it was truly a mystery. so far as beatrice knew, there were but two ways of getting out of the camp--by the large gate and the smaller one. yet she in the parlour-carriage, facing alpenny's counting-house, had not seen him emerge; nor had durban, busy in the kitchen, the door of which commanded a view of the postern, beheld his master depart. the telegraph office was at the railway station three miles away, and there was no one in the camp save durban and his young mistress to send with a wire. yet the wire had been sent, and the reply had been received. beatrice ventured an explanation.

"perhaps my father sent the telegram yesterday."

"no, missy. i took none, and master did not leave the place. no telegram has been sent from here for the last month."

"is there a third way out, durban?"

"not that i know of, missy, and yet----"

what durban would have said in the way of explanation it is impossible to say, for at this moment the querulous voice of alpenny was heard calling snappishly. durban hastened to the door of the counting-house, and it was opened so that he could speak with his master. but he was not admitted within. beatrice retired to her bedroom-carriage, which was near the parlour, and had only been there a few minutes when durban came over with a crest-fallen face.

"we must put off going to convent grange, missy," said he rapidly; "master wishes me to go to town. he is writing a letter which i have to take up at once. i shall catch the six train."

"very well, durban. we can wait."

the servant looked and hesitated, but before he could speak again mr. alpenny interrupted. appearing at the door of his dungeon he waved a letter. "come at once!" he cried; "don't lose time. what do you mean by chattering there?"

durban gave beatrice a significant look and hastened away. in another ten minutes he had left the camp by the great gates and was on his way to the railway station. alpenny saw him off the premises and then crossed over to his stepdaughter.

"what were you saying to durban?" he asked suspiciously.

"you mean what was durban saying to me?" she replied quietly; "you can surely guess. he was saying that you wished him to go to town."

"there was no need of him to tell you my business," grumbled the miser, looking ill-tempered. "what are you doing this evening?"

had he any suspicions of her intention? beatrice thought not. the question was put in a snarling way, and simply--as she judged--to show his authority.

"i intend to read," she answered simply, "and perhaps i shall take a walk"--in the grounds, she ostensibly meant.

"better not," warned the usurer, looking up. "clouds are gathering. i am sure there will be a storm."

"very well," was her indifferent reply, although she wondered if he had missed the key of the smaller gate. "will i come and say good-night to you as usual at ten?"

alpenny nodded in an absent way, and walked into his counting-house with his hands behind him, and his form more bent than usual. beatrice watched him cross the smooth sward, and then went to sit down in the parlour and meditate. in some way, which she could scarcely define, she scented a mystery. the episode of the telegram, the hasty departure of durban, the proposal of marriage, all these things hinted--as she thought--at schemes against her peace of mind. and then, again, the words of vivian paslow. those were indeed mysterious, and she was anxious to know what they meant. finally, the hint that alpenny had given as to vivian having committed crimes, alarmed the girl. she felt that alpenny was trying to inveigle paslow into some trap, and from his words it was plain that he would stop at nothing to prevent the young man declaring the passion he felt for the girl. also, from another hint, it would seem that the miser held--as, indeed, he had plainly stated--"vivian in the hollow of his hand."

these thoughts made beatrice very uncomfortable, the more so as never before had any mystery come into her life. hitherto it had been serene and uneventful, one day being exactly the same as another. but with the visit of vivian on that afternoon everything had changed, for since he had heard those mysterious words, alpenny had not been himself. in some queer way he had forwarded a telegram, and in a hurry he had sent durban to london, which he had not done for months past. undoubtedly something sinister was in the wind, and beatrice shivered with a vague apprehension of dread.

it certainly might have been the weather which made her feel so ill at ease, for the hot day had ended in an even hotter evening. the air was close, the sky was clouded, and there was not a breath of wind to stir the leaves of the surrounding trees. ever and again a flicker of lightning would leap across the sky--summer lightning which portended storm and rain. beatrice, trying to breathe freely in the suffocating air, wished that the storm would come to clear the atmosphere. there was electricity in the dry air, and she felt as uncomfortable as a cat which has its hair smoothed the wrong way. on some such night as this must lady macbeth have received duncan, and nature hinted at a repetition of the storm which took place when the guileless king was done to death in the shambles.

beatrice could not rest within doors. she put on a hat, and draped a long black cloak over her white dress. attired thus, she walked up and down on the dry grass, trying to compose herself. around gloomed the girdle of trees, without even a leaf stirring. the colours of the flowers were vague in the hot twilight, and the white forms of the seven railway carriages stood here and there like tombs in a cemetery. as she lingered near the sundial, she cast a look upward at the downs, which rose vast and shadowy to be defined clearly against a clear sky. the foot of them was but a stone-throw away from the camp, and almost it was in her mind to climb their heights in order to get a breath of fresh air. here in the hollow, embosomed in woods, she felt stifling; but up there surely a sweet, fresh wind must be blowing, full of moisture from the channel. then the thought of a possible walk recalled her to a remembrance of her appointment: she intended to keep it, even though durban had gone away. the key was in her pocket, and she could slip out of the small gate for an hour, and get back again without alpenny being any the wiser. already a light gleamed from the solitary window of the dungeon, as it had gleamed ever since she could remember when the darkness came on. behind the discoloured blind the miser laboured at his books, and counted his gains. so far as she knew all his money was banked and invested, and he kept no gold in the dungeon. perhaps he feared robbery; and it really was remarkable that, seeing he was supposed to be a millionaire, the camp had never been marked by the fraternity of london thieves. a visit there would surely have proved successful, if all the tales of alpenny were to be believed. but perhaps the thieves had heard, as the miser had vaguely hinted, of his cleverness in keeping no specie in his retirement. but be this as it may, alpenny, all these years, had never hinted at a possible burglary.

after a glance at the downs and at alpenny's lighted window, behind which he would sit until midnight, beatrice entered one of the winding paths in the little wood and took her way to the gate. the large gates were locked, and alpenny alone possessed the key; but she could open the smaller gate, and now proceeded to do so.

the lock was freshly oiled, and the postern swung open noiselessly. standing on the threshold within the camp, beatrice paused for a moment. some feeling seemed to hold her back. into her mind flashed the sudden thought that if she went out, she would leave behind her not only the camp, but the old serene life. it was like crossing the rubicon; but with an impatient ejaculation at her own weakness, she shook herself and passed out, leaving the gate locked behind her. then she stole through the glimmering wood, fully committed to the adventure. as she did so, a distant growl of thunder seemed to her agitated mind like the voice of the angel thrusting her out of paradise. truly, she had never before felt in this strange mood.

by a narrow path she gained the lane, and here the light was a trifle stronger, although it was rapidly dying out of the hot, close sky. it was close upon half-past six, so beatrice knew that if she walked quickly she could arrive at the witches' oak almost at the time appointed. owing to the late hour of starting she had quite given up the idea of going to convent grange, which was two miles away. she would meet vivian, as she now arranged in her own mind, at the witches' oak, and would ask for an explanation. when he gave it, she could return rapidly to the camp escorted by him; then slipping in, she would be able to say good-night to alpenny at ten o'clock, and go to bed. for a moment, she wondered if durban would return that night, or stop in town. if he came back, he would be angry if he found that she had left the camp unattended and in the twilight. but she would be in bed even if durban did return, and then she could decide whether to tell him or not. also, the chances were that as he had gone to town so late he would remain there till the next morning to execute alpenny's business, whatever that might be.

passing along the lane, beatrice had to run by the great gates, which were locked securely. in the twilight she thought she saw a small figure crouching before them, but in the semi-darkness could not be certain. however, the sight of the figure, if figure it was, troubled her very little. probably it was that of some tramp, as there were many in the weald of sussex. but if the tramp was waiting at the gates in the hope of getting a crust or penny from the miser, he would be woefully disappointed. beatrice, passing swiftly, hardly gave the matter a thought, but sped rapidly along under the deep shadows of the trees, and along the white dusty lane, between the wilted hedges, dry with summer heat. a quarter of a mile brought her to a side path, and down this she went calmly, congratulating herself that she had met neither tramp, nor neighbour on the road. the path wound deviously through ancient trees, and at length emerged into a rather large glade in the centre of which was a pond, green with duckweed. over this spread the branches of the witches' oak, an old old tree, which must have been growing in the time of the druids, and which had probably played its part in their mystic rites. a fitful moonlight gleamed occasionally on this, as the planet showed her haggard face, and under the tree beatrice saw a tall figure waiting patiently. she crossed the glade in the moonlight, but the clouds swept over the face of the orb, as beatrice paused under the oak. then again came a growl of distant thunder, as if in warning.

"i knew you would come," said paslow, stepping forward, and for the moment it seemed as though he would take her in his arms.

in the darkness the cheeks of the girl flushed, and she stepped lightly aside, evading his clasp. her heart told her to throw herself into those strong arms and be protected for ever from the coming storms of life, but a sense of modesty prevented such speedy surrender. when she spoke, her voice was steady and cool. there was no time to be lost, and she began hurriedly in the middle of things.

"yes, i have come," she said quickly; "because i want to know the meaning of the words you used to my father to-day."

"i don't know what they mean," confessed paslow calmly.

"then why did you use them?"

"i received a hint to do so."

"from whom?"

"i can't tell you that. miss hedge--beatrice--i asked you to meet me here, so that no one should interrupt our conversation. if you came to the grange, dinah would have prevented my speaking; and now that mr. alpenny is angry with me, i cannot come to the camp. you must forgive me for having asked you to meet me here at this hour, and in so ill-omened a spot, but i have something to say to you which must be said at once."

"what is it?" her heart beat rapidly as she spoke, for although she could not see his face in the darkness, she guessed from the tones of his voice that he was about to say all which she desired to hear.

"can't you guess?" he came a step nearer and spoke softly.

beatrice, feeling strange, as was natural considering the circumstance, laughed in an embarrassed manner. "how can i guess?"

"because you must have seen what i meant in my eyes, beatrice. i want you to be my wife."

her heart beat loudly as though it would give vivian its answer without speech.

"i don't understand," she said abruptly.

"surely you must have seen----"

"oh yes, i saw," she interrupted rapidly, "i saw that you loved me. i also saw that you held back from asking me to marry you."

"i had a reason," he said, after a pause; "that reason is now removed, and i can ask you, as i do with all my heart and soul, to be my wife. dearest, i love you."

"can i believe that?"

"i swear it!" he breathed passionately.

"but the reason?"

paslow hesitated. "it was connected with money," he confessed at last. "your father--or, rather, your stepfather--had a mortgage on nearly the whole of my property. i have lately inherited a small sum of money, and went to-day to ask mr. alpenny to arrange about paying off part of the mortgage. he accused me of wishing to rob him."

"but why, when you desired to pay off the mortgage?"

"i can't say. i think"--vivian hesitated--"i think that he wishes to get possession of the grange."

"and his reason?"

"i can't tell you that. but the moment i offered to pay the money he burst out into a rage and said that i wanted to rob him. then i warned him as to something i had heard against him in london."

"what is that?" she asked in startled tones.

"i dare not tell you just now."

"is it connected with the black patch?"

"not that i know of. and what do you know of the black patch?"

"i know nothing. i heard it mentioned--whatever it is--for the first time to-day, and by you. the effect on mr. alpenny was so strange that i wish to know what the black patch means."

"i do not know myself," said vivian earnestly. "listen, my dear girl. the other night i found on my desk a scrap of paper, and on it was written--or, rather, i should say printed, for the person who wrote printed the letters--'if alpenny objects, say "remember the black patch."'"

beatrice listened, bewildered. "what does that mean?"

"i can't say. but when driven into a corner by his language i used the very words on the scrap of paper. you saw their effect."

"it is strange," said beatrice; then remembering what the miser had said to her, she grasped her lover's arm. "vivian, he told me that you had committed crimes."

"what a liar! i have committed no crimes, save that i have indulged in the usual follies of a young man whose parents died before they could guide him properly. what does he mean?"

"i can't say. but i think he wished to make me mistrust you."

"i can guess that, for i asked him to-day if i could marry you. he refused, and raged worse than ever. it was then that he turned me out of his counting-house, and--well, you saw what happened. i suppose he wants you to marry someone else?"

"yes. he told me so to-day. major ruck."

"who is he?" demanded paslow in a tone of anger.

"i don't know. major simon ruck, a retired army officer with a fine fortune, and who is fifty years of age, and----"

here there came a flash of blue lightning, and then a loud crash of thunder. afterwards the strong wind hurtled towards them, bearing on its wings the drenching rain. vivian was startled, and caught beatrice to his breast in the darkness.

"darling, will you marry me?" he asked, although she was scarcely mistress yet of her emotions in the storm and gloom.

before she could answer, the pent-up feelings of the day found relief in a burst of hysterical tears. pulling out her handkerchief she pressed it to her eyes, and at the moment felt the key, entangled in the handkerchief, fall out.

"oh," she gasped, "the key! it has fallen out of my pocket!"

"i'll find it!" and paslow dropped on to the grass, now wet, while the rain came down in torrents. "i have it!" he said, wondering at this queer disconnected wooing, and rose with the key in his hand. "my dear, let us stand further under the tree, and then we can talk."

"no! no!" beatrice was quite unstrung by this time. "i must go home at once. it is late, and my father--my--ah! who is that?"

flash after flash of lightning, blue and vivid, illuminated the haunted tree, as though once again the witches were holding their demoniac revels. a short distance away stood a small man. neither of the lovers could see his features in the fitful illumination. vivian, with a cry of anger, ran straight towards the figure, and it disappeared. tales of the spectres said to haunt the tree occurred to the mind of beatrice, and, unstrung, and not mistress of herself, she left the oak and hurried across the glade. the lightning was flashing incessantly, and the thunder roared like artillery, while the steady rain spattered through the trees' tops. trying to find the path which led to the lane, beatrice ran on. she fancied she heard the voice of paslow shouting, but again pealed the thunder to drown what he said. losing her head--and small wonder, so terrific was the storm--beatrice scrambled on through many paths, and finally, when there came an unusually vivid flash, she sank with a cry of terror under some bushes, and fainted on the streaming ground. how long she remained unconscious she did not know.

when she did regain her senses, a mighty wind was blowing through the woods, bending the stoutest trees like saplings. through the swaying boughs, the girl could see the flicker of lightning racing across the sky; and every now and then boomed sullen thunder, loud and menacing. with an effort she gathered her aching limbs together and staggered forward blindly through the wood. she could not tell what the hour was, or guess where she was going, but by some miracle she managed to arrive at the lane. even then, she did not recognise where she was, but ran blindly along in the hope of finding the camp. there was no sign of vivian, or of the man who had been watching them under the witches' oak. all around was the roaring darkness, laced with vivid lightning and alive with furious rain and wind. like a demented creature, beatrice sped along in mud and slush, kilting up her petticoats to run the faster. and ever overhead screamed the storm, while the wild winds tore and buffeted the tormented trees.

she bitterly regretted having kept the appointment she had learned little save that vivian loved her, which she had known long ago. and now she had lost the key: paslow possessed it, since he had not given it back to her before he ran after the watcher. so how was she to re-enter the jealously-guarded camp? alpenny would know that she had been out, that she had met vivian, and there would be great trouble. these thoughts made the head of the girl reel as she ran along blind and breathless.

then came several flashes, and before her, unexpectedly, she beheld the gate of the camp. it was wide open, but, without thinking, she ran in at once, only too thankful to arrive home. as she passed the posts, she sprang unseeingly into the arms of a man. with a cry she tore herself away, and stared. in a flash of lightning she saw that he was tall, lean, clothed in black, and--the sight made her shriek--over his left eye he wore a black patch. then the darkness closed down and she heard him brush past into gloom, running swiftly out of the gate, which he closed after him. she heard the click, and in some way managed to scramble across the wet lawn to her own bedroom-carriage. as she dropped on the threshold she saw that the light in the counting-house was extinguished. what did it all mean? she asked herself; and who was the tall man with the dark patch over his left eye?