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<h3>Chapter Three.</h3> <h4>One Guardian of the Treasure.</h4> Paul Capel was the first to recover from the surprise, and to hurry from the darkened room, followed by Artis and the late Colonel’s solicitor, though it was into no blaze of light, for the staircase was equally gloomy. The source of the strange noise was not far to seek, for, as they reached the landing, they became aware that a fierce struggle was going on in the direction of the room occupied by the late Colonel, and hurrying there, it was to find two men locked together, one of whom was succeeding in holding the other down, and wresting his neck from the sinewy hands which had torn off his white cravat. “Why, Charles! Ramo!” exclaimed Mr Girtle, in the midst of the hoarse, panting sounds uttered by the contending men. “He’s mad!” cried the former, in a high-pitched tone, in which a man’s rage was mingled with a schoolboy’s whimpering fear. “He’s mad, sir. He tried to strangle me.” “Thief! dog!” panted the old Hindoo, with his dark features convulsed with passion. “Wanted—rob—his master!” The two young men had separated the combatants, who now stood up, the footman, his vest and shirt torn open, and his coat dragged half off—the old man with one sleeve of his dark silk robe gone, and the back rent to the waist, while there was a fierce, vindictive look in his working features, as he had to be held to keep him from closing with the footman again. “What does this mean, Charles?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler and the other servants came hurrying up, while the three Italians also stood upon the landing, looking wonderingly on. “If you please, sir, I don’t know,” said the footman, in an ill-used tone. “I was just going by the Colonel’s door, and I thought, as was very natural, that I should like to see what these gentlemen had done, when Mr Ramo sprang at me like a wild cat.” “No, no!” cried the old Indian, whose English in his rage and excitement was less distinct, “a thief—come to rob—my dear lord—a thief!” “I hope, sir,” said the footman, growing calmer and looking in an injured way at Mr Girtle, “you know me better than that, sir. Mr Preenham here will tell you I’ve cleaned the plate regular all the ten years I’ve been here.” The old solicitor turned to the butler. “Yes, sir; Charles’s duty has been to clean the plate, but it is in my charge, and I have kept the strictest account of it. A little disposed to show temper, sometimes, sir, but strictly honest and very clean.” “This is a very sad and unseemly business at such a time,” said Mr Girtle. “Ramo, you have made a mistake.” “No, no!” cried the old Indian, wrathfully. “Come, come,” said Mr Girtle; “be reasonable.” “The police,” panted the old Indian. “Send for the police.” “All right,” cried Charles, defiantly; “send for the police and let ’em search me.” “Silence!” cried Mr Girtle. “Go down and arrange your dress, sir. Mr Capel, young ladies, will you return to the drawing-room? Signori, will you retire? That will do, Preenham. Leave Ramo to me.” In another minute the old solicitor was left with Ramo, who stood beneath the dim stained-glass window, with his arms folded and his brow knit. “You do not trust and believe me, sir?” “Don’t talk nonsense, Ramo. You know I trust you as the most faithful fellow in the world.” He held out his hand as he spoke, but the old Indian remained motionless for the moment; then, seizing the hand extended to him, he bent over it, holding it to his breast. “My dear lord’s old friend,” he said. “That’s better, Ramo,” said Mr Girtle. “Now, go and change your dress.” “No, no!” cried the old man. “I must watch.” “Nonsense, man. Don’t think that every one who comes means to rob.” “But I do,” cried the old Indian, in a whisper. “They think of what we know—you and I only. Those foreign men—the servants.” “You must not be so suspicious, Ramo. It will be all right.” “It will not be all right, Sahib,” cried the old Indian. “Think of what there is in yonder.” “But we have the secret, Ramo.” “Yes—yes; but suppose there were others who knew the secret—who had heard of it. Sahib, I will be faithful to the dead.” The old Indian drew himself up with dignity, and took his place once more before the door. “It has been shocking,” whispered the Indian. “I have been driven away, while those foreign men did what they pleased in there. It was maddening. Ah!” He clapped his hands to his head. “What now, Ramo?” “Those three men! Suppose—” He caught at his companion’s arm, whispered a few words, and they entered the darkened room, from which, as the door opened and closed, a peculiar aromatic odour floated out. As the door was closed the sound of a bolt being shot inside was heard, and directly after the face of Charles, the footman, appeared from the gloom below. He came up the stairs rapidly, glanced round and stepped softly to the closed door, where he bent down, listening. As he stood in the recess the gloom was so great that he was almost invisible, save his face, while just beyond him a large group in bronze, of a club-armed centaur, seemed to have the crouching man as part of the artist’s design, the centaur being, apparently, about to strike him down, while, to give realism to the scene, a dull red glow from the stained-glass window fell across his forehead. As he listened there, his ear to the key-hole and his eyes watchfully wandering up and down the staircase, a dull and smothered clang was heard as if in the distance, like the closing of some heavy iron door. Then there was a louder sound, with a quick, short report, as if a powerful spring had been set in motion and shot home. Then a door seemed to be closed and locked, and the man glided quickly over the soft, thick carpet—melting away, as it were, in the gloom. The door opened and, from the darkness within, Mr Girtle and the old Indian stepped slowly out, bringing with them a soft, warm puff of the aromatic odour, and, as they grew more distinct in the faint light of the stained-glass window, everything was so still in the great house that there was a strange unreality about them, fostered by the silence of their tread. “There, now you are satisfied,” said the old lawyer, gently. “Go and change your robe.” The Indian shook his head. “I will stay till your return inside the room.” “Inside?” said the Indian. “Yes—why not? You and I have reached the time of life when death has ceased to have terrors. He is only taking the sleep that comes to all.” There was a gentle sadness in the lawyer’s voice, and then, turning the handle of the door, he opened it and stood looking back. “You will not be long,” he said. “They are waiting for me in the drawing-room.” The door closed just as the old Indian made a step forward to follow. Then he stood with his hands clenched and eyes starting listening intently, while the centaur’s club seemed to be quivering in the gloom, ready to crush him down. The old man raised his hand to the door—let it fall—raised it again—let it fall—turned to go—started back—and then, as if fighting hard with himself, he turned once more, and with an activity not to be expected in one of his years, bounded up the staircase and disappeared. Ten minutes had not elapsed before he seemed to come silently out of the gloom again, and was half-way to the door, when there was a faint creak from below, as if from a rusty hinge. The old man stopped short, crouching down by the balustrade, listening, his eyes shining in the dim twilight; but no other sound was heard, and he rose quickly, ran softly down, and with trembling hands opened the door. Mr Girtle came slowly out, looking sad and depressed, and laid his hand upon the Indian’s shoulder. “You mean to watch, then,” he said. The Indian nodded quickly, his eyes gazing searchingly at the lawyer the while. “Are you going in, or here?” “My place was at the Sahib’s door.” “Good!” said the solicitor, bowing his head; and he returned to the drawing-room, Ramo watching him suspiciously till the door closed. As he stood there, the dusky tint of the robe he now wore seemed to lend itself to the surrounding gloom, being almost invisible against the portal, as he remained there with his fingers nervously quivering, and his face drawn by the agitation of his breast. He shook his head violently the next moment, clasped his hands together, and sank down once more upon the lion-skin mat, bent to the very floor, more like some rounded mass than a human being: while the great centaur was indistinctly seen, with his raised club, as if about to repeat the blow that had crushed the old Indian into a motionless heap. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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