The Death Whistle

By Richard Marsh

As the story opens in Canterstone Jail, George Edney, a dying convict, leaves all his ill-gotten goods to Andrew Bruce, a “good-conduct” man whose term of two years is nearly at an end. After Bruce obtains his freedom, he locates the “buried treasure” Edney had hidden, and tries to find answers to the questions it raises. A story with a bit of something for everyone: a handsome hero, a beautiful heroine, many dastardly villains. Crime, mystery, romance, a touch of weird science, a taste of the supernatural too. A bit over the top, but great fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Librorium Editions
• Release date: Oct 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9782383831433

Richard Marsh

Richard Marsh (1857-1915) was the pseudonym of bestselling English author Richard Bernard Heldmann. Born in North London to Jewish parents, he began publishing adventure stories for boys in 1880. He soon found work as co-editor of Union Jack, a weekly boy’s magazine, but this arrangement ended by June 1883 with his arrest for cheque forgery. Sentenced to eighteen months of hard labor, Heldmann emerged from prison and began using his pseudonym by 1888. The Beetle (1897), his most commercially successful work, is a classic of the horror genre that draws on the tradition of the sensation novel to investigate such concerns of late-Victorian England as poverty, the New Woman, homosexuality, and empire. Published the same year as Bram Stoker’s Dracula, The Beetle was initially far more popular and sold out on its first printing almost immediately. His other works, though less successful, include The Goddess: A Demon (1900) and A Spoiler of Men (1905), both pioneering works of horror and science fiction. A prolific short story writer, he was published in Cornhill Magazine, The Strand Magazine, and Belgravia.

Book preview

— I —

APPOINTING AN HEIR

"If you like, you’ll be able to live upon the interest – many a man who is thought well off lives on less. Or, if you prefer to aim at the big things – and you’re that kind of man – you’ll have enough capital in hand to enable you to bring off successfully some of those greater villainies which make men millionaires."

The listener laughed; the situation appealed to his peculiar sense of humour. The man in the bed looked at him.

I like to hear you laugh, lying here. If I were out of this, and we were alone together, and had had a little difference of opinion, I shouldn’t like it quite so much. The devil’s strongest in you when you laugh.

You’re so funny.

I am. I’ve been a funny man my whole life long; an unconscious humorist. The mischief is, I’ve found it out too late. If I’d suspected the truth a dozen years ago I shouldn’t be dying in jail.

It’s not a pretty place to die in. And yet – I don’t know; it’s as good as any other.

You didn’t think so once.

Once! – Once I thought jam the concentrated essence of happiness.

So did I. I thought it so strongly that I held it worth while to swallow a few hitters to get it. That’s where it is, and why I’m here, Bruce. The other nodded. I’ve a feeling you don’t believe half that I’ve been telling you; that you regard my story about the fortune which is lying ready for your hand as a convict’s fairy tale.

My dear chap, I always believe everything I’m told. I’ve been the confidant of a large number of voracious histories since I’ve been inside this place. The silent system is not so rigidly enforced as to prevent one’s being that. My powers of credulity are boundless.

Yes, I know. If I thought you were setting down among the rest of the prison lies what I’ve told you, I should lie in my grave and scorch.

Don’t do that. And don’t talk about it either. It presents unpleasant vistas to the imagination.

Perhaps if I were to tell you my history you might bring yourself to believe that I am leaving you a fortune. I grant that under the circumstances the notion does want swallowing.

My dear Edney, I give my confidence to no one.

So I’ve noticed.

But if you choose to give me yours, I am entirely at your service. I agree with you that when a man who has been sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude observes that he proposes to make you his heir, you are inclined to ask yourself what to. It is easy enough to bequeath any number of castles in Spain, to anyone; but one hardly expects to have to pay legacy duty on bequests of the kind.

You won’t pay legacy duty on what I’m leaving you.

The man in the bed grinned. He lay back on his pillow and coughed. Coughed badly and long. So long that one wondered if he would stop before he was broken to pieces. Blood issued from his mouth. He was not a pleasant spectacle. His companion rendered him such assistance as he could, showing gentleness and patience which contrasted oddly with his stalwart form. After the paroxysms were over, the man in the bed lay motionless, scarcely seeming to breathe. Words came thinly from his lips.

I’ll go off in one of those bouts, please God.

You mustn’t talk.

But I must talk. That’s just what I must do. Perkins won’t be back yet. I ought to be able to tell you all that’s needful before he comes. I mayn’t have another chance.

Perkins was dispenser and warder combined. Canterstone was but a small jail. There were seldom many prisoners in the infirmary. At present there were but three: George Edney, dying; Sam Swire, a ‘traveller,’ ‘doing a drag,’ the victim of too much drink and too little food; and Andrew Bruce, recovering from a sprain, a good-conduct man, whose term of two years’ hard labour was nearly at an end, and who was quite capable of looking after the two sick men who were in bed. Therefore, since the prison was not over-staffed, when Perkins went to dinner he simply locked the outer door of the infirmary and left Andrew Bruce in charge. Which explains how it was that George Edney and he were able to discuss their private affairs so freely; even proposing to enter into more delicate matters still. In Edney’s opinion there was only one drawback.

Go and see what that brute in the next room is doing.

Bruce did as he was told; passing for the purpose into the adjacent apartment, which was merely divided from its neighbour by a brief partition wall. Presently he returned.

Swire’s asleep; fast as a top.

Good thing too; not that I can talk loud enough to give him much chance of overhearing.

I tell you again that you oughtn’t to talk at all.

Chuck all that! Sit as close as you can, so as to spare my breath.

Bruce drew a chair as close to the bedside as possible, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, so that his head was within a few inches of the other’s face. He kept his eyes fixed upon the narrator’s countenance, not only as if desirous of reading what was transpiring in his brain and behind his actual words, but also as if struck – and amused – by the singularity of his appearance. Normally small, weak-legged, loose-limbed, blear-eyed, he now seemed nothing but skin and bone. His lips were bloodless; patches of sandy stubble concealed his cheeks and chin; every now and then he gave a gasp, recalling the sounds made by a ‘roaring’ horse. As he proceeded, Bruce realised more and more clearly how entirely he looked the part of chief actor in such a tale as that which he was telling.

I’m a solicitor by profession. Never on my own account; – hadn’t the money to start with. I was managing clerk to a man who had. His name was Glasspoole – Frederick Glasspoole, of Birchester. Connect anything with the name?

With the name of Frederick Glasspoole? – Nothing, at present.

I thought you might have heard something of the story – read about it in the newspapers, perhaps – and so have saved me trouble.

I’m willing to save you all trouble.

I don’t want to be saved that way. – He was a good fellow – young, and a fool. His father had left him a fine practice. Not only did he act for most of the townsfolk, but he was agent for some of the chief estates in the neighbourhood. But he had two faults – he wasn’t fond of work, and he trusted me. The latter in particular was a grave mistake.

The grin which accompanied the words seemed to lend to the speaker’s corpse-like features something of the grotesque horror which we associate with a gargoyle.

"I was not an immoral character – not, that is, in any unusual degree. But I am, and always was, non-moral. Morality, that is, didn’t enter into my scheme of creation at all. I hated work; though no one could work harder than I could when I chose, and had an end in view; and I liked a good time – my notion of a good time. I realised, quite early in life, that my good time meant money. Not in small sums. I didn’t want to do the prodigal for, say, six months, and then have to live on husks for an indefinite period. That wasn’t my idea; not a little bit. What I wanted was fifty or sixty thousand pounds. Then I would invest it in something gilt-edged, live on the interest, and get every farthing’s worth of fun out of it that could be got.

"The point was how to procure the fifty or sixty thousand pounds. It wasn’t likely to be obtained out of the savings of a managing clerk. Glasspoole himself hadn’t anything like that amount of ready money. His father’s estate was sworn at something over ten thousand pounds. I happened to know that each year’s income was spent during the same twelve-month. So it seemed that even if, by some process of hanky-panky, I diddled him out of his business – which I perhaps mightn’t have found an impossible feat – I should still have had to work for the rest of my life. Which was exactly what I didn’t want to do. I tried betting – on horses and on the Stock Exchange. But that didn’t make me appreciably richer. I dabbled in one or two other directions. Still the money wouldn’t come. So, at last, I made up my mind what I would do.

"Instead of a profit, my little ventures had resulted in a pecuniary loss – which was what I hadn’t intended. To meet it, I had had to make free with other people’s property. Not to a large amount. Still it was more than I was ever likely to be able to replace. Worrying about it put me on the track of my great idea.

"In Glasspoole’s charge there were all sorts of securities – bonds, shares, insurance policies, mortgage and title deeds; all sorts of things. Large sums of money – or money’s worth – passed through his hands on behalf of his clients. And his hands meant mine. There was one estate in particular – the Dene Park estate, belonging to the Foster family – the fee-simple of which was practically inside the walls of Glasspoole’s office. Nothing would be easier than to obtain the money I wanted – by turning thief.

"Why shouldn’t I? I did my best to sum up the pros and cons, and give a judicial decision as to which side had the best of it. I argued in this way.

On the one hand, I should be found out. I never deceived myself as to there being any room for doubt upon that point. On the other, I should have the money. I did not propose to spend it. My idea was to put it away in a safe place, where I alone should know of its existence, and to which I only should have access. I should be sentenced, probably, to between five and ten years’ penal servitude. I doubted if I should object to prison much more than I did to Glasspoole’s office. When I had served my term I should be a man of means. In other words, by doing – at the outside – ten years’ imprisonment I should have earned a fortune; which I certainly never should be able to do by any other means whatever. You catch the notion?

I perceive that you’re a pretty sort of a scoundrel.

I’m one sort, you’re another. I understand that you’re here for something very much like murder.

Bruce laughed. Stretching out his hands he placed the other in a more comfortable position on his pillow. The sick man gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

Your touch is as soft as a woman’s, when you like. – Well, my scheme went on rollers up to a certain point. I stripped the office bare, laying hands on everything within reach; turning things into cash as I went on – often, I am sorry to say, at a shocking loss. It’s astonishing how certain kinds of property depreciate when you’re in a hurry to realise. I put the money away as fast as I got it. By the time the crash came I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was comfortably off. They arrested Glasspoole and me on the same day.

Glasspoole? – Was he your accomplice?

Neglect, my dear sir, neglect. I should never have been able to collar everything in the way I did do if his neglect of his clients’ interests had not been really culpable. However, they were able to prove nothing against him actually criminal; and he was acquitted – a ruined man. I got ten years; which was three more than I expected, because I had hoped to get off with seven. But the judge happened to be Quince, who has a special prejudice against solicitors who misappropriate.

You deserved the ten years; every day of it.

I fancy that most of us in this establishment do deserve all we’ve got – you as well as the rest.

I’m not denying it.

That’s just as well. – The mischief is that I didn’t get on in prison so well as I desired. Somehow it didn’t agree with me at all. I haven’t done six years, yet in about six hours I’ll be dead.

Bruce, noticing the difficulty he had in speaking, in breathing, in living, thought it probable that he was right.

I always understood that before a man got to your condition they gave him his discharge.

So they do. They told me, a month ago, that I was a dead man. And they offered to let me out.

Offered? – what do you mean?

They don’t turn a man out to die in the streets, or even in a workhouse. They ask him if he has anywhere to go to; if he has any friends.

And haven’t you any;?

After what I’ve been telling you, do I strike you as being the kind of man who is likely to have friends? Like you, I’ve none.

How do you know I’ve none? You know nothing about me.

I’ll stake my fortune that there’s not one creature living who’d stretch out a hand to save you from hell-fire. That’s one reason why I’m making you my heir.

One reason – what’s another?

Just now you called me a pretty sort of a scoundrel. I attempted no contradiction. But, as a scoundrel, compared to you I’m a pygmy. In you there’s the making of a criminal Colossus. You’ve no principles; no scruples; no attachments; nothing to cause you to stay your hand. You’re handsome – you look like a Greek god; but I don’t know if you’re aware that those blue eyes of yours are of the shade and kind which are found in the heads of many gentlemen who finish at the end of a rope. You’ve nerve; courage enough for anything; for assurance, a countenance of triple brass. You’re a giant in stature; you’ve the strength of a Hercules; and the sort of constitution which has never known what it is to be ill. You know the world; and, I fancy, you’ve seen – and done – a few things in it. You’re a man of education; possibly a scholar; certainly a public school and university man. Given the chance, you should go far. And I’m going to give you the chance. Put these things together and you’ve another reason why I’m making you my heir.

You flatter me; ascribing to me qualities which I was not aware that I possessed.

I think that’s possible. But you’ll discover their existence as occasion arises for you to use them. I imagine that the fact that you’ve had the temper of a fiend is responsible for your being here.

Well, there may be something in that.

You must get that under, or it’ll land you again. A man of your type, who, when he’s raging hot inside, can seem as cold as ice, is the most dangerous creature on God’s earth.-Go out in about a fortnight, don’t you?

To be exact, in ten days.

I’ll be underground before then. Seems odd that I should have done it all to make you rich.

It does – extremely, If this money exists, as you assert, why didn’t you avail yourself of the discharge which was offered you, and make use of it yourself?

What use could I have made of it had I got it? I’m doomed to die; I may as well die here as anywhere. I’ve got beyond the stage when money could buy me anything which I could enjoy. Also – a big ‘also’ – the key to it all happens to be in a place where, in my then condition, I couldn’t have got at it. I’d have had to take a partner, who’d have robbed me. It’ll give me more satisfaction to know that it’s being used by a man like you.

Do you seriously suggest that, masquerading as George Edney, I should lay claim to moneys which are deposited somewhere in your name? Not only would the counterfeit be detected in an instant, but, I take it, there are associations which I should find it difficult to explain away.

I’m suggesting nothing so foolish. The money is not in any way connected with my name, or with me. It’s deposited in the name of Smithers – Francis Smithers. And he is nothing but a name – and a signature. You’ll have to get the signature right; but I credit you with the capacity for doing that. Unto this hour, no one has ever seen him in the flesh. When you come on the scene it will be his first appearance on any stage.

I don’t understand.

I thought it would be better that no one with a memory for faces should be able to associate George Edney with Francis Smithers, so I took care that none of the depositing should be done by me in person.

Then how am I to get at it?

You know Richmond Park, near London?

Very well.

I was born at Richmond. I know every inch of it. When, down at Birchester, I was casting about for a hiding-place which no one could suspect, the Park struck me as being just the thing. Entering from the Richmond Gate, do you know what they used to call the drive towards the White House?

I do.

Going towards the House, when you have passed the plantations, the ground dips – with the Penn Ponds on your right.

Bruce nodded.

A dozen yards due west of the north-western corner of the smaller pond – which is the one you first approach – among uneven ground, three feet deep, there is a tin box, which contains everything necessary to place you in immediate possession of the fortune of which I am now appointing you the heir. You will have no difficulty in finding it; but to further mark the spot, I broke a piece of bamboo off the cane which I was carrying and stuck it into the turf. So few people penetrate into that part of the Park – partly because it is out of the way, and partly because the unevenness of the ground makes walking unpleasant – that, unless the deer have trampled it under foot, I shouldn’t be surprised to find that piece of bamboo still thrusting up its nose amidst the tussocky grass.

— II —

IN RICHMOND PARK

The conversation was interrupted by the return of the dispenser, Perkins. Three days afterwards George Edney lay dead. Before the end actually arrived he was reduced to such a condition that – for him – talking was impossible. Only once did he again mention the subject to Bruce. Then he merely mumbled the directions which he had given him as to the alleged whereabouts of the tin box.

Remember, twelve yards due west of the north-west corner of Little Penn Pond, three feet underground.

The day before Bruce left jail, something occurred which was destined to stick in his memory. The prisoners were walking round and round the circular path which did duty as exercise ground. The time for exercise was nearly up when he heard someone say behind him, in those low, clear tones which the jail bird uses who desires to evade the observant warder’s eyes and ears, Mind you don’t forget Richmond Park.

Bruce waited for a second or two, as was the desirable etiquette on such occasions, then glanced behind. The words had not come from the man immediately at his back, but from the next but one. Bruce recognised in him the ‘traveller,’ Swire, who had been the sole occupant of the other half of the infirmary when Edney had been relieving his mind. At Edney’s request he had gone, before the tale began, to see how Mr. Swire was engaged, and had found him, to all appearances, fast asleep. He remembered that Perkins, on his entrance, had found him still sleeping. Had the ingenuous Mr. Swire been feigning slumber, for purposes of his own? Edney had spoken in such a subdued voice – he could not have spoken loudly had he tried – that Swire could scarcely have heard much, even if he had been listening. Still, Bruce was curious.

What do you mean?

Don’t go and take the blooming lot; just leave a bit for someone else.

It seemed as if Mr. Swire’s hearing had been at least sufficiently keen. Presently Bruce asked another question.

When do you go out?

Oh, I’ve lots to do yet; when they do get me into a place of this sort they like to keep me just as long as ever they can.

The warder’s voice rang out.

Now then, No. 37, do you want to get reported for talking the day before you leave?

Bruce was No. 37. He did not wish to be reported. During the remainder of exercise he held his peace. But he was free to hope that for a considerable period Mr. Swire might continue an inmate of Canterstone Jail.

The following day – the great day on which he was to return to the world – was Saturday. His sentence expired on the Sunday. Since that was a day of rest in the prison, as among men outside, those prisoners whose terms expired on a Sunday were discharged the day before. Bruce had asked and received permission to leave at an earlier hour than was usual, as he was desirous of catching the first train up to town. Soon after six o’clock on the Saturday morning he passed through the prison gates – for the first time for two years. He was dressed in his own clothes; carried a Gladstone bag – of somewhat attenuated appearance; and had in his pocket the gratuity of ten shillings which he had earned, and £2, 13s. 6d. which he had brought with him into jail. When he reached the station he found that there was still some minutes before the ticket office would be open. Since he had the place to himself he spent the interval in examining his countenance in the looking-glass which was over the fireplace – it was two years since he had seen a mirror. The change in his appearance amused him. His beard had grown; he had been clean-shaven when he went in; his moustache had attained to huge dimensions. He thought of how Edney had likened him to a Greek god. It struck him that a viking would have been an apter comparison. His many inches – he was nearly six feet three; his fair hair and beard, both showing a tendency to curl; his pink and white skin; his bright blue eyes – all these things were attributes of the old sea rovers. He recalled Edney’s association of blue eyes, like his, with murderers’, and smiled; revealing, as he did so, two rows of beautiful teeth. Physically, prison regimen had had no injurious effect on him; he presented a perfect picture of bodily health. The suggestion of a continual smile seemed to irradiate his features, conveying the impression that he had not a care in the world. Wherever he went eyes were turned to look at him – especially when the eyes were in feminine heads.

When he reached London he breakfasted at a modest Swiss-Italian restaurant, which was close to the terminus. Then, walking to Waterloo, he took train to Putney. There he started to look for lodgings. Possibly his taste was fastidious. He called at at least a dozen houses before lighting on anything which seemed to suit him. He had seen four in the road in which he then was – Dulverton Road it was stated to be on a tablet at the corner. At No. 25 there was again a card promising ‘apartments’ in the window. It was a modern forty-to-fifty-pounds a year ‘villa,’ with electric bells, tiled doorstep, and all the latest improvements. He pressed the white china knob which was at the side of the stained-glass-windowed door.

His ring was answered by a girl – a dark girl, apparently somewhere her twenties; not a servant, but looking like a lady in her plain indigo serge dress. She appealed to him then and there; something in her appearance differentiated her from the females who had presented themselves to him at the other houses. He was not so struck by the rooms, but they would serve. They were on the ground floor. The girl spoke of them as the ‘dining-rooms’ – the sitting-room being in the front and the bedroom at the back. The furniture was not substantial in kind, nor liberal in quantity. About everything there was a gimcrack air, which suggested the jerry-builder.

And what is the rent you are asking? The girl looked at him with what he was conscious were inquiring eyes – as if she were desirous of ascertaining how much he was willing to pay.

Is it for a permanency?

I’m afraid that at present I cannot say. I may be gone in a week; or I may stay – there was a flash of laughter in his eyes – I may stay forever.

Her countenance remained unmoved.

Of course it makes a difference if it’s for a permanency. Mother has generally had five and twenty shillings.

Five and twenty shillings! Twelve and sixpence was the maximum price he had proposed to himself to pay. He had seen rooms at that rent a few doors down the street. But there there was a blowsy woman, with a baby in her arms; not this girl, with the sweet, soft voice. Is that inclusive?

That would be inclusive.

Then I’ll take the rooms.

Later he saw her mother, who had returned from shopping. She was a Mrs. Ludlow – a widow. A little woman, with trouble written large on her face. Bruce, whose keen blue eyes saw everything, said to himself, She worries.

Still later, in his bedroom, he considered the position; incidentally taking an inventory of his belongings.

Frock-coat and waistcoat; two pairs of trousers; two shirts; two pairs of socks; one necktie; one pair of boots – except what I stand up in, that completes my wardrobe. Gold links, studs, watch and chain – these things represent my jewellery; and £2, 14s. 9d. my entire fortune. Considering that the rent is twenty-five shillings a week, that won’t go far. He paced up and down the tiny room. She asked if I was going to be a permanency. It looks like it! I’ve about enough money to see me through the week. And then? I don’t want to return to Canterstone Jail for obtaining food and lodging under false pretences – especially from Miss Ludlow and her mother. It’ll have to be George Edney’s fortune or – or something else.

He arranged his clothes in the chest of drawers, then went out into the passage.

I’m going out, Mrs. Ludlow, and perhaps may not be back till late.

Would you like a latchkey? Mr. Rodway, who has the drawing-rooms, and who is often out late, always uses one. I have two.

Bruce went out with one of them in his waistcoat pocket.

That woman has never been deceived, or she would scarcely be so trustful – unless it’s her nature to be deceived and come again. In the atmosphere to which I have lately been accustomed such simplicity would be regarded as suggestive either of a lunatic asylum or a fairy tale.

He strode across Barnes Common, up Clarence Lane, into Richmond Park, as one who knew the way. It was then about three o’clock in the afternoon. Although the weather was fine, a strong breeze blowing from the north-west hinted at approaching rain. When he got inside the Park he stretched out his arms, raising himself on his toes, like a man who wakes from sleep.

This is something like. It’s worth while doing two years’ hard labour if only for the sake of regaining one’s capacity for enjoyment. I feel as if my school days had returned, and as if the world lay in front of me – my oyster-shell, filled with priceless gems, which it only needs a touch of my knife to open. Perhaps it does!

He took off his hat and marched across the turf, laughing as he went. It was all he could do to keep himself from breaking into a run. As he neared the lakes his pace grew slower. Although it was Saturday afternoon not many people were about. He scanned closely those who came within scanning distance. When he had crossed the road leading from the Sheen Gate he seemed to have the whole Park in front of him to himself. Reaching the edge of the smaller pond he paused, observing the lie of the ground.

How did Edney put it? – A dozen yards due west of the north-western corner; – that will be the corner on the opposite side, straight ahead. He walked to the point in question. West? – As I stand here I am looking south; the west is on my right. Now for your dozen yards. He took a dozen paces, then stooped to examine the turf. As he said, the ground’s uneven enough. That precious tin box of his may be here or hereabouts, or it mayn’t. Very much it mayn’t. I was never on quite such a wild-goose chase since the days when I used to dream of going in search of hidden treasure. If the man was gammoning me all the time? I doubt it; and yet?-perhaps I’m the only man who would – What’s that?

Something caught his eye a foot or two from where he was standing; something which might very easily have escaped his notice had not his glance been such a keenly observant one. It looked like a splinter of wood amid the coarse grasses.

Edney’s piece of bamboo, as I’m a sinner! Then, on that occasion, at any rate, the man was not a liar.

Gripping the scrap, which was all that was visible, he endeavoured to drag it out of the earth. It was not an easy task. The turf had grown so close about it that it was held as in a vice. He cut away the fibrous roots with his penknife. Presently he held it in his hand. It was part of a slender bamboo cane, about ten inches in length. A ferrule, nearly eaten away by rust, was still at one end. The wood itself was rotten. It was only by careful handling that he had succeeded in drawing it out intact.

To think of that having been here all this time – half a sixpenny cane! How many years is it? I suppose it must be seven. He had served six; and the presumption is that he paid his last visit here some time before what he called ‘the crash’ came. It shows that he chose his place with knowledge – it has even gone unmolested by the deer. Then am I to take it that the tin box is underneath, containing the key to the fortune – my fortune? One thing’s obvious, that since I’ve lit on this, which, in its way, is ‘confirmation strong as holy writ,’ it’s worth while examining a little farther.

He stood up, considering; turning the piece of cane over and over in his fingers.

Three feet deep, he said. I can’t get down to that with a penknife, not to mention that to excavate a hole that size in Richmond Park in broad daylight might attract attention. Although there are not many people about, still there’s the risk. I require no audience and I want to be asked no questions. I’ll go on to Richmond; there I’ll buy something to dig with; after dusk I’ll return. In the meantime I’ll replace this piece of cane; it’ll serve as a landmark a second time. I may want it after the shadows have fallen.

He carried out his programme; walked over to the town; purchased in George Street a mason’s trowel and a small digging fork. As the day was drawing to a close he strolled back towards the Penn Ponds with the two tools in his jacket pockets.

He returned by the route which Edney had described – along the drive leading to the White House. This necessitated a sharp turn to the right as soon as the plantation was passed. Almost immediately afterwards the lake came into full sight. The month was April, when the night comes quickly, especially on a grey day such as that was. It was distinctly chilly. The wind had risen still higher. Heavy clouds tore across the sky. He had not seen a creature since entering the Park – until the lake came in sight. Then he saw that someone – something – was by the water’s edge. Was it a man? a deer? a bush? – what?

He stopped instantly, drawing back into the shadow of the tree which he was passing. The light was bad, as he had desired it should be. As the object he was eyeing was at a distance of over a hundred yards, the prevailing obscurity made it difficult to determine what it was. However, his powers of vision happened to be unusually acute.

It’s a man; that’s what it is. He’s kneeling down, and is leaning so far forward that his nose almost touches the grass. Unless I err, he’s very close to Edney’s piece of cane. What’s he doing there, at this time of day? Is it accident or intention?

Presently from the crouching figure proceeded a sort of chuckling sound.

He’s found it. It’s intention. He seems to be so wrapped up in what he’s looking for, and so unsuspicious of anyone being hereabouts, that I ought to be able to get at him before he scents my neighbourhood. The wind’s coming from him. I used to be a bit of a hand at a deer-stalk; let’s see if I’ve forgotten the trick.

It seemed that he had not. Aided by the configuration of the ground, by the darkness, by the noise the wind was making – it was fast blowing up a storm – by his own dexterity and deftness of movement, he came within nine or ten feet of the now nearly recumbent figure – obviously still unnoticed.

He’s digging! – the dear man!

Leaping through the air like some huge wild creature, Bruce sprang upon the unheeding man, and, gripping him by the shoulder, swung him round upon his feet; meeting with no more resistance than might