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<h3>Chapter Thirty.</h3> <h4>Where the Treasure lay.</h4> Six months elapsed before Mr Linnett put into execution the project he had had in his mind that night when he playfully tried the handcuffs on his wrists. He had meant business, as he termed it, the next morning, but on presenting himself at the chief office, one of his superiors sent for him, and announced an important task. “Extradition, eh, sir? America?” “Yes. Cross at once; put yourself in communication with the New York police, and then spare no expense. He must be found.” “When shall I start, sir?” “Now.” Mr Linnett did start now, saying to himself as he entered a carriage for Liverpool: “Well, they didn’t set me the job. It was my own doing, and the news will keep.” So it came about that one morning, when he presented himself at the Dark House, he was saluted by Mr Preenham with: “Why, how do you do? We thought we’d quite lost you, Mr Linnett, sir. You look quite brown.” “I’ve been pretty well all over America since I saw you, Mr Preenham, and now, sir, just go and give them my card and say I want to see them on very particular business.” “Have you found out anything, Mr Linnett?” “You wait a bit, my dear sir. Just take up the card.” Mr Girtle was in the library with Paul Capel at the time, for the old man had settled down there, treating the younger as if he were a son. He had talked several times of going, but Capel begged him not to leave, and he always stayed. “Well, Preenham, for me?” “He said you and master, sir—the gentleman.” “Ah! Linnett. The detective. Will you see him?” “No,” said Capel, sternly. “I don’t want that affair opened again.” “But my dear boy—” “There; very well. Show him up.” The detective came in, smiling, but only to encounter a stern look in return. “I’ve called, gentlemen, about that little matter of the notes and jewels that were lost.” “My good fellow,” said Capel, angrily, “I will not have that matter taken up again. It is dead.” “Well, sir, the fact is, you wouldn’t let me take it up; but I did it on my own account.” “You did?” said Mr Girtle. “Yes, sir; it took me months piecing together, as I had to do it all from the outside, without seeing the place. I was sent abroad, and have only just come back. Last night, however, I took out my notes and went into it again, and I think I can say I’ve found the treasure.” “Found it, man?” cried Capel, interested in spite of himself. “Where? The place was thoroughly well searched.” “Oh! yes, sir, of course.” “Then you know who took it?” “Yes, sir; that’s it.” “Who was it, then?” “Ah! come, sir, that’s better.” “Yes, yes, go on,” cried Capel excitedly, and at that moment it was not the treasure that filled his eyes, but the figure of a sweet, gentle girl, who had watched beside his sick bed. “Well, the fact is, gentlemen, I very soon came to the conclusion that the great treasure had not been stolen.” “Why?” said Mr Girtle. “No notes were put in circulation that I could find—old notes—and no valuable jewels sold.” “To be sure, yes,” said Mr Girtle. “My idea.” “That wasn’t worth much, gentlemen; but I felt sure from the beginning that the treasure was taken by someone on the premises.” “Not that couple, I’ll swear,” said Mr Girtle. “Nor the servants,” said Capel. “There, sir, it’s all in a nutshell,” said Linnett, hesitating. “Stop!” said Mr Girtle. “What terms do you propose for this information?” “Oh, sir, I wasn’t hesitating about that, but because I don’t like letting it go now I’ve found it. It was so much trouble to find the clue, I hardly like parting with it. But here you are, sir, and if I may make terms, I may say I’m only a few pounds out of pocket—ten will cover it—but I should like it if Mr Capel here would give me that Indian knife, that kukri. I’ve a fancy for saving up that sort of article.” “Take the horrible thing and welcome,” said Capel impatiently. “Well, gentlemen, I pieced together all that was published, with Doctor Heston’s notions, the servants’ knowledge, and my own ideas.” “Well?” “Well, gentlemen, it was that old Indian servant who took the treasure.” “Impossible!” “Not a bit. He had the keys—he knew how to use them.” “He was as honest as the day,” cried Mr Girtle. “Exactly, sir, that’s just it. Honesty made him take it.” “Absurd?” said Capel. “Not a bit, sir, excuse me. He knew that fellow Pillar, the footman, meant it. You know he had a fight with him at the door.” “Well, granted,” said Capel. “He watched, sir, night and day, and wouldn’t leave the place, and at last, when—” “I know,” said Capel, “those Italians.” “Now, you shouldn’t take away people’s character, sir,” said the detective reproachfully. “It was that Indian. He wasn’t satisfied that the secret place was safe. He was sure it would be broken open, and so that night, or the one before, he took the treasure out, and put it where he felt certain that no one would look for it.” “And where was that?” cried Capel. The detective smiled. “As I said, gentlemen, where no one would look for it.” “And that was?” “In the dead man’s own charge, sirs. In the coffin.” Capel and Mr Girtle sank back in their chairs. “And if you open that vault, gentlemen, and the iron tomb, and the steel chest, you’ll find it safe and sound.” “There’s one more thing, sir, I should like to say, and that is about that old Indian servant. He was struck down, no doubt, or fainted after he had killed the footman, defending the treasure. I can’t quite say what happened then, but it looks to me as if some one came upon the old fellow when he was lying helpless—some one who also meant to steal that treasure—and that he, or she, or whoever it was, chloroformed the old man to death. I had it on the doctor’s authority that he did not die of his wounds; but this is only theory. I can’t say.” It was a theory that sent a chill through Paul Capel, and he dared not put his thoughts about the fair Creole into shape. All proved about the treasure precisely as Mr Linnett had said, for when, with much compunction, the various caskets were opened once again, there lay the two cases beneath the cloth-of-gold robe, safely in the keeping of the dead man, whereat, and for other reasons, Mr Linnett much rejoiced. Later on, old Mr Girtle had his wish, that of giving Lydia away to the man she loved—one who often afterwards told her he wondered how he could have been so blind—blind, he said, as the old place, which was kept, in accordance with the Colonel’s last commands, closed in front, but bright and gay behind, while Paul Capel used to say, “It is astonishing how much human sunshine can be got into a Dark House.” <h4>The End.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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