Mrs. Lansdown eyed him steadily.
“Will you please tell me what this is all about?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head.
“I can’t tell you now. I’m sort of coming out of a mist, and I’m not sure of the objects that are looming up. I honestly believe you are both safe from danger, and that nobody is going to give you any trouble—yet a while.”
“Is all this about the key?” asked Sybil, listening in amazement.
“It is all about the key,” he repeated, and she had never seen him so grave. “What sort of a man was the late Lord Selford?” He directed his question to the mother, and she made a little grimace.
“He was not a nice man,” she said. “He drank, and there were one or two unsavoury incidents in his past that one doesn’t like to talk about, even if one knew the true facts. But then, all the Selfords were a little queer. The founder of the house behaved so badly in the fifteenth century that he was excommunicated by the Pope. You have heard of the Selford tombs?”
He shook his head. To all appearances the words had no significance to him. Tombs! His mind flashed back to Lew Pheeney—the man who had died because he had seen too much—the robber of graves. He had to set his teeth and school the muscles of his face to impassivity.
“You are probably not interested in English antiquities,” Mrs. Lansdown was saying, “but if you are, I can give you some particulars. Strangely enough, I was reading them only this afternoon.”
She got up and went to a bookshelf which stood in one corner, and took out a volume the vellum cover of which was yellow with age.
“This is one of the few treasures I possess,” she said. “It is the original Baxter’s Chronicle, printed in 1584, one of the first books that came from the Caxton Press.”
She turned the stiff leaves and presently stopped.
“Here is the passage. You need not read about the offence which Sir Hugh committed—it is hardly creditable to our family.”
He took the book and read where her finger pointed.
Sir Hugh being under banne of church for hys synnes, and beinge denyed burialle such as is ryte for Christianne knyghtes, caused there to be dugge in the earthe a great burialle playce for hymme and ye sonnes of hys housse, the wyche wˢ callᵈ the Sellfords Toomes, and this sayme wˢ blessᵈ in proper fashione by Fʳ Marcus, a holy manne of yᵉ time, butte in secrette because of yᵉ sayed banne. And theyse toomes to the number of a score he caused to be made yn stonne curiously cutte wyth mannie angyles and saynts, wych wˢ wonderfull to see.
“For hundreds of years,” said Mrs. Lansdown, “the burial ground of the Selfords was unconsecrated, though that has been remedied since 1720.”
“Where is the place?” asked the fascinated Dick.
“It is in a corner of Selford Park; a strange, eerie spot on the top of a small hill, and surrounded by old trees. They call it the Birdless Copse, because birds are never seen there, but I think that is because there is no open water for many miles.”
He had to frame every word he spoke lest he betrayed the wild sense of exhultation he felt.
“Who is occupying the Manor House? I suppose there is a manor house attached to the park?”
She nodded.
“It is in the hands of a caretaker during Lord Selford’s absence. Mr. Havelock told me that our kinsman hates the place, and would sell it but for the fact that it is entailed.”
He covered his face with his hand, trying to concentrate his thoughts.
“Have you ever seen this wandering Selford?”
“Only once, when he was a boy, whilst he was at school. He has written to me; in fact, I had a letter quite recently. I will get you the letter, if it would interest you? Are you very much interested in Lord Selford?”
“Very much,” he said emphatically.
She went out of the room and came back with a small wooden box, which she opened. She sorted out a number of letters and presently placed one before him. It was from Berlin, and had been written in April of 1914:
Dear Aunt,
It is so many years since I have written to you, or you have heard from me, that I am almost ashamed to write. But knowing how interested you are in queer china, I am sending you by registered post an old German beer mug of the fifteenth century.
The handwriting was the same as he had seen in Mr. Havelock’s office.
“Of course, I’m not his aunt,” said Mrs. Lansdown, still searching amongst the letters. “I am in reality his cousin twice removed. Here is another letter.”
This, Dick saw, was sent from an hotel in Colombo, and was only a year old:
I am making great progress with my book, though it is rather absurd to call a collection of disjointed notes (as it is at present) by such an important title. I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear of your great trouble. Is there anything I can do? You have only to command me. Please see Mr. Havelock and show him this letter. I have already written to him, authorizing him to pay you any money you may require.
Dick did not ask what the trouble had been. He guessed, from the black which Mrs. Lansdown still wore, that her loss was a recent one.
“I did not see Mr. Havelock, of course, though he very kindly wrote to me on receipt of Pierce’s letter, offering his help. And now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, Mr. Martin, perhaps you will satisfy mine. What are these alarming instructions you give us, and why should we be prepared
