"What's to be done, Terence?--what's to be done?" Jim asked almost piteously. "We could not have made a more terrible discovery."
"There'll have to be an Inquest, sir," said Terence.
"When it will be found that he entered my house and endeavoured to murder me. Then it will be remembered how my father died. Two and two will be put together, and the terrible truth will come out. That would break Miss Decie's heart."
"Good heavens! sir, I see what you mean," said Terence. "I never thought of that."
"He was mad, Terence, hopelessly mad, and therefore not responsible for his actions. Poor Miss Decie!"
"Aye, poor young lady. If she was so fond of the old gentleman, it would break her heart to know what he has been trying to do."
"She must never know," said Jim, who by this time had made up his mind.
"I can trust you, Terence."
"To the death, sir, and I think you know it. I've served you, sir, and I served your father before you, and I don't think you ever found me wanting. Tell me what you think of doing."
"We must get him back to his own house, if possible," said Jim, "and let him be found dead there. No one but our two selves will know the truth, and if we keep silence, no one need ever know that we found him here. I cannot let Miss Decie be made more unhappy than she is."
"I don't know but that you are right, sir," Terence answered. "But how are we going to get him to the Dower House?"
"We must go along the passage and see where it leads to. If I am not mistaken it will take us there. This place must have been made years ago, when the two properties were one. We will leave the body here, and, if I am right in my conjecture, we can come back for it."
They accordingly allowed the remains of Mr. Bursfield to lie where they had found them, and proceeded on their tour of exploration. As it transpired, they had still a considerable distance to go before they reached the end of the tunnel. At last, however, they found themselves at the foot of a flight of stone steps, similar to those by which they had descended at the Manor House.
"Tread very quietly," Jim whispered to his companion. "We must on no account rouse the servants."
They noiselessly ascended the stairs until they found themselves at the top, and confronted by a door.
"I'll get you to stay here, Terence," Jim whispered, "while I open this door and see where we are."
He soon discovered what appeared to be a spring in the middle of the door, and when he had pressed it, had the satisfaction of seeing the door swing inwards. Shading the candle with his hand, Jim stepped into the room he found before him. His surprise at finding himself in Mr.
Bursfield's study, the same room in which he had his last unpleasant interview with the old gentleman, can be better imagined than described.
The secret door, he observed, formed part of the panelling on one side of the fireplace, a fragment of carving in the setting of the chimney-piece being the means of opening it. The old man's papers and books were littered about the table just as he had left them; a grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the further right-hand corner, while a little mouse watched Jim from beneath the sofa, as if it were endeavouring to ascertain his errand there at such an hour.
Having made sure of his whereabouts, Jim returned to the passage, closing the door carefully behind him.
"We must lose no time," he whispered to Terence; "it is already a quarter to three. Heaven grant that Isaac, his man-servant, does not take it into his head to look in upon his master during the night. He would then find him absent, and that would make it rather difficult to explain the fact of his being found dead in his chair in the morning."
By this time their first candle had expired, and it became necessary to light that Terence was carrying.
"If we are not very careful we shall be compelled to make our way back in the dark, after we have carried him up here," said Jim. "This candle will scarcely see us through."
"Never mind that, sir, so long as we can get him in here safely," said Terence. "I have got a box of matches in my pocket, and we can fumble our way back somehow."
They accordingly set off, and in due course reached the place where they had left the old man's body.
"How are we to carry him?" asked Jim.
"Oh, you leave that to me, sir. I can manage it," answered Terence. "If you'll go ahead with the light, I'll follow you."
So saying, he picked up the frail body, as if its weight were a matter of no concern to him, and they set off on their return journey to the Dower House. If the distance had appeared a long one before, it was doubly so now. At last, however, they reached the steps, climbed them, and a few moments later were standing in the dead man's study once more.
In spite of his assertions to the contrary, it was plain that his exertions had taxed Terence's strength to its utmost. Between them they placed the body in the chair before the table.
This done, they left the room as quietly as they had entered it, and made their way down the steps once more. Jim's prophecy that the return journey would have to be made in darkness was fulfilled, for they had scarcely reached the place where they had discovered the body ere the candle fluttered out and they found themselves in inky darkness.
Terence struck a match, but its feeble flicker was of little or no use to them. Fumbling their way along by the wall they continued to progress, until a muttered exclamation from Terence, who was leading, proclaimed the fact that they had reached the steps at the further end.
"Bad cess to 'em," said he, "I've barked my shins so that I shall have good cause to remember them to my dying day."
He thereupon lit another match, and by means of this modest illumination they climbed to the door in the corridor above.
"Heaven be thanked! we're safe home once more," said Jim, as they stepped into the passage. "I trust I may never experience another night like this."
Whispering to Terence to follow him quietly, he led the way round the gallery and downstairs to the dining-room, where he unlocked the Tantalus and poured out a glass of spirits for Terence and another for himself. Both stood in need of some sort of stimulant after all they had been through.
"Not a word must be breathed to any living being of this, Terence," he said, as he put his glass down. "Remember, I trust my secret to you implicitly."
"I give you my word, sir, that nobody shall ever hear it from me,"
answered Terence, and then the two men solemnly shook hands.
"Now, before we go to bed, I'll get you to come to my room and have a look at my throat," said Jim; "it's uncommonly sore."
This proved to be the case. And small wonder was it, for the finger marks were fast turning to bruises, while the scratches showed up as fiery-red as ever. Jim shuddered again and again as he recalled that awful struggle and compared his escape with his father's cruel fate.
"Another moment and in all probability he would have done for me too,"
he said to himself, and then added somewhat inconsequently, "Poor Helen!"
When his wounds had been dressed, he despatched Terence to bed; for his own part, however, he knew that sleep was impossible. In fact, he did not attempt to seek it, but seating himself in a comfortable chair, proceeded to read, with what attention he could bestow upon the operation, until daylight.
When the sun rose he dressed himself and went out, wearing a scarf instead of a collar, in order that the wounds he had received might not be apparent to the world. The memory of that hateful passage under the park haunted him like an evil dream. He determined to have it closed at once for good and all. While he remained the owner of Childerbridge no one should ever set foot in it again. He was still wondering how he could best carry out the work without exciting suspicion or comment, when he observed an old man crossing the park towards him. As he drew nearer, Jim became aware that it was old Isaac, Mr. Bursfield's man-servant and general factotum. It was also to be seen that he was in a very agitated state.
"God have mercy upon us, sir!" he said, as he came up to Jim; "I've had such a fright. Is Miss Helen with you?"
"She is," Jim replied, and then endeavouring to speak unconcernedly, he added--"Has Mr. Bursfield sent you to find her?"
"The poor gentleman will never send me on another errand," Isaac replied solemnly; "he has been sent for himself. He is dead!"
CHAPTER XIII
"What's that you say?" cried Jim, trying to appear as if he were scarcely able to believe that he heard aright. "Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Bursfield is dead?"
"Yes, sir," said the old man; "when I went into his study this morning to open the shutters, I found him seated at his table in the arm-chair stone dead. I ran up at once to Miss Helen's room to tell her, only to find that her bed had not been slept in. Me and my wife searched the house for her, but she is not to be found anywhere. Oh, sir, what does it all mean?"
"It means that Miss Decie came to my house last night at about eleven o'clock. Mr. Bursfield's condition was such that she was afraid to remain in the house with him any longer. You must have noticed that he has been very strange of late?"