The Watchers Part 19

Still no one but Tortue heard. This time, however, he rose from his knees and came to me. Glen looked up for an instant.

"See that he is fast!" he said, and so looked back into the grave.

"What is it?" asked Tortue.

"The plan has gone. Loose my hands!"

I could no longer see Roper; he had stooped down below the lip of the trench.

"Gone!" said Tortue. "How?"

"Some one has been here before you, but within this last week, I'll swear. Loose my hands."

"Some one!" he exclaimed savagely. "Who? who?" and he shook me by the arms.

"I do not know."

"Swear it."

"I do. Loose my hands."

"Remember it is I who save you."

His knife was already out of his pocket; he had already m.u.f.fled it in his coat and opened it; he was making a pretence to see whether the end was still fast. I could feel the cold blade between the rope and my wrist, when, with a shout. Roper stood erect, the stick in one hand, a sheet of paper flouris.h.i.+ng in the other.

He drew himself out of the trench and spread the paper out on a pile of clay at the graveside. Glen held his lantern close to it. There were four streaming faces bent over that paper. I felt a tug at my wrists and the cord slacken as the knife cut through it.

"Take the rope with you," whispered Tortue.

The next moment there were five faces bent over that paper.

"On St. Helen's Island," cried Glen.

"Let me see!" exclaimed Tortue, leaning over his shoulder.

"Three--what's that?--chains. Three chains east by the compa.s.s of the east window in the south aisle of the church."

And that was the last I heard. I stepped softly back into the darkness for a few paces, and then I ran at the top of my speed westwards towards New Grimsby, freeing my arms from the rope as I ran. Once I turned to look back. They were still gathered about that plan; their faces, now grown small, were cl.u.s.tered under the light of the lantern, and Tortue, with his flas.h.i.+ng knife-blade, was pointing out upon the paper the position of the treasure. Ten minutes later I was well up the top of the hill. I saw a lugger steal round the point from New Grimsby and creep up in the shadow towards the Abbey grounds.

I spent that night in the gorse high up on the Castle Down. I had no mind to be caught in a trap at the Palace Inn.

From the top of the down, about an hour later, I saw the lugger come round the Lizard Point of Tresco and beat across to St. Helen's. As the day broke she pushed out from St. Helen's, and reaching past the Golden Ball into the open sea, put her tiller up and ran by the islands to the south.

There was no longer any need for me to hide among the gorse. I went down to the Palace Inn. No one was as yet astir, and the door, of course, was unlocked. I crept quietly up to my room and went to bed.

CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH PETER TORTUE EXPLAINS HIS INTERVENTION ON MY BEHALF

As will be readily understood, when I woke up the next morning I was sensible at once of a great relief. My anxieties and misadventures of last night were well paid for after all. I could look at my swollen wrists and say that without any hesitation, the watchers had departed from their watching, and what if they had carried away the King of Portugal's great jewelled cross? Helen Mayle had no need of it, indeed, her great regret now was that she could not get rid of what she had; and as for Cullen, to tell the truth, I did not care a snap of the fingers whether he found a fortune or must set to work to make one. Other men had been compelled to do it--better men too, deuce take him! We were well quit of George Glen and his gang, though the price of the quittance was heavy. I would get up at once, run across to Merchant's Point, and tell Helen Mayle---- My plans came to a sudden stop. Tell Helen Mayle precisely what? That Adam Mayle's grave had been rifled?

I lay staring up at the ceiling as I debated that question, and suddenly it slipped from my mind. That grave had been rifled before, and quite recently. I was as certain of that in the sober light of the morning as I had been during the excitement of last night. Why? It was not for the chart of the treasure, since the chart had been left. And by whom? So after all, here was I, who had waked up in the best of spirits too, with the world grown comfortable, confronted with questions as perplexing as a man could wish for. It was, as Cullen Mayle had said, at the inn near Axminster, most discouraging. And I turned over in bed and tried to go to sleep, that I might drive them from my mind. I should have succeeded too, but just as I was in a doze there came a loud rapping at the door, and d.i.c.k Parmiter danced into the room.

"They are gone, Mr. Berkeley," he cried.

"I know," I grumbled; "I saw them go," and stretched out my arms and yawned.

"Why, you have hurt your wrist," d.i.c.k exclaimed.

"No," said I, "it was George Glen's shake of the hand."

"They are gone," repeated d.i.c.k, gleefully, "all of them except Peter Tortue."

"What's that?" I cried, sitting up in the bed.

"All of them except Peter Tortue."

"To be sure," said I, scratching my head.

Now what in the world had Peter Tortue remained behind for? For no harm, that was evident, since I owed my life to his good offices last night. I was to remember that it was he who saved me. I was, then, to make some return. But what return?

I threw my pillow at Parmiter's head.

"Deuce take you, d.i.c.ky! My bed was not such a plaguey restful place before that it needed you to rumple it further. Well, since I mayn't sleep late i' the morning like a gentleman, I'll get up."

I tried to put together some sort of plausible explanation which would serve for Helen Mayle while I was dressing. But I could not hit upon one, and besides Parmiter made such a to-do over brus.h.i.+ng my clothes this morning that that alone was enough to drive all reasoning out of one's head.

"d.i.c.k," said I as he handed me my coat, "you have had, if my memory serves me, some experience of womenfolk."

d.i.c.k nodded his head in a mournful fas.h.i.+on.

"Mother!" said he.

"Precisely," said I. "Now, here's a delicate question. Do you always tell womenfolk the truth?"

"No," said he, stoutly.

"Do you tell them--shall we say quibbles,--then?"

"Quibbles?" said d.i.c.k, opening his mouth.

"It is not a fruit, d.i.c.ky," said I, "so you need not keep it open. By quibbles I mean lies. Do you tell your womenfolk lies, when the truth is not good for them to know?"

"No," said d.i.c.k, as steadily as before, "for they finds you out."