Ghost Stories of an Antiquary

by M. R. James

  'OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD'

  'I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full Term is over,Professor,' said a person not in the story to the Professor ofOntography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast inthe hospitable hall of St James's College.

  The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.

  'Yes,' he said; 'my friends have been making me take up golf this term,and I mean to go to the East Coast--in point of fact to Burnstow--(I daresay you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope toget off tomorrow.'

  'Oh, Parkins,' said his neighbour on the other side, 'if you are going toBurnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars' preceptory,and let me know if you think it would be any good to have a dig there inthe summer.'

  It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian pursuits who saidthis, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is no need togive his entitlements.

  'Certainly,' said Parkins, the Professor: 'if you will describe to mewhereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you an idea of the lieof the land when I get back; or I could write to you about it, if youwould tell me where you are likely to be.'

  'Don't trouble to do that, thanks. It's only that I'm thinking of takingmy family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to me that, asvery few of the English preceptories have ever been properly planned, Imight have an opportunity of doing something useful on off-days.'

  The Professor rather sniffed at the idea that planning out a preceptorycould be described as useful. His neighbour continued:

  'The site--I doubt if there is anything showing above ground--must bedown quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached tremendously,as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should think, from the map,that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, at thenorth end of the town. Where are you going to stay?'

  'Well, _at_ the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact,' said Parkins; 'I haveengaged a room there. I couldn't get in anywhere else; most of thelodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it is, they tellme that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-beddedone, and that they haven't a corner in which to store the other bed, andso on. But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some booksdown, and mean to do a bit of work; and though I don't quite fancy havingan empty bed--not to speak of two--in what I may call for the time beingmy study, I suppose I can manage to rough it for the short time I shallbe there.'

  'Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing it, Parkins?' saida bluff person opposite. 'Look here, I shall come down and occupy it fora bit; it'll be company for you.'

  The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous manner.

  'By all means, Rogers; there's nothing I should like better. But I'mafraid you would find it rather dull; you don't play golf, do you?'

  'No, thank Heaven!' said rude Mr Rogers.

  'Well, you see, when I'm not writing I shall most likely be out on thelinks, and that, as I say, would be rather dull for you, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh, I don't know! There's certain to be somebody I know in the place;but, of course, if you don't want me, speak the word, Parkins; I shan'tbe offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never offensive.'

  Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously polite and strictly truthful. It is tobe feared that Mr Rogers sometimes practised upon his knowledge of thesecharacteristics. In Parkins's breast there was a conflict now raging,which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. That intervalbeing over, he said:

  'Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was considering whether theroom I speak of would really be large enough to accommodate us bothcomfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn't have said this if youhadn't pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature of ahindrance to my work.'

  Rogers laughed loudly.

  'Well done, Parkins!' he said. 'It's all right. I promise not tointerrupt your work; don't you disturb yourself about that. No, I won'tcome if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so nicely to keepthe ghosts off.' Here he might have been seen to wink and to nudge hisnext neighbour. Parkins might also have been seen to become pink. 'I begpardon, Parkins,' Rogers continued; 'I oughtn't to have said that. Iforgot you didn't like levity on these topics.'

  'Well,' Parkins said, 'as you have mentioned the matter, I freely ownthat I do _not_ like careless talk about what you call ghosts. A man inmy position,' he went on, raising his voice a little, 'cannot, I find, betoo careful about appearing to sanction the current beliefs on suchsubjects. As you know, Rogers, or as you ought to know; for I think Ihave never concealed my views--'

  'No, you certainly have not, old man,' put in Rogers _sotto voce._

  '--I hold that any semblance, any appearance of concession to the viewthat such things might exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all thatI hold most sacred. But I'm afraid I have not succeeded in securing yourattention.'

  'Your _undivided_ attention, was what Dr Blimber actually _said_,'[4]Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire foraccuracy. 'But I beg your pardon, Parkins: I'm stopping you.'

  [4] Mr Rogers was wrong, _vide Dombey and Son_, chapter xii.

  'No, not at all,' said Parkins. 'I don't remember Blimber; perhaps he wasbefore my time. But I needn't go on. I'm sure you know what I mean.'

  'Yes, yes,' said Rogers, rather hastily--'just so. We'll go into it fullyat Burnstow, or somewhere.'

  In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the impression whichit made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman--ratherhenlike, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute, alas! of thesense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in hisconvictions, and a man deserving of the greatest respect. Whether or notthe reader has gathered so much, that was the character which Parkinshad.

  * * * * *

  On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed in gettingaway from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made welcomeat the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large double-bedded room ofwhich we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrange hismaterials for work in apple-pie order upon a commodious table whichoccupied the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides bywindows looking out seaward; that is to say, the central window lookedstraight out to sea, and those on the left and right commanded prospectsalong the shore to the north and south respectively. On the south you sawthe village of Burnstow. On the north no houses were to be seen, but onlythe beach and the low cliff backing it. Immediately in front was astrip--not considerable--of rough grass, dotted with old anchors,capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the beach. Whatever mayhave been the original distance between the Globe Inn and the sea, notmore than sixty yards now separated them.

  The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a golfing one, andincluded few elements that call for a special description. The mostconspicuous figure was, perhaps, that of an _ancien militaire_, secretaryof a London club, and possessed of a voice of incredible strength, and ofviews of a pronouncedly Protestant type. These were apt to find utteranceafter his attendance upon the ministrations of the Vicar, an estimableman with inclinations towards a picturesque ritual, which he gallantlykept down as far as he could out of deference to East Anglian tradition.

  Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics was pluck,spent the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow inwhat he had called improving his game, in company with this ColonelWilson: and during the afternoon--whether the process of improvement wereto blame or not, I am not sure--the Colonel's demeanour assumed acolouring so lurid that even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walkinghome with him from the links. He determined, after a short and furtivelook at that bristling moustache and those incarnadined features, that itwould be wiser to allow the influences of tea and tobacco to do what theycould with the Colonel be
fore the dinner-hour should render a meetinginevitable.

  'I might walk home tonight along the beach,' he reflected--'yes, and takea look--there will be light enough for that--at the ruins of which Disneywas talking. I don't exactly know where they are, by the way; but Iexpect I can hardly help stumbling on them.'

  This he accomplished, I may say, in the most literal sense, for inpicking his way from the links to the shingle beach his foot caught,partly in a gorse-root and partly in a biggish stone, and over he went.When he got up and surveyed his surroundings, he found himself in a patchof somewhat broken ground covered with small depressions and mounds.These latter, when he came to examine them, proved to be simply masses offlints embedded in mortar and grown over with turf. He must, he quiterightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he had promised tolook at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of the explorer;enough of the foundations was probably left at no great depth to throw agood deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguely that theTemplars, to whom this site had belonged, were in the habit of buildinground churches, and he thought a particular series of the humps or moundsnear him did appear to be arranged in something of a circular form. Fewpeople can resist the temptation to try a little amateur research in adepartment quite outside their own, if only for the satisfaction ofshowing how successful they would have been had they only taken it upseriously. Our Professor, however, if he felt something of this meandesire, was also truly anxious to oblige Mr Disney. So he paced with carethe circular area he had noticed, and wrote down its rough dimensions inhis pocket-book. Then he proceeded to examine an oblong eminence whichlay east of the centre of the circle, and seemed to his thinking likelyto be the base of a platform or altar. At one end of it, the northern, apatch of the turf was gone--removed by some boy or other creature _feraenaturae_. It might, he thought, be as well to probe the soil here forevidences of masonry, and he took out his knife and began scraping awaythe earth. And now followed another little discovery: a portion of soilfell inward as he scraped, and disclosed a small cavity. He lighted onematch after another to help him to see of what nature the hole was, butthe wind was too strong for them all. By tapping and scratching the sideswith his knife, however, he was able to make out that it must be anartificial hole in masonry. It was rectangular, and the sides, top, andbottom, if not actually plastered, were smooth and regular. Of course itwas empty. No! As he withdrew the knife he heard a metallic clink, andwhen he introduced his hand it met with a cylindrical object lying on thefloor of the hole. Naturally enough, he picked it up, and when he broughtit into the light, now fast fading, he could see that it, too, was ofman's making--a metal tube about four inches long, and evidently of someconsiderable age.

  By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing else in this oddreceptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think of undertakingany further search. What he had done had proved so unexpectedlyinteresting that he determined to sacrifice a little more of the daylighton the morrow to archaeology. The object which he now had safe in hispocket was bound to be of some slight value at least, he felt sure.

  Bleak and solemn was the view on which he took a last look beforestarting homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, onwhich a few figures moving towards the club-house were still visible, thesquat martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbon ofsands intersected at intervals by black wooden groynings, the dim andmurmuring sea. The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his backwhen he set out for the Globe. He quickly rattled and clashed through theshingle and gained the sand, upon which, but for the groynings which hadto be got over every few yards, the going was both good and quiet. Onelast look behind, to measure the distance he had made since leaving theruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of company on his walk, inthe shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed to be making greatefforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any, progress. I meanthat there was an appearance of running about his movements, but that thedistance between him and Parkins did not seem materially to lessen. So,at least, Parkins thought, and decided that he almost certainly did notknow him, and that it would be absurd to wait until he came up. For allthat, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on thatlonely shore, if only you could choose your companion. In hisunenlightened days he had read of meetings in such places which even nowwould hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinking of them, however,until he reached home, and particularly of one which catches mostpeople's fancy at some time of their childhood. 'Now I saw in my dreamthat Christian had gone but a very little way when he saw a foul fiendcoming over the field to meet him.' 'What should I do now,' he thought,'if I looked back and caught sight of a black figure sharply definedagainst the yellow sky, and saw that it had horns and wings? I wonderwhether I should stand or run for it. Luckily, the gentleman behind isnot of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off now as when I sawhim first. Well, at this rate, he won't get his dinner as soon as Ishall; and, dear me! it's within a quarter of an hour of the time now. Imust run!'

  Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing. When he met theColonel at dinner, Peace--or as much of her as that gentleman couldmanage--reigned once more in the military bosom; nor was she put toflight in the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was amore than respectable player. When, therefore, he retired towards twelveo'clock, he felt that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactoryway, and that, even for so long as a fortnight or three weeks, life atthe Globe would be supportable under similar conditions--'especially,'thought he, 'if I go on improving my game.'

  As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe, who stoppedand said:

  'Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was abrushing your coat just now therewas something fell out of the pocket. I put it on your chest of drawers,sir, in your room, sir--a piece of a pipe or somethink of that, sir.Thank you, sir. You'll find it on your chest of drawers, sir--yes, sir.Good night, sir.'

  The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery of thatafternoon. It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned it overby the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw, and was shapedvery much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact itwas--yes, certainly it was--actually no more nor less than a whistle. Heput it to his lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand orearth, which would not yield to knocking, but must be loosened with aknife. Tidy as ever in his habits, Parkins cleared out the earth on to apiece of paper, and took the latter to the window to empty it out. Thenight was clear and bright, as he saw when he had opened the casement,and he stopped for an instant to look at the sea and note a belatedwanderer stationed on the shore in front of the inn. Then he shut thewindow, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at Burnstow, andtook his whistle to the light again. Why, surely there were marks on it,and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing rendered thedeeply-cut inscription quite legible, but the Professor had to confess,after some earnest thought, that the meaning of it was as obscure to himas the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There were legends both on thefront and on the back of the whistle. The one read thus:

  FLA FUR BIS FLE

  The other:

  QUIS EST ISTE QUI VENIT

  'I ought to be able to make it out,' he thought; 'but I suppose I am alittle rusty in my Latin. When I come to think of it, I don't believe Ieven know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem simple enough.It ought to mean: "Who is this who is coming?" Well, the best way to findout is evidently to whistle for him.'

  He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased at thenote he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in it, and,soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round. Itwas a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scentspossess) of forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for amoment a vision of a wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh windblowing, and in t
he midst a lonely figure--how employed, he could nottell. Perhaps he would have seen more had not the picture been broken bythe sudden surge of a gust of wind against his casement, so sudden thatit made him look up, just in time to see the white glint of a seabird'swing somewhere outside the dark panes.

  The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could not helptrying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if atall, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion--no picturefollowed, as he had half hoped it might. "But what is this? Goodness!what force the wind can get up in a few minutes! What a tremendous gust!There! I knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so--bothcandles out. It is enough to tear the room to pieces."

  The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might count twentyParkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as if hewere pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was the pressure. Itslackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched itself. Nowto relight the candles and see what damage, if any, had been done. No,nothing seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But thenoise had evidently roused at least one member of the household: theColonel was to be heard stumping in his stockinged feet on the floorabove, and growling. Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall atonce. On it went, moaning and rushing past the house, at times rising toa cry so desolate that, as Parkins disinterestedly said, it might havemade fanciful people feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, hethought after a quarter of an hour, might be happier without it.

  Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of the researchesin the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure. Awake heremained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am afraid I often domyself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner offatal disorders: he would lie counting the beats of his heart, convincedthat it was going to stop work every moment, and would entertain gravesuspicions of his lungs, brain, liver, etc.--suspicions which he was surewould be dispelled by the return of daylight, but which until thenrefused to be put aside. He found a little vicarious comfort in the ideathat someone else was in the same boat. A near neighbour (in the darknessit was not easy to tell his direction) was tossing and rustling in hisbed, too.

  The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined to givesleep every chance. Here again over-excitement asserted itself in anotherform--that of making pictures. _Experto crede_, pictures do come to theclosed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little to his tastethat he must open his eyes and disperse them.

  Parkins's experience on this occasion was a very distressing one. Hefound that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous. Whenhe opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut them once moreit framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neither quicker norslower than before. What he saw was this:

  A long stretch of shore--shingle edged by sand, and intersected at shortintervals with black groynes running down to the water--a scene, in fact,so like that of his afternoon's walk that, in the absence of anylandmark, it could not be distinguished therefrom. The light was obscure,conveying an impression of gathering storm, late winter evening, andslight cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor was visible.Then, in the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; a moment more,and it was a man running, jumping, clambering over the groynes, and everyfew seconds looking eagerly back. The nearer he came the more obvious itwas that he was not only anxious, but even terribly frightened, thoughhis face was not to be distinguished. He was, moreover, almost at the endof his strength. On he came; each successive obstacle seemed to cause himmore difficulty than the last. 'Will he get over this next one?' thoughtParkins; 'it seems a little higher than the others.' Yes; half climbing,half throwing himself, he did get over, and fell all in a heap on theother side (the side nearest to the spectator). There, as if reallyunable to get up again, he remained crouching under the groyne, lookingup in an attitude of painful anxiety.

  So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been shown; butnow there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker ofsomething light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness andirregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as afigure in pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was somethingabout its motion which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at closequarters. It would stop, raise arms, bow itself towards the sand, thenrun stooping across the beach to the water-edge and back again; and then,rising upright, once more continue its course forward at a speed that wasstartling and terrifying. The moment came when the pursuer was hoveringabout from left to right only a few yards beyond the groyne where therunner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual castings hither andthither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised high, and thendarted straight forward towards the groyne.

  It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his resolution to keephis eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure of eyesight,overworked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finally resignedhimself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the night waking,rather than be tormented by this persistent panorama, which he sawclearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his walk and histhoughts on that very day.

  The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must have startledsome creatures of the night--rats or what not--which he heard scurryacross the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear, dear!the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt better, and acandle and book were duly procured, over which Parkins pored till sleepof a wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no long space. For aboutthe first time in his orderly and prudent life he forgot to blow out thecandle, and when he was called next morning at eight there was still aflicker in the socket and a sad mess of guttered grease on the top of thelittle table.

  After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to hisgolfing costume--fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him for apartner--when one of the maids came in.

  'Oh, if you please,' she said, 'would you like any extra blankets on yourbed, sir?'

  'Ah! thank you,' said Parkins. 'Yes, I think I should like one. It seemslikely to turn rather colder.'

  In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.

  'Which bed should I put it on, sir?' she asked.

  'What? Why, that one--the one I slept in last night,' he said, pointingto it.

  'Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of'em; leastways, we had to make 'em both up this morning.'

  'Really? How very absurd!' said Parkins. 'I certainly never touched theother, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to have beenslept in?'

  'Oh yes, sir!' said the maid. 'Why, all the things was crumpled andthrowed about all ways, if you'll excuse me, sir--quite as if anyone'adn't passed but a very poor night, sir.'

  'Dear me,' said Parkins. 'Well, I may have disordered it more than Ithought when I unpacked my things. I'm very sorry to have given you theextra trouble, I'm sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by the way--agentleman from Cambridge--to come and occupy it for a night or two. Thatwill be all right, I suppose, won't it?'

  'Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It's no trouble, I'm sure,'said the maid, and departed to giggle with her colleagues.

  Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game.

  I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in thisenterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the prospectof a second day's play in his company, became quite chatty as the morningadvanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as certain also of ourown minor poets have said, 'like some great bourdon in a minster tower'.

  'Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night,' he said. 'In my old homewe should have said someone had been whistling for it.'

  'Should you, indeed!' said Perkins. 'Is there a superstition of that kindstill current in your part of the country?
'

  'I don't know about superstition,' said the Colonel. 'They believe in itall over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast; and myexperience is, mind you, that there's generally something at the bottomof what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for generations. Butit's your drive' (or whatever it might have been: the golfing reader willhave to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper intervals).

  When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:

  'A propos of what you were saying just now, Colonel, I think I ought totell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, infact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the "supernatural".'

  'What!' said the Colonel,'do you mean to tell me you don't believe insecond-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?'

  'In nothing whatever of that kind,' returned Parkins firmly.

  'Well,' said the Colonel, 'but it appears to me at that rate, sir, thatyou must be little better than a Sadducee.'

  Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, the Sadduceeswere the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old Testament;but feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them was to be foundin that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.

  'Perhaps I am,' he said; 'but--Here, give me my cleek, boy!--Excuse meone moment, Colonel.' A short interval. 'Now, as to whistling for thewind, let me give you my theory about it. The laws which govern winds arereally not at all perfectly known--to fisherfolk and such, of course, notknown at all. A man or woman of eccentric habits, perhaps, or a stranger,is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour, and is heardwhistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who could read thesky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have foretold that itwould. The simple people of a fishing-village have no barometers, andonly a few rough rules for prophesying weather. What more natural thanthat the eccentric personage I postulated should be regarded as havingraised the wind, or that he or she should clutch eagerly at thereputation of being able to do so? Now, take last night's wind: as ithappens, I myself was whistling. I blew a whistle twice, and the windseemed to come absolutely in answer to my call. If anyone had seen me--'

  The audience had been a little restive under this harangue, and Parkinshad, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at the lastsentence the Colonel stopped.

  'Whistling, were you?' he said. 'And what sort of whistle did you use?Play this stroke first.' Interval.

  'About that whistle you were asking, Colonel. It's rather a curious one.I have it in my--No; I see I've left it in my room. As a matter of fact,I found it yesterday.'

  And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the whistle,upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins'splace, he should himself be careful about using a thing that had belongedto a set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be affirmedthat you never knew what they might not have been up to. From this topiche diverged to the enormities of the Vicar, who had given notice on theprevious Sunday that Friday would be the Feast of St Thomas the Apostle,and that there would be service at eleven o'clock in the church. This andother similar proceedings constituted in the Colonel's view a strongpresumption that the Vicar was a concealed Papist, if not a Jesuit; andParkins, who could not very readily follow the Colonel in this region,did not disagree with him. In fact, they got on so well together in themorning that there was not talk on either side of their separating afterlunch.

  Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or at least, wellenough to make them forget everything else until the light began to failthem. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do somemore investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance,he reflected. One day was as good as another; he might as well go homewith the Colonel.

  As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was almost knockeddown by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed, and then,instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting. Thefirst words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof andobjurgation, but he very quickly discerned that the boy was almostspeechless with fright. Inquiries were useless at first. When the boy gothis breath he began to howl, and still clung to the Colonel's legs. Hewas at last detached, but continued to howl.

  'What in the world is the matter with you? What have you been up to? Whathave you seen?' said the two men.

  'Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder,' wailed the boy, 'and Idon't like it.'

  'What window?' said the irritated Colonel. 'Come pull yourself together,my boy.'

  'The front winder it was, at the 'otel,' said the boy.

  At this point Parkins was in favour of sending the boy home, but theColonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he said; it wasmost dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one had had, and if itturned out that people had been playing jokes, they should suffer for itin some way. And by a series of questions he made out this story: The boyhad been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with someothers; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going,when he happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving athim. _It_ seemed to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as heknew--couldn't see its face; but it wived at him, and it warn't a rightthing--not to say not a right person. Was there a light in the room? No,he didn't think to look if there was a light. Which was the window? Wasit the top one or the second one? The seckind one it was--the big winderwhat got two little uns at the sides.

  'Very well, my boy,' said the Colonel, after a few more questions. 'Yourun away home now. I expect it was some person trying to give you astart. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw astone--well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter, orto Mr Simpson, the landlord, and--yes--and say that I advised you to doso.'

  The boy's face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the likelihoodof Mr Simpson's lending a favourable ear to his complaint, but theColonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:

  'And here's a sixpence--no, I see it's a shilling--and you be off home,and don't think any more about it.'

  The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel and Parkinswent round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was only onewindow answering to the description they had been hearing.

  'Well, that's curious,' said Parkins; 'it's evidently my window the ladwas talking about. Will you come up for a moment, Colonel Wilson? Weought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties in my room.'

  They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the door.Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.

  'This is more serious than I thought,' was his next remark. 'I remembernow that before I started this morning I locked the door. It is lockednow, and, what is more, here is the key.' And he held it up. 'Now,' hewent on, 'if the servants are in the habit of going into one's roomduring the day when one is away, I can only say that--well, that I don'tapprove of it at all.' Conscious of a somewhat weak climax, he busiedhimself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in lightingcandles. 'No,' he said, 'nothing seems disturbed.'

  'Except your bed,' put in the Colonel.

  'Excuse me, that isn't my bed,' said Parkins. 'I don't use that one. Butit does look as if someone had been playing tricks with it.'

  It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted together in amost tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered.

  'That must be it,' he said at last. 'I disordered the clothes last nightin unpacking, and they haven't made it since. Perhaps they came in tomake it, and that boy saw them through the window; and then they werecalled away and locked the door after them. Yes, I think that must beit.'

  'Well, ring and ask,' said the Colonel, and this appealed to Parkins aspractical.

  The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed that she hadmade the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room, andhadn't bee
n there since. No, she hadn't no other key. Mr Simpson, he kep'the keys; he'd be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.

  This was a puzzle. Investigation showed that nothing of value had beentaken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small objects ontables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks had beenplayed with them. Mr and Mrs Simpson furthermore agreed that neither ofthem had given the duplicate key of the room to any person whateverduring the day. Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was, detectanything in the demeanour of master, mistress, or maid that indicatedguilt. He was much more inclined to think that the boy had been imposingon the Colonel.

  The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and throughout theevening. When he bade goodnight to Parkins, he murmured in a gruffundertone:

  'You know where I am if you want me during the night.'

  'Why, yes, thank you, Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there isn't muchprospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way,' he added, 'did I showyou that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it is.'

  The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.

  'Can you make anything of the inscription?' asked Parkins, as he took itback.

  'No, not in this light. What do you mean to do with it?'

  'Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit it to some of thearchaeologists there, and see what they think of it; and very likely, ifthey consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the museums.'

  'M!' said the Colonel. 'Well, you may be right. All I know is that, if itwere mine, I should chuck it straight into the sea. It's no use talking,I'm well aware, but I expect that with you it's a case of live and learn.I hope so, I'm sure, and I wish you a good night.'

  He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the bottom of thestair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.

  By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor curtains tothe windows of the Professor's room. The previous night he had thoughtlittle of this, but tonight there seemed every prospect of a bright moonrising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later on. Whenhe noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with an ingenuity whichI can only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the help of arailway-rug, some safety-pins, and a stick and umbrella, a screen which,if it only held together, would completely keep the moonlight off hisbed. And shortly afterwards he was comfortably in that bed. When he hadread a somewhat solid work long enough to produce a decided wish tosleep, he cast a drowsy glance round the room, blew out the candle, andfell back upon the pillow.

  He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a sudden clattershook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized what hadhappened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a verybright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highlyannoying. Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? or couldhe manage to sleep if he did not?

  For some minutes he lay and pondered over all the possibilities; then heturned over sharply, and with his eyes open lay breathlessly listening.There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed on the oppositeside of the room. Tomorrow he would have it moved, for there must be ratsor something playing about in it. It was quiet now. No! the commotionbegan again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely more than any ratcould cause.

  I can figure to myself something of the Professor's bewilderment andhorror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thinghappen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it wasto him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an emptybed. He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash towards thewindow, where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had proppedhis screen. This was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could havedone, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smoothmotion, slipped from the bed and took up a position, with outspread arms,between the two beds, and in front of the door. Parkins watched it in ahorrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of getting past it and escapingthrough the door was intolerable to him; he could not have borne--hedidn't know why--to touch it; and as for its touching him, he wouldsooner dash himself through the window than have that happen. It stoodfor the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what itsface was like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and all atonce the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that itmust be blind, for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms in agroping and random fashion. Turning half away from him, it becamesuddenly conscious of the bed he had just left, and darted towards it,and bent and felt over the pillows in a way which made Parkins shudder ashe had never in his life thought it possible. In a very few moments itseemed to know that the bed was empty, and then, moving forward into thearea of light and facing the window, it showed for the first time whatmanner of thing it was.

  Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did oncedescribe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what hechiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face _ofcrumpled linen._ What expression he read upon it he could not or wouldnot tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is certain.

  But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidable quicknessit moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped and waved, onecorner of its draperies swept across Parkins's face. He could not, thoughhe knew how perilous a sound was--he could not keep back a cry ofdisgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue. It leapt towards himupon the instant, and the next moment he was half-way through the windowbackwards, uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch of his voice, andthe linen face was thrust close into his own. At this, almost the lastpossible second, deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonelburst the door open, and was just in time to see the dreadful group atthe window. When he reached the figures only one was left. Parkins sankforward into the room in a faint, and before him on the floor lay atumbled heap of bed-clothes.

  Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in keeping everyoneelse out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed; and himself,wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed, for the rest of the night.Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he would havebeen a day before, and the three of them held a very long consultation inthe Professor's room. At the end of it the Colonel left the hotel doorcarrying a small object between his finger and thumb, which he cast asfar into the sea as a very brawny arm could send it. Later on the smokeof a burning ascended from the back premises of the Globe.

  Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and visitors at thehotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was somehowcleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens, and the hotel of thereputation of a troubled house.

  There is not much question as to what would have happened to Parkins ifthe Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have fallenout of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident whatmore the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done thanfrighten. There seemed to be absolutely nothing material about it savethe bedclothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel, whoremembered a not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of the opinionthat if Parkins had closed with it it could really have done very little,and that its one power was that of frightening. The whole thing, he said,served to confirm his opinion of the Church of Rome.

  There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may imagine, theProfessor's views on certain points are less clear cut than they used tobe. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplicehanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in afield late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleeplessnight.

  THE TREASURE OF ABBOT THOMAS

  I

  _Verum usque in praesentem diem multa garriunt inter se Canonici de abscondito quodam istius Abbatis Thomae thesauro, quem saepe, quanquam ahduc
incassum, quaesiverunt Steinfeldenses. Ipsum enim Thomam adhuc florida in aetate existentem ingentem auri massam circa monasterium defodisse perhibent; de quo multoties interrogatus ubi esset, cum risu respondere solitus erat: 'Job, Johannes, et Zacharias vel vobis vel posteris indicabunt'; idemque aliquando adiicere se inventuris minime invisurum. Inter alia huius Abbatis opera, hoc memoria praecipue dignum indico quod fenestram magnam in orientali parte alae australis in ecclesia sua imaginibus optime in vitro depictis impleverit: id quod et ipsius effigies et insignia ibidem posita demonstrant. Domum quoque Abbatialem fere totam restauravit: puteo in atrio ipsius effosso et lapidibus marmoreis pulchre caelatis exornato. Decessit autem, morte aliquantulum subitanea perculsus, aetatis suae anno lxxii(do), incarnationis vero Dominicae mdxxix(o)._

  'I suppose I shall have to translate this,' said the antiquary tohimself, as he finished copying the above lines from that rather rare andexceedingly diffuse book, the _Sertum Steinfeldense Norbertinum.[5]_'Well, it may as well be done first as last,' and accordingly thefollowing rendering was very quickly produced:

  Up to the present day there is much gossip among the Canons about a certain hidden treasure of this Abbot Thomas, for which those of Steinfeld have often made search, though hitherto in vain. The story is that Thomas, while yet in the vigour of life, concealed a very large quantity of gold somewhere in the monastery. He was often asked where it was, and always answered, with a laugh: 'Job, John, and Zechariah will tell either you or your successors.' He sometimes added that he should feel no grudge against those who might find it. Among other works carried out by this Abbot I may specially mention his filling the great window at the east end of the south aisle of the church with figures admirably painted on glass, as his effigy and arms in the window attest. He also restored almost the whole of the Abbot's lodging, and dug a well in the court of it, which he adorned with beautiful carvings in marble. He died rather suddenly in the seventy-second year of his age, A.D. 1529.

  [5] An account of the Premonstratensian abbey of Steinfeld, in the Eiffel, with lives of the Abbots, published at Cologne in 1712 by Christian Albert Erhard, a resident in the district. The epithet _Norbertinum_ is due to the fact that St Norbert was founder of the Premonstratensian Order.

  The object which the antiquary had before him at the moment was that oftracing the whereabouts of the painted windows of the Abbey Church atSteinfeld. Shortly after the Revolution, a very large quantity of paintedglass made its way from the dissolved abbeys of Germany and Belgium tothis country, and may now be seen adorning various of our parishchurches, cathedrals, and private chapels. Steinfeld Abbey was among themost considerable of these involuntary contributors to our artisticpossession (I am quoting the somewhat ponderous preamble of the bookwhich the antiquary wrote), and the greater part of the glass from thatinstitution can be identified without much difficulty by the help, eitherof the numerous inscriptions in which the place is mentioned, or of thesubjects of the windows, in which several well-defined cycles ornarratives were represented.

  The passage with which I began my story had set the antiquary on thetrack of another identification. In a private chapel--no matter where--hehad seen three large figures, each occupying a whole light in a window,and evidently the work of one artist. Their style made it plain that thatartist had been a German of the sixteenth century; but hitherto the moreexact localizing of them had been a puzzle. They represented--will you besurprised to hear it?--JOB PATRIARCHA, JOHANNES EVANGELISTA, ZACHARIASPROPHETA, and each of them held a book or scroll, inscribed with asentence from his writings. These, as a matter of course, the antiquaryhad noted, and had been struck by the curious way in which they differedfrom any text of the Vulgate that he had been able to examine. Thus thescroll in Job's hand was inscribed: _Auro est locus in quo absconditur_(for _conflatur_)[6]; on the book of John was: _Habent in vestimentissuis scripturam quam nemo novit_[7] (for in _vestimento scriptum_, thefollowing words being taken from another verse); and Zacharias had:_Super lapidem unum septem oculi sunt_[8] (which alone of the threepresents an unaltered text).

  [6] There is a place for gold where it is hidden.

  [7] They have on their raiment a writing which no man knoweth.

  [8] Upon one stone are seven eyes.

  A sad perplexity it had been to our investigator to think why these threepersonages should have been placed together in one window. There was nobond of connexion between them, either historic, symbolic, or doctrinal,and he could only suppose that they must have formed part of a very largeseries of Prophets and Apostles, which might have filled, say, all theclerestory windows of some capacious church. But the passage from the_Sertum_ had altered the situation by showing that the names of theactual personages represented in the glass now in Lord D----'s chapel hadbeen constantly on the lips of Abbot Thomas von Eschenhausen ofSteinfeld, and that this Abbot had put up a painted window, probablyabout the year 1520, in the south aisle of his abbey church. It was novery wild conjecture that the three figures might have formed part ofAbbot Thomas's offering; it was one which, moreover, could probably beconfirmed or set aside by another careful examination of the glass. And,as Mr. Somerton was a man of leisure, he set out on pilgrimage to theprivate chapel with very little delay. His conjecture was confirmed tothe full. Not only did the style and technique of the glass suitperfectly with the date and place required, but in another window of thechapel he found some glass, known to have been bought along with thefigures, which contained the arms of Abbot Thomas von Eschenhausen.

  At intervals during his researches Mr. Somerton had been haunted by therecollection of the gossip about the hidden treasure, and, as he thoughtthe matter over, it became more and more obvious to him that if the Abbotmeant anything by the enigmatical answer which he gave to hisquestioners, he must have meant that the secret was to be found somewherein the window he had placed in the abbey church. It was undeniable,furthermore, that the first of the curiously-selected texts on thescrolls in the window might be taken to have a reference to hiddentreasure.

  Every feature, therefore, or mark which could possibly assist inelucidating the riddle which, he felt sure, the Abbot had set toposterity he noted with scrupulous care, and, returning to his Berkshiremanor-house, consumed many a pint of the midnight oil over his tracingsand sketches. After two or three weeks, a day came when Mr Somertonannounced to his man that he must pack his own and his master's thingsfor a short journey abroad, whither for the moment we will not followhim.

  II

  Mr Gregory, the Rector of Parsbury, had strolled out before breakfast, itbeing a fine autumn morning, as far as the gate of his carriage-drive,with intent to meet the postman and sniff the cool air. Nor was hedisappointed of either purpose. Before he had had time to answer morethan ten or eleven of the miscellaneous questions propounded to him inthe lightness of their hearts by his young offspring, who had accompaniedhim, the postman was seen approaching; and among the morning's budget wasone letter bearing a foreign postmark and stamp (which became at once theobjects of an eager competition among the youthful Gregorys), andaddressed in an uneducated, but plainly an English hand.

  When the Rector opened it, and turned to the signature, he realized thatit came from the confidential valet of his friend and squire, Mr.Somerton. Thus it ran:

  Honoured Sir,

  Has I am in a great anxiety about Master I write at is Wish to beg you Sir if you could be so good as Step over. Master Has add a Nastey Shock and keeps His Bedd. I never Have known Him like this but No wonder and Nothing will serve but you Sir. Master says would I mintion the Short Way Here is Drive to Cobblince and take a Trap. Hopeing I Have maid all Plain, but am much Confused in Myself what with Anxiatey and Weakfulness at Night. If I might be so Bold Sir it will be a Pleasure to see a Honnest Brish Face among all These Forig ones.

  I am Sir

  Your obed't Serv't

  Wil
liam Brown.

  P.S.--The Village for Town I will not Turm It is name Steenfeld.

  The reader must be left to picture to himself in detail the surprise,confusion, and hurry of preparation into which the receipt of such aletter would be likely to plunge a quiet Berkshire parsonage in the yearof grace 1859. It is enough for me to say that a train to town was caughtin the course of the day, and that Mr Gregory was able to secure a cabinin the Antwerp boat and a place in the Coblenz train. Nor was itdifficult to manage the transit from that centre to Steinfeld.

  I labour under a grave disadvantage as narrator of this story in that Ihave never visited Steinfeld myself, and that neither of the principalactors in the episode (from whom I derive my information) was able togive me anything but a vague and rather dismal idea of its appearance. Igather that it is a small place, with a large church despoiled of itsancient fittings; a number of rather ruinous great buildings, mostly ofthe seventeenth century, surround this church; for the abbey, in commonwith most of those on the Continent, was rebuilt in a luxurious fashionby its inhabitants at that period. It has not seemed to me worth while tolavish money on a visit to the place, for though it is probably far moreattractive than either Mr Somerton or Mr Gregory thought it, there isevidently little, if anything, of first-rate interest to be seen--except,perhaps, one thing, which I should not care to see.

  The inn where the English gentleman and his servant were lodged is, orwas, the only 'possible' one in the village. Mr Gregory was taken to itat once by his driver, and found Mr Brown waiting at the door. Mr Brown,a model when in his Berkshire home of the impassive whiskered race whoare known as confidential valets, was now egregiously out of his element,in a light tweed suit, anxious, almost irritable, and plainly anythingbut master of the situation. His relief at the sight of the 'honestBritish face' of his Rector was unmeasured, but words to describe it weredenied him. He could only say:

  'Well, I ham pleased, I'm sure, sir, to see you. And so I'm sure, sir,will master.'

  'How is your master, Brown?' Mr Gregory eagerly put in.

  'I think he's better, sir, thank you; but he's had a dreadful time of it.I 'ope he's gettin' some sleep now, but--'

  'What has been the matter--I couldn't make out from your letter? Was itan accident of any kind?'

  'Well, sir, I 'ardly know whether I'd better speak about it. Master wasvery partickler he should be the one to tell you. But there's no bonesbroke--that's one thing I'm sure we ought to be thankful--'

  'What does the doctor say?' asked Mr Gregory.

  They were by this time outside Mr Somerton's bedroom door, and speakingin low tones. Mr Gregory, who happened to be in front, was feeling forthe handle, and chanced to run his fingers over the panels. Before Browncould answer, there was a terrible cry from within the room.

  'In God's name, who is that?' were the first words they heard. 'Brown, isit?'

  'Yes, sir--me, sir, and Mr Gregory,' Brown hastened to answer, and therewas an audible groan of relief in reply.

  They entered the room, which was darkened against the afternoon sun, andMr Gregory saw, with a shock of pity, how drawn, how damp with drops offear, was the usually calm face of his friend, who, sitting up in thecurtained bed, stretched out a shaking hand to welcome him.

  'Better for seeing you, my dear Gregory,' was the reply to the Rector'sfirst question, and it was palpably true.

  After five minutes of conversation Mr Somerton was more his own man,Brown afterwards reported, than he had been for days. He was able to eata more than respectable dinner, and talked confidently of being fit tostand a journey to Coblenz within twenty-four hours.

  'But there's one thing,' he said, with a return of agitation which MrGregory did not like to see, 'which I must beg you to do for me, my dearGregory. Don't,' he went on, laying his hand on Gregory's to forestallany interruption--'don't ask me what it is, or why I want it done. I'mnot up to explaining it yet; it would throw me back--undo all the goodyou have done me by coming. The only word I will say about it is that yourun no risk whatever by doing it, and that Brown can and will show youtomorrow what it is. It's merely to put back--to keep--something--No; Ican't speak of it yet. Do you mind calling Brown?'

  'Well, Somerton,' said Mr Gregory, as he crossed the room to the door. 'Iwon't ask for any explanations till you see fit to give them. And if thisbit of business is as easy as you represent it to be, I will very gladlyundertake it for you the first thing in the morning.'

  'Ah, I was sure you would, my dear Gregory; I was certain I could rely onyou. I shall owe you more thanks than I can tell. Now, here is Brown.Brown, one word with you.'

  'Shall I go?' interjected Mr Gregory.

  'Not at all. Dear me, no. Brown, the first thing tomorrow morning--(youdon't mind early hours, I know, Gregory)--you must take the Rectorto--_there_, you know' (a nod from Brown, who looked grave and anxious),'and he and you will put that back. You needn't be in the least alarmed;it's _perfectly_ safe in the daytime. You know what I mean. It lies onthe step, you know, where--where we put it.' (Brown swallowed dryly onceor twice, and, failing to speak, bowed.) 'And--yes, that's all. Only thisone other word, my dear Gregory. If you _can_ manage to keep fromquestioning Brown about this matter, I shall be still more bound to you.Tomorrow evening, at latest, if all goes well, I shall be able, Ibelieve, to tell you the whole story from start to finish. And now I'llwish you good night. Brown will be with me--he sleeps here--and if I wereyou, I should lock my door. Yes, be particular to do that. They--theylike it, the people here, and it's better. Good night, good night.'

  They parted upon this, and if Mr Gregory woke once or twice in the smallhours and fancied he heard a fumbling about the lower part of his lockeddoor, it was, perhaps, no more than what a quiet man, suddenly plungedinto a strange bed and the heart of a mystery, might reasonably expect.Certainly he thought, to the end of his days, that he had heard such asound twice or three times between midnight and dawn.

  He was up with the sun, and out in company with Brown soon after.Perplexing as was the service he had been asked to perform for MrSomerton, it was not a difficult or an alarming one, and within half anhour from his leaving the inn it was over. What it was I shall not as yetdivulge.

  Later in the morning Mr Somerton, now almost himself again, was able tomake a start from Steinfeld; and that same evening, whether at Coblenz orat some intermediate stage on the journey I am not certain, he settleddown to the promised explanation. Brown was present, but how much of thematter was ever really made plain to his comprehension he would neversay, and I am unable to conjecture.

  III

  This was Mr Somerton's story:

  'You know roughly, both of you, that this expedition of mine wasundertaken with the object of tracing something in connexion with someold painted glass in Lord D----'s private chapel. Well, thestarting-point of the whole matter lies in this passage from an oldprinted book, to which I will ask your attention.'

  And at this point Mr Somerton went carefully over some ground with whichwe are already familiar.

  'On my second visit to the chapel,' he went on, 'my purpose was to takeevery note I could of figures, lettering, diamond-scratchings on theglass, and even apparently accidental markings. The first point which Itackled was that of the inscribed scrolls. I could not doubt that thefirst of these, that of Job--"There is a place for the gold where it ishidden"--with its intentional alteration, must refer to the treasure; soI applied myself with some confidence to the next, that of St John--"Theyhave on their vestures a writing which no man knoweth." The naturalquestion will have occurred to you: Was there an inscription on the robesof the figures? I could see none; each of the three had a broad blackborder to his mantle, which made a conspicuous and rather ugly feature inthe window. I was nonplussed, I will own, and, but for a curious bit ofluck, I think I should have left the search where the Canons of Steinfeldhad left it before me. But it so happened that there was a good deal ofdust on the surface of the glass, and Lord D----, happening to come in,noticed my b
lackened hands, and kindly insisted on sending for a Turk'shead broom to clean down the window. There must, I suppose, have been arough piece in the broom; anyhow, as it passed over the border of one ofthe mantles, I noticed that it left a long scratch, and that some yellowstain instantly showed up. I asked the man to stop his work for a moment,and ran up the ladder to examine the place. The yellow stain was there,sure enough, and what had come away was a thick black pigment, which hadevidently been laid on with the brush after the glass had been burnt, andcould therefore be easily scraped off without doing any harm. I scraped,accordingly, and you will hardly believe--no, I do you an injustice; youwill have guessed already--that I found under this black pigment two orthree clearly-formed capital letters in yellow stain on a clear ground.Of course, I could hardly contain my delight.

  'I told Lord D---- that I had detected an inscription which I thoughtmight be very interesting, and begged to be allowed to uncover the wholeof it. He made no difficulty about it whatever, told me to do exactly asI pleased, and then, having an engagement, was obliged--rather to myrelief, I must say--to leave me. I set to work at once, and found thetask a fairly easy one. The pigment, disintegrated, of course, by time,came off almost at a touch, and I don't think that it took me a couple ofhours, all told, to clean the whole of the black borders in all threelights. Each of the figures had, as the inscription said, "a writing ontheir vestures which nobody knew".

  'This discovery, of course, made it absolutely certain to my mind that Iwas on the right track. And, now, what was the inscription? While I wascleaning the glass I almost took pains not to read the lettering, savingup the treat until I had got the whole thing clear. And when that wasdone, my dear Gregory, I assure you I could almost have cried from sheerdisappointment. What I read was only the most hopeless jumble of lettersthat was ever shaken up in a hat. Here it is:

  _Job_. DREVICIOPEDMOOMSMVIVLISLCAV IBASBATAOVT

  _St John_. RDIIEAMRLESIPVSPODSEEIRSETTA AESGIAVNNR

  _Zechariah_. FTEEAILNQDPVAIVMTLEEATTOHIOO NVMCAAT.H.Q.E.

  'Blank as I felt and must have looked for the first few minutes, mydisappointment didn't last long. I realized almost at once that I wasdealing with a cipher or cryptogram; and I reflected that it was likelyto be of a pretty simple kind, considering its early date. So I copiedthe letters with the most anxious care. Another little point, I may tellyou, turned up in the process which confirmed my belief in the cipher.After copying the letters on Job's robe I counted them, to make sure thatI had them right. There were thirty-eight; and, just as I finished goingthrough them, my eye fell on a scratching made with a sharp point on theedge of the border. It was simply the number xxxviii in Roman numerals.To cut the matter short, there was a similar note, as I may call it, ineach of the other lights; and that made it plain to me that theglass-painter had had very strict orders from Abbot Thomas about theinscription and had taken pains to get it correct.

  'Well, after that discovery you may imagine how minutely I went over thewhole surface of the glass in search of further light. Of course, I didnot neglect the inscription on the scroll of Zechariah--"Upon one stoneare seven eyes," but I very quickly concluded that this must refer tosome mark on a stone which could only be found _in situ_, where thetreasure was concealed. To be short, I made all possible notes andsketches and tracings, and then came back to Parsbury to work out thecipher at leisure. Oh, the agonies I went through! I thought myself veryclever at first, for I made sure that the key would be found in some ofthe old books on secret writing. The _Steganographia_ of JoachimTrithemius, who was an earlier contemporary of Abbot Thomas, seemedparticularly promising; so I got that and Selenius's _Cryptographia_ andBacon's _de Augmentis Scientiarum_ and some more. But I could hit uponnothing. Then I tried the principle of the "most frequent letter", takingfirst Latin and then German as a basis. That didn't help, either; whetherit ought to have done so, I am not clear. And then I came back to thewindow itself, and read over my notes, hoping almost against hope thatthe Abbot might himself have somewhere supplied the key I wanted. I couldmake nothing out of the colour or pattern of the robes. There were nolandscape backgrounds with subsidiary objects; there was nothing in thecanopies. The only resource possible seemed to be in the attitudes of thefigures. "Job," I read: "scroll in left hand, forefinger of right handextended upwards. John: holds inscribed book in left hand; with righthand blesses, with two fingers. Zechariah: scroll in left hand; righthand extended upwards, as Job, but with three fingers pointing up." Inother words, I reflected, Job has one finger extended, John has _two_,Zechariah has _three_. May not there be a numerical key concealed inthat? My dear Gregory,' said Mr Somerton, laying his hand on his friend'sknee, 'that _was_ the key. I didn't get it to fit at first, but after twoor three trials I saw what was meant. After the first letter of theinscription you skip _one_ letter, after the next you skip _two_, andafter that skip _three_. Now look at the result I got. I've underlinedthe letters which form words:

  [D]R[E]VI[C]IOP[E]D[M]OO[M]SMV[I]V[L]IS[L]CAV [I]B[A]SB[A]TAO[V]T [R]DI[I]EAM[R]L[E]SI[P]VSP[O]D[S]EE[I]RSE[T]T[A] AE[S]GIA[V]N[N]R F[T]EEA[I]L[N]QD[P]VAI[V]M[T]LE[E]ATT[O]H[I]OO [N]VMC[A]A[T].H.Q.E.

  'Do you see it? "_Decem millia auri reposita sunt in puteo in at_ ..."(Ten thousand [pieces] of gold are laid up in a well in ...), followed byan incomplete word beginning _at_. So far so good. I tried the same planwith the remaining letters; but it wouldn't work, and I fancied thatperhaps the placing of dots after the three last letters might indicatesome difference of procedure. Then I thought to myself, "Wasn't theresome allusion to a well in the account of Abbot Thomas in that book the'_Sertum_'?" Yes, there was; he built a _puteus in atrio_; (a well in thecourt). There, of course, was my word _atrio_. The next step was to copyout the remaining letters of the inscription, omitting those I hadalready used. That gave what you will see on this slip:

  RVIIOPDOOSMVVISCAVBSBTAOTDIE AMLSIVSPDEERSETAEGIANRFEEALQD VAIMLEATTHOOVMCA.H.Q.E.

  'Now, I knew what the three first letters I wanted were--namely,_rio_--to complete the word _atrio_; and, as you will see, these are allto be found in the first five letters. I was a little confused at firstby the occurrence of two _i_'s, but very soon I saw that every alternateletter must be taken in the remainder of the inscription. You can work itout for yourself; the result, continuing where the first "round" leftoff, thus:

  _rio domus abbatialis de Steinfeld a me, Thoma, qui posui custodem super ea. Gare a qui la touche_.

  'So the whole secret was out:

  "Ten thousand pieces of gold are laid up in the well in the court of the Abbot's house of Steinfeld by me, Thomas, who have set a guardian over them. _Gare a qui la louche_."

  'The last words, I ought to say, are a device which Abbot Thomas hadadopted. I found it with his arms in another piece of glass at LordD----'s, and he drafted it bodily into his cipher, though it doesn'tquite fit in point of grammar.

  'Well, what would any human being have been tempted to do, my dearGregory, in my place? Could he have helped setting off, as I did, toSteinfeld, and tracing the secret literally to the fountain-head? I don'tbelieve he could. Anyhow, I couldn't, and, as I needn't tell you, I foundmyself at Steinfeld as soon as the resources of civilization could put methere, and installed myself in the inn you saw. I must tell you that Iwas not altogether free from forebodings--on one hand of disappointment,on the other of danger. There was always the possibility that AbbotThomas's well might have been wholly obliterated, or else that someone,ignorant of cryptograms, and guided only by luck, might have stumbled onthe treasure before me. And then'--there was a very perceptible shakingof the voice here--'I was not entirely easy, I need not mind confessing,as to the meaning of the words about the guardian of the treasure. But,if you don't mind, I'll say no more about that until--until it becomesnecessary.

  'At the first possible opportunity Brown and I began exploring the place.I had naturally represented myself as being interes
ted in the remains ofthe abbey, and we could not avoid paying a visit to the church, impatientas I was to be elsewhere. Still, it did interest me to see the windowswhere the glass had been, and especially that at the east end of thesouth aisle. In the tracery lights of that I was startled to see somefragments and coats-of-arms remaining--Abbot Thomas's shield was there,and a small figure with a scroll inscribed _Oculos habent, et nonvidebunt_ (They have eyes, and shall not see), which, I take it, was ahit of the Abbot at his Canons.

  'But, of course, the principal object was to find the Abbot's house.There is no prescribed place for this, so far as I know, in the plan of amonastery; you can't predict of it, as you can of the chapter-house, thatit will be on the eastern side of the cloister, or, as of the dormitory,that it will communicate with a transept of the church. I felt that if Iasked many questions I might awaken lingering memories of the treasure,and I thought it best to try first to discover it for myself. It was nota very long or difficult search. That three-sided court south-east of thechurch, with deserted piles of building round it, and grass-grownpavement, which you saw this morning, was the place. And glad enough Iwas to see that it was put to no use, and was neither very far from ourinn nor overlooked by any inhabited building; there were only orchardsand paddocks on the slopes east of the church. I can tell you that finestone glowed wonderfully in the rather watery yellow sunset that we hadon the Tuesday afternoon.

  'Next, what about the well? There was not much doubt about that, as youcan testify. It is really a very remarkable thing. That curb is, I think,of Italian marble, and the carving I thought must be Italian also. Therewere reliefs, you will perhaps remember, of Eliezer and Rebekah, and ofJacob opening the well for Rachel, and similar subjects; but, by way ofdisarming suspicion, I suppose, the Abbot had carefully abstained fromany of his cynical and allusive inscriptions.

  'I examined the whole structure with the keenest interest, of course--asquare well-head with an opening in one side; an arch over it, with awheel for the rope to pass over, evidently in very good condition still,for it had been used within sixty years, or perhaps even later though notquite recently. Then there was the question of depth and access to theinterior. I suppose the depth was about sixty to seventy feet; and as tothe other point, it really seemed as if the Abbot had wished to leadsearchers up to the very door of his treasure-house, for, as you testedfor yourself, there were big blocks of stone bonded into the masonry, andleading down in a regular staircase round and round the inside of thewell.

  'It seemed almost too good to be true. I wondered if there was a trap--ifthe stones were so contrived as to tip over when a weight was placed onthem; but I tried a good many with my own weight and with my stick, andall seemed, and actually were, perfectly firm. Of course, I resolved thatBrown and I would make an experiment that very night.

  'I was well prepared. Knowing the sort of place I should have to explore,I had brought a sufficiency of good rope and bands of webbing to surroundmy body, and cross-bars to hold to, as well as lanterns and candles andcrowbars, all of which would go into a single carpet-bag and excite nosuspicion. I satisfied myself that my rope would be long enough, and thatthe wheel for the bucket was in good working order, and then we went hometo dinner.

  'I had a little cautious conversation with the landlord, and made outthat he would not be overmuch surprised if I went out for a stroll withmy man about nine o'clock, to make (Heaven forgive me!) a sketch of theabbey by moonlight. I asked no questions about the well, and am notlikely to do so now. I fancy I know as much about it as anyone inSteinfeld: at least'--with a strong shudder--'I don't want to know anymore.

  'Now we come to the crisis, and, though I hate to think of it, I feelsure, Gregory, that it will be better for me in all ways to recall itjust as it happened. We started, Brown and I, at about nine with our bag,and attracted no attention; for we managed to slip out at the hinder endof the inn-yard into an alley which brought us quite to the edge of thevillage. In five minutes we were at the well, and for some little time wesat on the edge of the well-head to make sure that no one was stirring orspying on us. All we heard was some horses cropping grass out of sightfarther down the eastern slope. We were perfectly unobserved, and hadplenty of light from the gorgeous full moon to allow us to get the ropeproperly fitted over the wheel. Then I secured the band round my bodybeneath the arms. We attached the end of the rope very securely to a ringin the stonework. Brown took the lighted lantern and followed me; I had acrowbar. And so we began to descend cautiously, feeling every step beforewe set foot on it, and scanning the walls in search of any marked stone.

  'Half aloud I counted the steps as we went down, and we got as far as thethirty-eighth before I noted anything at all irregular in the surface ofthe masonry. Even here there was no mark, and I began to feel very blank,and to wonder if the Abbot's cryptogram could possibly be an elaboratehoax. At the forty-ninth step the staircase ceased. It was with a verysinking heart that I began retracing my steps, and when I was back on thethirty-eighth--Brown, with the lantern, being a step or two above me--Iscrutinized the little bit of irregularity in the stonework with all mymight; but there was no vestige of a mark.

  'Then it struck me that the texture of the surface looked just a littlesmoother than the rest, or, at least, in some way different. It mightpossibly be cement and not stone. I gave it a good blow with my iron bar.There was a decidedly hollow sound, though that might be the result ofour being in a well. But there was more. A great flake of cement droppedon to my feet, and I saw marks on the stone underneath. I had tracked theAbbot down, my dear Gregory; even now I think of it with a certain pride.It took but a very few more taps to clear the whole of the cement away,and I saw a slab of stone about two feet square, upon which was engravena cross. Disappointment again, but only for a moment. It was you, Brown,who reassured me by a casual remark. You said, if I remember right:

  "'It's a funny cross: looks like a lot of eyes."

  'I snatched the lantern out of your hand, and saw with inexpressiblepleasure that the cross was composed of seven eyes, four in a verticalline, three horizontal. The last of the scrolls in the window wasexplained in the way I had anticipated. Here was my "stone with the seveneyes". So far the Abbot's data had been exact, and as I thought of this,the anxiety about the "guardian" returned upon me with increased force.Still I wasn't going to retreat now.

  'Without giving myself time to think, I knocked away the cement all roundthe marked stone, and then gave it a prise on the right side with mycrowbar. It moved at once, and I saw that it was but a thin light slab,such as I could easily lift out myself, and that it stopped the entranceto a cavity. I did lift it out unbroken, and set it on the step, for itmight be very important to us to be able to replace it. Then I waited forseveral minutes on the step just above. I don't know why, but I think tosee if any dreadful thing would rush out. Nothing happened. Next I lit acandle, and very cautiously I placed it inside the cavity, with some ideaof seeing whether there were foul air, and of getting a glimpse of whatwas inside. There _was_ some foulness of air which nearly extinguishedthe flame, but in no long time it burned quite steadily. The hole wentsome little way back, and also on the right and left of the entrance, andI could see some rounded light-coloured objects within which might bebags. There was no use in waiting. I faced the cavity, and looked in.There was nothing immediately in the front of the hole. I put my arm inand felt to the right, very gingerly....

  'Just give me a glass of cognac, Brown. I'll go on in a moment,Gregory....

  'Well, I felt to the right, and my fingers touched something curved, thatfelt--yes--more or less like leather; dampish it was, and evidently partof a heavy, full thing. There was nothing, I must say, to alarm one. Igrew bolder, and putting both hands in as well as I could, I pulled it tome, and it came. It was heavy, but moved more easily than I had expected.As I pulled it towards the entrance, my left elbow knocked over andextinguished the candle. I got the thing fairly in front of the mouth andbegan drawing it out. Just then Brown gave a sharp ej
aculation and ranquickly up the steps with the lantern. He will tell you why in a moment.Startled as I was, I looked round after him, and saw him stand for aminute at the top and then walk away a few yards. Then I heard him callsoftly, "All right, sir," and went on pulling out the great bag, incomplete darkness. It hung for an instant on the edge of the hole, thenslipped forward on to my chest, and _put its arms round my neck_.

  'My dear Gregory, I am telling you the exact truth. I believe I am nowacquainted with the extremity of terror and repulsion which a man canendure without losing his mind. I can only just manage to tell you nowthe bare outline of the experience. I was conscious of a most horriblesmell of mould, and of a cold kind of face pressed against my own, andmoving slowly over it, and of several--I don't know how many--legs orarms or tentacles or something clinging to my body. I screamed out, Brownsays, like a beast, and fell away backward from the step on which Istood, and the creature slipped downwards, I suppose, on to that samestep. Providentially the band round me held firm. Brown did not lose hishead, and was strong enough to pull me up to the top and get me over theedge quite promptly. How he managed it exactly I don't know, and I thinkhe would find it hard to tell you. I believe he contrived to hide ourimplements in the deserted building near by, and with very greatdifficulty he got me back to the inn. I was in no state to makeexplanations, and Brown knows no German; but next morning I told thepeople some tale of having had a bad fall in the abbey ruins, which Isuppose they believed. And now, before I go further, I should just likeyou to hear what Brown's experiences during those few minutes were. Tellthe Rector, Brown, what you told me.'

  'Well, sir,' said Brown, speaking low and nervously, 'it was just thisway. Master was busy down in front of the 'ole, and I was 'olding thelantern and looking on, when I 'eard somethink drop in the water from thetop, as I thought. So I looked up, and I see someone's 'ead lookin' overat us. I s'pose I must ha' said somethink, and I 'eld the light up andrun up the steps, and my light shone right on the face. That was a badun, sir, if ever I see one! A holdish man, and the face very much fellin, and larfin', as I thought. And I got up the steps as quick prettynigh as I'm tellin' you, and when I was out on the ground there warn't asign of any person. There 'adn't been the time for anyone to get away,let alone a hold chap, and I made sure he warn't crouching down by thewell, nor nothink. Next thing I hear master cry out somethink 'orrible,and hall I see was him hanging out by the rope, and, as master says,'owever I got him up I couldn't tell you.'

  'You hear that, Gregory?' said Mr Somerton. 'Now, does any explanation ofthat incident strike you?'

  'The whole thing is so ghastly and abnormal that I must own it puts mequite off my balance; but the thought did occur to me that possiblythe--well, the person who set the trap might have come to see the successof his plan.'

  'Just so, Gregory, just so. I can think of nothing else so--_likely_, Ishould say, if such a word had a place anywhere in my story. I think itmust have been the Abbot.... Well, I haven't much more to tell you. Ispent a miserable night, Brown sitting up with me. Next day I was nobetter; unable to get up; no doctor to be had; and if one had beenavailable, I doubt if he could have done much for me. I made Brown writeoff to you, and spent a second terrible night. And, Gregory, of this I amsure, and I think it affected me more than the first shock, for it lastedlonger: there was someone or something on the watch outside my door thewhole night. I almost fancy there were two. It wasn't only the faintnoises I heard from time to time all through the dark hours, but therewas the smell--the hideous smell of mould. Every rag I had had on me onthat first evening I had stripped off and made Brown take it away. Ibelieve he stuffed the things into the stove in his room; and yet thesmell was there, as intense as it had been in the well; and, what ismore, it came from outside the door. But with the first glimmer of dawnit faded out, and the sounds ceased, too; and that convinced me that thething or things were creatures of darkness, and could not stand thedaylight; and so I was sure that if anyone could put back the stone, itor they would be powerless until someone else took it away again. I hadto wait until you came to get that done. Of course, I couldn't send Brownto do it by himself, and still less could I tell anyone who belonged tothe place.

  'Well, there is my story; and, if you don't believe it, I can't help it.But I think you do.'

  'Indeed,' said Mr Gregory, 'I can find no alternative. I _must_ believeit! I saw the well and the stone myself, and had a glimpse, I thought, ofthe bags or something else in the hole. And, to be plain with you,Somerton, I believe my door was watched last night, too.'

  'I dare say it was, Gregory; but, thank goodness, that is over. Have you,by the way, anything to tell about your visit to that dreadful place?'

  'Very little,' was the answer. 'Brown and I managed easily enough to getthe slab into its place, and he fixed it very firmly with the irons andwedges you had desired him to get, and we contrived to smear the surfacewith mud so that it looks just like the rest of the wall. One thing I didnotice in the carving on the well-head, which I think must have escapedyou. It was a horrid, grotesque shape--perhaps more like a toad thananything else, and there was a label by it inscribed with the two words,"Depositum custodi".'[9]

  [9] 'Keep that which is committed to thee.'