my father talks of them as though they were—it is a little weakness of his—the old de la Molles are not our direct male ancestors.”
“Well,” said Harold, “and did Dofferleigh find the treasure?”
“No, ah, no, nor anybody else; the treasure has vanished. He hunted for it a great deal, and he did find those pieces of plate which you saw to-night, hidden away somewhere, I don’t know where, but there was nothing else with them.”
“Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense,” said Harold reflectively.
“No,” answered Ida shaking her head, “I am sure it was not, I am sure the treasure is hidden away somewhere to this day. Listen, Colonel Quaritch—you have not heard quite all the story yet—I found something.”
“You, what?”
“Wait a minute and I will show you,” and going to a cabinet in the corner, she unlocked it, and took out a despatch box, which she also unlocked.
“Here,” she said, “I found this. It is the Bible that Sir James begged might be sent to his son, just before they shot him, you remember,” and she handed him a small brown book. He took it and examined it carefully. It was bound in leather, and on the cover was written in large letters, “Sir James de la Molle. Honham Castle, 1611.” Nor was this all. The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest copies of the authorised version, were torn out, and the top corner was also gone, having to all appearance been shot off by a bullet, a presumption that a dark stain of blood upon the cover and edges brought near to certainty.
“Poor gentleman,” said Harold, “he must have had it in his pocket when he was shot. Where did you find it?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ida, “in fact I have no doubt of it. I found it when I was a child in an ancient oak chest in the basement of the western tower, quite hidden up in dusty rubbish and bits of old iron. But look at the end and you will see what he wrote in it to his son, Edward. Here, I will show you,” and leaning over him she turned to the last page of the book. Between the bottom of the page and the conclusion of the final chapter of Revelations there had been a small blank space now densely covered with crabbed writing in faded ink, which she read aloud. It ran as follows:
“Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly done to death by rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to God’s will. And now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in heaven. My monies have I hid and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom God shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for nought can I communicate.”
“There,” said Ida triumphantly, “what do you think of that, Colonel Quaritch? The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe,” and she laid her white finger upon the faded characters, “lies the key to wherever it is that the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out. For years I have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form of acrostic, but I can make nothing of it. I have tried it all ways. I have translated it into French, and had it translated into Latin, but still I can find out nothing—nothing. But some day somebody will hit upon it—at least I hope so.”
Harold shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said, “that what has remained undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter. Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!”
“No,” said Ida, “for if he was, what became of all the money? He was known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we can see from his letter to the King. There was nothing found after his death, except his lands, of course. Oh, it will be found someday, twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to us,” and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression spread itself over her handsome face.
“Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be something in it. May I take a copy of that writing?”
“Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure we will go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.”
Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again. Looking at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with “George” had evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceedingly low spirits.
“Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter.
“Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones. “George has been here, that is all.”
“Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said with a little stamp of her foot, “for he always brings some bad news or other.”
“It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn’t George. I really don’t know what has come to the country.”
“What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety. “Something wrong with the Moat Farm?”
“Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know where I am to find another tenant.”
“You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel Quaritch,” said Ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not convey a great sense of cheerfulness.
“Yes,” he said, “I know. Thank goodness I have only the ten acres that my dear old aunt left to me. And now,” he added, “I think that I must be saying good-night. It is half-past ten, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson is sitting up for me.”
Ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to speak, and then for some reason that did not appear changed her mind and held out her hand. “Good-night, Colonel Quaritch,” she said; “I am so pleased that we are going to have you as a neighbour. By-the-way, I have a few people coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you come too?”
“What,” broke in the Squire, in a voice of irritation, “more lawn tennis parties, Ida? I think that you might have spared me for once—with all this business on my hands, too.”
“Nonsense, father,” said his daughter, with some acerbity. “How can a few people playing lawn tennis hurt you? It is quite useless to shut oneself up and be miserable over things that one cannot help.”
The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and meekly asked who was coming.
“Oh, nobody in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries—Mr. Jeffries is our clergyman, you know, Colonel Quaritch—and Dr. Bass and the two Miss Smiths, one of whom he is supposed to be in love with, and Mr. and Mrs. Quest, and Mr. Edward Cossey, and a few more.”
“Mr. Edward Cossey,” said the Squire, jumping off his chair; “really, Ida, you know I detest that young man, that I consider him an abominable young man; and I think you might have shown more consideration to me than to have asked him here.”
“I could not help it, father,” she answered coolly. “He was with Mrs. Quest when I asked her, so I had to ask him too. Besides, I rather like Mr. Cossey, he is always so polite, and I don’t see why you should take such a violent prejudice against him. Anyhow, he is coming, and there is an end of it.”
“Cossey, Cossey,” said Harold, throwing himself
