"Yes, yes! Fetch her out at once. I will follow you on my bicycle." And the two men rushed from the house.
Laurence knew in an instant what had happened.
The Marquis of Moorland"s savage bloodhounds were in pursuit of the Squire"s enemy--the Thug!
Two minutes later Nichols (one of the Marquis"s coachmen) was thundering down the road on the bare-backed mare, while Laurence, pedalling as hard as he could, followed close behind.
Villagers were scattered about along the lane. They shrieked out that the hounds had pa.s.sed a few minutes before.
On and on the riders sped, Nichols freely using the hunting crop he had caught up on leaving the Manse stables. Still there was no sign of either the hounds or their quarry.
There were trees at intervals along the narrow lane. Out of one of these, as the riders pa.s.sed, there protruded a head and a white startled face. Laurence glanced up, though knowing well that it could not be that of the Thug, since the bloodhounds were not visible.
To his astonishment he perceived that the man who had taken refuge in the tree was Horncastle, the convict servant from Durley Dene!
Now they had left the village--straggling though it was--far behind them. The road began to get steeper and steeper. They were ascending to the great moor. The pace began to tell upon the mare, and Laurence, being out of training, was beginning to feel pains in his calves; but still they kept on, the cyclist now abreast with the horseman.
How was it possible that a man on foot could keep up such a pace?--such was Nichols" thought. Laurence did not wonder. His father"s story--contained in the little red note-book--had opened his eyes to the weird and wonderful accomplishments of the Thugs, and he had seen the activity demonstrated by this particular individual in the barn.
The road now became more and more uneven. In places the gra.s.s grew upon it. It had formerly been used by carriers" and other carts, but the advent of the railway had thrown it into disuse. Now it was seldom, if ever, that a cart pa.s.sed along it.
Once the mare stumbled and nearly fell, but Nichols managed to retain his seat. Then, with a din only equalled by the report of a gun, the tyre of the front wheel of Laurence"s bicycle punctured, terrifying the already alarmed mare, who was cantering abreast of the cyclist. But neither stopped. The work for both cyclist and horse was becoming harder, the incline steeper, and the surface of the pathway less even.
But the pace did not suffer.
At last they were on the plateau. Now they could see for miles over the flat scrubby moorland, on which hardly a tree appeared to break the monotony of the scene. Yet, wonder of wonders, there was no sign either of the hounds or their victim! And yet they could not have turned off in any other direction. Here and there on the wet road impressions of dogs"
toe-pads had been visible even from the saddle. What had become of the fleet-footed Thug, tracked to his doom by the fierce bloodhounds of the Marquis of Moorland? Nichols pulled up his mount, drew a powerful-looking whistle from his pocket, and blew a long, loud blast on it. Why he had not done so before was a mystery.
But there came no response.
It was impossible that either the man or the hounds could have disappeared out of sight, since, as has already been said, it was now possible to see for many miles across the flat country.
Nichols was wiping his ashy face with a red handkerchief.
"Good Lord, sir, what shall we do?" he moaned. "Those dogs are worth two hundred pounds, and--the gent, what"s become of him?"
"Goodness only knows," replied Laurence. "They have all disappeared as though the earth had swallowed them up!" Then, as he uttered the words, an idea struck him.
Had the earth really swallowed them up?
"Come!" he shouted; "the Wizard"s Marsh!" But on the rough, uneven surface of the ground he could not proceed on his machine.
"Leave the mare where she is," he called to Nichols, as he jumped from his bicycle and threw it down; "leave the mare, and let us run over to the marsh. Perhaps this----" But his words were lost, save to the sharp north wind, for he had rushed forward in the direction of a stone pillar that rose some thousands of yards on.
That stone quaintly announced that to proceed any farther in a certain direction would be fatal. The traveller would suddenly step from hard, dry ground into a dark, fathomless depth of marsh, half a mile square--a grim pitfall for the unwary, of Nature"s design, known to the local yarn-spinners as the "Wizard"s Marsh," and to geologists as a queer and interesting natural freak.
Fresher than his companion, the young coachman quickly overtook Laurence, and the two coursed along in the direction of the venerable moss-grown warning stone. In places there were dots of marsh, in which the runners" feet sank to the ankle; but, heedless of anything in their excitement, they did not pause until the stone was reached.
Then, treading with the utmost caution, they commenced to circle the treacherous quagmire, seeking for some trace of the vanished man and his savage canine pursuers. And they did not search in vain.
Suddenly Nichols stopped. Pointing to a mark on the ground, he exclaimed--
"Someone has stepped here lately. A man in stockinged feet."
"That"s right," cried Laurence; "the Indian does not wear boots."
"And never will," replied the coachman grimly. "His body and the hounds have gone down, down into the marsh. See, here is the mark of one of the hounds. They have all gone down together. Oh, Lord, how awful, and all my fault!"
"No, not your fault, Nichols. You couldn"t help the hounds escaping.
They scented the Indian, and for some reason or other started in pursuit. But what"s this?" He bent down, picked up something that lay on the very brink of the bubbling marsh, and examined it.
It was a long, narrow strip of yellowish hairy cloth--the harmless-looking weapon by means of which the Thug had attempted the murder of Squire Carrington!
No possible shadow of doubt remained but that the terrible avenger from over the sea had perished in the Wizard"s Marsh.
The Squire"s dread and danger were at an end. His merciless foe was no more.
CHAPTER x.x.xIII
A MAN FROM THE GRAVE
There was nothing to be done.
The possibility of recovering the Indian"s body from the Wizard"s Marsh was a remote one, and, even were it done, what would the advantage of such a recovery be? Christian burial would be denied to such a creature, and with good reason.
It was with a certain feeling of satisfaction, combined with horror at the nature of the Thug"s end, that Laurence rode slowly home on his bicycle, accompanied by Nichols, mounted on the mare.
On their way they pa.s.sed a woman, who was commencing the long trudge across the moor in somewhat tattered attire, and with a ponderous bundle on her shoulders.
Something in her figure being familiar to Laurence, he scrutinised her features as she tramped past.
"She" was the person who had taken refuge in the tree from the bloodhounds who were pursuing the fugitive Thug--the convict servant, Horncastle, from Durley Dene! What did it mean? Where was he going?
Laurence had not to wait long for an answer to these questions.
He took leave of Nichols, and entered the dining-room on arriving home.
Lena was not present, but the young man was surprised to find Mrs. Knox still engaged in breaking her fast. The final events in the unravelling of the mystery surrounding the Squire"s enemy had not covered a very great s.p.a.ce of time.
"Young man," said the worthy old lady, "I would have a word with you."
And she tried to look extremely severe.
"Certainly, Mrs. Knox. I hope it is something pleasant."
"Well, that remains to be seen. What I want to know is this: are you interested in my niece?"