The dog Dando had followed her unchidden. He alone of all that had pertained to Aymer and Violet, Agnes had retained. He knew the old path so well. He crouched so still at the foot of the great oak trunk. So quietly, so heedlessly, taking no heed of the figure, the shadow that stole onward in the dark beneath the beech trees—stole forward from trunk to trunk, from bunch of fern to hawthorn bush.
A grey shadow in the form of a man—a crouching, stealthy, gliding approach—yet the dog Dando made no sign. And Agnes stood with arms extended almost over the mouth of “The Pot.” And the grey shadow reached the hollow oak trunk.
In the left hand of this shadow was a tin whistle.
X
After a while, Aymer awoke from the stupor into which the drug that had been administered to him had thrown his senses. His awakening was more painful than the first effects of the poison. His head felt as heavy as lead, and there was a dull pain across his brow. A languid helplessness seemed to possess his limbs, he could not walk across the room, and with difficulty stretched out his hand to the bell-rope. Then all the designs upon the wallpapering got mixed up before his eyes in a fantastic dance, which made him giddy, till he was obliged to shut them. His consciousness had as yet barely sufficiently returned for him to notice that he was in a different apartment to any he had hitherto occupied at the asylum. He must have had partial returns to consciousness previously, for he found himself sitting in a large armchair, half clad, and wearing a dressing-gown. A second pull at the bell-rope brought footsteps outside the door, which sounded heavy upon the boards, evidently uncarpeted. Then a key turned in the lock outside, at the sound of that Aymer opened his eyes quickly, and a strong-looking man, whom he had never seen before, peered in.
“Where is Mr. Theodore?” said Aymer. “Is Miss Waldron come? Tell them I am better. Ask her to see me. What has been the matter with me?”
“You’ve had one of your fits, sir,” replied the man, very civilly, but in an indifferent tone.
“My fits! I never have fits. Why do you stand in the doorway? Why was the door locked?”
“All right sir—don’t excite yourself. There, you see you can’t stand. It’s your head, sir, your head.”
“Send me a doctor instantly,” said Aymer.
“A doctor? He’s been to see you three or four times.”
“Three or four times! How long have I been ill, then?”
“Oh, five days, I think. Let’s see, you were brought over here on the Tuesday I remember—yes, five days.”
“Brought over here? What do you mean? Who the deuce are you?” said Aymer, for the first time growing suspicious, and standing up by dint of effort.
“Do sit still, sir, and keep calm, or you’ll have another fit. My name’s Davidson; I’m a warder; and I’ll take good care of you, sir, if you’ll only keep quiet.”
The truth flashed into Aymer’s mind in an instant.
“Do you mean to say I am in the madhouse?” he asked, quietly.
“Well, no, sir, not quite so bad as that. This is an asylum, sir.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were carried over in your fit.”
“And where’s Miss Waldron? Tell her to come to me at once.”
“There’s no Miss Waldron, sir; your head is not quite clear yet.”
“What! you don’t mean to say that you believe me mad?”
“Well, your papers is all right, sir.”
Aymer lost his temper, as well he might.
“Mr. Theodore must be mad,” he said. “Tell him to come at once; no, I’ll go to him.”
With an effort he reached the door; but Davidson easily kept him back with one hand, in his weak state.
“Now do keep quiet, sir—do sit down.”
“I tell you I’m the secretary,” said Aymer, his breath coming fast and thick, for he began to feel that he was trapped.
“Ay, ay, sir; they all say that, or something like it. You see, we likes to get people to come quiet, without any noise. One gent came here thinking it was his family mansion, and he was a duke. If you’ll sit down, sir, I’ll get you anything you want.”
Poor Aymer was obliged to totter to his chair.
“And where’s Violet—where’s Miss Waldron?” he said.
“There isn’t no such person, sir. ’Tis your head; you’ll be better presently. I’ll look in again by-and-by.”
The door shut, the lock turned. Aymer knew that he was a prisoner. For a few minutes he really was mad, frenzied with unusual passion and indignation, to be trapped like an animal lured on by provender, and for what purpose? Ah, for what purpose? Violet—it must be Violet—her claim to the Stirmingham estate. He was trapped that he might not follow up the clue. Where was she? Doubtless spirited away somewhere, or perhaps expecting him at Belthrop, thinking he was coming to her. They would be sure to keep them as far apart as possible. Theodore was Marese Baskette’s cousin, his friend, his confidant; he saw it all—he had been drugged, stupefied, made to utter every species of nonsense, to appear literally mad. He looked round the room; it was to all appearance an ordinary apartment, except that the door was strong, and without panels to weaken it. He staggered to the window, he put it up; there were no bars, no iron rods to prevent him getting out; but he looked down—a drop of twenty feet—into a narrow, stone-paved courtyard. A bitter thought entered his mind: they would rather like him to commit suicide out of that window. Opposite, about ten feet distant, ran
