The House of Strange Secrets: A Detective Story

by A. Eric Bayly

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE WIZARD'S MARSH

  It was the following morning.

  Nothing eventful had transpired since Laurence's return from DurleyDene, save that in the night watches the young man had fancied he heardoccasional sounds from the garden of the adjoining mansion. What thesesounds were he could not say, and as it was too dark for him to perceiveanything outside when he rose and peered out of the window, he wasunable to discover whether or no anything unusual had taken place.

  The Squire's condition continued to improve, but he made no mention tohis son of the little red note-book and the life story it contained;nor, in fact, did he in any way refer to the matter foremost in point ofinterest.

  Laurence was breakfasting with Lena and Mrs. Knox, who, as usual, didjustice to the array of dishes judiciously placed within her reach bythe elderly butler. The three had been conversing upon every-daysubjects, when the door opened, and Kingsford came hurriedly in.

  "Please, sir," he said, "there's a man outside wants to see you verypertikler, at once, if you please."

  Obtaining the ladies' permission for him to leave the table, Laurencefollowed the butler outside into the front hall, where stood a littleman in a loud check suit and tight leggings. The man looked as thoughusually his face was rubicund; now it was white as the traditionalsheet.

  "Oh, my God, Mr. Laurence!" he almost shrieked on catching sight ofCarrington; "they're after him! They'll kill him! They'll tear him inpieces! Quick, quick! What can be done, sir? Oh, they'll hang me formurder!"

  "Calm yourself, my dear Nichols," replied Laurence, "and tell medistinctly what's the matter. Anything happened to the Marquis?"

  "No, sir," replied Nichols, trembling with fear; "the Markiss's allright, but it's your visitor!"

  "What visitor?"

  "Why, the gent with the black face and the dress!"

  "Gent with black face and dress!" echoed Laurence. "Quick, what do youmean? What has happened to him?"

  "I was taking Tiger and Nap for exercise, sir, when suddenly, as thoughthey scented something unusual, they both jumped forward, knocking medown. When I fell down I let loose of the leash, and they simply flewaway across the fields in this direction--me after them. I vaulted thegate by the common in time to catch sight of a queer little gent withblack face and an old black coat, and some kind of dress on, tearingdown the road with the hounds after him. I tried to follow, but lostsight of 'em in no time. Then I ran back as hard as I could for a horse,and a lad at the gate told me he'd seen the black gent come out of yourgate. Let me have the mare, sir, quick."

  "Yes, yes! Fetch her out at once. I will follow you on my bicycle." Andthe 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 theSquire's enemy--the Thug!

  Two minutes later Nichols (one of the Marquis's coachmen) was thunderingdown the road on the bare-backed mare, while Laurence, pedalling as hardas he could, followed close behind.

  Villagers were scattered about along the lane. They shrieked out thatthe hounds had passed a few minutes before.

  On and on the riders sped, Nichols freely using the hunting crop he hadcaught up on leaving the Manse stables. Still there was no sign ofeither the hounds or their quarry.

  There were trees at intervals along the narrow lane. Out of one ofthese, as the riders passed, there protruded a head and a white startledface. Laurence glanced up, though knowing well that it could not be thatof the Thug, since the bloodhounds were not visible.

  To his astonishment he perceived that the man who had taken refuge inthe tree was Horncastle, the convict servant from Durley Dene!

  Now they had left the village--straggling though it was--far behindthem. The road began to get steeper and steeper. They were ascending tothe great moor. The pace began to tell upon the mare, and Laurence,being out of training, was beginning to feel pains in his calves; butstill 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?--suchwas Nichols' thought. Laurence did not wonder. His father'sstory--contained in the little red note-book--had opened his eyes to theweird and wonderful accomplishments of the Thugs, and he had seen theactivity demonstrated by this particular individual in the barn.

  The road now became more and more uneven. In places the grass grew uponit. It had formerly been used by carriers' and other carts, but theadvent of the railway had thrown it into disuse. Now it was seldom, ifever, that a cart passed along it.

  Once the mare stumbled and nearly fell, but Nichols managed to retainhis seat. Then, with a din only equalled by the report of a gun, thetyre of the front wheel of Laurence's bicycle punctured, terrifying thealready alarmed mare, who was cantering abreast of the cyclist. Butneither stopped. The work for both cyclist and horse was becomingharder, 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 theflat scrubby moorland, on which hardly a tree appeared to break themonotony of the scene. Yet, wonder of wonders, there was no sign eitherof the hounds or their victim! And yet they could not have turned off inany 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 thefleet-footed Thug, tracked to his doom by the fierce bloodhounds of theMarquis of Moorland? Nichols pulled up his mount, drew apowerful-looking whistle from his pocket, and blew a long, loud blast onit. 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 havedisappeared out of sight, since, as has already been said, it was nowpossible 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 twohundred pounds, and--the gent, what's become of him?"

  "Goodness only knows," replied Laurence. "They have all disappeared asthough 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, unevensurface of the ground he could not proceed on his machine.

  "Leave the mare where she is," he called to Nichols, as he jumped fromhis bicycle and threw it down; "leave the mare, and let us run over tothe marsh. Perhaps this----" But his words were lost, save to the sharpnorth wind, for he had rushed forward in the direction of a stone pillarthat rose some thousands of yards on.

  That stone quaintly announced that to proceed any farther in a certaindirection would be fatal. The traveller would suddenly step from hard,dry ground into a dark, fathomless depth of marsh, half a mile square--agrim pitfall for the unwary, of Nature's design, known to the localyarn-spinners as the "Wizard's Marsh," and to geologists as a queer andinteresting natural freak.

  Fresher than his companion, the young coachman quickly overtookLaurence, and the two coursed along in the direction of the venerablemoss-grown warning stone. In places there were dots of marsh, in whichthe runners' feet sank to the ankle; but, heedless of anything in theirexcitement, they did not pause until the stone was reached.

  Then, treading with the utmost caution, they commenced to circle thetreacherous quagmire, seeking for some trace of the vanished man and hissavage canine pursuers. And they did not search in vain.

  Suddenly Nichols stopped. Pointing to a mark on the ground, heexclaimed--

  "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 houndshave gone down, down into the marsh. See, here is the mark of one ofthe hounds. They have all gone down together. Oh, Lord, how awful, andall 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 inpursuit. But what's this?" He bent down, picked up something that lay onthe very brink of the bubbling marsh, and examined it.

  It was a long, narrow strip of yellowish hairy cloth--theharmless-looking weapon by means of which the Thug had attempted themurder of Squire Carrington!

  No possible shadow of doubt remained but that the terrible avenger fromover the sea had perished in the Wizard's Marsh.

  The Squire's dread and danger were at an end. His merciless foe was nomore.