With less courage than she usually felt, Marion went on her way. Perhaps there was no more miserable being in England at that moment. It is hard to play a double part, hard to be thrust one way by cruel circumstances when the heart and soul are crying out to go the other.

This was Marion's position. And whichever way she went she was destined to be equally unhappy and miserable. She had to help her relations; she had to try to shield that infamous woman at the same time.

And now the great secret of her life had come to light. That was the bitterest trial of all. Vera had discovered that Marion loved Geoffrey. Ralph Ravenspur had made the same discovery long ago, but it did not matter so very much about him; Vera was different.

And here she was in the dead of night carrying out the errand of the deadliest foe the house of Ravenspur had ever known. She was half inclined to throw the whole thing to the winds, to disappear and never return again. Why should she —

She stopped. Something was stirring in the bushes on either side of her. Perhaps it was a rabbit or a fox. Probably somebody had dogged her footsteps.

"Who are you?" Marion cried. "Speak, or I call for help."

The threat was futile, considering the time of night. The bushes parted and two men appeared. Marion gave one loud scream, but before she could repeat the cry a hand was laid on her lips.

Whoever they were, they were not unduly rough. The hand that stayed further clamor was hard, but it was not cruel.

"You are not to cry out again," a voice whispered. "I will not injure you if you promise not to call out."

Marion indicated that she would comply with this suggestion. Immediately the hand fell from her lips.

"This is an outrage," she said. "Who are you?"

"That is beside the point," was the reply. "It is an outrage, but we are not going to treat you badly. We are unfortunately compelled to keep you for some four-and-twenty hours from the custody of your friends, but you may rest assured that you will be treated with every consideration."

"I am your prisoner, then?"

"Since you like to put it in that way, yes."

Marion was properly indignant. She pointed out that the course these men were pursuing was a criminal one, and that it was likely to lead them into trouble.

But she might have been speaking to the winds. If she could only see these people! She had not the remotest idea what they were like. The man who spoke was evidently a gentleman; his companion seemed like a working man – a sailor by his walk. And yet it was impossible to see the faces of either.

"Where are you going to take me?" Marion asked.

"We are going to conduct you to one of the caves," was the reply. "Unfortunately no house is available for our purpose, or we should not put you to this inconvenience. But we have made every preparation for your comfort, and you are not likely to suffer for want of food or anything of that kind. And I pledge you my word of honor that you shall not be detained a minute beyond the specified time."

He touched Marion on the arm to indicate a forward movement.

"I suppose it is of no use to ask your name," Marion said coldly.

"I have no objection," said the other. "The time is coming when it will be necessary to speak very plainly indeed. My name is George Abell, and I am secretary to Dr. Sergius Tchigorsky. My friend's name is Elphick. He was at one time a servant in the employ of one of your family."

"Tchigorsky?" Marion cried. "But he is dead."

"That seems to be the popular impression," Abell said gravely.

The words appeared to strike a chill in Marion. She began to comprehend that all her sacrifices had been made in vain.

"Tchigorsky not dead?" she said hoarsely.

"No," said Abell. "I saw him a little time ago. It will perhaps not surprise you to hear that I am acting under his orders."

"But he could not know that I – "

"Dr. Tchigorsky seems to divine matters. He seems to know what people will do almost by instinct. He is a wonderful man and does wonderful things. But I cannot tell you any more; I am merely acting under orders."

He indicated the way and Marion proceeded without further protest. She felt like a condemned criminal when the sentence is pronounced. Certain things were coming to an end. A long period of suspense and anxiety was nearly finished. How it was going to end Marion neither knew nor cared. But she did know that the woman who was known as Mrs. May was doomed.

Not another word passed until the foot of the cliffs was reached. It was no easy matter to get down in the dark, but it was managed at length.

It was near the lonely spot where Geoffrey's stranded boat had been found. For days together nobody came here and Marion could not console herself with the fact that she would be rescued. Not that she much cared; indeed, it was a matter of indifference to her what happened.

Abell was polite and attentive. He indicated a pile of rugs and wraps; if Miss Ravenspur wanted anything she had only to call out and it would be supplied immediately.

"I wanted nothing but to rest," Marion said wearily. "I am tired out. I feel as if I could sleep for a thousand years. I am so exhausted mentally that I have no astonishment to find myself in this strange situation."

Abell bowed and retired. The night was warm and the cave, being above any, even the high spring tides, was dry. Marion flung herself down upon the pile of wraps and almost at once fell fast asleep. When she came to herself again the sun was shining high. Outside Abell was pacing the sands. Marion called to him.

"I want some breakfast," she said, "and then I should like to have a talk with you. If only I had a looking glass."

"You don't need one," Abell said respectfully if admiringly. "Still, that has been thought of. There is a looking glass in the corner."

Marion smiled despite herself. She found the glass and propped it up before her. There was no cause for alarm. She looked as neat and fresh as if she had just made a due and elaborate toilette. Geoffrey was fond of saying that after a football match Marion would have remained as neat and tidy as ever. She ate her breakfast heartily – good tea, with eggs, and bread-and-butter and strawberries.

"Do you want anything more?" asked Abell, looking in.

"Nothing, except my liberty," Marion replied. "You may come in and smoke if you like. How long are you going to detain me here?"

"Four-and-twenty hours."

"But I shall be missed. They will search for me. By this time, of course, they are hunting all over the place for me. They will come here – "

"I think not," Abell said politely. "It is too near home. Nobody would dream of looking for you in a cave close to the castle. We thought of all that. They will not look for you for other reasons."

Marion glanced swiftly at the speaker.

"How could you prevent them?" she demanded.

Abell puffed airily at his cigarette. He smiled pleasantly.

"There are many ways," he said. "You do not come down to breakfast. They begin to be alarmed at your absence. Somebody goes to your room and finds there a note addressed to your grandfather. That note is apparently in your handwriting. It contains a few lines to the effect that you have made a great discovery. You have gone at once to follow it up. The family are not to be alarmed if you do not return till very late. When you come back you hope to have a joyful revelation for everybody."

Marion smiled in reply. Abell seemed to be so sure of his ground.

"What you outline means forgery," she said.

"So I presume," Abell replied coolly. "But forgery is so simple nowadays with the aid of the camera. After what I have told you you will be able to see that our scheme has been thoughtfully worked out."

"And when I come back do I bring a joyful confession with me?"

Abell looked steadily at the speaker. There was something in the expression of his eyes that caused her to drop hers.

"That depends entirely upon yourself," he murmured. "One thing you may rely upon – the confession will be made and the clouds rolled away. It is only a matter of hours now. Surely, you do not need to be told why you are detained?"

For some reason best known to herself Marion did not need to be told. It was a long time before she spoke again. She ought to have been angry with this man; she ought to have turned from him with indignation; but she did nothing of the kind. And if she had, her indignation would have been wasted.

"You are in Dr. Tchigorsky's confidence?" she asked.

Abell shook his head with a smile.

"I know a great deal about him," he said. "I help him in his experiments. But as to being in his confidence – no. I don't suppose any man in the world enjoys that, unless it is your uncle Ralph."

Marion started. In that moment many things became clear to her. Hitherto she had regarded Ralph Ravenspur as anything but a man to be dreaded or feared. Now she knew better. Why had she not thought of this before?

"They are great friends?" she said.

"Oh, yes. They have been all over the world together. And they have been in places which they do not mention to anybody."

CHAPTER LII
"AS PROOF OF HOLY WRIT"

Tchigorsky hung over the papers before him as if inspired. There was not much, apparently, in the book with the metal clasps, but that little seemed to be fascinating to a degree. The Russian turned it over till he came to the end.

"You appear to be satisfied," Geoffrey said.

"Satisfied is a poor word to express my feelings," Tchigorsky replied. He stretched himself; he drew a deep breath like one who has been under water.

"I have practically everything here in this diary," he said. "It is written in a language you would fail to understand, but it is all like print to me. Everything is traced down from the first of the family catastrophes to the last attempt by means of the bees. There are letters from Lassa containing instructions for the preparation of certain drugs and poisons; in fact, here is everything."

"So that we are rid of our foes at last?"

"Not quite. The princess is cunning. We shall have to extract a confession from her; we shall have to get her and her two slaves together. It is all a matter of hours, but we shall have to be circumspect. If the woman finds she is baffled she may be capable of a bitter revenge to finish with."

"What are you going to do?" Geoffrey asked.

"We are going back to the castle the same way we came," Tchigorsky explained. "We are going to show your uncle Ralph our find. For the present it is not expedient that Sergius Tchigorsky should come to life again."

The box was locked once more and replaced, and then the two burglars crept from the house. They had not disturbed anybody, for the upper windows of the farmhouse were all in darkness.

A brisk walk brought them to the castle. Upstairs a dim light was still burning in Ralph Ravenspur's window. The light flared up at the signal, and a few minutes later the three were seated round the lamp, while the window was darkened again.

Ralph sat stolidly smoking as if he had not moved for hours. He evinced not the slightest curiosity as to the success of his companions. Tchigorsky smote him on the back with unwonted hilarity.

"So you have been successful?" he croaked.

"Oh, you have guessed that!" Tchigorsky cried.

"It was a mere matter of time," Ralph replied. "It was bound to come. I knew that from the first day I got here."

"All very well," Tchigorsky muttered; "but it was only a 'matter of time' till the Ravenspurs were wiped out root and branch."

"You knew the day you got here?" Geoffrey exclaimed.

Ralph turned his inscrutable face to the speaker.

"I did, lad," he said. "I came home to ascertain how the thing was worked. Before I slept the first night under the old roof I knew the truth. And I came in time – guided by the hand of Providence – to save the first of a fresh series of tragedies.

"You wonder why I did not speak; you have asked me before why I did not proclaim my knowledge. And I replied that the whole world would have laughed at me; you would have been the first to deride me, and the assassin would have been warned. I kept my counsel; I worked on like a mole in the dark; and when I had something to go on, Tchigorsky came. Before you are many hours older the miscreants will stand confessed."

Tchigorsky nodded approval. He was deftly rolling a cigarette between his long fingers.

"Ralph is right," he said. "We have only to fire the mine now. By the way, Ralph, you were clever to get that key."

"Easy enough," Ralph croaked. "I knew the woman would be uneasy about her papers, so I gave her a touch of the cordial on her lips and brought her to her senses. A certain messenger who shall be nameless was sent off with the key. The messenger was detained, is still detained according to arrangements, and her pocket was picked. Elphick dropped back and gave me the key, which I passed on to you."

Geoffrey followed in some bewilderment. The messenger business was all strange to him.

"Did you know that diary existed?" he asked.

"Of course I did," Ralph growled. "In a measure, I might say that I had seen it. Many a time at night have I lain in a flower-bed under that woman's window and heard her reading from the diary or writing in it. That is why I asked no questions when you came in. I knew you had been successful. And now, Princess Zara, it is my turn."

Ralph's voice dropped to a whisper, an intense, burning whisper of hate and vengeance. He rose and paced the room like a caged bird.

"What will be her fate?" asked Geoffrey.

"Burn her, slay her, hang her," Ralph cried. "No death is too painful, too loathsome for a creature like that. I could forgive her fanatical cruelty; I could forgive the way she fought for her creed. But when it comes to those allied by ties – "

The speaker paused and sat down.

"Who talks too fast says too much," he remarked sententiously.

"What is the next move?" Geoffrey asked.

"Bed, I should say," Tchigorsky suggested dryly. "As far as one can judge we are likely to have a busy day before us to-morrow. And don't you be surprised at anything you see or hear. It will be all in the day's work, as you English say. I am going to lie up in hiding here, but I shall turn up when the time comes. Good-night."

It was late when Geoffrey rose the following day, and the family had long had breakfast when he came downstairs. Most of the family were still in the breakfast room or on the terrace in the sunshine.

"How is the visitor?" he asked.

"Mrs. May seems very queer," Mrs. Gordon explained. "She complains of a sort of paralysis in her lower limbs. At the same time she refuses to see a doctor, saying that she has had something of the kind before."

"Does she account for her presence here?" said Geoffrey.

"Oh, yes. Of course she had heard you were missing and been informed that everybody from the castle was on the beach. It was getting dark when she saw two strange suspicious-looking men coming this way. She felt sure that they had designs on the house and followed them. She tried to get somebody to assist her, but could not see a soul anywhere. Then she put on that queer dress and came on here.

"The two men entered the castle and she crept after them. They discovered her and one of them gave her a blow on the head that stunned her. When she came to her senses again she was lying in bed. Wasn't it plucky of her?"

"Very," Geoffrey said dryly; "but where is Marion?"

"Marion, like yourself, seems to be lazily inclined to-day. It is so very unlike her; indeed, I fear the poor child is anything but well. Those quiet people always feel the most, and poor Marion was greatly upset yesterday."

Vera came in at the same moment. She had a merry word or two for Geoffrey as to his late appearance. She had not seen Marion as yet. "Run up to her room, there is a dear girl," said Geoffrey. "This sort of thing is not like Marion; I fear something has happened to her."

"I wish you would," Ravenspur observed.

Vera disappeared only to come back presently with the information that Marion's room was empty, and that her bed had not been occupied. She held a little envelope in her hand.

"I can only find this," she said.

Ravenspur snatched the letter, and tore it open.

"Extraordinary," he exclaimed. "Marion says she has found a clue to the troubles and is following it up at once. If she does not come back till late we are not to worry about her. Strange! But I have every confidence in the girl."

"May she not come to harm!" Vera said fervently.

"Oh, I hope not," Mrs. Gordon cried. "But will this mystery and misery never end?"

CHAPTER LIII
A LITTLE LIGHT

Mrs. May, Princess Zara, the brilliant mystery who wielded so great an influence over the destiny of the house of Ravenspur, lay on her bed smiling faintly in the face of Mrs. Gordon Ravenspur, who stood regarding her with friendly solicitude. Mrs. Gordon had no suspicions whatever; she would have trusted any one. All the lessons of all the years had taught her no prudence in that direction. A kind word or an appeal for assistance always disarmed Mrs. Gordon.

"I hope you are comfortable?" she asked.

Mrs. May smiled faintly. She appeared a trifle embarrassed. She was acting her part beautifully as usual. Her audacity and assurance had carried her through great difficulties and she had confidence in the future.

"In my body, perfectly," she said. "But I am so uneasy in my mind."

"And you will not have a doctor?"

"Not for worlds. There is nothing the matter with me. I have suffered like this before. I have a weak heart, you know, and excitement troubles me thus. But I don't want a doctor."

"Then why should you worry?" Mrs. Gordon asked.

"I am ashamed of myself," the woman confessed with a laugh. "I have been wondering what you must think about me. This is the second time you have had to detain me as an involuntary guest under your roof. The first time I was the victim of idle curiosity; the second time I did try to do you a good turn. I hope you will remember that."

"It was kind and courageous of you," Mrs. Gordon said warmly. "How many people would have done as much for strangers! And please do not talk about it any more or I shall be distressed."

Mrs. May was by no means sorry to change the conversation. A thousand questions trembled on her lips, but she restrained them. She was burning to know certain things, but the mere mention of such matters might have aroused suspicions in a far simpler mind than that of Mrs. Gordon.

"So long as you are all well it doesn't matter," she said. "This afternoon I shall make an effort to get up. Meanwhile, I won't keep you from your household duties. Could I see one of those charming girls, Miss Vera or Marion? I have taken such a fancy to them."

"Vera shall come presently; she has gone to the village," Mrs. Gordon explained. As to Marion she could say nothing.

"Marion has been an enigma to us lately," she explained. "I need not tell you of the dark shadows hanging over this unhappy house, or how near we have been to the solution of the mystery on more than one occasion. And now Marion has an idea, queer child.

"She went out, presumably last night, leaving a note to say she had really got on the track at last, and that we were not to worry about her even if she did not return to-day. So strange of Marion."

Mrs. May had turned her face away. She was fearful lest the other, prattling on in her innocent way, should see the rage and terror and despair of her features.

"Queer!" she murmured hoarsely. "Did she write to you?"

"No, to my husband's father. Her note was given to me. Even now I don't know what to make of it. Would you like to see the letter? You are so clever that you may understand it better than I do."

"I should like to see the letter."

It was an effort almost beyond the speaker's powers to keep her voice steady. Even then the words sounded in her ears as if they came from somebody else. From her pocket Mrs. Gordon produced the letter. Mrs. May appeared to regard it languidly.

"If I knew the girl better I could tell you," she said. "It sounds sincere. But my head is beginning to ache again."

Mrs. Gordon was all solicitude. She drew down the blinds, and produced eau de Cologne, and fanned the brow of the sufferer after drenching it with the spirit. Mrs. May smiled languidly but gratefully. At the same time it was all she could do to keep her hands from clutching the other by the throat and screaming out that unless she was left alone murder would be done.

"Now I really can leave you," Mrs. Gordon said.

"It would be the greatest kindness," the invalid murmured gratefully.

The door softly closed; Mrs. May struggled to a sitting position. Her eyes were gleaming, yet a hard despair was on her face. She ought to be up and doing, but her lower limbs refused their office.

"A forgery," she said between her teeth. "Marion never wrote that letter. If they were not blind they could see that for themselves. Marion has been decoyed away; and, if so, somebody has that key. If I only knew. Tchigorsky is dead and Ralph Ravenspur is an idiot. Who, then, is the prime mover in this business?"

The woman did not know, and for the life of her she could not guess. Tchigorsky was out of the way – dead and buried. Ralph Ravenspur and Geoffrey were antagonists not worthy of a second thought. But somebody was moving and that somebody a skilled and vigorous foe.

For once the arch-conspirator was baffled. The foe had the enormous knowledge of knowing his quarry, while the quarry had not the least notion where or how to look for the hunter. And the fish was fast to the line. Unless it got away at once the landing net would be applied; then there would be an end of all things.

But she could not move; she could do nothing but lie there gasping in impotent rage. There was only one person in the world who could help her now, and that was Marion. And where was Marion? Only the man on the other side of the chess board knew that.

She wished she knew; oh! she wished she knew a score of things. Did the people of the castle suspect her? Hardly that, or Mrs. Gordon had not been so friendly.

What had become of the coat and glass mask she was wearing at the time things went wrong in Geoffrey Ravenspur's room? Had her subordinates heard her cry? Had they fled, or had they been taken? If they had fled, had they removed the instruments with them?

Mrs. May would have given five years of her life for enlightenment on these vital questions. Even she could not read the past and solve the unseen.

Tears of impotent rage and fury rose to her eyes. While she was lying there wasting the diamond minutes the foe was at work. At any time that foe might come down with the most overwhelming proofs and crush her. Marion had been spirited away. Why? So that the key of the safe might be stolen and used to advantage.

Once more the woman tried to raise herself from the bed. It was useless. She slipped the bed-clothes into her mouth to stifle the cries that rose to her lips. She was huddled under them when the door opened and Vera stepped in.

"Did you call out?" she asked. "I was passing your door and fancied I heard a cry. Are you still suffering from a headache?"

Mrs. May's first impulse was to order the girl away. Then an idea came to her.

"The headache is gone," she said sweetly. "It was just a twinge of neuralgia. I wonder if you would do me a favor."

"Certainly."

"Then I wish you would get me some paper and envelopes. I have a note to write. There is a child in the village I am fond of. She comes and sits in the tangle at the bottom of the Jessops' garden and talks to me. I am afraid she thinks more of my chocolates than me, but that is a detail."

"You want to write the child a note. How sweet of you!"

"Oh, no," Mrs. May said. She was going to embark on a dangerous effort and was not quite certain as yet. But desperate diseases require desperate remedies. "It is nothing. And I don't want anybody to know."

"I am sure you can trust to me."

"Of course I can, my dear child. And I will. Please get me the materials."

Vera brought the paper and essentials. With a smile on her face Mrs. May wrote the letter. Inside the envelope she placed something she had taken from the bosom of her dress.

"A cake of chocolate," she explained smilingly. "See, I do not address the envelope, but place on it this funny sign that looks like an intoxicated problem in Euclid. The child will understand. And now I am going to ask you to do me a favor. Will you please take the letter without letting anybody know what you are doing, and put it at the foot of the big elder in the tangle? I dare say it sounds very stupid of me, but I don't want the child to be disappointed."

Vera professed herself ready and also to be charmed with the idea. She would go at once, she said, and Mrs. May raised no obstacle. At the end of the corridor Vera was confronted with her uncle Ralph. He held out his hand.

"I was listening," he said. "I knew beyond all doubt that something of the kind would be attempted. I want that letter."

"But uncle, I promised – "

"It matters nothing what you promised. It is of vital importance that the inside of that letter should be seen. Chocolate for a child, indeed. Death to us all, rather. You are going to give me that letter and I am going to open it. Afterwards it shall be sealed again, and you shall convey it to its destination. The letter!"

Dazed and bewildered, Vera handed it to him. It was not a nice thing to do, but, then, nice methods were not for Mrs. May. Ralph grasped the letter and made off towards his room.

"Wait here," he said. "I shall not be a few minutes. I am merely going to steam that envelope open and master the contents. Don't go away."

Vera nodded. She was too astonished for words; not that she felt compunction any longer. Presently Ralph returned.

"There you are, my child," he said. "If I seemed harsh to you, forgive me. It is no time for courtesies. You can take the letter now and deliver it. It has been a good and great discovery for us."