THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS.

King Country Chronicle, Volume IV, Issue 259, 14 May 1910, Page 4

THE FANSHAWES OF HAVILLANDS.

(All Rights Reserved.) TRACKED BY FATE, OR

. BY MAURICE SCOTT, Author of "The Pride of the Morays," "The Mark of the Broad Arrow," "Broken Bonds," etc. etc. TWENTY-STXTH INSTALMENT. She must do something—something —or her brain must inevitably give way ! Again her throat was on fire. The temptation to end her anguish drew her, in thought, back to the room where stood that carafe of cool, sparkling water. With what diabolical calculation had not Lemuel Fanshawe relied on her inability to resist the impulse to drink under her maddened, fevered state of panic ! She wandered up and down, in and out the grey, half-lighted rooms, and then half-way up a flight of stairs she suddenly found herself attracted to a small trap-door in the ceiling. She wondered why it seemed to compel her attention, being far above her reach, and so small it hardly appeared possible she could force her slight frame through it, even could she lift it upwards. . " Try, try !" She started. That was pure imagination, of course ; but a voice seemed to whisper the words distinctly in her ear : " Try, try, try !" A third time the voices whispered, and then her eyes came down to the actualities around her. She would try. Had not the good padres taught her that inspirations were often sent for our use and benefit which, out of our ignorance and incredulity, we thrust away ? At any rate, it would be a distraction, and would keep her from thinking of that alluring carafe. Now how to reach the trap-door. There was only one way—to drag out some furniture, and pile it as high as she could—high enough to climb up on and ascertain if the door were accessible.

Taking off the hat and new coat, Dorothy turned to with a will. It proved hard work for one with her slight physique, but the desperation of her case lent a fictitious strength to the fragile form which under other conditions would have appeared impossible. Mounting one table on top of another, and dragging up antique chairs and footstools, Dorothy at last erected a pyramid that looked within three feet of the trap. Once more, while resting a moment, breathless after her efforts, her nerve seemed just on the point of giving way,, and again came the voices whispering in her e a rs : "Courage ! Courage ! Persevert to the end. An ordeal lies before you ; you must not shirk it. The honour of your father, of your mother, lies above that trap-door. Will you falter and turn back after having once put your hand to the plough ?" Assuredly her mind was going. Why else should these strange imaginings seethe and riot through her brain ? She would climb up ; only by action, effort of some kind, could she hope to retain command of her faculties. Cautiously she mounted her "Jacob's ladder," and by dint of perseverance established herself safely on its summit, underneath the trapdoor. And then—joy ! the trap was unfastened, and yielded as she pushed it back, admitting a flood of daylight from, seemingly, some upper and unshuttered apartment. Dorothy was not sufficiently high to look in. to the room, but any place where existed the light of day were preferable to semi-darkness ; and so, with an upward prayer for help, she caught hold of the woodwork, and after several failures eventually scrambled through the trap on the floor above.

Breathless, she lay still for a moment, her eyes dazzled by the strong glare from a window in a slanting roof overhead. An attic, apparently. Then that spelt hope, for could she not climb out on to the roof—No, that were a vain project, for the skylight was covered by a thick iron grating, and the room very nearly destitute of furniture. She could not see much with which to construct another pyramid, except— She had raised herself to her feet, and now gave utterance to a bloodcurdling cry of horror. For there, seated in a big, cavernous chair—which with a table and a small iron-bound chest, constituted the only furniture in the room, sat a ghastly, grinning skeleton, the bony jaws gleaming as the sun's rays shone down obliquely, the awful fingers clutching the arms of the chair, almost as if in an effort to rise and question this intrusion on its privacy. And this horrible sight proved, indeed, more than already overstrung nerves could bear ; and with a second wild shriek of agonized terror poor little Dorothy fell senseless on the floor, as destitute, to all appearanees of life as the grim spectre of what once was human, which now, in the flickering sunlight, appeared to gibe and gibber at the reflection that to such a pass even this fair joung girl must one day come, CHAPTER XXVI. WITHIN THE WALLS. Ernest Trevedyn had arrived at Exeter in the early hours of a dull, dark morning, and elected to walk out to Havillands as the best possible means of escaping attention. For he wanted to reconnitre unobserved—to judge for himself the position of affairs. While inquiry in the village would inform him if Mr. Fanshawe or any

of his family had been seen in the neighbourhood,. it might equally warn the master of Havillands and enable him to frustrate any attempts at investigation. He meant to climb the park railings and look round the house first ; time enough to inquire in the village when personal endeavour failed.

Certainly, to all appearances the mansion was uninhabited —closed it was beyond the shadow of a doubt. Every blind was closely drawn ; every lower window "barred and shuttered. It was a square, unromantic building, a greater part of which, for lack of interest on the part of several mistresses in succession, had been suffered to fall into decay. The present owner and his wife chiefly preTerred to live in London and with a v-iew to render Havillands more snug as he expressed it, when he came down for the shooting, Mr. Fanshawe had built up strong doors cutting off the disused portions of the house, lessening the work of the servants by retaining only such rooms as were likely to be wanted, and stifling the fears of nervous visitors who might dread ghostly manifestations as likely to proceed from the unoccupied apartments. Something of all this Trevedyn remembered to have heard, also that the master of Havillands himself kept the keys of the communicating doors, and that no person, under any circumstances whatever, had ever been known to cross their threshold. But evidently the report that all the servants had travelled up with the family was correct, for not a chimney gave the faintest indication of smoke ; the kitchens and outbuildings were closed and silent. Then he must have taken his journey for nothing. Dorothy must still be at Rutland Gate, or—or— But it was impossible that Mr. Fanshawe could have brought her to Havillands. The huge isolated house bore the aspect of an immense mausoleum—a living tomb. A living tomb !

What a horrible suggestion !—an absurd one in the face of it, fit only for the most sensational melodrama. Ah, but what of his own startling experiences as a medical man in the clinical ward of a great London hospital ? Had not strange dramas and many veritable tragedies been enacted daily before his eyes, events that related to him as fiction would have appeared preposterous and unheard of ? And—did the adage respecting truth being stranger than fiction need confirmation ?—what about the stories furnished by the daily papers? Crime ! His heart stood still. Was there a man living who could incarcerate a lovely, innocent young girl in this wilderness of a house, and leave her there to perish alone ? Maddened with the thought he pulled the front hoor bell and knocked loudly, but, save the reverberations echoing along and around the vast hall within the portals, no response greeted his efforts. Dorothy could not possibly be inside the house ; to think so were the wildest imagintion. No man could be such a fiend incarnate. What of the rear of the mansion ? He proceeded through the flower gardens and round by the outbuildings, to find the same silence, the same absence of living evidence. Wait ! Surely that was a footstep. Dorothy herself perhaps, for it lacked the firmness of tread associated with a man. He must stand aside not to startle or alarm her. It would be most essential she , should be gently reassured. Maggie ? Were his ej es deceiving him ? He

left the partners in Brick-street and was certain she did not travel down by the same train. Yet here she was—wan, weary, dishevelled, but still Maggie ! The recognition was mutual, though the woman showed no astonishment. " I've been hopin' you'd turn up, sir," she said, hoarsely. " We've got to get inside that house, and so far it beats me." " Inside ! Why, is there any one " " Dorothy, sir." " Impossible !" "He brought her through the wood and came back without her," persisted Maggie. And rendered hoarse, almost voiceless by her long sleep in the damp night air, she related the incidents connected with the departure of the motor-car from Rutland Gate, and ride down, and how she had slept while on guard. " I c'uld ha' killed myself when I woke up," she said. " I'd slep' my senses away it seemed ; for at first I didn't know where I was or remember what had happened. An' then, like a shot everything came back to me, an' I jumped upright to find the front seat o' the car was empty, an' on'y by the merest stroke o' luck I saw him takin' Dorothy into the wood, an' in a second had lost sight o' 'em between the trees." " You saw--you are positive it was Dorothy ?" "I didn't see her face, but it was her right enough." " And then ?" " An' then I followed, but at a distance. I durs'n't go too near, for if he'd seen me, t'would ha' been all up with my chance o' helpin' her. The wood was thick, an' 'tweren't easy to keep to the path, all crampy an' stiff as I was lyin' huddled up in a heap all night. Then I lost sound on 'em an' seemed as I'd lost myself, too ; an' then, after a long time, I heard steps comin' an' had just time to hide in among the bushes when he come back by himself." " Alone ?" " All alone. He looked a bit whiter than before, or else it seemed so to me. I waited till he'd got well away, and then' as 'twas growin' lighter, I managed to find my way along here. That was a while before daylight, au' I bin tryin' off an' on to get in ev :r since."

" Merciful Heaven, Maggie !. What if he has " He threw off his overcoat and gloves and carefully examined every door and window on that side of the house. Most of them were overgrown with ivy and various creepers, the thickly-rusted bars and bolts bearing evidence of long years of disuse. " It seems impossible an entry can have been effected from this side," said Ernest. " This part of the building has been closed and desertid."

" Ain't that all the more reason tie'd bring her this way ?" cried Maglie. " For a time I was afraid he'd murder her in the wood—l was, doctor. If ever murder was in a man's !ace, 'twas in his when I looked out o' the bushes an' saw him pass by. But seein' no sign here, I went back an' hunted 'igh an' low, an' called an' even tried to sing 'Down on the Farm,' so's she would know Maggie was near an' tryin' to find her. An* svery time I came back here again it grew on me stronger an' stronger is he'd took her inside, an' left her bhere whether dead or alive, God Dn'y knows." The singer stopped and they looked at each other in horror, as a wild scream as of some one in pain or leadly fright broke on the stillness 3f the fresh morning air. The sound smanated from the interior of the louse ; or could it by any possibility be some cry of wild bird or beast deriving them both ?" " We've got to get inside," repeatsd Maggie, sturdily. "Loolv hsre, sir—look how this ivy's been pulled away, an' flakes o' rust knocked off this keyhole. The door's been open, in' not very long ago I reckon." "You're right, Maggie," cried Eraest applying his strong shoulders with a will ; but though the door appeared to yield slightly, the old lock held fast, and even his great strength appeared to produce but little effect. And then as he paused for breath a second bloodcurdling shriek rang out, this time unmistakably from inside the walls of Havillands ; and as Maggie cried ' That's Dorothy ! They're iillin' her !" Ernest hurled himself bodily against the door in an agonized desperation which appeared to endow him with powers beyond the normal. Once, twice, thrice, then the rusty lock sullenly gave way ; and as he steadied himself by the doorposts, Maggie, with a cry of relief and thanksgiving, rushed past him and into the house.

Then together they went in and out of rooms, along galleries, up broad oaken staircases —innumerable, as it seemed to Maggie—but all was sileat; no sound fell on their ears but the creaking of the ancient woodwork and the echo of their own footsteps. But presently the piled-up furniture appeared to their anxious eyes, and in a moment Ernest's tall figure was on the top and his head through the small trap which was too narrow admit the passage of his broad shoulders. And it shook even his strong selfcontrol for a moment as his horrified gaze fell on that ghoulish, grinning figure, staring, as it would appear, with its awe-striking empty sockets at the senseless girl on the floor. To reach out his long arms and draw her gently towards the trap was the work of a moment, then to remove part of Dorothy's " ladder " in order to allow a wider space through which to lift her down, and, with Maggie's aid from below to lower her gently to the floor of the landing. (To be Continued.)