I have been a-turning it over and over in my mind, and I don’t see none. Do you?”
Tynn looked very blank. He was feeling so. He made no answer, and Roy continued, blandly confidential still.
“If that there codicil, that was so much talked on, hadn’t been lost, he’d have been all right, would Mr. Verner. No come-to-life-again Fred Massingbird needn’t have tried at turning him out. Couldn’t it be hunted for again, Mr. Tynn?”
Roy turned the tail of his eye on Tynn. Would his pumping take effect? Mrs. Tynn would have told him that her husband might be pumped dry, and never know it. She was not far wrong. Unsuspicious Tynn went headlong into the snare.
“Where would be the good of hunting for it again—when every conceivable place was hunted for it before?” he asked.
“Well, it was a curious thing, that codicil,” remarked Roy. “Has it never been heered on?”
Tynn shook his head.
“Never at all. What an awful thing this is, if it’s true!”
“It is true, I tell ye,” said Roy. “You needn’t doubt it. There was a report a short while agone that the codicil had been found, and Matiss had got it in safe keeping. As I sat here, afore you come up, I was thinking how well it ’ud have served Mr. Verner’s turn just now, if it was true.”
“It is not true,” said Tynn. “All sorts of reports get about. The codicil has never been found and never been heard of.”
“What a pity!” groaned Roy, with a deep sigh. “I’m glad I’ve told it you, Mr. Tynn! It’s a heavy secret for a man to carry about inside of him. I must be going.”
“So must I,” said Tynn. “Roy, are you sure there’s no mistake?” he added. “It seems a tale next to impossible.
“Well now,” said Roy, “I see you don’t half believe me. You must wait a few days, and see what them days ’ll bring forth. That Mr. Massingbird’s back from Australia, I’ll take my oath to. I didn’t believe it at first: and when young Duff was a going on about the porkypine, I shook him, I did, for a little lying rascal. I know better now.”
“But how do you know it?” debated Tynn.
“Now, never you mind. It’s my business, I say, and nobody else’s. You just wait a day or two, that’s all, Mr. Tynn. I declare I am as glad to have met with you to-night, and exchanged this intercourse of opinions, as if anybody had counted me out a bag o’ gold.”
“Well, good night, Roy,” concluded Tynn, turning his steps towards Verner’s Pride. “I wish I had been a hundred miles off, I know, before I had heard it.”
Roy slipped over the gate; and there, out of sight, he executed a kind of triumphant dance.
“Then there is no codicil!” cried he. “I thought I could wile it out of him! That Tynn’s as easy to be run out as is glass when it’s hot.”
And, putting his best leg forward, he made his way as fast as he could make it towards his home.
Tynn made his way towards Verner’s Pride. But not fast. The information he had received filled his mind with the saddest trouble, and reduced his steps to slowness. When any great calamity falls suddenly upon us, or the dread of any great calamity, our first natural thought is, how it may be mitigated or averted. It was the thought that occurred to Tynn. The first shock over, digested, as may be said, Tynn began to deliberate whether he could do anything to help his master in the strait; and he went along, turning all sorts of suggestions over in his mind. Much as Sibylla was disliked by the old servants—and she had contrived to make herself very much disliked by them all—Tynn could not help feeling warmly the blow that was about to burst upon her head. Was there anything earthly he could do to avert it?—to help her or his master?
He did not doubt the information. Roy was not a particularly reliable person; but Tynn could not doubt that this was true. It was the most feasible solution of the ghost story agitating Deerham; the only solution of it, Tynn grew to think. If Frederick Massingbird—
Tynn’s reflections came to a halt. Vaulting over a gate on the other side the road; the very gate through which poor Rachel Frost had glided, the night of her death, to avoid meeting Frederick Massingbird and Sibylla West; was a tall man. He came straight across the road, in front of Tynn, and passed through a gap of the hedge, on to the grounds of Verner’s Pride.
But what made Tynn stand transfixed, as if he had been changed into a statue? What brought a cold chill to his heart, a heat to his brow? Why, as the man passed him, he turned his face full on Tynn; disclosing the features, the white, whiskerless cheek, with the black mark upon it, of Frederick Massingbird. Recovering himself as he best could, Tynn walked on, and gained the house.
Mrs. Verner had gone to her room. Mr. Verner was mixing with his guests. Some of the gentlemen were on the terrace smoking, and Tynn made his way on to it, hoping he might get a minute’s interview with his master. The impression upon Tynn’s mind was, that Frederick Massingbird was coming, there and then, to invade Verner’s Pride: it appeared to Tynn to be his duty to impart what he had heard and seen, at once to Mr. Verner.
Circumstances favoured him. Lionel had been talking with Mr. Gordon at the far end of the terrace, but the latter was called to from the drawing-room windows, and departed in answer to it. Tynn seized the opportunity: his master was alone.
Quite alone. He was leaning over the outer balustrade of the terrace, apparently looking forth in the night obscurity on his own lands, stretched out before him. “Master!” whispered Tynn, forgetting ceremony in the moment’s absorbing agitation, in the terrible calamity that was about to fall, “I have had an awful secret made known to me to-night. I must tell it you, sir.”
“I know it already, Tynn,” was the quiet response of Lionel.
Then Tynn told—told all he had heard, and how he had heard it; told how he had just seen