For the rest of the day Uncle Sylvester was invisible, although his active presence in his room was betrayed by the sound of hammering and moving of furniture.As the remainder of the party were skating on the lake, this eccentricity was not remarked except by one,--Marie du Page,--who on pretense of a slight cold had stayed at home.But with her suspicions of the former night, she had determined to watch the singular relative of her friend.Added to a natural loyalty to the Lanes, she was moved by a certain curiosity and fascination towards this incomprehensible man.
The house was very quiet when she stole out of her room and passed softly along the corridor; she examined the wall carefully to discover anything that might have excited the visitor's attention.
There were a few large engravings hanging there; could he have designed to replace them by some others? Suddenly she was struck with the distinct conviction that the wall of the corridor did not coincide with the wall of his room as represented by the line of the door.There was certainly a space between the two walls unaccounted for.This was undoubtedly what had attracted HISattention; but what BUSINESS was it of his?
She reflected that she had seen in the wall of the conservatory an old closed staircase, now used as shelves for dried herbs and seeds, which she had been told was the old-time communication between the garden and Grandfather Lane's study,--the room now occupied by the stranger.Perhaps it led still farther, and thus accounted for the space.Determined to satisfy herself, she noiselessly descended to the conservatory.There, surely, was the staircase,--a narrow flight of wooden steps encumbered with packages of herbs,--losing itself in upper darkness.By the aid of a candle she managed to grope and pick her way up step by step.
Then she paused.The staircase had abruptly ended on the level of the study, now cut off from it by the new partition.She was in a stifling inclosure, formed by the walls, scarcely eighteen inches wide.It was made narrower by a singular excrescence on the old wall, which seemed to have been a bricked closet, now half destroyed and in ruins.She turned to descend, when a strange sound from Uncle Sylvester's room struck her ear.It was the sound of tapping on the floor close to the partition, within a foot of where she was standing.At the same moment there was a decided movement of the plank of the flooring beneath the partition: it began to slide slowly, and then was gradually withdrawn into the room.With prompt presence of mind, she instantly extinguished her candle and drew herself breathlessly against the partition.
When the plank was entirely withdrawn, a ray of light slipped through the opening, revealing the bare rafters of the floor, and a hand and arm inserted under the partition, groping as if towards the bricked closet.As the fingers of the exploring hand were widely extended, Marie had no difficulty in recognizing on one of them a peculiar signet ring which Uncle Sylvester wore.A swift impulse seized her.To the audacious Marie impulse and action were the same thing.Bending stealthily over the aperture, she suddenly snatched the ring from the extended finger.The hand was quickly withdrawn with a start and uncontrolled exclamation, and she availed herself of that instant to glide rapidly down the stairs.
She regained her room stealthily, having the satisfaction a moment later of hearing Uncle Sylvester's door open and the sound of his footsteps in the corridor.But he was evidently unable to discover any outer ingress to the inclosure, or believed the loss of his ring an accident, for he presently returned.Meantime, what was she to do?
Tell Kitty of her discovery, and show the ring? No--not yet!
Oddly enough, now that she had the ring, taken from his wicked finger in the very act, she found it as difficult as ever to believe in his burglarious design.She must wait.The mischief--if there had been mischief--was done; the breaking in of the bricked closet was, from the appearance of the ruins, a bygone act.
Could it have been some youthful escapade of Uncle Sylvester's, the scene of which he was revisiting as criminals are compelled to do?
And had there been anything taken from the closet--or was its destruction a part of the changes in the old house? How could she find out without asking Kitty? There was one way.She remembered that Mr.Gunn had once shown a great deal of interest to Kitty about the old homestead, and even of old Mr.Lane's woodland cabin.
She would ask HIM.It was a friendly act, for Kitty had not of late been very kind to him.
The opportunity presented itself at dusk, as Mr.Gunn, somewhat abstracted, stood apart at the drawing-room window.Marie hoped he had enjoyed himself while skating; her stupid cold had kept her indoors.She had amused herself rambling about the old homestead;it was such a queer place, so full of old nooks and corners and unaccountable spaces.Just the place, she would think, where old treasures might have been stored.Eh?
Mr.Gunn had not spoken--he had only coughed.But in the darkness his eyes were fixed angrily on her face.Without observing it, she went on.She knew he was interested in the old house; she had heard him talk to Kitty about it: had Kitty ever said anything about some old secret hoarding place?
No, certainly not! And she was mistaken, he never was interested in the house! He could not understand what had put that idea in her head! Unless it was this ridiculous, shady stranger in the guise of an uncle whom they had got there.It was like his affectation!
