Sam Brandon timed himself so accurately that he was crossing the little river-ford just as it was so dark that he could hardly make out the stepping-stones. But he got over quite dry, and after a short walk on the level, began to mount the sandy hill which formed part of the way entering Furzebrough at the top end, and led him by the fork in the road down one side of which his father had steered the bath-chair, and plunged into the soft sand of the great pit.

It was a soft, silent time, and the place seemed to be terribly lonely to one accustomed to the gas-lamps of London streets. The shadows under the hedges were so deep that they appeared likely to hide lurkers who might suddenly leap out to rob, perhaps murder, for with all his outward show in bravado, Sam Brandon felt extremely uneasy consequent about the mission which had brought him down there, and he at once decided that it would be better to walk in the middle of the road.

Five minutes later he had to take the path again, for he met a horse and cart, the driver shouting a friendly good-night, to which Sam responded with a stifled cry of alarm, for he had nearly run against a man who suddenly appeared in the darkness, but proved to be quite an inoffensive personage bound for home.

Then as the crown of the hill was reached, there was the great gloomy fir-wood, whose columns stood up quite close to the road, and under whose shade Sam had to make his way toward the village, thinking deeply the while, that after all his task was not so easy as it seemed before he came down into the country.

“No fear of being seen though,” he thought, as he went on, continually on the look-out for danger to himself, but seeing none, hearing none, till he was in the deepest part of the sandy lane, with the side of the fir-wood on his right, a hedge-topped bank on the left.

It was darker now than ever; and as it was early yet for the work he had in hand, he had slackened speed, and finally stopped short, hesitating about going on.

“What a horrible, cut-throat-looking place!” he muttered, as he tried to pierce the gloom which hid the beautifully – draped sand-banks dotted with ferns, and made lovely by flowers at all times of the year. “Any one might be in hiding there, ready to spring out.”

He had hardly thought this when he uttered a cry of horror, swung round, and ran as hard as he could back toward the crown of the hill, for all at once there was a peculiar sound, like the magnified hiss of some large serpent, and, looking up, he could dimly see against the starlit sky a gigantic head with curling horns, whose owner was evidently gazing down upon him where he stood in the middle of the lane twenty feet below.

Sam Brandon must have run five hundred yards back before want of breath compelled a slackening of speed, and his panic fear gave place to common-sense.

“What a fool I am!” he said to himself, with wonderful accuracy; “it must have been some precious old cow.”

This thought brought him quite to a stand, and after a little consideration, he felt so certain of the cause of his alarm that he turned and continued his route again toward the village, reaching the dark part, hesitating for a few moments before going on, and now hearing up to the left and over the dimly-seen hedgerow the regular crop, crop, crop of some animal grazing upon the crisp dew-wet grass.

“If anybody had told me,” he muttered, “that I could have been scared by a jolly old cow, I should have kicked him. How absurd!”

He walked on now firmly enough, till, in spite of the darkness, the road became more familiar, and in due time he could see the lights at Heatherleigh, and looking up to his right against the starry sky, the top of the great mill.

It was too soon, he felt, and turning back, pretty well strung up now to what was rapidly assuming the aspect of a desperate venture, he walked on till the golden sand looked light upon his left, and showed a way into the wood. Here he turned off, walked cautiously in amongst the tall columns for a few yards, and then sat down on the fir-needles, listened to find that all was still, and taking out cigarette-case and match-box he struck a light and began to smoke, sheltering the bright burning end of the little roll of tobacco, and trying as he rested to improve his plans.

For he was hot and tired. He had found the station beyond Furzebrough quite seven miles from the village, and being a perfectly fresh route to him, it had seemed twice as far; while the fact that he wished to keep his visit a profound secret forced him to refrain from asking questions as to the way, after being instructed by the station-master at the first.

It was restful and pleasant there on the soft natural couch of sand and fir-needles, and after a time Sam’s head began to bow and nod, and then, just as he was dropping off fast asleep, the cigarette, which he had been puffing at mechanically, dropped from his lips and fell in his lap.

In a few minutes the fume which had been rising changed its odour from burning vegetable to smouldering animal, and Sam leaped up with a yell of pain, to hastily clap his hands to a bright little round hole upon the leg of his trousers, where the woollen material had caught fire and burned through to his skin.

“Hang the stupid thing!” he grumbled, as he squeezed the cloth and put out the tiny glowing spark. “Must have dropped off. Looked nice if I’d slept all night in this idiotic place. Too soon yet, but I mustn’t go to sleep again.”

To avoid this he began to walk up and down among the trees, but carefully kept close to the road, for he grasped the fact that it would be very easy to go astray in a fir-wood at night.

Now as the dark hours are those when certain animals which live in the shade of trees choose for their rambles abroad, it so happened that one of these creatures was awake, had left its hole, and was prowling about on mischief bent, when the yell Sam Brandon uttered rose on the night air.

The first effect was to cause the prowler to start off and run; the second caused curiosity, and made the said prowler begin to crawl cautiously toward the spot from whence the cry arose, and in and out among the tree-trunks, till the shadowy figure of Sam could be seen going to and fro to avoid more sleep.

Then, as the prowler lay near at hand upon his chest watching, there came a time when Sam went down upon his knees in the densest spot near, to shelter himself from observation while he lit a fresh cigarette.

Now it so happened that the darkest spot was close to where the prowler lay without being able to escape, as it would have caused a noise, and consequent betrayal.

Then after selecting a cigarette by touch, and opening his match-box, Sam struck a little wax taper, began to light his cigarette, and naturally held the flame so near his face that, as he knelt there, it was well illumined for the benefit of the prowler, who crouched close and stared hard, expecting moment by moment to be seen.

But Sam saw nothing for the glare, while the prowler recognised his features, and lay still and waited close by the smoker till nearly another hour had elapsed, when Sam drew a long deep breath and said softly —

“Now for it.”

For it meant money, freedom from all domination, and, as the lad thought very unwisely, a general sense of independence of father and the whole world; though in carrying out this act he was riveting, so to speak, moral fetters round his wrists.

He had had hard work to string himself up to his task, but now he showed plenty of determination, and going back into the lane, he walked rapidly toward Heatherleigh, passing nobody on his way.

Upon reaching the bottom of the garden he hesitated for a few moments, peering over the hedge at the house; then seeking the palings, and looking over them at a spot where the trees were rather open, and, lastly, making his way to the gate, where he satisfied himself that there were only two lights visible there – in the servants’ part of the house, and in the little dining-room.

Apparently contented, he walked back to where the yard wall turned off at right angles, and following this for a few yards, he climbed over and made his way like a dark shadow close up to the mill, where he stood listening and looking sharply round.

All was still, and in spite of the glittering stars, it was very dark close up to the tall brick building – so black, in fact, that unless close up, there was not the slightest probability of his being seen even by any one upon the watch.

Satisfied of this, he went softly to the door, took hold of the handle, and tried it, pressing hard at the same time, in expectation that it might yield, as people were so careless about locking up in the country. But he was soon convinced that the door was securely fastened, and he moved now to one of the workshop windows and tried it, with no result. Then he gave it a sharp shake, but there was no suggestion of its yielding, and he at once went right round to the other side and tried the window there.

The result was the same, and he uttered a low ejaculation indicative of his vexation on finding everything so secure.

“More ways than one of killing a cat,” he said softly, and taking a large screw-driver from his pocket, he was in the act of thrusting its wedgelike flat point in beneath the framework of the casement when there was a step behind him, and as he turned sharply, it was to face a tall, thin, rough-looking figure, very indistinctly seen as it stood close to him, and the word “Halloo!” was whispered hoarsely almost in his ear.

For a few moments Sam was paralysed. Then he recovered himself, and stepping back he raised the screw-driver, as if it had been a short Roman sword.

“You hit me,” said the shadowy figure, “and I’ll let you have this hedgestake right on the head.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” said Sam, in a subdued voice.

“And who are you, and what are you a-doin’ of here?” was the retort. “You give me any of your mouth, and I’ll go and ring the old man’s bell.”

Sam had met his match, and stood thinking what course he should pursue when his interrupter continued —

“I know: you’re come because the old man arn’t at home. Think I don’t know yer?”

“Hush! hold your tongue!” said Sam, and for the moment he felt disposed to run for it; but there was the fact that, dark as it was, he had been recognised, and if he had any doubt it was dispelled by his companion saying with a faint laugh —

“Got any more o’ them pears?”

“No,” said Sam shortly; and recovering himself a little, “What do you want?”

“To see what you’re a-going to do,” was the reply.

“But you’ve no business here, sir,” said Sam haughtily.

“More have you. I arn’t a fool. I see you trying to break open the winders with that thing.”

“It’s a lie; you didn’t.”

“Oh yes, I did. I know; I can see in the dark. What are you after?”

Sam was silent, and the disposition was on him strongly now to strike the fellow down.

He dismissed the thought again, feeling how useless it would be to make him an enemy, and the other course now offered itself to him.

“You don’t want to know what I’m after,” he said, with a faint laugh. “It’s only for a bit of fun.”

“Not it. People don’t break in at windows for fun. You give me something, or I’ll go and tell.”

Sam’s heart leaped with satisfaction at this. Money, then, would buy the young scoundrel off, and he hastily took out a coin, and held it out so as to silence his enemy; but at the same time he felt that there was nothing to be done now but get back to town with his mission unfulfilled.

To his great delight the coin was snatched and pocketed, but he did not feel so well satisfied the next moment.

“That’s on’y a shillin’. Give’s another.”

A second was held out and taken.

“Now I wants another,” said Pete, and upon this being given, he demanded a fourth, and then a fifth.

Pete was satisfied now, and he said with a low chuckle —

“If any o’ these is bad ’uns, I shall go and tell.”

“But they’re not, they’re all good,” whispered Sam. “Now be off.”

“Shee-arn’t! I’m goin’ to stop and see what you do. But you can’t get in like that. The winders has all got noo fasteners. I could get in if I liked.”

“How?” said Sam, in spite of himself.

“Think I’m goin’ to tell you for this,” said Pete. “You give me another, and I’ll show you how to get in. I see you come in the wood and smoke over yonder.”

“And you’ve been watching me ever since?”

“Course I have. What do you want to get?”

Sam made no answer, for he was trying to arrange his thoughts, and make out what was the best thing to do. Then all at once Pete broke out with —

“You ain’t half a chap. I could soon get in there if I wanted.”

“Could you? How?”

“I’ve been in the mill lots o’ times,” said Pete evasively, “’fore they took the stones out, and since old Dicky Brandon pulled the sails off.”

“Tell me how you managed it,” said Sam, after a glance round; for, mingled with his uneasy feeling about being betrayed by the great lad before him, he began to feel desperate, and as if he must succeed now he had gone so far. He was convinced in his own mind that the most likely place to find the documents he sought would be in his uncle’s study, and to him the first floor of the old mill was that study. Tom had told him as much, and that the old walnut-wood bureau was the depository where their uncle kept his papers.

“People in the country are such idiots,” he said to himself; “they never think of having strongrooms or iron safes. He has locked the papers up there as sure as a gun.”

It was with a certainty of this being the case that he had come down, and now that there was nothing between him and the prize but a window and this spying lad, the position was irritating to a degree.

Sam thrust his hand into his pocket, where it came in contact with half-a-sovereign and some silver, and he began to think that of these he could perhaps after all make a key. The only question was how to begin.

Pete had uttered a low sniggering laugh on hearing Sam’s last question, and now feeling that he must either act or give up; the latter repeated his inquiry.

“I used to have some bantams,” replied the young scoundrel. “Bantams like wheat and barley.”

“And you used to come and steal some for them?” said Sam sharply.

“Oh, did I? Who said anything about stealing? I didn’t eat the barley; the bantams did.”

“But you stole it all the same,” said Sam, who felt now that he had a handle to take hold of.

“Oh, did I? So are you,” snarled Pete. “You’ve come to steal something, or you wouldn’t be here in the dark.”

“Never you mind about that,” said Sam quickly. “Look here; you tell me the way to get in, and I’ll give you another shilling.”

Pete thrust his dirty face close to Sam’s.

“Give us hold then.”

“No; you show me the way first.”

“Shee-arn’t! Give us the shillin’ first.”

“I don’t believe you know a way.”

“Oh, don’t I! You give me the shillin’, and you’ll see.”

Sam hesitated, but there was no time to lose. It seemed to be his only policy to make friends with this young ruffian, and he finally took a shilling out of his pocket, the action being grasped at once by the lad in spite of the darkness.

“No games,” said Sam. “If I give you the shilling, will you tell me fairly?”

“Course I will.”

“There; now tell me.”

Pete took the shilling handed, made believe to spit upon it, and thrust it into his pocket.

“Winders is fastened up tight now.”

“What, those up higher too?”

“Yes; all on ’em.”

“Then how am I to get in?”

Pete laughed softly, and Sam grew angry.

“I thought so,” he whispered. “You don’t know.”

“Oh, don’t I just?” said Pete, with his sniggering laugh. “I said I’d tell yer, and I will.”

“Quick then. How?”

“There’s a kind o’ door up atop as opens right over and lies on its back. It’s got a bolt to it, but you can shove yer hand under when yer gets up inside them little palings and push it back. Then yer can open the door and get in.”

“How do you know?” said Sam sharply.

“How do I know? ’Cause I’ve done it.”

“But up there? How did you get up?”

“Ladder,” said the lad laconically.

“What, is there a ladder here?”

“No,” said Pete.

“Bah!” ejaculated Sam. “What’s the good of telling me that, then?”

Pete chuckled now with satisfaction, as if he enjoyed his companion’s trouble.

“I know where there’s a ladder,” he said.

“One we could get?”

“You couldn’t. I could.”

“Get it for me, then, there’s a good fellow.”

“Ha, ha! Oh, I say; arn’t you getting jolly civil!”

“Hush!” whispered Sam excitedly. “Don’t make that noise. Some one will hear.”

“Yah! There’s no one to hear! The old man’s gone out, and old Mother Fidler’s fast asleep, and snoring by this time.”

“But there’s he,” whispered Sam.

“What, young Tom Blount? Yah! Not him: he won’t come.”

“Where’s the ladder?” whispered Sam, in agony.

“Don’t I tell yer, yer couldn’t get it if yer did know!”

“Then will you get it for me?”

“Give’s another shillin’, and I will.”

“Oh!” groaned Sam. “I’ve given you too much now.”

“All right. I don’t want the ladder. I arn’t going to fetch that and carry it ever so far for nothin’.”

“But is it long enough?”

“Yes; just reaches up to them railings outside the top door. Yer can’t get in without.”

“If I give you another shilling – the last, mind – will you fetch me a ladder?”

“Course I will.”

“All right then; make haste.”

“Give us the shillin’ first.”

“Then you won’t fetch the ladder.”

“Oh yes, I will – honour bright.”

Sam unwillingly produced another shilling.

“There, that’s the last I’m going to give you,” he whispered. “Now, then, fetch the ladder quickly.”

Chapter Forty Four

He uttered his low, sniggering, malicious laugh again, and without a word went off towards the back, disappearing into the darkness, and then, unseen by Sam, crawling over the wall like some great dark slug, leaving the London boy alone with his thoughts, as he kept close up to the mill, and gazed toward the cottage, dreading moment by moment an interruption from that direction.

His thoughts were not pleasant company. For there he was upon his uncle’s property, feeling that not only had he come down there in the character of a thief, but circumstances had forced him into taking for confederate about as low-typed and blackguardly a young scoundrel as there was for twenty miles round. He had been forced to bribe the fellow heavily for him, and in addition to place himself entirely at his mercy, so that in the future, if he was successful in getting the papers, this scoundrel would be always coming upon him for money, and getting it by threats.

“I can’t help it,” muttered Sam; “it’s the gov’nor’s fault, and he’ll have to pay for it all. He sent me, and – pooh, it isn’t stealing. It’s all in the family, and I’ve a better right to have what there is than young Tom Blount.”

Sam tried to think of other things, but two matters had it all their own way – the dread of being caught, and the coming of Pete with the ladder.

But the time wore on, and neither event seemed likely to happen. He grew hotter and hotter; every now and then he felt a peculiar nervous attack in one leg, which made his right knee tremble violently, and again and again he was on the point of rushing off, leaping the wall, and making for the open country, when at last he heard some faint noise coming out of the darkness.

Once he felt that all was over, and there was nothing left for him to do but flee. For there were heavy steps in the lane coming nearer and nearer, till they stopped opposite the gate, and Sam’s heart throbbed like the beating of a soft mallet.

“Policeman!” he thought, and he would have turned to run, but his feet felt as if glued to the ground, and the agony he suffered was intense.

Just as he was at the worst point, there was a scratching sound, a gleam of light, the smell of tobacco, and directly after the steps were heard again, to pass on and die out in the distance.

“‘Conscience makes cowards of us all,’” Sam might have said, but he did not know the words; and so he only wiped his forehead, and began to think of how he could get back to town, for it was perfectly evident that Pete had got all he could out of him, and, so far from returning with a ladder, in all probability he had invented the whole story, and there was no ladder anywhere nearer than in the rascal’s imagination.

The moments passed on like minutes, and Sam felt as if an hour must have passed.

“It’s of no use,” he said to himself; “he has been too sharp for me, and I shall have to come down as the dad said, and take my chance. I can do no more.”

He sighed in his misery and dread, for he knew that there was an all-night walk before him, till he could take one of the earliest morning trains somewhere on the road. But it had to be done, and he went from out of the deep black shadow of the mill to the wall where he came over, and was in the act of raising himself up, when his neck was caught as if in a fork, and he was thrown down on to his back. Then, as he struggled up, he grasped the fact that Pete must have been coming back, and thrust the top of the ladder over first, sending the ends on each side of his neck.

“Don’t do that, mate,” came to him in a sharp whisper from the wall. “Ketch hold and steady it while I run it to you.”

Sam caught hold of the ladder eagerly, forgetting the pain in satisfaction, and the next minute the bottom round rested on the top of the wall. Then Pete crept over, slug fashion, and lifted the end off and set it down.

“There y’are,” he said.

“What a while you’ve been,” whispered Sam.

“Oh, have I! Juss you go and fetch it yerself, and see how quick you’d be. It was worth two shillin’ to go for that; there, hyste it up and in with you.”

“Hoist the ladder by myself?”

“Yes, it’s easy enough. Bottom’s heavy and top’s light. Shall I do it?”

“Yes, quickly.”

“’Nother shillin’. I arn’t going to have nothing to do with it, and so I tell yer, without.”

“I wish you wouldn’t speak so loudly,” whispered Sam impatiently.

“Yah! go on! nobody can’t hear us. Where’s that shillin’?”

“I told you I wouldn’t give you any more,” said Sam, stoutly now, “and I won’t.”

Pete chuckled.

“All right; I’ll hyste the ladder, only mind you telled me to – it was your doing.”

“Yes, my doing,” said Sam, who was full of nervous impatience. “Be smart; here, I’ll help.”

“I can do it,” said Pete, and with two or three sharp jerks he raised the ladder right on end, and then, after working it round two or three times, let the light narrow end down against the railing, just in front of the long shutter on the rounded roof.

“Will it bear me?” whispered Sam nervously.

“Bear a dozen on yer. Up you goes, and I’ll keep watch. If young Tom Ugly Blount comes, shall I give him one over the head?”

“Yes,” whispered Sam, as he began to mount.

“Shove yer hand under the door, and yer can feel the bolt directly. You can open it. Look alive.”

Sam mounted round by round, wondering whether the thin ladder would bear his weight or collapse and let him down, as a punishment for the degrading crime he was about to commit; and the higher he went, and the ladder vibrated more easily, the more nervous he grew. Twice he stopped breathless and full of dread.

“Is it safe?” he whispered.

“Yes; up with yer.”

Then he grasped the railing, stepped over into the little gallery, and, stooping down, soon found that he could unbolt the shutter.

The next minute he was inside, and descending at once into the laboratory, he took the screw-driver from his pocket, and had no difficulty in prizing open the drawers, the wood bending enough to set free the catch. A match gave him sufficient light, and when he paused before the right drawer, in which were several carefully-sealed-up papers and envelopes, he hesitated, wondering which would be the documents he wished to secure.

Helped by so feeble a light, it was hard work to tell, and at last he came to the conclusion that it would be best to make sure; and to this end he gathered all together, and thrust them, to the number of eight or nine, into his breast-pocket and buttoned his jacket.

“Hurrah!” he muttered. “Safe. Now for home.”

He had hardly conceived this thought, when a sound overhead caught his ear, and he felt for the moment that Pete had come to see what he was doing. The next minute he was in full flight, pursued by Tom, as we have seen, and at last reached the ground, thanks to the help of Pete, who, after lying in hiding while the ladder was lowered, hurriedly raised it again.

Just as Tom was half-way down Pete gave the ladder a wrench, hoisted one leg, and sent it sidewise. Then —

“This way,” he whispered, catching Sam’s hand, guiding him to the corner of the yard, and as soon as they were over leading the way at a steady dog-trot.

“You keep alongside me,” he said; “I’ll show yer a near cut. Where do you want to go?”

“I want to get on the main road two or three miles away,” whispered Sam.

“All right. Did you get it?”

“Yes, but don’t talk.”

“Shall if I like,” growled Pete. “I say, look here. I arn’t seen you ter-night, and I don’t know nothin’ about that ladder. Let ’em think it was Tom Ugly Blount. But I say, you’ll give me another shillin’?”

“I’ll give you two,” panted Sam, “if you’ll promise never to blab.”

“You’re a good ’un,” said Pete, laughing softly. “Won’t ketch me talking. Hand over; and if you come down again I’ll help yer any night. I hates that there t’other chap, but I likes you.”

“Thankye,” said Sam, who gave the lad a couple of shillings more, when, as good as his word, Pete guided him to the road a good three miles on his way.

“Good-night, mate,” the lad said, holding out his hand.

“Mate!” thought Sam in disgust, as he felt constrained to shake hands.

“I say, I know: you’re going on to London.”

“Am I? you don’t know,” said Sam hurriedly. “But I say, are you going home to bed now?”

“No,” said Pete, with a chuckle; “I’m going back to my roost in the wood. Good-night, matey.”

“Good-night,” said Sam; and he started off at a rapid rate along the hard road, feeling the papers tightly buttoned up in his pocket, where they soon grew hot, and as if they were going to burn his chest. “Oh, what a terrible walk,” he muttered; “and that fellow will know I’m making for London. Don’t matter,” he said directly after; “he won’t tell tales, and if he comes up, ferrets us out, and wants more money, the gov’nor ’ll have to pay.”

Pete went back to his sandy hole, and in an hour was fast asleep, while Sam was plodding steadily on toward the great city, growing more and more weary as the hours passed, and longing to lie down and sleep, but dreading to do this for fear of some policeman or tramp coming upon him, when he felt that the result would be the same – the papers he had gone through so much to obtain would be found, and perhaps pass entirely from his hands.