Sybil had seen Leo go into the room where her father was waiting with Mrs Jeal, and wondered what the woman had to do with her lover. She was called out to see a sick woman on behalf of her father, and on her way home bethought herself how she could see Leo. The girl was in a perfect fever of nervous fear for the young man. Then it struck her that the best thing to do would be to call at Mr Pratt's. No sooner had she made up her mind to brave her father's anger in this respect than she went at once to The Nun's House. She feared if she delayed that her courage might evaporate.

The door was opened by Adam, who explained that Mr Pratt was from home. "He went into Portfront to-day, miss," said Adam. "I only hope he will be able to get back this night, as there is a sea-fog coming up the Channel."

"There is no danger of his losing the road, Adam," said Sybil, cheerfully; "but I don't want to see Mr Pratt. It is Mr Haverleigh who – "

"He is in the library, miss," replied Adam, and admitted her into the house. When Sybil found herself alone with Leo she had a qualm. What would her father say should he ever come to know that she had paid such a visit?

Leo was seated at the desk, his face hidden in his arms, looking most dejected. He lifted his head as she entered, and, at the sight of his face, Sybil forgot all about her father and the impropriety of the visit. At once she ran to her lover, and drew his head down on to her breast with a look of almost divine pity. "My darling Leo," she said, "I knew that you were miserable, and I have come to comfort you."

"How good of you, dear!" replied Haverleigh, stroking her hair; "but your father? I did not think he would let you come to me."

"My father does not know that I am here," said Sybil, blushing, as he placed a chair for her; "but I knew you had been to see him, and I could not rest until I heard all about the interview. Was he very angry?"

"No; I think he is inclined to believe in my innocence in spite of Mrs Jeal's story. And Heaven knows she has painted me black enough!"

"I wondered what Mrs Jeal was doing at the Vicarage, Leo; I don't like that woman. She looks sly and wicked. But what story can she have to tell about you, dear?"

"Sybil, she says that she saw me pawning the cup in London," and while Sybil, filled with surprise, sat looking at his agitated face, Leo told all that Mrs Jeal had said. "So you see, dear," he continued, "that there is some sort of conspiracy against me. I believe Hale is in it too."

"It is a strange story," she said musingly. "I wonder who it was could have impersonated you? Did the man give your name?"

"By Jove!" cried Leo, starting up, "I never thought of asking. Yet the rascal must have given it for the pawn-ticket. Sybil, I can't help thinking that Hale knows something about this. He saw me in the chapel an hour ago and said that he would make a statement to the effect that he had paid me the money if I would give you up and marry his sister."

Sybil's eyes flashed. "How dare he?" she cried. "He wants to drive you into a corner, Leo. What did you say?"

"I refused to have anything to do with him, dear. He can join with your father in having me arrested for all I care. I would rather that than give up my Sybil! But you see the position. What is to be done?"

"Can't you go to London and see this man Penny?"

"No. I dare not leave the place. Your father and the others would think that I was seeking safety in flight. I might be arrested before I got as far as Portfront. I don't say that your father would go so far but there is always the chance. I am sure Mrs Gabriel would not counsel mercy. For some unaccountable reason she hates me thoroughly."

"My poor Leo!" Sybil stroked his cheek. "Fate is very cruel to you. But never mind. In spite of everything I will be true to you. And what is more, Leo, I'll help you to prove your innocence."

"How can you do that, my love?"

She pursed up her pretty mouth, and, crossing her slender feet, looked on the ground with an air of portentous gravity. "I don't believe this story of Mrs Jeal's," she said; "there is something behind it. As you cannot go to London – and I see it would be foolish of you to go away from Colester at present – we must do the best we can through the newspapers."

Leo looked at her in surprise, and knelt beside her. "What can we do with the newspapers, darling?"

"Put an advertisement in every London daily paper saying that the cup has been lost, giving a description, and offering a reward if any information is given to me."

"To you, Sybil! What would your father say?"

"He won't know. Besides, Leo, darling, you are more to me even than my father, and I am angry at the unjust way in which you are being treated. I will write out a number of these advertisements, and send them up with post-office orders. The replies to be sent to 'S. T. Colester Post-office.'"

"But what good will that do?"

"Oh, you stupid darling! I have to think for two, I see. Why, this pawnbroker – what is his name? – Penny. Well, if Penny sees the advertisement, he will recognise the cup from the description, and know that it has been stolen. He will be afraid of getting into trouble with the police, and he no doubt will write saying that the cup was pawned with him and that he will be willing to sell it back for the price paid. Then we'll get it back, Leo. When I am certain, I'll tell my father, and he will arrange about buying it again."

"Yes. But how does all this benefit me?"

"This Penny creature will explain who pawned it, and he will give the name of the person Mrs Jeal said resembled you. He might do that if the matter were made public by advertisement. If we approach him privately he will very likely deny everything. We can't be too careful, Leo."

"But the reward," said Haverleigh, puzzled. "I have no money; you have no money. What will you do?"

"When the cup is back, or if information is given likely to recover it, I am sure my father can arrange about the money with Mrs Gabriel. Now do not say a word, Leo. She has nothing to do with you now. And, after all," added Sybil, naïvely, "I don't see why any money need pass. This is a trap I am laying for that pawnbroker. That is if Mrs Jeal's story is true, which I am inclined to doubt. I'll put the advertisement in on chance, Leo, and see what comes of it."

"But it is such a mad idea," remonstrated the young man, who could not follow all these feminine arguments. "Let me tell Pratt about your suggestion. He will be able to advise us."

Sybil rose to her feet and shook her head obstinately. "If you say a word to Mr Pratt I'll never forgive you. Let me try this experiment all alone, Leo, dear. It can do no harm, and it might do a lot of good. We must not tell anyone about it."

"Sybil, I kept the fact of my borrowing that money from Hale a secret, and I have regretted it ever since. Let us ask Pratt's advice."

"No, Leo." Sybil was still obstinate. "I want to try this myself. If it fails it can do no harm, and if it succeeds I shall have the joy of knowing that it was I who got you out of this trouble. Now promise not to tell!"

At first Leo refused. He did not want Sybil to mix herself up in this disagreeable case even for his sake. But she used such endearments, and kept to her point with such pertinacity, that he gave in. It was useless to contend against Sybil when she set her heart on getting anything. She never would give in, however discouraged. Therefore, before she left the library, she had drawn out an advertisement with the assistance of Leo, in which the appearance of the cup and its Latin inscription were carefully set down. A reward of fifty pounds was offered, and the answers were to be sent to S. T., at the Colester Post-office.

"There!" said Sybil, when this document was completed, "I have set my trap. Now we shall see who will fall into it. I'll make a dozen copies at once, and have them sent off by to-morrow. Not a word, Leo, about this."

"I will be silent, as I have promised. All the same, I do not feel comfortable about your experiment. To tell you the truth, Sybil, I can't see the sense of it. Now, don't look angry, dear. I know it is all done out of love for me."

"I am not sure that you deserve my love," pouted Sybil as he escorted her to the door. "You place all kinds of obstacles in my way!"

She was rather angry, for her heart was fully taken up with the magnificence of her scheme. However, Leo managed to calm her, and gain her forgiveness. He was quite unaware of what he had done wrong. But Sybil said that he had behaved disgracefully, so he apologised. Then she said that she was a wicked girl, and after kissing him ran away. All this was very foolish, but very sweet. Leo often recalled that interview to her in after days, and they both agreed that they behaved like two most sensible people. But at present Leo was too sad to enjoy the stolen meeting as a true and loyal lover should have done.

That same night the sea-fog rolled up thick and white. Mr Pratt did not return home, at which non-arrival Adam was not surprised. Mr Pratt was too fond of his creature comforts to drive twenty miles through a damp and clinging mist. Leo had the whole house to himself, and Adam, who thought a good deal of him, did his best to make him comfortable. He consulted with the cook and gave Leo a capital little dinner, together with a bottle of superfine Burgundy. Then he supplied him with cigars of the best and coffee of the finest, and left him comfortably seated before the drawing-room fire. Under these circumstances Leo felt happier than he had expected, seeing at what a low ebb his fortunes were.

The position of the unfortunate young man was undeniably hard. Here he was, deserted by his aunt, Mrs Gabriel. She had taken him up, brought him up to expect a large fortune, and then, for no cause at all, had suddenly cast him out on the world to earn his own living as best he could. And in addition to this, although it was hardship enough, poor Leo's character was gone. He was accused of a sordid crime, and might have to answer for it to the law. He did not see what defence he could make. Certainly, if he acceded to Hale's terms, he could vindicate his position in some measure by accounting for the sum of money he had used to pay his debts. But in this case Sybil would be lost to him. And what would life be without Sybil? Altogether, Leo was in low spirits, in spite of the fire and the Burgundy, and the memory of that charming interview. But it was no use lamenting, as he very truly observed to himself, so he tried to shake off the feeling of depression and went to bed. He was young, the world was large, and he hoped in some way or another to sail out of these troubled waters into a peaceful haven. Hope was the silver lining to his cloud of black despair.

Meanwhile, Raston had written to his friend Marton a full account of the loss of the cup, of the accusation by Mrs Jeal of Leo, and of the suspicions entertained by the villagers concerning the probity of the young man. For some days he heard nothing. Then one evening Marton himself arrived unexpectedly at Colester. He went at once to the curate's lodgings and was received with great surprise.

"My dear Marton, this is an unexpected pleasure," said Raston, assisting his distinguished visitor to pull off his coat. "I thought you would have written to me about your visit to Penny."

"I didn't go there," replied Marton, with a laugh. "The fact is, Harold, I cannot quite understand this case. You have not explained matters clearly enough in your letter. I have set a detective to watch Penny and Penny's shop, and I have come down to hear all details from your own worshipful lips. But what a foggy sort of place you have here! I have been driving in your mail-coach through a kind of cotton-wool. The guard thought we would never reach Colester. I felt like a character of Dickens in that coach. You are a primitive people here. Do you know I rather like it!"

Marton was a tall, slim, black-haired man, neatly dressed in a tweed suit. He constantly smoked cigarettes, and maintained a perfectly calm demeanour. No one ever saw Marton excited. His face was clean-shaven, and his grey eyes were sharp and piercing. He looked what he was, a thorough gentleman, and a remarkably shrewd, clever man. His fame as a detective is so well known that it need hardly be mentioned.

"I must get you something to eat," said Raston.

"No. I dined at Portfront before I left. Give me a glass of port, and I can smoke a cigarette. This fire is comfortable after the fog."

"I have some excellent port, Marton. My dear mother is under the impression that I am delicate, and keeps me well supplied from my father's cellar. I don't know what he says to it."

"Being a clergyman, you had better not know," said Marton, dryly. "Your father had a vocabulary of – There, there, I'll say nothing more. I want my port, my cigarette, and a full account of this case. It seems to be an interesting one. I shouldn't have come down otherwise, even for your sake, my dear Harold. I have just twice as much business on hand as I can do with. The detective life is not a happy one."

Raston poured out a glass of port and placed it at Marton's elbow. He watched his friend light a cigarette, and himself filled his well-worn briar. Then, when they were comfortably established, he related all that he knew about the case. Marton listened with his eyes on the fire, but made no observation until the recital was finished. Indeed, even then he did not seem inclined to talk.

"Well?" said Raston, rather impatiently. "What do you think?"

"Wait a bit, my friend. It is a difficult case. I am not prepared to give you an opinion straight away. I must ask something about the people concerned in it first. This Leo Haverleigh? What about him?"

"He is a good man, and perfectly honest. I should as soon have suspected myself of stealing the cup as Leo. And I have known him for some time."

"Well, if anyone ought to know the truth about a man's character I should think a clergyman was the person," said Marton. "Is it not Balzac who says the clergy are all in black because they see the worst side of human nature? Humph! Have you had to put on mourning for this Haverleigh?"

"No. He has been a trifle wild, and has got into debt; but otherwise there is nothing wrong about him. Besides," added the curate, "Miss Tempest is in love with him, and they are engaged. She is a noble girl, and would not love a scoundrel."

"Ah!" said Marton, cynically, "I have seen a remark of that sort in novels, my good man. In real life – But that is neither here nor there. I should like to meet this young man."

"I can take you with me to-night. He is staying with Mr Pratt at The Nun's House. It is no very great distance away."

"I can wait till to-morrow, Harold. I have no very great desire to go out into this dense fog. By the way, who is this Mr Pratt?"

"A newcomer to Colester. He has been here off and on for the last few months, and has decided to settle here. He is well off, and has travelled a great deal. His house is beautifully furnished."

"Quite an acquisition to the neighbourhood!" said Marton, drowsily. "I must make the acquaintance of your people here to-morrow. Just now I feel inclined to go to bed."

"But tell me your opinion of this case?"

"Well," said Marton, thoughtfully, "from all the evidence you give me it seems that Haverleigh is guilty."

"No, Marton," replied the curate, "I'll never believe that. And you forget that he claims to have obtained the money from Sir Frank Hale."

"Well, then, his possession of three hundred pounds is easily proved. I shall see Sir Frank Hale and question him. With regard to this Mrs Jeal, her story seems credible enough. I don't suppose she has any enmity against Haverleigh?"

"No. But she is a woman I neither like nor trust. A demure, cat-like creature, with a pair of wicked eyes."

"You make me long to see her," said Marton, waking up. "That is just the sort of person I like to meet. Do you think she may have stolen this cup herself, and have invented this wild story to account for the loss? I have heard of stranger and even more daring things."

"No. That is out of the question, Marton. On the night the cup was stolen Mrs Jeal was watching beside this sick girl – the mad creature I have told you about. She is innocent."

"Then I can only say that young Haverleigh seems to be the most likely person. Only, the evidence against him is so plain that I believe him to be guiltless. I always mistrust too plain evidence, Raston. It shows signs of having been prepared. Well, I'll see this young man to-morrow, and have a chat. I go by the face a great deal. Have you a photograph of him?"

"No," said the curate on the spur of the moment. "Oh, yes, by the way! I took a group of our people at a picnic. It is not a bad picture, although small. You can see the whole lot at a glance."

Raston got out the photograph, and Marton went to the lamp to see it the more plainly. He glanced at first carelessly at it, then his eyes grew large, his attention became fixed. At that moment there was a ring at the door. Marton looked at the clock. "You have a late visitor," he said.

"A call to see some sick woman probably. Why do you look so closely at that picture, Marton?"

"There is a face here I know. Who is that?"

Raston looked. "That is the man with whom Haverleigh is staying. Pratt!"

"Pratt?" repeated Marton in a thoughtful tone. "Has he a tattooed star on his cheek just under the cheek bone?"

"Yes. And he is tattooed on the arm also – the right arm. I expect he had it done while he was a sailor."

"Oh!" said Marton, dryly, "he says he was a sailor."

"Not to my knowledge; but he has mentioned something of being an amateur one. Do you know him, Marton?"

"If he is the man I think he is, I know him better than you do, Raston!"

"Then who is – " Raston had just got thus far, when the landlady opened the door to announce Mr Pratt. "Here is the man himself, Marton."

"Marton!" echoed Pratt, who was standing in the doorway.

"Yes, Mr – Angel," said Marton, looking straight at him.

Pratt stood for just half a moment as though turned into stone. Then he turned on his heel, and went out of the door and down the stairs as swiftly as he was able. Without a word Marton darted after him. By the time he reached the street door Pratt had disappeared in the fog.

CHAPTER XII
A SURPRISE

Raston was astonished when Pratt disappeared so suddenly, and Marton rushed out after him. He went to the door, but his friend was not to be seen. It was little use following, for he did not know which direction the man had taken, and the fog was so thick that he could hardly see the length of his hand before him. The whole of the spur upon which Colester was built was wrapped in a thick white mist, and those who were abroad in the streets ran every chance of being lost. The village was small, but the alleys and streets were tortuous, so there would be no great difficulty in mistaking the way.

For over an hour the curate waited, yet Marton did not return. He could only suppose that the detective had followed Pratt, for what purpose he could not divine. Evidently Marton knew something not altogether to Pratt's advantage, and Pratt was aware of this, else he would hardly have disappeared so expeditiously. Moreover, Marton had addressed Pratt as "Angel," which hinted that the American was masquerading under a false name. Still wondering at what was likely to be the outcome of this adventure, Raston placed himself at the door and waited for the return of his friend. But, as time passed, he made sure that the detective, a stranger in the village, had lost his way.

"I can't leave him out of doors all night," soliloquised Raston, peering into the fog; "yet I do not know where to look for him. However, his own good sense must have told him not to go too far."

It was now after ten o'clock, and most of the villagers were in bed. Mr Raston then ventured upon a course of which he would have thought twice had the situation been less desperate. He placed his hands to his mouth and sent an Australian "cooe" through the night. This accomplishment had been taught to him by an Australian cousin. As this especial cry carried further than most shouts, Raston congratulated himself that he knew how to give it. It was the only way of getting into communication with Marton.

After shouting once or twice, Raston heard a faint cry in response. It came from the right. So the curate, feeling his way along the houses, started in that direction, shouting at intervals. Shortly the answering cry sounded close at hand, and after some difficulty and inarticulate conversation the two men met. With an ejaculation Marton grasped the hand of his friend. "Thank Heaven you have found me," said the detective. "I have been going round in a circle."

"Did you catch up with Pratt?" asked Raston.

"No; the rascal disappeared into the fog, and I lost myself in pursuit of him in about three minutes."

"Why do you call him a rascal?"

"Because he is one; I know all about him. But I never thought I should have stumbled on 'Mr Angel' in this locality. I feel like Saul, who went out to look for his asses and stumbled on a kingdom."

"Is his name Angel?"

"That is one of his names; he has at least a dozen. Why he should have chosen one that fitted him so badly I cannot say."

By this time Raston, holding on to Marton's coat sleeve, had guided the detective back to his lodgings. The man was shivering with cold, for he had gone out without coat or hat. He hastily swallowed a glass of port, and began getting his things to go out. "You're not going into that fog again!" protested Raston. "You'll only get lost."

"Not under your capable guidance," laughed the detective. "You must guide me to the house of this Mr Pratt. I intend to arrest him."

"Arrest him!" echoed the curate, staring. "Dear me, what has he done?"

"Ask me what he hasn't done," said Marton, with a curl of his lip, "and I'll be better able to tell you. It's a long story, Raston, and time is passing; I want to go to the man's house. Is it far from here?"

"Some little distance," replied the curate, wondering at this haste. "I can find my way to it by guiding myself along the walls. But you can't arrest him, Marton, whatever he has done, unless you have a warrant."

"I accept all responsibility on that score," replied Marton, grimly. "The police have wanted Mr Angel, alias Pratt, for many a long day. Now the rascal knows that I am here, he will clear out of Colester in double quick time. I want to act promptly and take him by surprise. Now don't ask questions, my dear fellow, but take me to the house. I'll tell you all about this man later on. By the way, he is the individual who gave your church this celebrated cup?"

"Yes. I really hope there is nothing wrong."

"Everything is wrong. I expect the cup was stolen – "

"It is stolen – "

"Pshaw! I don't mean this time. Pratt stole it himself. I wonder he dare present his spoils to the Church. The fellow must have very little religion to think such an ill-gotten gift could be acceptable."

"Stolen!" murmured Raston, putting on his coat. "But why – who is Pratt?"

"Simply the cleverest thief in the three kingdoms. Come along!"

Raston gasped, but he had no time to ask further questions. The detective had him by the arm and was hurrying him to the door. When outside he made the curate lead, and followed close on his heels. Raston, rather dazed by this experience, turned in the direction of The Nun's House, and, guiding himself along the walls and houses, managed to get into the street in which it stood – that is, he and Marton found themselves on the highroad which led down to King's-meadows. It was fully an hour before they got as far as this, for the fog grew denser every moment. Finally, Raston stumbled on the gate, drew his friend inside with an ejaculation of satisfaction, and walked swiftly up the path that led to the house. On the ground floor all was dark, but in the centre window of the second storey a light was burning. Marton did not wait for the curate, but ran up the steps and knocked at the door; he also rang, and he did both violently. For a time there was no response, then the light disappeared from the window above.

In a few minutes the noise of the bolts being withdrawn was heard, and the rattle of the chain. The door opened to show Leo in his dressing-gown standing on the threshold with a lighted candle in his hand. He looked bewildered and angry, as though he had just been aroused from his first sleep, which indeed was the case. "What the devil is the matter?" he asked crossly, peering out into the night. "You make enough noise to wake the dead! Who is it?"

"It is I, and a friend, Haverleigh," said the curate, pushed forward by the detective. "Is Mr Pratt within?"

"I suppose so," replied Leo, much astonished at this nocturnal visitation; "he is no doubt in bed. I can't understand why he did not hear the noise you made. Has he left anything at your place, Raston?"

"Ah! You knew he was going to see Mr Raston?" put in Marton, sharply.

"He left here over two hours ago, and I went to bed. Then I heard him come back just as I was falling asleep, but he did not come up to my room. If you will tell me what is the matter, I'll rouse him.

"Let us enter, Haverleigh," said the curate, who was shivering. "We have much to tell you."

Still much puzzled, Leo led the way to the library after shutting the door, and the two men followed him. He lighted the gas – Colester was not sufficiently civilised for electric light – and then turned to ask once more what was the matter. Raston thought the best way to bring about an explanation was to introduce his friend, who was already looking keenly round the well-furnished room. "This is Mr Marton," he said. "He is a London detective."

With a bitter laugh Leo set down the candle on the table. "What," he said, "are you the man with the bow-string, Raston? Scarcely worthy of your cloth! If you wanted to arrest me, you might have waited until morning!"

"Who is this young gentleman?" asked Marton, suddenly.

"I am Leo Haverleigh, Mr Detective," replied the young man, sharply; "and I suppose you have come here at the instance of Mr Tempest to arrest me!"

Marton snatched up the candle, and held it close to Leo's face. He was apparently quite satisfied, for he spoke in a more friendly tone.

"You need not be afraid, Mr Haverleigh," he said soothingly. "I have not come to arrest you – but to investigate the case. I don't think there is any chance of your being arrested. Your face is enough for me. But this is all very well," he added impatiently; "I want Pratt!"

"I will go and wake him," said Leo, who could make neither top nor tail of all this, but who was relieved to find that he was not in danger of arrest. He retired from the room, while Marton darted about here there, and everywhere. He was like a bloodhound nosing a trail. Suddenly he stopped before a cabinet, a drawer of which was open.

"Too late!" said Marton in a tone of disgust. "He's bolted."

"How could he bolt in this fog?" asked Raston, dubiously.

"Oh, he'll find his way somehow. Tony Angel is the cleverest of men for getting out of a difficulty. He has evaded the police for years. See, my dear chap, this drawer is open. That means he has taken money or valuables from it, and is now on his way to Heaven knows what hiding-place.

"Can you be sure of that? The open drawer may be an accident. Besides, he would not think you would act so promptly."

"Indeed, that is just why he has bolted so expeditiously," said Marton, with something of admiration in his tones. "Angel has experienced my promptitude before, and several times I have been on the point of capturing him. He has taken French leave within the last two hours. But for that infernal fog I should have stuck to him till I ran him down. Or, at all events, I might have disabled him with a shot."

The curate looked at his friend aghast. "A shot!" he stammered.

Marton produced a neat little revolver. "I should have used that had I been able," he said quietly. "It does not do to adopt half measures with our mutual friend. Besides, if hard pressed he would have returned the compliment. Your Haverleigh fellow is a long time!"

"He'll be back soon. You can trust Leo. Surely, Marton, you do not think he knew anything of Pratt's doings?"

"With such a face as that he knows precious little," retorted Marton; "he is a good fellow, but not sharp. He did not steal that cup, nor did he help Pratt to get away. No, Raston. Our criminal friend came back here while I was blundering in the fog, and after taking some money cleared out without loss of time. I sha'n't catch him now. I suppose the telegraph-office is closed?"

"Yes. It closes here at nine o'clock. And even if you sent a wire, it would not be delivered at Portfront to-night."

"No, I suppose not. You are all so slow in these country places! It is clever of you to mention Portfront, Raston. You think that Tony Angel will go there?"

"How else can he get away?"

"I don't know. You know the country better than I do. But I tell you what, our friend will not go to Portfront or anywhere near it."

"Why not?" asked the curate, bewildered.

"Because you expect him to go there. Angel always does the thing that is not expected. I wish I had caught him! I've been years trying to hunt him down. And the beast has made himself comfortable here!" said Marton, with a glance round. "I bet you, Raston, that the greater part of these things have been stolen."

"Stolen, Marton! How terrible. And the cup?"

"He stole that also," replied Marton, promptly, lighting one of his cigarettes. "Oh, he is a clever man, is Angel. Ah! here is our young and enterprising friend. Well, Mr Haverleigh, so Pratt has gone?"

"Yes," said Leo, looking puzzled. "I went to his room and found that his bed had not been slept in. The back door is open, although closed – that is, it has not been locked. How do you know Pratt has gone?"