The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume

truth of Hagar's reading by discovering the picture; also he had seen Marion Danetree, and told her of the good fortune which was coming. She would be able to buy back the lost acres of the family, to restore and refurnish the old house, to take up her position again in the county, and reign once more as the lady of Danetree Hall. All this Frank told his father, and the old man's brow grew black as night.

      "You have made her rich!" he muttered--"that proud girl who looks upon you as dirt beneath her feet."

      Frank smiled. He had not told his father the termination of the interview with Marion; nor did he intend to do so at present.

      "We'll talk of Marion and her pride to-morrow," he said, rising; "I am going to bed just now; but you know how I discovered the picture, and how it has been restored to the Danetrees as grandfather wished."

      When his son left the room, Luke Parsons sat with folded hands and a dull pain in his heart. It was gall and wormwood to him that the woman who rejected Frank should acquire wealth and regain her position through the aid of the man she despised. Oh, if he could only hide the picture, or even destroy it!--anything rather than that proud Marion Danetree should be placed on an eminence to look down on his bright boy. To rob her of this newly-found wealth--to take away the picture---Parsons felt that he would commit even a crime.

      And why should he not? Frank had left the key on the table--the copper key which was to be placed in the left eye of the cherub. Parsons knew well enough--from the explanation of his son--how the key was to be used; how his father had designed the hiding-place of the Castagno picture. The lock and key which had belonged to the First Charles had been given to the old man by his master. He had placed the first behind the cherub, with the keyhole in the left eye, so as to keep the panel or portion of the wall in its place; and on the second he had graven the numbers indicating the locality. Parsons rose to his feet and stretched out his hand for the copper key. When he touched it, all his scruples vanished. He made up his mind then and there to go up that night to the Hall and destroy the picture. Then Marion Danetree would no longer be rich, or benefit by the secret which Frank had discovered. It will be seen that Mr. Parsons never thought of Hagar's share in the reading of the cypher.

      As steward he had keys of all the doors in the Hall, and was able easily to gain admission at whatever hour he chose. He chose to enter now, and with a lantern in his hand, and a clasp-knife hidden in his pocket, he went on his errand of destruction. Unlocking a small side door under the greater terrace, he passed along the dark underground passages, ascending to the upper floor, and in a short space of time he found himself in "The Cherubs' Room."

      It was a large and lofty apartment, paneled with oak darkened by time and carved with fruit and flowers and foliage after the mode of Grinling Gibbons. Between each panel there was a beautifully-carven cherub's head, with curly hair, and wings placed crosswise under the chin. The moonlight streaming in through the wide and uncurtained windows showed all these things clearly to the wild eyes of the old man; and he made haste to fulfil his task before the moon should set and leave him in darkness. Swinging the lantern so that its yellow light should illuminate the walls, Parsons counted the cherubs' heads between the panels, starting from the door, and was rewarded by finding the one he sought. The left eye of this face was pierced, and into it he inserted the slender copper stem of the key. There was a cracking sound as he turned it, and then the whole of the panel swung outward to the left. On the back of this he beheld the picture of Andrea del Castagno. The sight of it was so unexpected that he started back with a cry, and let fall the lantern, which was immediately extinguished. However, this mattered little, as he had ample light in the rays of the summer moon. In the white radiance he relighted his candle, and then, betwixt the yellow glare of the one and the chill glimmer of the other, he examined the gem of art which, in the interests of mistaken pride, he proposed to destroy. It was beautiful beyond description.

      Under a lowly roof of thatched straw lay the Divine Child, stretching up His little Hands to the Holy Mother. With arms crossed upon her breast in ecstatic adoration, Mary bent over Him worshiping; and in the dim obscurity of the humble dwelling could be seen the tall form and reverend head of Joseph. Above spread the dark blue of the night sky, broken by golden dashes of color, in which were seen the majestic forms of wide-winged angels looking earthward. At the top of the picture there was a blaze of light radiating from the Godhead, and in the arrowy beam streaming downward floated the white specter of the Holy Dove. The marvelous beauty of the picture lay in the dispersion and disposition of the various lights: that mild luster which emanated from the Form of the Child, the aureole hovering round the bowed head of Mary; the glory of the golden atmosphere surrounding the angels; and, highest and most wonderful of all, the fierce white light which showered down, blinding the terrible, from the unseen Deity. The picture was majestic, sublime: a dream of lovely piety, a masterpiece of art.

      For the moment Parsons was spellbound before this wounderful creation which he intended to destroy. Almost he was tempted to forego his evil purpose, and to spare the beautiful vision which spread itself so gloriously before trial. But the thought of Marion and her scorn, of Frank and his hopeless love, decided him With a look of hatred he opened the knife, and raised the blade to slash the picture.

      "Stop!"

      With a cry, Parsons dropped the knife and wheeled round at that imperious command. At the further end of the room, candle in hand, stood the tall form of a woman. She wore a dressing-gown hastily thrown over her shoulders; her hair was loose, her feet were bare; and she approached the steward noiselessly and swiftly. It was Marion Danetree, and her eyes were full of anger.

      "What are you doing here at this time of night?" she demanded haughtily of the sullen old man. "I heard a cry and the noise of a fall, and I came down."

      "I want to spoil that picture," said Parsons between his teeth.

      "Destroy Castagno's 'Nativity'? Take away my only chance of restoring the family fortunes? You are mad."

      "No; I am Frank's father. You despise him; you hate him. Through him you have found the picture; but now---" He picked up the knife again.

      "Wait a moment!" said Marion, comprehending Parsons's motive; "if you destroy that picture, you prevent my marriage with Frank."

      "What?"--the knife crashed on the floor--"are you going to marry my boy?"

      "Yes. Did not Frank tell you? When we discovered the picture together this afternoon, he asked me to be his wife. I consented only too gladly."

      "But--but I thought you despised him!"

      "Despise him? I love him better than all the world! Go away, Mr. Parsons, and thank God that He sent me to prevent you committing a crime. I shall bring that picture to Frank as my dowry. He shall take my name, and there will once more be a Squire Danetree at the Hall."

      "O Miss Danetree--Marion--forgive me!" cried Parsons, quite broken down.

      "I forgive you; it was love for Frank made you think of this folly. But go--go! it is not seemly that you should be here at this hour of the night."

      Parsons closed up the panel in silence, locked it, and turned to go. But as he passed her he held out his hand.

      "What is this?" asked Marion, smiling.

      "My gift to you--my marriage gift--the copper key which has brought you a husband and a fortune."

      Chapter VII.

       The Sixth Customer and the Silver Teapot

       Table of Contents

      Of all the people with whom Hagar had to do while managing the Lambeth pawn-shop, she liked always to remember Margaret Snow. The memory of that pale, blind old maid, with her sorrowful story and her patient endurance, never died out of the girl's heart. The pitiful little episode of the silver teapot, which she pawned so unwillingly, and only out of sheer necessity; the sad tale recounted by the crushed creature, and the unexpected part which she took herself in the conclusion of such tale: all these things served to keep green the memory of the sad woman whom Hagar called her sixth customer. There was even something