caldecott was, i found, a very out-of-the-way little place. the pretty village of rockingham, with its long, broad street leading up the hill and the old castle crowning it, was its nearest neighbour, for at that station i alighted from the train and walked through the noonday heat along the short, shadeless road pointed out by the railway porter.

the country in that district is of park-like aspect, mostly rich pastures with spinneys here and there, and running brooks; but on that blazing summer’s day, with the road shining white before me, i was glad enough when i got under the shadow of the cottages of caldecott.

my first impression of the place was that the village was both remote and comfortable. the cottages were mostly well kept and nearly all thatched, with quaint little attic windows peeping forth here and there and strange old gable ends. every house was built of stone, solidly and well, and every cottage garden seemed to be gay with jasmine, hollyhocks, sunflowers, and other old-world flowers. not a soul was in the village street, for in that great heat the very dogs were sleeping.

behind, on a slight eminence, stood a fine old church of early english architecture, with narrow, pointed lancet-shaped windows similar to those in the choir of westminster abbey, and as i passed, the sweet-toned bell from the square ivy-clad tower struck two o’clock. walking on a short distance i came to a small open space which in olden days was, i suppose the village green, and seeing an inn called the plough i entered the little bar parlour and called for some ale. the place seemed scrupulously clean and comfortable, very old-fashioned, but well-kept, therefore i decided to make it my headquarters, and engaged a room for at least one night.

the young woman who waited upon me having explained that she and her brother kept the place, i at once commenced to make some inquiries. it was, i knew, most necessary that i should avoid attracting any undue attention in the gossiping little place, therefore i had to exercise the greatest caution. i gave her a card and explained my presence there to the fact that i was taking a holiday and photographing.

“by the way,” i said, standing at the bow window which gave a view on to the church, “whose house is that away among the trees?”

“the vicarage, sir. mr. pocock lives there, a very-nice gentleman.”

“has he been vicar long?” i inquired.

“oh, he’s been here these five years, i think, or perhaps a little more.”

“and is there an old manor house here?”

“yes, sir. right up the top end of the village. mr. and mrs. kenway live there. they’re new tenants, and have only been there about a year.”

“is it a large house?”

“one of the largest here—a very old-fashioned place.”

“is it the oldest house?”

“oh, yes, i think so, but i wouldn’t care to live in it myself,” and the young woman shrugged her shoulders.

“why?” i inquired, at once interested and hoping to learn some local legend.

“well, they say that all sorts of strange noises are heard there at night. i’m no believer in ghosts, you know, but even rats are not pleasant companions in a house.”

“who does the place belong to?”

“to a jew, i think, who lives in ireland. years ago, i’ve heard, the place was mortgaged, and the mortgagee foreclosed. but lots of people have rented it since then, and nobody within my recollection has lived there longer than about three years.”

what the young woman told me caused me to jump to the conclusion that the house in question was once the residence of bartholomew da schorno, and after finishing my ale i lit a cigarette and sauntered forth to have a look at the place.

i need not tell you how eagerly i walked to the top of the village, but on arrival there i saw no sign of the house in question. i inquired of a lad, who directed me into a farmyard gate, whence i found a short, ill-kept road which ended in a cul-de-sac, leading into a field. on my right was a clump of elms, and hidden among them was the quaint and charmingly old-world manor house.

first sight of the place was sufficient to tell me that it had been allowed to fall into decay, and certainly it was, even in that summer sunshine, a rather dismal and depressing place of abode.

the old cobbled courtyard was overgrown with moss and weeds, and some of the outbuildings had ugly holes in the roofs. the house itself was long, low, and rambling, of elizabethan architecture, with old mullioned windows, built entirely of stone, now, however, grey with lichens and green with moss on the parts which the clinging ivy had failed to cover. the outside woodwork, weather-beaten and rotting, had not been painted for a century, while upon one of the high square chimneys stood forth the rusty iron angle of a sundial, from which, however, most of the graven numerals had long ago disappeared.

the high beech hedge which formed one of the boundaries was sufficient proof of the antiquity of the place, but the trees of the broad pleasure grounds, which had no doubt once extended far away down to the river, had been cut down and the land turned into pastures, so that only a small, neglected kitchen garden now remained. the place, even in its present decay, spoke mutely of a departed magnificence. as i stood gazing upon it, i could imagine it as the residence of the lord of the manor in the days when peacocks strutted in the grounds, when that moss-grown courtyard had echoed to the hoofs of armed horsemen, and the talk was of the prowess of drake, of walsingham’s astuteness, of the martyrdom of mary at fotheringhay, and the fickleness of the queen’s favour.

determined to make the acquaintance of the present occupiers, even though it might or might not be the former residence of old bartholomew, i went up to the blistered door and pulled a bell, which clanged dismally within, and made such an echo that i wondered if the place were devoid of furniture.

my summons was answered by a rather stout, middle-aged woman, who, in response to my inquiry, informed me that she was mrs. kenway. i was somewhat taken aback at this, for i had believed her to be a servant, but the moment she opened her mouth i knew her to be a countrywoman.

i was compelled to make an excuse for my call, so i invented what i conceived to be an ingenious untruth.

“i have called to ask you a favour,” i said, “my mother was born in this house, and being in the neighbourhood i am most anxious to see the old place. have you any objection?”

“oh, no, sir,” was the kindly woman’s prompt response. “come in; you’re very welcome to look round, i’m sure. no, keep your hat on, there are so many draughts.”

“is it draughty, then?”

“oh, sir,” she said, shaking her head and sighing; “i don’t know what the place used to be in days gone by, but me and my husband are truly sorry we ever took it. in winter it’s a reg’ler ice-well. we can’t keep ourselves warm anyhow. it’s so lonely, and full of strange noises o’ nights. i’m not nervous, but all the same they’re not nice.”

“rats, perhaps.”

“yes, i suppose so.” and she led me along the narrow passage where the stones were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and ushered me into a small, low room where black beams ran across the ceiling. but, oh! the incongruity of that interior. over the old panelling was pasted common wall-paper of hideous design in green and yellow, while the furniture was of modern description, quite out of keeping with the antiquity of the house. as she led me through room after room i noticed how successive tenants had, by papering and white-washing, endeavoured to turn the place into a kind of modern cottage home. much of the old woodwork had been removed, and even the oaken doors were actually painted and grained! the staircase was still, however, in its original state of dark oak, and handsomely carved, and the stone balustrade which ran round the landing was a splendid example of elizabethan construction. half the rooms were unfurnished, but the good woman took me along the echoing, carpetless corridors and showed me the various chambers above as well as below.

could that ruinous place be the one which the noble adventurer had chosen for the concealment of the loot?

the place certainly coincided in date with the written statement, but i had nothing to connect it with the name of da schorno. perhaps, however, some of the title-deeds connected with the place might tell me something, so i obtained from mrs. kenway the name and address of the landlord, a man named cohen, living in dublin.

“this isn’t at all the house me and my husband wanted,” she declared. “our idea when we took it was to take paying guests, because i’m used to lodgers. i let apartments for six years in hunstanton, and our idea in coming here was to take paying guests, as they call ’em nowadays. we advertised in the london papers and got two ladies, but they only stayed a fortnight. it was too quiet for them, they said. since then several people have been, but i haven’t let once.”

i was certainly not surprised. if i were paying guest in that house i should go melancholy mad within a week. besides, as far as i could see, the place was comfortless. an appearance of freshness was lent it by the new paper in execrable taste in the hall, and a gaudy new linoleum upon the beautiful old polished stairs, but beyond that the interior was just as dingy and cold-looking as the outside.

indeed, so depressing was my visit that i was rather glad when it was over. one or two of the upstair rooms were panelled, with oak evidently, but the woodwork had been painted a uniform white, while the floors were rickety and suggestive of dry-rot.

she had another two years’ lease of the place, mrs. kenway regretted to say. they were trying to re-let it, for if compelled to keep it on until the end of the term it would swallow up all their slender savings.

“you see, we are earning nothing, except a little that my husband gets out of canvassing for an insurance company. but it takes him out so much, and i am left alone here from morning till night.”

i was secretly glad to hear of this state of things, because if i could prove that the house had belonged to old bartholomew, it might become necessary for us to rent it and make some investigations.

through the lattice window of the long, low room wherein i stood a wide view could be obtained across the neglected garden and the pastures beyond away down to the river, and as i looked forth it occurred to me to ask what rent was required.

“we pay forty-five pounds a year,” was her reply.

“well,” i said reflectively, “i know some one who wants a quiet house in the country, and i’ll mention it to him if you like.”

“oh, i’d be most thankful, sir,” she cried, enthusiastically. “the gentleman would be quiet enough here. there are no neighbours, and not even a passer-by, for, as you see, the road leads to nowhere.”

again i wondered whether, concealed in that weird, tumble-down old place were the gold and jewels from the spanish galleon and the spoils from the corsairs of barbary. behind that panelling upstairs might be concealed treasure worth a fortune. as far as my cursory observations went, there was no likely place downstairs, unless, as in many old houses of that character, there was a “priest’s hole” cunningly concealed.

i went forth accompanied by the lady who was waiting in vain for paying guests, and examined the front of the house, which faced south towards the sloping pastures.

walking a little way back into the wilderness of weeds which was once a garden, i looked up to the row of long mullioned windows, and saw in the centre of the dark grey wall a large square sculptured stone bearing the date 1584. above was a coat-of-arms cut in the crumbling stone, a device that was in an instant familiar to me.

as my eyes fell on it i could not repress a cry of satisfaction, for there was the leopard rampant with the fleur-de-lys, the very same device that was upon the seal of the document with the seven signatures i had found on board the seahorse!

thus was it proved most conclusively that it was the actual house mentioned by bartholomew da schorno, for it bore his arms, with the date of either its construction or restoration.

i talked with mrs. kenway for some little time as an excuse to linger there, and when i left i held out strong hopes to her that i might induce my friend to take the remainder of the lease off her hands.