Leo had never felt so wretched in his life as he did the next day. Seeing that he was greatly disturbed, Marton wished to learn the reason. As Haverleigh had promised to keep secret the presence of his father at the castle, he was obliged to evade a direct answer.

"I saw Mrs Gabriel," he said quietly. "We had a long conversation, and she told me what she had said to the vicar."

"Is it a serious matter?" asked the detective.

"Serious enough to prevent my marriage," replied Leo; "but what it is I do not feel called upon to explain. It concerns myself and no one else. If you could help me, Marton, I should tell you, but you cannot – no one can. I don't think there is any more to be said."

Seeing the young man thus determined, Marton said no more, as he did not wish to force Leo's confidence. The next morning he took his departure, assuring Haverleigh that he was always at his disposal when wanted. "Depend upon it," he said, as he took leave, "you are not yet done with Mrs Gabriel. She will get you into more trouble. When she does, write to that address."

"Thank you, Marton; should I require your assistance I will write."

The two men parted, Marton to London, and Leo back to the inn. He was very miserable, the more so as he had to avoid the society of Sybil. Knowing what he did, it was impossible for him to talk of love to her. He felt that he had no right to do so – that he was gaining her affections wrongly. Sooner or later he would have to leave her, but he did not wish to break away abruptly. Little by little he hoped to withdraw himself from her presence, and thus the final separation would be more easy. All the next day he wandered alone on the moor, where there was no chance of meeting with Sybil. The morning afterwards he received a note from Mrs Gabriel stating that a certain person had taken his departure, Leo was then in a fever of anxiety lest the person should be captured.

However, he learned within twenty-four hours that there was no need to worry. An unsigned telegram came from London, intimating that the sender was in safety, and would communicate with him when the time was ripe. Leo took this to mean that Pratt could not easily get at the papers verifying his story, owing to the vigilance exercised by the police, who were on the look-out for him. Leo therefore possessed his soul in patience until such time as all should be made clear.

Meantime, as he told Pratt, he was hoping against hope that the story was not true. Certainly Pratt had spoken in what appeared to be a most truthful way, he had exhibited an emotion he would scarcely have given way to had he been telling a falsehood. But Haverleigh knew what an actor the man was, and, until proof was forthcoming, still cherished a hope that a comedy had been acted for some reason best known to Pratt himself. That is, it was a comedy to Pratt; but to Leo Haverleigh it approached perilously near to tragedy. Afterwards, looking back on the agony of those few days, he wondered that he had not killed himself in sheer despair.

But he could not remain in the same place with Sybil without feeling an overwhelming desire to tell her the whole story, and thus put an end to an impossible situation. Once she knew the truth, that he was the son of a criminal, she would see that a marriage was out of the question. Leo was quite certain that she would still love him, and, after all, he was not responsible for the sins of his father. But for the sake of Mr Tempest, she could not marry him, nor – as he assured himself – would he ask her to do so. Two or three times he was on the point of seeking her out and revealing all; but a feeling of the grief he would cause her made him change his determination. He resolved finally to leave her in a fool's paradise until he had proof from Pratt of the supposed paternity. But to be near her and not speak to her was unbearable. So he sent a note saying he was called away for a few days on business, and went to Portfront. Here he remained waiting to hear from Pratt. And no man could have been more miserable, a mood scarcely to be wondered at considering the provocation.

Meantime, Colester society had been much exercised over the discovery of Leo's innocence and the supposed delinquency of Pratt. Certainly, as Haverleigh and Mrs Gabriel knew, Pratt had generously taken on his own shoulders the blame which had wrongfully rested on those of the young man. But no one else knew this, and even if Pratt had come forward and told the truth, no one would have believed him. He had been so clearly proved to be a thief, and the scandal concerning the stolen goods in The Nun's House was so great, that there was no ill deed with which the villagers and gentry of Colester were not prepared to credit him. Mrs Bathurst was particularly virulent in her denunciations of the rascal.

"But I always knew that he was a bad lot," said Mrs Bathurst. "Did I not say it was incredible that a wealthy man should come down to pass his days in a dull place like Colester? How lucky it is that we found out his wickedness, thanks to that dear Mr Marton, who is, I am sure, a perfect gentleman, in spite of his being a police officer. I shall always look upon him as having saved Peggy. The creature," so she always called her former favourite, "wanted to marry Peggy. I saw it in his eye. Perhaps I might have yielded, and then what would have happened? I should have had a Jack the Ripper in the family!"

"Oh! scarcely as bad as that, Mrs Bathurst," said Raston, to whom she was speaking. "Pratt was never a murderer."

"How do you know that, Mr Raston? For my part, I believe he was capable of the most terrible crimes. If he had married Peggy! The very idea makes me shudder. But the dear child has escaped the snares of evil, and I hope to see her shortly the wife of a good man," here Mrs Bathurst cast a look on her companion.

Raston smiled. He knew perfectly well what she meant. Failing the wealthy Pratt, who had been proved a scoundrel, the humble curate had a chance of becoming Mrs Bathurst's son-in-law. And Raston was not unwilling. He loved Peggy and she loved him. They understood one another, and had done so for some time. Never would Peggy have married Pratt had he asked her a dozen times. But, as she had told Raston, the man had never intended to propose. Knowing this, Raston was glad to see that Mrs Bathurst was not disinclined to accept him as a suitor for her daughter. He then and there struck the iron while it was hot.

"I do not know if I am a very good man, Mrs Bathurst," he said, still smiling, "but if you think me good enough for Peggy, I shall be more than satisfied. I have the curacy and three hundred a year. My family you know all about, and I suppose you have formed your own conclusions as to the merits of my personality. I am not likely to turn out a criminal like Pratt, you know."

"Really, Mr Raston, you take my breath away," said Mrs Bathurst, quite equal to the occasion. "I never suspected that you loved Peggy. Still, if such is the case, and she loves you, and you are prepared to insure your life in case you die unexpectedly, I do not mind your marrying her. She is a dear girl and will make you an excellent wife."

"Thank you, Mrs Bathurst. Then I may see Peggy now."

"She is in the garden, Harold." Mrs Bathurst had long since informed herself of the curate's Christian name, so as to be prepared for an emergency of this sort. "Go to her and take with you a mother's blessing."

Thus burdened, Raston sought out Peggy, and then and there told her that all was well. They could love one another without let or hindrance. The engagement had been sanctioned officially by Mrs Bathurst. Peggy laughed consumedly when Raston related the pretty little comedy played by her mother. "She must think you a donkey, Harold," she said. "Mother thinks everyone is as blind as herself."

"Mrs Bathurst fancies herself very wide awake, my dear."

"Those who are particularly blind always do, Harold."

Then they began to talk of their future, of the probability of Sybil becoming the wife of Leo, and the chances of Mrs Gabriel taking the young man again to her castle. From one subject to another they passed on until Peggy made an observation about Pearl. "She is out and about, I see," said Peggy, "but she still looks thin."

"And no wonder. Her illness has been a severe one. But she will soon put on flesh and regain her colour. She is always wandering on the moor, and the winds there will do more to restore her to health than all the drugs in the pharmacopœia of James."

"Why does she go on the moor?" said Peggy. "I thought it was the chapel she was fond of sitting in."

"Ah! She has changed all that," said Raston, sadly. "It seems – I think I told you this before – that Mrs Jeal told her some horrible Calvinistic doctrine, and poor Pearl thinks she is lost eternally. It was her idea that the cup was given into her charge, and now she believes that the Master has taken it from her because she is not good enough to be the custodian."

"Poor girl!" said Peggy, sympathetically. "But I thought, Harold, that she believed the cup had been taken up to Heaven for the Supper of the Master?"

"She did believe that till Mrs Jeal upset her mind anew. Now she thinks she is lost, and I can't get the terrible idea out of her head. She is like a lost thing wandering about the moor. Only one cure is possible."

"What is that, Harold?"

"The cup must be restored to the altar she has built."

"An altar! Has she built one?"

"I followed her on to the moor the other day, wishing to calm her mind. Some distance away, in the centre of the heather, she has erected an altar of turf, and she told me that if the Master forgave her He would replace the cup which He had taken from her on that altar. She goes there every day to see if the cup has returned. If it did, I believe she would again be her old happy self."

"But there is no chance of the cup being returned."

"No," said Raston, a trifle grimly; "Pratt has got it again in his possession, and he will not let it go. Save for Pearl, I do not think it matters much. We could never again use it for the service of the chapel. A cup that has been stolen cannot be put to sacred uses."

"Do you think it was stolen?"

"I am certain of it. Everything belonging to that man was stolen. What a pity, Peggy, that such a clever fellow should use his talents for such a bad purpose."

"A great pity. I liked Mr Pratt, and even now, although he is such a wretch, I can't help feeling sorry for him."

"So do I, Peggy. There was good in Pratt. Let us hope he will repent. But now, darling, don't let us talk more of him. He has gone, and will never come back. What about the wedding-day?"

"Oh, Harold!" began Peggy, and blushed. After this the conversation became too personal to be reported. It is sufficient to say that the wedding-day was fixed for two months later.

While all these discoveries in connections with Pratt were being made in Colester, events which had to do with Sybil's advertisement had happened which prevented her keeping it any longer a secret from her father. She put off telling him till the very last moment, but when one day a London visitor arrived she was forced to speak out. A card inscribed with the name "Lord Kilspindie" was brought to her, and on the back of it was a pencilled note hinting that the gentleman had called about the advertisement. Sybil ordered that he should be shown into the drawing-room, and went to her father's study. The vicar was preparing his sermon, and looked up ill-pleased at the interruption.

"What is it, Sybil?" he asked. "I am busy."

"Please forgive me for interrupting you, father," she replied, coming to the desk and putting her arm round his neck, "but I have something to tell you, something to confess."

"You have been doing nothing wrong, I hope," said Tempest, suspiciously.

"I don't think it is wrong, save in one particular. That advertisement! It was I who put it into the papers."

"Sybil! And you never told me!" The vicar was annoyed. At the same time he felt relieved that it was nothing worse. He fancied that she might be about to confess that she had married Leo.

"It was no use telling you until something came of it, father," replied Sybil, calmly, "so do not be angry. Now that the whole mystery has been cleared up, the advertisement is useless. But I received one answer to it. A gentleman called Lord Kilspindie wrote to me at the post-office as 'S. T.,' asking to see me about the cup. He had something serious to say about it. I was curious – I think you would have been curious yourself, father – so I wrote, and, giving my real name and address, asked him to come down here. He is now in the drawing-room."

Tempest rose to his feet, looking vexed. "Lord Kilspindie in the drawing-room, and I only know of the matter now. Really, Sybil, you have behaved very badly. What does he want?"

"To tell us something about the cup, I suppose," said Sybil. "Do you know Lord Kilspindie, father?"

"No more than that he is a border lord and a wealthy man. I believe he has a splendid and famous castle near the Tweed. Sybil, you should have told me."

"I am sorry, but I didn't think it was worth while until he came. You are not angry, father. I have done nothing so very bad, and it was my eagerness about Leo that made me take up the matter."

"You offered a reward of fifty pounds! How is that to be paid?"

Sybil laughed. "I don't think there will be any question of reward with Lord Kilspindie," she said. "Besides, he has not brought the cup. You know that Mr Pratt has it, and is likely to keep it. Come, father, forgive me, and let us see Lord Kilspindie. I am filled with curiosity."

"You are a wicked girl," said the vicar, indulgently, and gave her a kiss. "If you do this again – "

"I never will, father – unless Leo is again in danger."

The vicar sighed. His conscience pricked him about Leo, and he did not know how to act towards making amendment. Certainly if he gave his consent to the marriage Leo would be more than repaid for the ill thoughts entertained about him. But Tempest was filled with pride of race, and could not bring himself to give his beautiful daughter to a nameless man. However, he could not consider the matter now, since his illustrious visitor was waiting in the drawing room, so with Sybil he went to greet him.

"Miss Tempest?" said Lord Kilspindie, coming forward, with a look of admiration at the beautiful girl before him, "and you, sir?"

Sybil allowed her father to speak, as was right and proper. "I am the vicar of this place, Lord Kilspindie," said Tempest, politely, "and this is my daughter. It was she who put the advertisement in the paper. I presume that it is to that we owe the pleasure of your company."

"That and nothing else," said Lord Kilspindie, taking the seat pointed out to him by the vicar. "I have been looking for that cup for over twenty years. It is not in your possession?"

"It was for a few weeks," replied the vicar, who was very curious. "I had better tell you the whole story, and then you can judge for yourself."

"If you will be so kind," replied Lord Kilspindie, courteously.

He listened attentively while Mr Tempest narrated all the events in connection with the cup from the time Pratt had arrived in Colester. The story was a strange one, and the visitor was much interested. However, he did not offer one interruption. Sybil watched him the meanwhile.

He was a tall, grey-haired man of over sixty, but still vigorous and straight. His face was lined, however, as though he had undergone much trouble. He had a soldierly look about him, and all the time the vicar was speaking tugged at a long grey moustache, the only hair he wore on his face. Sybil thought of the line in the "Ancient Mariner" about long and lean and brown as the seashore sand (she could not quite recall the quotation), but to her it described Kilspindie perfectly. He was rather sad-looking, and his quiet grey eyes looked as though he had known bitter trouble. And indeed he had. Sybil learned that later.

"A very interesting story," he said politely when Mr Tempest had finished, "but disappointing in its ending. You say this man Pratt has now the cup in his possession?"

"He confessed as much, my lord, in a letter to the detective in charge of the case. It is a pity he has escaped with it."

"A great pity," responded the other. "I suppose there is no chance of his being captured?"

"From what Mr Marton said I should think not," put in Sybil. "He says that Pratt has baffled all the cleverest detectives in England for a great number of years."

Kilspindie sighed. "No chance of getting it back," he murmured; "and the luck will still be bad."

"The luck!" echoed Sybil, catching the word.

"You will think me superstitious," he said, with a smile; "but the fact is that the cup is said to be a fairy gift, and has been in our family for generations. The luck of the family goes with the cup."

"Like the luck of Edenhall!" said Sybil, remembering Longfellow's poem.

"Precisely," responded Kilspindie. "The legend is a curious one. I must tell it to you some time. Of course my opinion is that the cup is of Roman manufacture. I recognised it from its description, and especially from the Latin motto you set down in the advertisement. I think that goblet was dedicated to Bacchus, and was probably lost by some Roman general when Scotland was invaded by the Cæsars."

All this time Mr Tempest was trying to recover from the horror of his thoughts. "A pagan cup!" he gasped, "and a stolen cup! Oh, my lord, and it was used as a communion cup. Pratt said that he had brought it from Italy, where it was so used by the Romish Church. I thought it was sanctified by such a use, and did not hesitate to put it again on the altar. I really don't know what to say. It is like sacrilege."

"I am sorry, Mr Tempest. But the cup has been at Kilspindie Castle for five hundred years. It never was used in the service of the Church. Over twenty years ago it was stolen by a woman."

"By a woman," echoed Sybil. She had quite expected to hear Pratt's name.

CHAPTER XVII

LORD KILSPINDIE EXPLAINS

"Before you begin your story, my lord," said the vicar, "will you please inform me how you came to know of the loss of the cup?"

"I have already done so, Mr Tempest. I saw the advertisement offering a reward for its recovery. The description and the quotation of the Latin motto were sufficient to show me that it was my heirloom. I wrote to the office of the paper, and afterwards received a letter from Miss Tempest, here, asking me to call. I have taken up my abode at the inn, as I may stay here for a few days. I want to know all I can about the matter. If I can only trace and recover the cup through your agency I shall be eternally your debtor."

"I cannot tell you more than I have related," replied the vicar. "This man Pratt took back the cup, and is now in London – where, no one knows. I fear the cup is as lost as though it had been swallowed up by the ocean!"

"It is enough that I know in whose possession it is," said Kilspindie, with determination. "In some way or another I shall find this man. For I may tell you, Mr Tempest, that, besides the recovery of a family treasure, I have another and more important object in view – the recovery of my son, who was stolen from me at the time the cup disappeared."

Tempest expressed much astonishment at this information, and Sybil opened her eyes wide. She had never thought that her attempt to clear the character of her lover would lead to such a result. Neither she nor her father knew what to say, and, seeing them silent, Lord Kilspindie continued to speak.

"How the cup came into the possession of this man I cannot say. It was taken from the castle by a nurse called Janet Grant, who also carried away the child."

"Why did she do that?" asked Sybil, horrified.

"Out of revenge for a fancied slight she received from my wife," replied Kilspindie, with a sigh; "but it is best I should tell you all from the beginning. First, you must know the legend of the cup, that you may understand the value we Grants attach to its possession."

"I am fond of folk-lore," murmured the vicar, settling himself down for a pleasant half-hour. "Your family name is Grant, then, my lord?"

"Yes. Our title is Kilspindie, an earldom. My son who was stolen – my only son and only child, alas! – is Lord Morven, if he be still alive. But who knows if I shall ever see him again?"

"Hope for the best," said the vicar, gently. "God is over all!"

"You are right, Mr Tempest. But how many weary years have I waited, and have had to comfort myself in that fashion. Now, when I had lost all hope, the advertisement roused it again. If I find the cup I may discover my boy, or, at all events, I may find out if he is alive or dead."

"I am sure he is alive," said Sybil, impulsively. "Dear Lord Kilspindie, if there was no chance of your finding him I should not have been guided to put in that advertisement. It was entirely my own doing, and had I consulted with my father it would never have appeared."

"It certainly would not," said the vicar, promptly. "I had placed the matter in the hands of Mr Marton, and I was angry when I saw the advertisement – very angry, indeed."

"You must not be angry any more, Mr Tempest," said Kilspindie, with a smile, "seeing that it may lead to the discovery of my son. I owe much to Miss Tempest's indiscretion, as you no doubt call it."

"No," said Sybil, resolutely; "I am sure papa does not call it that. I did it to help Leo, and I would do it again. But tell us the legend, Lord Kilspindie."

The old man laughed. "If you have not the imagination of the Celt you will think it but a poor thing," he said. "In the days of Bruce, and on the Border, Nigel Grant, the head of the clan – my ancestor, Mr Tempest – was riding home from a foray against the English. He had been successful, and had collected a large mob of cattle, which were being driven to the castle by his followers. He was anxious to get home, for when he had left, two weeks previously, his wife was expected to give birth to a child. The chief eagerly desired that it might be a boy, for he had few relatives, and those he had were his bitterest enemies."

"What!" said Tempest, "and the Scotch so clannish?"

"They are more clannish in the Highlands than on the Border," replied the old lord. "Many of the Border families fought with one another. My clan did also for many a long day, although they are friendly enough now. However, you know the reason that Nigel Grant was so eager for an heir."

"Wouldn't a girl have done?" asked Sybil mischievously.

"By no means. The chief wanted a brave boy, to bestride a horse and wield a sword, and govern the unruly Grant clan with a strong hand. He had prayed to the Virgin to give him his heart's desire – they were all Roman Catholics in those days, remember. So you may guess he rode home at top speed, and as he neared the castle he was far in advance of his followers and alone. And then came the fairies."

"The fairies!" echoed Sybil. "This is interesting," and she laughed.

"We call them the Good Neighbours in Scotland, you know, because the fairies don't like to be talked about with disrespect. But to go on with my story. Nigel Grant was on a wide moor all alone, although the lances of his men-at-arms glittered on the verge of the horizon. Suddenly – from the viewless air, apparently, since there was no rock or tree or shelter of any kind – there appeared a small woman dressed in green, with a golden crown. At the sight of her the chief's horse stopped all at once, as though stricken into stone. The fairy queen – for it was she, the same, I suppose, who appeared to Thomas the Rhymer."

"Ah!

she

was mounted on a horse!" said Sybil, half to herself.

"Indeed? Well, this queen was on foot, and in her arms she carried a child. Stopping before Nigel, she placed the child on his saddle-bow, and told him to take it home for a year and a day. 'If it returns to us safe and sound,' she continued, 'great good fortune will befall the Grants. But if anything wrong is done to it, then will sorrow come.' So speaking she vanished, and the horse, suddenly regaining motion, galloped home to the castle, bearing the amazed chief with his child in his arms."

"His child, my lord?" asked the vicar, smiling.

"It had to be his child for a year and a day. He found that during his absence his wife had given birth to a fine boy, but that a day or so after it was born the cradle was found empty. Lady Grant was in a great state of terror, as you may imagine. When the chief told his story she declared that her child had been carried off by the Good Neighbours. It was her wish to kill the changeling. But this the chief, mindful of the prophecy, would not permit. It was supposed that the fairy child required to be nursed by a mortal woman, and this was why the chief's boy had been carried away."

"I never heard that version of the old story before," said Tempest.

"No? It is usually said that the fairies want the child for themselves. But in this story what I have told you was believed. Lady Grant, hoping to get back her own child in a year and a day, nursed the changeling. It was a peevish, cross, whimpering creature, and marvellously ugly. But when she fed it with her milk it grew fat and strong, and became good-tempered.

"On the night when the year and a day were up, there was heard the sound of galloping horses round the castle. A wind swept into the rooms and down the corridors. Everyone in the castle fell into a magic sleep. But in the morning the true child was found smiling in his cradle and the fairy changeling was gone. In the cradle also was the cup I am seeking, and a scroll saying that while it was kept in the family no ill would befall, but that if lost the line would be in danger of extinction."

"And did the prophecy ever come true?" asked Sybil.

"Twice," replied Kilspindie, with the most profound conviction. "In the reign of the first James of Scotland the cup was stolen, and three brothers of the chief were slain in battle. Only the child of one of them lived, for the chief had no family. Then the cup was brought back – I could tell you how, but the story is too long – and the child was spared to become the father of a large family."

"And the second time?" asked Tempest, wondering how much of this wild tale the old lord believed.

"The second time was in the reign of Henry VIII. The castle was sacked and the cup taken. All the family were killed, but the nurse managed to save one child, with whom she fled. After a series of adventures the cup was restored and the child regained his inheritance."

"How strange!" said Sybil. "And now that the cup is lost again?"

Kilspindie smiled. "Well, you see, Miss Tempest, I have but one son and he is lost. If I do not find him the title and estates must go to a distant cousin, and the prophecy of the fairies will be fulfilled. That is why I am so anxious to get the cup. If I can find it and bring it back to Kilspindie Castle, I am certain that I shall find my boy."

"A wild story," said the vicar, after a pause. "There is oftentimes a grain of truth in these folktales. But tell me, how came it that the cup was stolen the third time?"

"I am about