart."

"do not trouble yourself to make any further excuse," says mona, icily.

"pray sit down," says rodney, politely: "if you insist on spending your evening with me, let me at least know that you are comfortable." again the comicality of the whole proceeding strikes him, and he laughs aloud. he takes, too, a step forward, as if to get her a chair.

"do not stir," says mona, hastily, pointing to the bloodhounds. allspice has risen—so has the hair on his back—and is looking thunder-claps at paul. a low growl breaks from him. he is plainly bent upon reducing to reason whosoever shall dispute the will of his beloved mistress. "the dogs know their orders, and will obey me. down, allspice, down. you will do well, sir, to remain exactly where you are," continues mona.

"then get a chair for yourself, at least, as you will not permit me to go to your aid," he entreats. "i am your prisoner,—perhaps," in a low tone, "the most willing captive that ever yet was made."

he hardly realizes the extent of his subjection,—is blind to the extreme awkwardness of the situation. of geoffrey's absence, and the chance that he may return at any moment, he is altogether ignorant.

mona takes no notice of his words, but still stands by the table, with her hands folded, her long white robes clinging to her, her eyes lowered, her whole demeanor like that of some mediæval saint. so thinks rodney, who is gazing at her as though he would forever imprint upon his brain the remembrance of a vision as pure as it is perfect.

the moments come and go. the fire is dying out. no sound but that of the falling cinders comes to disturb the stillness that reigns within the library. mona is vaguely, wondering what the end of it all will be. and then at last the silence is broken. a noise upon the gravel outside, a quick rush up the balcony steps; some one emerges from the gloom of the night, and comes into the room through the open window. mona utters a passionate cry of relief and joy. it is geoffrey!

perhaps, just at first, surprise is too great to permit of his feeling either astonishment or indignation. he looks from paul rodney to mona, and then from mona back to rodney. after that his gaze does not wander again. mona, running to him, throws herself into his arms, and there he holds her closely, but always with his eyes fixed upon the man he deems his enemy.

as for the australian, he has grown pale indeed, but is quite self-possessed, and the usual insolent line round his mouth has deepened. the dogs have by no means relaxed their vigil, but still crouch before him, ready for their deadly spring at any moment. it is a picture, almost a lifeless one, so motionless are all those that help to form it. the fading fire, the brilliant lamp, the open window with the sullen night beyond, paul rodney standing upon the hearthrug with folded arms, his dark insolent face lighted up with the excitement of what is yet to come, gazing defiantly at his cousin, who is staring back at him, pale but determined. and then mona, in her soft white gown, somewhat in the foreground, with one arm (from which the loose sleeve of the dressing-gown has fallen back, leaving the fair rounded flesh to be seen) thrown around her husband's neck, is watching rodney with an expression on her face that is half haughtiness, half nervous dread. her hair has loosened, and is rippling over her shoulders, and down far below her waist; with her disengaged hand she is holding it back from her ear, hardly knowing how picturesque and striking is her attitude, and how it betrays each perfect curve of her lovely figure.

"now, sir speak," she says, at length in rather tremulous tones growing fearful of the lengthened silence. there is a dangerous vibration in the arm that geoffrey has round her, that gives her warning to make some change in the scene as soon as possible.

for an instant rodney turns his eyes on her, and then goes back to his sneering examination of geoffrey. between them the two dogs still lie, quiet but eager.

"call off the dogs," says geoffrey to mona, in a low tone; "there is no longer any necessity for them. and tell me how you come to be here, at this hour, with this—fellow."

mona calls off the dogs. they rise unwillingly, and, walking into a distant corner, sit there, as though still awaiting a chance of taking some active part in the coming fray. after which mona, in a few words, explains the situation to geoffrey.

"you will give me an explanation at once," says geoffrey, slowly, addressing his cousin. "what brought you here?"

"curiosity, as i have already told mrs. rodney," returns he, lightly. "the window was open, the lamp burning. i walked in to see the old room."

"who is your accomplice?" asks geoffrey, still with studied calmness.

"you are pleased to talk conundrums," says rodney, with a shrug. "i confess my self sufficiently dull to have never guessed one."

"i shall make myself plainer. what servant did you bribe to leave the window open for you at this hour?"

for a brief instant the australian's eyes flash fire; then he lowers his lids, and laughs quite easily.

"you would turn a farce into a tragedy," he says, mockingly, "why should i bribe a servant to let me see an old room by midnight?"

"why, indeed, unless you wished to possess yourself of something in the old room?"

"again i fail to understand," says paul; but his very lips grow livid. "perhaps for the second time, and with the same delicacy you used at first, you will condescend to explain."

"is it necessary?" says geoffrey, very insolently in his turn. "i think not. by the by, is it your usual practice to prowl round people's houses at two o'clock in the morning? i thought all such festive habits were confined to burglars, and blackguards of that order."

"we are none of us infallible," says rodney, in a curious tone, and speaking as if with difficulty. "you see, even you erred. though i am neither burglar nor blackguard, i, too enjoy a walk at midnight."

"liar!" says geoffrey between his teeth, his eyes fixed with deadly hatred upon his cousin. "liar—and thief!" he goes a few steps nearer him, and then waits.

"thief!" echoes paul in a terrible tone. his whole face quivers, a murderous light creeps into his eyes.

mona, seeing it, moves away from geoffrey, and, going stealthily up to the table, lays her hand upon the pistol, that is still lying where last she left it. with a quick gesture, and unseen she covers it with a paper, and then turns her attention once more upon the two men.

"ay, thief!" repeats geoffrey, in a voice low but fierce, "it was not without a purpose you entered this house to-night, alone and uninvited. tell your story to any one foolish enough to believe you. i do not. what did you hope to find? what help towards the gaining of your unlawful cause?"

"thief!" interrupts rodney, repeating the vile word again, as though deaf to everything but this degrading accusation. then there is a faint pause, and then——

mona never afterwards could say which man was the first to make the attack, but in a second they are locked in each other's arms in a deadly embrace. a desire to cry aloud, to summon help, takes hold of her, but she beats it down, some inward feeling, clear, yet undefined, telling her that publicity on such a matter as this will be eminently undesirable.

geoffrey is the taller man of the two, but paul the more lithe and sinewy. for a moment they sway to and fro; then geoffrey, getting his fingers upon his cousin's throat, forces him backward.

the australian struggles for a moment. then, finding geoffrey too many for him, he looses one of his hands, and, thrusting it between his shirt and waistcoat, brings to light a tiny dagger, very flat, and lightly sheathed.

fortunately this dagger refuses to be shaken from its hold. mona, feeling that fair play is at an end, and that treachery is asserting itself, turns instinctively to her faithful allies the bloodhounds, who have risen, and, with their hair standing straight on their backs, are growling ominously.

cold, and half wild with horror, she yet retains her presence of mind, and, beckoning to one of the dogs, says imperiously, "at him, spice!" pointing to paul rodney.

like a flash of lightning, the brute springs forward, and, flinging himself upon rodney, fastens his teeth upon the arm of the hand that holds the dagger.

the extreme pain, and the pressure—the actual weight—of the powerful animal, tell. rodney falls back, and with an oath staggers against the mantelpiece.

"call off that dog," cries geoffrey, turning savagely to mona. whereupon, having gained her purpose, mona bids the dog lie down, and the faithful brute, exquisitely trained, and unequal to disobedience, drops off his foe at her command and falls crouching to the ground, yet with his eyes red and bloodshot, and his breath coming in parting gasps that betray the wrath he would gladly gratify.

the dagger has fallen to the carpet in the struggle, and mona, picking it up, flings it far from her into the darksome night through the window. then she goes up to geoffrey, and laying her hand upon his breast, turns to confront their cousin.

her hair is falling like a veil all round her; through it she looks out at rodney with eyes frightened and imploring.

"go, paul!" she says, with vehement entreaty, the word passing her lips involuntarily.

geoffrey does not hear her. paul does. and as his own name, coming from her lips, falls upon his ear, a great change passes over his face. it is ashy pale; his lips are bloodless; his eyes are full of rage and undying hatred: but at her voice it softens, and something that is quite indescribable, but is perhaps pain and grief and tenderness and despair combined, comes into it. her lips—the purest and sweetest under heaven—have deigned to address him as one not altogether outside the pale of friendship,—of common fellowship. in her own divine charity and tenderness she can see good in others who are not (as he acknowledges to himself with terrible remorse) worthy to touch the very hem of her white skirts.

"go," she says, again, entreatingly, still with her hand on geoffrey's breast, as though to keep him back, but with her eyes on paul.

it is a command. with a last lingering glance at the woman who has enthralled him, he steps out through the window on to the balcony, and in another moment is lost to sight.

mona, with a beating heart, but with a courage that gives calmness to her outward actions, closes the window, draws the shutters together, bars them, and then goes back to geoffrey, who has not moved since rodney's departure.

"tell me again how it all happened," he says, laying his hands on her shoulders. and then she goes through it again, slowly, carefully.

"he was standing just there," she says, pointing to the spot where first she had seen paul when she entered the library, "with his face turned to the panels, and his hand up like this," suiting the action to the word. "when i came in, he turned abruptly. can he be eccentric?—odd? sometimes i have thought that——"

"no; eccentricity is farther from him than villainy. but, my darling, what a terrible ordeal for you to come in and find him here! enough to frighten you to death, if you were any one but my own brave girl."

"the dogs gave me courage. and was it not well i did bring them? how strange that i should have wished for them so strongly to-night! that time when he drew out the dagger!—my heart failed me then, and but for spice what would have been the end of it?" she shudders. "and yet," she says, with sudden passion, "even then i knew what i should have done. i had his pistol. i myself would have shot him, if the worst came to the worst. oh, to think that that man may yet reign here in this dear old house, and supplant nicholas!"

her eyes fill with tears.

"he may not,—there is a faint chance,—but of course the title is gone, as he has proved his birth beyond dispute."

"what could he have wanted? when i came in, he turned pale and levelled the pistol at me. i was frightened, but not much. when i desired him, he laid down the pistol directly, and then i seized it. and then——"

her eyes fall upon the hearthrug. half under the fender a small piece of crumpled paper attracts her notice. still talking, she stoops mechanically and picks it up, smooths it, and opens it.

"why, what is this?" she says, a moment later; "and what a curious hand! not a gentleman's surely."

"one of thomas's billet-doux, no doubt," says geoffrey, dreamily, alluding to the under-footman, but thinking of something else.

"no, no; i think not. come here, geoffrey; do. it is the queerest thing,—like a riddle. see!"

he comes to her and looks over her shoulder at the paper she holds. in an ugly unformed hand the following figures and words are written upon it,—

"7—4. press top corner,—right hand."

this is all. the paper is old, soiled, and has apparently made large acquaintance with pockets. it looks, indeed, as if much travel and tobacco are not foreign to it. geoffrey, taking it from mona, holds it from him at full length, with amiable superciliousness, between his first finger and thumb.

"thomas has plainly taken to hieroglyphics,—if it be thomas," he says. "i can fancy his pressing his young woman's right hand, but her 'top corner' baffles me. if i were thomas, i shouldn't hanker after a girl with a 'top corner;' but there is no accounting for tastes. it really is curious, though, isn't it?" as he speaks he looks at mona; but mona, though seemingly returning his gaze, is for the first time in her life absolutely unmindful of his presence.

slowly she turns her head away from him, and, as though following out a train of thought, fixes her eyes upon the panelled wall in front of her.

"it is illiterate writing, certainly; and the whole concern dilapidated to the last degree," goes on rodney, still regarding the soiled paper with curiosity mingled with aversion. "any objection to my putting it in the fire?"

"'7—4,'" murmurs she, absently, still staring intently at the wall.

"it looks like the production of a lunatic,—a very dangerous lunatic,—an habitue of colney hatch," muses geoffrey, who is growing more and more puzzled with the paper's contents the oftener he reads it.

"'top corner,—right hand,'" goes on mona, taking no heed of him, and speaking in the same low, mysterious, far-off tone.

"yes, exactly; you have it by heart; but what does it mean, and what are you staring at that wall for?" asks he, hopelessly, going to her side.

"it means—the missing will," returns she, in a voice that would have done credit to a priestess of delphi. as she delivers this oracular sentence, she points almost tragically towards the wall in question.

"eh!" says geoffrey, starting, not so much at the meaning of her words as at the words themselves. have the worry and excitement of the last hour unsettled her brain!

"my dear child, don't talk like that," he says, nervously: "you're done up, you know. come to bed."

"i sha'n't go to bed at all," declares mrs. geoffrey, excitedly. "i shall never go to bed again, i think, until all this is cleared up. geoffrey, bring me over that chair."

she motions impatiently with her hand, and geoffrey, being compelled to it by her vehemence, draws a high chair close to that part of the wall that seems to have claimed her greatest attention.

springing up on it, she selects a certain panel, and, laying one hand on it as if to make sure it is the one she wants, counts carefully six more from it to the next wall, and three from it to the floor. i think i have described these panels before as being one foot broad and two feet long.

having assured herself that the panel selected is the one she requires, she presses her fingers steadily against the upper corner on the side farthest from the fire. expectation lies in every line of her face, yet she is doomed to disappointment. no result attends her nervous pressure, but distinct defeat. the panel is inexorable. nothing daunted, she moves her hand lower down, and tries again. again failure crushes her; after which she makes one last attempt, and, touching the very uppermost corner, presses hard.

success at last rests with her. slowly the panel moves, and, sliding to one side, displays to view a tiny cupboard that for many years has been lost sight of by the rodney family. it is very small, about half a foot in depth, with three small shelves inside. but, alas! these shelves are empty.

geoffrey utters an exclamation, and mona, after one swift comprehensive glance at the rifled cupboard, bursts into tears. the bitter disappointment is more than she can bear.

"oh! it isn't here! he has stolen it!" cries she, as one who can admit of no comfort. "and i felt so sure i should find it myself. that was what he was doing when i came into the room. ah, geoffrey, sure you didn't malign him when you called him a thief."

"what has he done?" asks geoffrey, somewhat bewildered and greatly distressed at her apparent grief.

"he has stolen the will. taken it away. that paper you hold must have fallen from him, and contains the directions about finding the right panel. ah! what shall we do now?"

"you are right: i see it now," says geoffrey, whitening a little, "warden wrote that paper, no doubt," glancing at the dirty bit of writing that has led to the discovery. "he evidently had his knowledge from old elspeth, who must have known of this secret hiding-place from my great-grandfather. my father, i am convinced, knew nothing of it. here, on the night of my grandfather's death, the old woman must have hidden the will, and here it has remained ever since until to-night. yet, after all, this is mere supposition," says geoffrey. "we are taking for granted what may prove a myth. the will may never been placed here, and he himself——"

"it was placed here; i feel it, i know it," says mona, solemnly, laying her hand upon the panel. her earnestness impresses him. he wakes into life.

"then that villain, that scoundrel, has it now in his possession," he says, quickly. "if i go after him, even yet i may come up with him before he reaches his home, and compel him to give it up."

as he finishes he moves towards the window, as though bent upon putting his words into execution at once, but mona hastily stepping before him, gets between it and him, and, raising her hand, forbids his approach.

"you may compel him to murder you," she says, feverishly, "or, in your present mood, you may murder him. no, you shall not stir from this to-night."

"but—" begins he, impatiently, trying gently to put her to one side.

"i will not listen," she interrupts, passionately. "i know how you both looked a while ago. i shall never forget it; and to meet again now, with fresh cause for hatred in your hearts, would be——no. there is crime in the very air of to-night."

she winds her arms, around him, seeing he is still determined to go, and, throwing back her head, looks into his face.

"besides, you are going on a fool's errand," she says, speaking rapidly, as though to gain time. "he has reached his own place long ago. wait until the morning, i entreat you, geoffrey. i—" her lips tremble, her breath comes fitfully—"i can bear no more just now."

a sob escapes her, and falls heavily on geoffrey's heart. he is not proof against a woman's tears,—as no true man ever is,—especially her tears, and so he gives in at once.

"there, don't cry, and you shall have it all your own way," he says, with a sigh. "to-morrow we will decide what is to be done."

"to-day, you mean: you will only have to wait a few short hours," she says, gratefully. "let us leave this hateful room," with a shudder. "i shall never be able to enter it again without thinking of this night and all its horrors."