On the evening of that same day, at the door of Mr. Isaac Luker's little house in that cul-de-sac near Stamford Street, some one knocked, in a rather unusual manner, as if after a prescribed fashion, then whistled half-a-dozen sharp, shrill notes up the scale. This performance was repeated thrice before anything happened to show that it had attracted attention within. Then a window was opened above; the solicitor's head came out.

"Who's there?"

A feminine voice replied-

"It's me-Isabel. I want to speak to you. Don't keep me waiting out here. Come down! let me in at once."

There was a brief pause before the answer came, as if the man of law was endeavouring to see as much of his visitor as he could.

"Not much-I won't have you in this house; don't you think it; I'm not a fool. If you won't go without a fuss I'll soon get those who'll shift you."

"You are a fool. I don't want money from you, or anything of that kind. I want to tell you something-that's all."

"Then tell it me from where you are; I'm listening."

Mrs. Lamb's voice dropped, so that her words were only just audible to the man above.

"Cuthbert Grahame's money's found."

Another pause, possibly of doubt.

"Is that a lie?"

"I'll swear it isn't; it's as true as I stand here."

"Where is it?"

"It's in his house"

"His house? What house? I didn't know he'd got a house."

"His house at Pitmuir-where I met him-where he died."

"How do you know it's there?"

"I'll tell you all about it if you'll let me in."

"You'll tell me before I let you in."

"Margaret Wallace-that girl-you know-she came this morning and told me it was there."

"I don't believe it. Why should she, of all people, come and tell you a thing like that? Tell that for a tale."

"She did; I swear she did. The money's there-I know just where-a quarter of a million at least."

"A quarter of a million?"

"At least! If I was there I'd have it in my hands inside two minutes. I'm as sure of it as I am that I'm alive. Don't be silly; let me in, and let's talk where we can be alone. I'm on the square-I swear it. I don't want anything from you; I just want your advice-that's all."

There was another pause.

"Mrs. Lamb, I've got a telephone installed in these premises. I'm going to telephone to a friend that you're here; I'm going to ask him to step round in a few minutes. If, when he comes, you've been making trouble, there'll be trouble for you-you'll be the sorriest woman that ever lived. I give you my word; when I give you my word on a point like that you know it goes. You wait there until I'm ready."

The head was withdrawn; the window closed; the lady waited, impatiently enough. Her patience was sufficiently tried. It seemed to her that she waited an hour; she certainly did wait twenty minutes. More than once she was on the point of sounding a loud rat-a-tat on the knocker by way of a little reminder. It was only with an effort she restrained herself, being conscious that possibly Mr. Luker's decision still hung in the balance, and that it needed but little to turn the balance against her. She had just arrived at a final conclusion that he had played her false, or, at any rate, intended to ignore her existence, when the door was opened, on the chain.

"I've telephoned to my friend; he's coming; so, if you're in an argumentative frame of mind, you'd better take my strong advice and stay outside. No argument will be allowed in here."

It seemed to Mrs. Lamb that the wary Mr. Luker was carrying his wariness almost a trifle too far. She was unable to altogether conceal that this was her feeling.

"Bless the man! I don't want to argue! I just want to explain exactly how the matter stands. When you've opened that door you'll find that I mean just what I say, neither more nor less."

"My friend, when he arrives, will see that you don't mean more; you can take my word for that. Come inside!"

Mr. Luker removed the chain; the lady entered; he led the way to a room on the ground floor at the back. It was much better furnished than the exterior of the house, and its occupant's appearance, might have led one to expect. A telephone, on its bracket against the wall, was one of the most prominent objects the room contained. Mr. Luker called her attention to its presence.

"You see? I'm not so much alone here as you might think; I'm in constant communication with my friend; and as he'll be here very shortly, perhaps you'll say what you have to say as quickly as you can."

"It'd have been said already, if you hadn't kept me cooling my heels outside while you were playing the fool in here with your telephone."

As clearly and succinctly as possible-she could keep to the point when she liked-Mrs. Lamb told her tale, exhibiting Margaret's drawings, partly by way of corroboration and partly to elucidate certain points which needed explanation.

"And you believe it?"

"Believe that the money's inside that mantelpiece? I'm as certain of it as I am that I see you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"His will was hidden in one corner of the room. All along I've felt sure that there were more hiding-places in it than one. I shouldn't be surprised if there were half a dozen. It's just the kind of room, and he's just the kind of man. As for the mantelpiece, I've been bothered all along by a feeling that there was something about it which I ought to understand, and didn't. Now I know what it is. Cuthbert Grahame's money's there as certainly as you are here. I tell you he was just the sort of curiosity-he wasn't a man when I knew him! – who might be expected to play a trick like that."

"But why should the girl come and tell you the tale when it was to her advantage to keep it dark-especially from you?"

"That's more than I can say. I know she's a white-faced little devil, and that I hate her. I lay she didn't do it out of any love for me."

"That, I think, we may take for granted-which makes the puzzle more. It looks to me as if she expects you to walk headlong into a trap which she has carefully baited."

"Curse her traps! What do I care for her traps? She can't set one which will catch me. The money's there, and the money's mine-and I'll get it."

"Then get it. It will be useful to you just now, even if there's less than a quarter of a million."

"Useful! – my God! – useful!" Stretching out her arms on either side, she drew a long breath. "But, Luker-that's the mischief! – it's in his room; the one in which he died."

"Well; you've told me that already-what of it?"

"What of it? Why!" – she laughed; there was something in the sound of her laughter which caused him to bunch himself together, as if touched by a sudden chill-"I daren't go in it."

"You daren't go in it? What do you mean? The house is your own, isn't it? What's there to be afraid of? Who's to keep you out?"

"That's it! – I don't know! I don't know! Luker, there's something come over me lately; I didn't used to be troubled with nerves."

"You didn't."

"I never was afraid of anything-or any one."

"You weren't; you've always had the devil's own courage since you were a girl."

"There's been nothing I daren't do."

"It would have been better for you, perhaps, if there had been something; there's such a thing as daring to do too much."

"You think so? Perhaps that's it; perhaps I have dared to do too much."

"As to that you know better than I do; I'm not your father confessor, nor wish to be. The Lord forbid!"

"I don't know how it is, but, lately, I've gone all to pieces. I'm afraid of all sorts of things. When that girl came this morning I was afraid of her; she frightened me out of my senses. I thought she was a ghost; I couldn't have moved or spoken to save my life; I listened to her like a stuck pig. Luker, things have upset me more than I thought anything could have done. I'm-I'm all a bundle of nerves."

"It's that stuff you've been drinking."

"Stuff? What stuff?"

"When I was at your place yesterday I saw a decanter lying on the table; some of the contents had been spilled. I dipped my finger into the stuff and tasted it. It was ether. When women of your temperament take to drinking ether, that's an end of them."

"But I've got to drink it! – I've got to! I never touch it unless I'm forced! Luker, if I didn't, sometimes, I should go stark, staring mad."

"Then you'll go stark, staring mad. Ether's a royal road to madness for such as you. Better stick to gin."

"Gin! – gin's no good; a barrelful would be no good when I'm like that."

"I see-that's the point you've got to." He was eyeing her intently. "Is there any particular reason why you should be afraid of going into the room where that man died?"

She became instantly conscious of the keenness of his scrutiny, perceiving that in it there was a new quality. Her manner changed.

"Any particular reason? No; there's only the general reason that I'm all mops and brooms; that I start at shadows. Besides, I'm going into it, and you're going with me."

"Am I? That's news."

"Luker, if you'll come with me to Pitmuir, and stick to me while I find Cuthbert Grahame's money, I'll give you five hundred pounds."

"Hard cash? – before we start?"

"I can't do that; you know I can't do that. But, Luker, I'll give you a thousand when I've found the money. I'll set down my promise in writing; give you any sort of undertaking you like."

"Yes; but suppose you don't find the money; suppose what that girl told you is nothing but a cock-and-bull story? I tell you plainly that I can't make head or tail of the whole business. I've no faith in the girl, or her story, or her motives. And I'm pretty sure that she has no intention, under any circumstances or on any conditions, of presenting you with Cuthbert Grahame's fortune, or of putting you in the way of getting it for yourself either."

"But I know it's there. I can't explain to you how I know it-I don't understand myself-but I do. And though it seems queer, at the back of my head I've known it all the time. Luker, as sure as you are living, that money's there."

"Then, in that case, instead of going yourself, why not instruct some one on the spot to examine the premises on your behalf; to pull down this famous mantelpiece, or the whole house if necessary, and report the results to you?"

"Who shall I instruct? Before they move they'll perhaps want money-I expect my position is pretty generally known-and where am I to find it? In any case, they'll take their own time, and time is precious. Besides, there are enough fingers meddling in my affairs already. And who am I to trust? I don't want any one except myself to know how much I find. To speak of nothing else, shouldn't I have to pay succession duty if it were known?"

"I suppose you would. Isabel, you're a curious person; a little too fond, perhaps, of doing things for yourself; yet, in delicate matters-in very delicate matters-it's a fault on the right side. How do you know you can trust me?"

"You and I have seen too much of each other for me not to know when, and where, and how far I can trust you. I'm not afraid."

"You're right; you needn't be. I don't think I am likely to round on you. But, on the other hand, frankly, I'm afraid of you."

"Nor need you be afraid of me. It's only when I'm upset that-that I'm trying-that's all."

"Even if it is all, it's a pretty big all."

"About the thousand pounds. As I said, I'll give you any sort of bond you like, undertaking, if you stick to me, to pay you the moment I get the money in my hands. Anyhow you know that you'll be safe. It's not bad pay for what I'm asking you to do."

"I don't say it is. When do you propose to start?"

"To-morrow morning, by the ten o'clock train from King's Cross. I planned it all out before I came."

"That's quick work."

"It'll have to be quick work. If I don't have money, and plenty of it, within forty-eight hours, I'm undone."

"I understand. By the way, I presume that you're prepared to pay all out-of-pocket expenses, for both parties, as we go on. For instance, I shall require you to hand me a return ticket to wherever we are going before I set foot inside the train. I'm a poor man, although you sometimes amuse yourself by pretending to think otherwise, and I, at any rate, can afford to take no risks."

"You shall have your ticket, and I'll pay everything. I've the money to do it-but it's about as much as I have got."

"Ah, but by to-morrow, about this time, you'll be more than a millionaire. I've always understood that that wonderful quarter of a million of Mr. Grahame's produced, on an average, more than twenty per cent.; so that if you had a million, averaging a modest three per cent. – and some millionaires would be glad to get as much-your income would be less. Then there are the arrears, which have been accruing! Think of the arrears, Mrs. Lamb-on a quarter of a million, at twenty per cent.! Now if you will sit down here, and will give me, on this sheet of paper, that little undertaking you mentioned, I think that, on my part, I can undertake to accompany you on your little trip to the north."

CHAPTER XXXI
MRS. LAMB RETURNS TO PITMUIR

When Mr. Isaac Luker and his client, Mrs. Gregory Lamb, arrived at the small roadside station, in the county of Forfar, towards which they had been journeying throughout the day, they were neither of them in the best of tempers. It had been a long day's journey. There had been some misunderstanding about the connection of the trains at Dundee. They had missed the one by which they had meant to travel; there had been a dreary wait for the next. When at last they started on the last stage of their journey the engine went dawdling along the branch line in a style which both, in their then frame of mind, found equally trying. They would hardly, at any time, have been called a sympathetic couple. Neither, for instance, would have selected the other as an only companion on a desert island. By the time the train paused for, so far as they were concerned, its final stoppage, either would have been almost willing to fly to a desert island to escape the other's society.

It was between nine and ten at night-a misty night. The damp seemed to be rising out of the ground, and to be covering the country with a corpse-like pallor. There was a faint movement in the air, which it did not need a very imaginative mind to compare to a whisper of death. They were the only passengers who alighted at the station, which seemed to consist of but a narrow strip of bare earth, about the centre of which was constructed what looked like a ramshackle shed. Illumination was given by two or three oil lamps, and by a lantern which the only visible official carried in his hand. To this personage Mrs. Lamb addressed herself.

"Is any one waiting for me?"

The official proved to be a Scotsman of a peculiarly Scotch type; his manners and his temper were both his own. No attempt is made to reproduce the dialect in which he spoke.

"And who might you happen to be?"

"I'm Mrs. Gregory Lamb."

"Never heard the name. Pass out! Tickets!"

Mr. Luker nudged the lady's arm.

"I thought you telegraphed under the name of Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame?"

She made a somewhat ill-considered attempt to correct the error she had made.

"I mean that I'm Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame."

"Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame? You said just now that you were Mrs. Gregory Lamb."

"I spoke without thinking. I telegraphed some instructions to the station-master in the name of Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame."

"In the name of Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame? A body can't have two names."

"I ordered a close carriage to meet Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame by the train before this, then, when I found I'd missed it, I sent a wire from Dundee to order the carriage to wait for the next."

"There's no carriage within miles."

"No carriage? Then what is there?"

"There's what they call a fly."

"And is the fly here?"

"Sam Harris wouldn't let it come."

"Who's Sam Harris?"

"He's the man that owns it."

"And pray why wouldn't Mr. Harris let it come?"

"You'd better be asking him instead of me. He lives about two miles from here-perhaps a trifle over."

"Two miles! Then is there nothing here to meet us?"

"There's a cart."

"A cart! – an open cart! – in this weather! What kind of cart?"

"He was outside the gate when I saw him last, but maybe by now he's grown tired of waiting, and he's gone. If you go outside you'll be able to see for yourself what kind of cart it is better than I can tell you. Any way, you can't stop here; I'm off home. Tickets! – and if you haven't your tickets you'll have to pay your fare-that's all."

The two passengers surrendered their tickets. With such dignity as she could muster the lady strode towards the little wooden gate, Mr. Luker following limply behind. He made no attempt to feign a sense of dignity which he did not possess. To judge from his appearance and his attitude he had not only sunk into the lowest stage of depression, but he was willing that all the world should know it. A very woebegone figure he looked: so tall and so thin, with the pronounced stoop; in the old familiar garments which he had worn for so many years in town, a costume which seemed singularly out of place on that spot just then; the frayed, shabby frock-coat, tightly buttoned up the front, the collar of which he now wore turned up about his chin; the trousers which were at once too baggy and too short; the ancient top-hat, which had seen so many better days.

Outside the gate was what, in the semi-darkness, looked uncommonly like an ordinary farmer's cart, and not too comfortable, or cleanly, an example of its class. Mrs. Lamb stared at it in disgust.

"Have you brought that thing for me?"

As regards manners the driver seemed to be a near relation of the railway official's, if anything his were more pronounced.

"I don't know who you are. How am I to know?"

"I'm Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame of Pitmuir."

"Oh; that's what you call yourself-ah!"

"You appear to be an impudent fellow."

"And you appear to be a free-spoken woman."

"How dare you talk to me like that? I ask you again, have you brought this thing for me?"

"I've brought this thing, as you call it, which is as decent a cart as ever you saw, and more decent maybe than you deserve to sit in, to carry the person as calls herself Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame to Pitmuir, and I'm beginning to wish I hadn't."

"Why is there no fly here?"

"Because Sam Harris wouldn't let his come."

"Why not? I ordered it."

"You ordered it! Mr. Harris said that he wasn't going to have the likes of you sitting in a fly of his-that's why. So he sent this cart instead. If this cart isn't good enough, I'll take it back at once. I'll take it back anyhow if there's much more talking."

The lady and her solicitor exchanged glances. While they were apparently seeking for words the driver volunteered another remark, in keeping with those which had gone before.

"There's another thing. I'm to be paid before I started; Mr. Harris said I was."

"You'll be paid when you reach Pitmuir."

"Shall I? Then I'll say good-night."

The man gathered up his reins as if about to depart.

"Stop! What are you doing? You appear to be a pleasant character."

"From all accounts, ma'am, that's more than can be said of you."

Under other circumstances the fellow might perhaps have regretted his temerity. Mrs. Lamb was not a lady to quietly endure impertinence from any one. As matters stood she was at his mercy, a fact of which he was evidently aware. She had to choke back her resentment as best she could.

"How much do you mean to charge?"

"There's twelve shillings for driving you; there's three for waiting; there's five for myself-that's a sovereign."

"A sovereign! – monstrous!"

"Very well; there's no call for you to pay it. I tell you again, I'll say good-night."

Mr. Luker interposed.

"How far is it?"

"Better than five miles."

"And how long will it take, in this delectable vehicle of yours, to get us there?"

"An hour or thereabouts. The road's none so good, and it's not easy going on a night like this. It's thicker over yonder."

"And for an hour, or thereabouts, I'm to be jolted, over a bad road, through this death-like mist. Thank you; the prospect is not inviting. I think we had better go over in the morning. Where, in the neighbourhood, can we get a night's lodging?"

"Nowhere."

"Nowhere? Are you sure?"

"If you think you know better than me you'd better go and look for yourself. I tell you there's not a house round here where they'd have you under the roof-nor her either. I wouldn't, nor yet Mr. Harris, nor any one else."

"This is delightful-thoroughly delightful."

Anything less suggestive of delight than his tone could hardly be imagined. The lady spoke.

"I telegraphed to an old servant of mine, Martha Blair, to go up to the house and to take some one with her, or if she couldn't go herself then to get two other girls to go, to light fires and to make things ready for my coming. Do you know who has gone?"

"No one's gone; I do know that. You'd get no woman from round here to go up to Pitmuir at night, especially if it was known that you were coming."

"Prospects grow more and more delightful."

This was a groan from Mr. Luker. The lady, taking him by the coat sleeve, began to talk to him in an undertone. The driver promptly interrupted.

"If you two are going to talk things over between yourselves you can do it after I'm gone. I'm off; I've had enough of waiting, so I'll wish you both good-night."

The lady stopped him; she drew out her purse.

"Here's a sovereign. Now drive us to Pitmuir, and be as quick as you can."

The man examined the coin as well as he could in such a light; he even tested its quality with his teeth. Drawing a bag from some mysterious receptacle inside his waistcoat, he untied a piece of cord which tied it round the neck, placed the coin carefully within, feeling it to make sure that it was, retied the bag, and returned it to its place. These operations took some time; before they were concluded his two passengers were more tired of waiting than he was. Mrs. Lamb mounted to the seat beside the driver. Mr. Luker scrambled into the vehicle itself. There was nothing for him to do but to squat upon the floor, making himself as comfortable as he could by leaning his back against the side. Then the cart started.

The driver had been perfectly correct in stating that it was not a very good road. So far as could be judged in the mist and the darkness, when one had to rely entirely on the sense of feeling, it consisted for the most part of ruts and ditches. The springs upon which the body of the cart was hung were not very resilient, indeed they were rudimentary. Mrs. Lamb had all she could do to keep on the seat; the gentleman behind was shaken in such a style that he had traversed the whole interior of the vehicle before he had gone two miles. Considering all things, it was perhaps as well that the rate of progress was not more rapid, though the driver had a somewhat disconcerting knack when the road was excruciatingly bad of seeming to move faster than was absolutely necessary, and when it was comparatively smooth of going slower than he need. More than once Mrs. Lamb tried to engage him in conversation, putting questions to him on subjects on which she was particularly anxious to obtain information. She desired to know if Nannie Foreshaw was still in the flesh; how Dr. Twelves was getting on; if he yet practised, and so on. But the man either paid no heed at all, or, if he replied, his answers were of such an unsatisfactory nature, conveying such extremely unflattering allusions, that the lady was finally convinced that she had better remain, however unwillingly, in ignorance than attempt to obtain enlightenment from such an impossible quarter. She would have liked to have taken the fellow suddenly by the shoulders and flung him out of the cart. He would possibly have found her capable of doing it. More than once she was on the point of making the effort, only an overwhelming consciousness of the greatness of the issue which was at stake restrained her.

At last, after what seemed very much more than an hour's drive, he brought the vehicle to a sudden stop.

"You'll get out here," he intimated to them curtly.

"Get out?" The lady peered about her through the mist and darkness. "This is not the house."

"Yon's Pitmuir."

"Pitmuir? But I paid you to drive us to the house; I can see no signs of it."

"You did not. I'd not drive you to the house for a pocketful of money."

"What fresh trick are you going to try on now? And what tomfoolery are you talking?"

"It's tomfoolery maybe, and maybe it isn't. You said, carry you to Pitmuir, and I've carried you. Do you know they say that Cuthbert Grahame's walking about among the trees, waiting in the avenue, looking for the woman who called herself his wife. Do you think I'll take you to meet him? Not while I've my senses. If you are set on meeting him, you'll not meet him in my company-that's my last word. Yon's Pitmuir. That's the gate in front, not a dozen yards from where we are-that's nearer than I care for. You'll just both of you get out."