CHAPTER I A KING'S DAUGHTER
 "I come from Eden," cried the preacher; "even from the Island of Koiau, which floats as a green leaf upon the untroubled sea. There reigneth eternal summer, but there reigneth not the Eternal God in the hearts of the heathen. Koiau is one of the dark places of the earth. There 'every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.' Yet the Lord hath not forgotten His people. The light of the gospel glimmers amid the gloom, and ours, brethren, must be the task of pouring oil into the lamp, that the flame may illuminate those who walk in darkness. Buli, the High Chief of the island, inclines his ear to the words of Salvation. He hath given a hostage to the Lord. Yea, verily; for doth not his only child abide in the tabernacles of Zion?--dwelleth she not in the land of Goshen? Tera she was: Bithiah she is, which, being interpreted, meaneth 'daughter of the Lord.' She, a brand plucked from the burning, shall yet herald the dawn of pure religion in her heathen cradle. 'It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing.'"
 
The speaker, whose zeal thus confused his metaphors, was a herculean, weather-beaten man of some fifty years. He was clothed in rough blue serge. Wind and spray had reddened his rugged face. His hair and short beard, iron-grey and grizzled, were in disorder, and the light of enthusiasm brightened his deep-set grey eyes, peering from under their shaggy brows. He had the appearance of a sea-captain; and his raucous voice rumbled through the building as though it were carrying orders through the storming of a gale. Through long study of the Bible, he had become possessed of a certain elevated phraseology; and, couching his everyday experiences in this, he managed to deliver a lurid and picturesque discourse which enthralled his hearers.
 
Before him now, in the bare pitch-pine pews of their place of worship, some twenty or more of these were seated. They were demure folk, and their chapel was tiny--diminutive even. Its walls were innocent of decoration--simply whitewashed, its windows plain glass. Before a deal rostrum--up to which on either side led steps to a reading-desk--the preacher now gesticulated and thundered. The majority of the congregation were women; some old, some young; but all were clothed in the plainest of garments, their close Quakerish caps hiding their hair.
 
In contrast to these, their faces pallid and expression impassive, there sat, almost immediately below the missionary, a dark and splendid girl of twenty-two or thereabouts, with a vivacious smiling face. She was the Tera, alias Bithiah, so eloquently referred to by the speaker. In deference to her savage love of colour, and her rank as a king's daughter, she was permitted to indulge somewhat in feminine fripperies. Of this latitude she did not fail to take full advantage. No parrot of her native isles ever spread a finer plumage than did Tera. A dark blue dress, a bright scarlet shawl, a wonderful straw hat trimmed with poppies and cornflowers--she glowed like a sun-smitten jewel in that sombre conventicle. She was in no wise embarrassed by the pointed reference of the missionary. Her rank and good looks accustomed her to observation, and indeed, to admiration. Moreover, as a native convert, she was thought much of by the congregation at Grimleigh, and sat among them as a sign that the good work would prosper in the Island of Koiau. It was this impression that Korah Brand, former sailor and present missionary, wished to produce. Hence his use of her as an object-lesson.
 
"'I am black but comely,'" quoted Brand, in a strain of doubtful compliment to Tera. "'A king's daughter all-glorious.' As I am, so are those of my race, who yet bow down to idols of stone--the 'work of men's hands.'" Then the preacher passed into a description of the fierce heathen worship which Christianity was to destroy.
 
Tera's eyes flashed, and her nostrils dilated, as Brand painted the idol ceremonies with natural eloquence. She, too, knew of the trilithon in the dark forest, where scowled the terrible god, Lomangatini; she also had seen the limestone altar which had streamed so often with human blood. These things, fables to her neighbours, were realities to her; and the hot barbaric blood sang in her veins with quick response to the home picture. After a time the missionary began to describe the island; and Tera's fancy ran before his words to where Koiau lay amid leagues of shining seas, beneath the wider skies of the underworld. The lines of feathery palms; the long rollers crumbling on the ragged reef; the still lagoon where the parrot-fish darted amongst branching coral, of rainbow hues; picture after picture presented itself to her mind, and faded to leave her sick for home. In this grey island of sunless skies and chilling mists, she was as one in the pale realms of the dead.
 
To distract her thoughts, which were too much for her, she glanced round at the attentive congregation. There, with the elders, sat Farmer Carwell, his jolly red face filled with interest and awe. Near her, his daughter Rachel, pale and pretty, leaned forward to catch every word of the discourse; and beside the door, Herbert Mayne, the yeoman squire, also leaned forward, but less to hear the preacher than to catch a loving glance from Rachel's bright eyes. Present also was Miss Arnott, a lean demure woman who had been an actress in her youth, but who, stirred by a chance word, had left the booths of Satan for the tabernacle of Zion. She was gazing ardently at a pale man seated on a cane chair near the rostrum, and guided by the intensity of the look, Tera let her eyes stray in the same direction. Yet there was little in the appearance of Mr. Johnson to attract the eye.
 
Johnson--the Rev. George--was the minister of the Grimleigh Bethesda, which was also known locally as Bethgamul, i.e the House of Recompense. This tall slender expounder of the Word had been a missionary in the South Seas some years before, but had returned to take charge of the Grimleigh remnant. He was well acquainted with the Island of Koiau, with Buli the High Chief also; and it was he who had brought home Tera to be educated in England. A religious man, a sympathetic man, yet a guardian whom Tera feared, and more than half detested. As she looked at his hairless face, the colour of old ivory, the minister, as if conscious of her gaze, raised his eyes. A look passed between them--on his part imploring, yet withal imperious; on hers, defiant, with a touch of dread. And in that look--intercepted and frowned upon by the vigilant Miss Arnott--lay a story of love and rejection. And the quondam actress shivered as her heart interpreted its meaning.
 
After an hour of description, denunciation, and imploring appeals on behalf of the poor heathen, Brand prayed long and fervently for the conversion of Tera's countrymen. Then he gave out the words of a favourite hymn bearing on the subject of his discourse, which was sung with fervour by the moved congregation.
 
The music, following so closely on Brand's discourse of her homeland, was too much for Tera's emotions. With an hysterical sob she rose hastily and passed down the narrow aisle out into the night. Johnson's burning gaze followed her graceful form, and a quiver passed over his face like a breath of wind on still waters.
 
Outside, the night was warm and balmy. Over the hills at the back of Bethgamul rode the golden wheel of the harvest moon. Below, where the land spread beach-ward at the foot of the rise, Tera could see the winking lights of the little town--the red eye of the lamp at the end of the jetty, and extending in radiance towards a darkening horizon, the silent ocean, broken here and there by the fitful moonlight into a myriad sparkles. Somewhere beyond those dark clouds lay Koiau, encircled by shining waters. The over-sea breeze blowing shoreward seemed almost to bear with it the spicy perfumes of the isle, strange intoxicating odours which maddened her for home. On the beach below beat the surf, as at this moment it beat on the coral reefs beyond the lagoon. As a bird, her soul flew on the wings of fancy to the radiant isle of her birth--to the cocoa-palm groves and banana plantations. Wild music, wilder dances, far-stretching spaces of silver sand, forests glowing with tropical blossom, the dusky women twining hibiscus flowers for coronals, and the great chiefs holding counsel in the "pure" (house) of the gods. Tera dreamed dreams; she saw visions; and still behind her drawled and droned the nasal harmonies of those colourless worshippers who adored an unknown god.
 
Suddenly a warm clasp was laid upon her wrist, and Tera awoke from her ecstasy to find a fair Saxon face close to her own. With a quiet little sigh of pleasure she nestled into the breast of the man.
 
"Jack," she murmured softly, "O'ia fe gwa te ofal."
 
"Put it in English, Tera," said Jack, slipping his arm round the girl; "I never could get my tongue round that Kanaka lingo."
 
She hid her face on his shoulder with a blush. "It means, 'I love you,'" she said.
 
"Why then, Tera, Kanaka talk is very good talk. Let me hear more of it. But not here. The piety folk will soon be out, and their psalm-singing doesn't step well with our love-making."
 
"Aué," sighed Tera, christened Bithiah; "they make me dull and sad, these songs. Let us go." She moved along the brow of the hill, leaning on the sailor's arm.
 
Jack Finland was Farmer Carwell's nephew; a smart, alert second mate on board a coasting tramp. He should have shipped on a better boat, but Tera lived at Grimleigh, and Grimleigh was a port of call. He had sailed among the islands of Eden below Capricorn: he knew the looks of a coral atoll, and the beauty of the women who wandered on the South Sea beaches. After a prolonged stay in the islands, a fit of home-sickness had brought him back to the grimy port whence he had set sail many years before. Here he had seen Tera exiled from her Southern paradise, and here, with the impetuosity of a sailor, he had declared his love. That she returned it was natural enough; for Jack Finland was as splendid a young man as ever set foot ashore to beguile the hearts of maidens. Tera, with her inherent love for physical beauty, had surrendered at once to his wooing.
 
"But I fear we may not marry," she said, as they strolled along. "My guardian--this Mr. Johnson--wishes that I should be his wife."
 
"He wishes what he won't get, then, Tera. You wouldn't throw yourself away on an ugly devil-dodger like him? No, my dear, you shall marry me; and we will go to the South Seas for our honeymoon."
 
"With you, Jack!--ah, how I should love that! At Koiau my father is a great chief. He will admit you to our family; he will place his tabu on you; and when Buli goes into the darkness we shall rule, my dear." The girl sighed, and tightened her clasp on Jack's arm. "But this thing cannot be. My father has sent Korah Brand Misi" [missionary] "to carry me back to Koiau."
 
"But you won't go, Tera?"
 
"I must. Jack. If I do not, Mr. Johnson will make me his wife."
 
"I'll wring his neck first."
 
"Ah!" Tera's eyes gleamed with a savage light. "If we were in my land you could do that; but here"--she shrugged her shoulders--"they would lock you in prison. No, Jack, here you must not kill."
 
"Worse luck," grumbled Finland, whose wanderings had made a barbarian of him; "still, you ain't going to marry Johnson."
 
"Oh no! I shall buy him if I can. Listen, Jack. When I left Koiau, my father gave me pearls to sell here. But I have never sold them--oh no! I had no need to sell them. Mr. Johnson is poor--he wants money--I will give those pearls to him if he lets me go free."
 
"Then this missionary chap will collar you, Tera; and I don't take much stock in that lot."
 
"If I go with Misi, you come also, Jack. In Koiau we may marry."
 
"In Koiau your father may make you marry some big chief," said Jack, wisely, "and I should be left out in the cold."
 
Before Tera could protest that she would be nobody's wife save his, Johnson appeared, hurrying towards them with an angry look on his face. In the silver moonlight he could see the lovers plainly, and their attitude sent a thrill of rage through his heart.
 
"Bithiah," he said harshly, "this is not an hour for you to be out. Come! My mother is waiting for us."
 
"Tera is free to come and go as she pleases," struck in Finland, hotly.
 
Johnson turned on him with restrained passion.
 
"You call her by a heathen name; you think of her as a heathen girl. Oh, I know you, Mr. Finland, you beach-comber."
 
Finland, full of rage at the contemptuous word, would have struck the minister, but Tera flung herself between them.
 
"No, no, I must go!" she said, and flung a last word and look at Jack. "Toë fua" [farewell] said she, and walked away with Johnson.
CHAPTER II PEARLS OF PRICE
 Tera and her guardian walked home in silence, Johnson, whose love for the girl bordered on a frenzy, could not, as yet, trust himself to remark on her conduct in meeting Finland. On her side, Tera, having for Johnson something of the awe a pupil feels for his schoolmaster, did not dare to bring down an avalanche of anger by so much as one rash word. But this attitude was, as may be guessed, the calm before the storm. When Tera reached the house she would have gone supperless to bed, if only to avert high words; but the man, wrought beyond endurance, beckoned her into his study, and there the storm broke--as violent as any hurricane of the girl's native clime.
 
"This cannot go on," said Johnson, striving to speak calmly; "you must see for yourself--this cannot go on."
 
The girl, seated in a chair beyond the circle of light thrown by the reading-lamp, said nothing. With clasped hands and head raised, like a serpent's crest, she watched her guardian striding to and fro, vainly trying to moderate his anger. So had she seen countrymen of her own fighting the primeval elements of man. Religion, civilization, the restraint learned by experience, all were gone: and Johnson had got down to the rock-bed of his character, there to find that the centre of his being, like that of the earth, was raging fire. Tormented by the seven devils of rejected love, he hardly noticed that the girl made no comment upon his despairing outcry.
 
"That you, a baptized Christian, should leave the temple of God to dally with a profane Belial!" he raged. "Are you not ashamed to have converse with such an one? Finland is a mocker, a deceiver, a lover of strong drink; yet you dare trust yourself with him. Bithiah you are named; would that I could call you Candace."
 
Tera drew her well-marked brows together. "I have done no wrong," she said bravely; "lies are told of Jack: lies which I do not believe. He is tall and beautiful and good. I love him!"
 
Johnson looked as though he could have struck her; and only remembrance of his calling prevented his seizing her with a rough grasp. However, he restrained himself, beat down his anger, and spoke on.
 
"Bithiah!" said he, in a quiet voice, "you deceive yourself in this. You are attracted only by the appearance of this man, and you do not see how bad, how cruel he is. I should be false to my trust did I permit you to become his wife. As your guardian, I have power from your father, and that power shall be exercised for your good. I forbid you to see Finland again."
 
"No!" said Tera, and set her mouth firmly.
 
"You defy me?"
 
"Yes!"
 
"Then I shall have nothing more to do with you. You shall go back to Koiau with Brand." He hesitated. "It will be a happy day for me when I see the last of you," he added abruptly.
 
Tera said nothing, but looking on his white face, smiled with a little ripple of laughter. The man's chest rose and fell with his panting: for the hint that she knew all, and scorned all, touched him nearly. Drawn as by cords, he stumbled across the room, every fibre of his being slack and weak.
 
"Tera," he muttered faintly, "dear, I love you."
 
"I am sorry! I cannot----"
 
"Wait! wait!" Johnson lightly touched her arm with his hot hand. "Do not speak. Hear me! I love you! I have always loved you: I always shall. I brought you here in the hope that you would learn to love me. My passion is stronger than my life! Many waters cannot quench it. Dear, I am but a man as other men. For months I have fought against this love, but in vain. Give me your heart; marry me. We will return to your island; we will bring your countrymen into the fold of the Good Shepherd. Let me comfort you, guide you, lead you as my earthly bride to the foot of the Cross. See! See! I am no stern guardian, no minister of the Gospel, but a man--a man whose life lies in your hand."
 
"No!" said Tera, firmly, although his passion made her pity him; "my heart is not my own to give. You are a good man, but--Jack!"
 
"You--you love him then?"
 
"With all my soul!"
 
Johnson gave an hysterical sob. "'And this also is a sore evil,'" he quoted under his breath, "'that in all points as he came, so shall he go.'"
 
"May I leave the room?"
 
"Woman," he seized her wrist, "you shall love me!"
 
"No!"
 
"You are a snare--a sorceress; you have beguiled my soul to its undoing! I was happy once; I walked in pleasant ways, but you have turned aside my feet to iniquity. God help me! How can I preach His Word with this raging fire in my breast! You shall love me! I forbid you to think of Finland. You are mine--mine--mine!"
 
With a dexterous twist Tera released her hand and flew out of the room, closing the door behind her. Johnson started in headlong pursuit, but stumbling blindly against the door, struck his forehead on the panels, and fell half stunned on the floor. There he lay and moaned, with his head spinning like a teetotum, until the sound of approaching steps made him rise and get into the desk chair. Then his mother, a commonplace type of her sex, much occupied with domestic affairs, entered to say that supper was ready.
 
"I don't want supper to-night, thank you, mother," said the minister, keeping his face turned away that she might not see the swelling on his forehead; "have it yourself, and go to bed."
 
"I can't find Bithiah, my son."
 
"She has retired, mother."
 
"Ah!" the old woman wagged her head like a mandarin, "she is no doubt meditating on the beautiful discourse of Brother Korah."
 
"No doubt, mother. Please go away; I am busy."
 
"There is cold meat and pickles, George."
 
"I am not hungry."
 
"I want you to say grace."
 
Johnson laughed bitterly. "I am not in the mood to say grace, mother."
 
The old lady, who was somewhat querulous, lifted up her voice in reproof of his irreligious speech; but Johnson cut her short, and persuaded her to leave the room. Then he looked the door and threw himself into his chair with a groan.
 
"I am only a man--a man. It is past all bearing. Oh, what a life--what a life! No money, no love--and a faith that fails me at need. Yet I was wrong to lose my temper. 'A fool's wrath is presently known; but a prudent man covereth shame.'"
 
The minister was shaking as a blown reed, and his nerves racked him with pain. There was a French window opening on to a plot of grass, and this he flung wide to the night air. But the calm failed to soothe him, although he walked rapidly up and down the sward trying to forget the girl. He had done all he could; he could do no more. "Bithiah! Tera!" he cried. Then he was silent. He re-entered the room, and sat down resolutely at his desk. "I must try and forget her," said he. "Work! work! Anything to distract my mind."
 
From a drawer he took a number of bills, and with these, many unpleasant letters insisting upon payment. They were evidence of his youthful folly at college, before he had been called to grace--five hundred pounds of disgrace and self-indulgence which had hung round his neck these many years. Some he had paid, but many remained unsettled. During his two years' absence in the South Seas, these records of sin--as he regarded them--had never troubled him; but since his return to Grimleigh his creditors had found him out, and were persecuting him daily. He was threatened with imprisonment, with bankruptcy, and public shame--he, a minister of the Gospel. If the truth became known he would lose his position; he would be cast without employment on the world. Yet how to conceal his difficulties he did not know. Five hundred pounds he owed, and his stipend was two hundred a year.
 
"If the pearls were only mine!" he murmured.
 
With a sigh he took from another drawer a bag of chamois leather, tied at the neck with red tape. Opening this, he shook out on the blotting-pad a number of smooth shining pearls, some large, some small, all of rare colouring and great value. These belonged to Tera. They had been given to her by Buli before she left Koiau, for the purpose of buying goods and clothes to take back when she returned. Tera, as yet, had not sold them, and for safe keeping had given them to her guardian. But the time was at hand when she would go back to Koiau with Brand; and this treasure would be turned into money, and exchanged for value, in accordance with her father's wish.
 
"Three thousand pounds' worth!" said Johnson, handling the glistening gems, "and if Bithiah married me the money would be mine. But God knows I do not care for these things, tempting as they are. It is she alone whom I desire for my wife, though to gain her I risk the pearl of great price. For a man's soul is as a pearl, and she with her beauty would thieve----"
 
He stopped suddenly, for it seemed to him that he heard a soft and stealthy footstep outside. Cowardice formed no part of the young man's character, and hastily replacing the pearls in the bag, and the bag in the drawer, he crossed the room and stepped out of the window. To right and left of him he looked, but saw nothing. Overhead shone the quiet stars; underfoot he trod the dewy sward; but there was no sign of any human being. Yet Johnson felt convinced that some eye had been on him whilst he counted the pearls, and he felt glad that he had locked the drawer which contained them. To verify his suspicions, he stepped through the iron gate, and walked some way up the street. All was silent under the glimmer of the gas-lamps, and he could hear only the echo of his own steps, hollow on the asphalt pavement. With a sigh of relief, half convinced that his ears had played him false, he returned to the house and his study. There was no doubt that some one had been at the desk during his ten minutes' absence. The bills were gone!
 
The bills were gone! His secret was in the keeping of some other person. Who had done this? Why had he been watched? Why had the bills, of all things, been taken by this unknown thief? The minister ran wildly out again into the darkness; he hunted up and down the street; he looked over his neighbours' fences; but in spite of the closest search he could find neither the bills nor the person who had taken them. The door leading from the study to the interior of the house was locked--no one could have entered in that way. No member of his own household could have stolen them. No! the thief must have come in by the window during his absence. But why had the miscreant taken the bills and not the pearls? An examination assured him that these were safe. But the list of his debts, his name, his honour, were in the hands of some person unknown.
 
"It is some horrible dream--a nightmare!" gasped the unfortunate man. "Oh God! what am I to do?"
 
There was nothing to be done. The strictest search had failed to find the thief, and he did not dare to summon assistance lest his dishonour might become the sooner known. With a prayer for help on his lips, he locked the window. Perplexed and anxious, he retired to rest--but not to his room. Fearful lest the thief should return, he lay down on the sofa. In vain were all efforts to sleep, and he passed the night in agony, until dawn burned redly along the ocean line. Then he rose to play his part of the godly young minister of the Grimleigh Bethesda.
 
With the passing of the night went a portion of Johnson's terrors; and he was fairly composed when he met Tera at the breakfast-table. Beyond a conventional greeting he said nothing; but during the absence of his mother from the room, he raised his eyes to bespeak the girl's attention.
 
"I beg your pardon for speaking as I did last night," he said coldly; "I lost control of myself."
 
"Say nothing more, Mr. Johnson," cried Tera; "I understand."
 
"You do not understand anything, Bithiah. To-day I write to Brother Korah, asking him to see me to-morrow morning at ten. You will please be present, as I wish to give into his charge you and your pearls."
 
"Aué! You cast me off?"
 
"I can no longer be responsible for you or for myself. I love you, but your heart belongs to this worldly Finland. I shall tell all to Brother Korah, and he shall take you back at once to Koiau."
 
"And Jack!" faltered Tera, in low tones.
 
"You shall never see him again," said Johnson, fiercely; "in your own despite you shall be saved from that infidel."
 
Tera looked at him so contemptuously that he winced.
 
"Dog in the manger!" said she, insultingly. "I am not to see Jack, because I refuse to love you. Well! we shall see if a chief's daughter is to be your slave. Tofa alii" [farewell, chief], and with a haughty air she walked out of the room.
 
It might have been that Johnson would have followed, to explain his meaning more clearly, and even to defend his conduct so far as was possible, had not his mother returned just at that moment. She at once engaged him in a conversation touching the delinquencies of their maid-of-all-work, a mulish creature who was one of that great army of cooks sent by the devil for the spoliation of God's food.
 
The man, intent on his own thoughts, listened mechanically, and seized the first opportunity to get away. That same morning he wrote a note, asking Brand, the missionary, to call and see him about Tera; and so, with iron determination, committed himself to a separation.
 
All that day Tera pointedly avoided his company, and when, as at meal-times, she was forced to be in it, was content to express herself in monosyllables. Johnson winced and paled at the scorn which her attitude implied, but bore with it as best he could. Yet his thoughts were not exclusively taken up with her. He was constantly conjecturing as to who could have stolen his bills, and he tortured himself with fears lest his shame would speedily be made known in Grimleigh. The strictest examination had revealed no trace of the thief. He could not imagine how the creature had accomplished his end so dexterously. He was silent and unhappy.
 
The year was drawing to harvest-time, and the golden sunlight lay heavy on the yellow corn lands. In the almost tropical heat, Johnson panted and quivered, for his jaded nerves and ill-nourished body could not resist the power of the sun. Towards five o'clock, when the heat had somewhat abated, and the cool sea-breeze breathed across the glowing earth, he went into the town to see some members of his congregation. His work, he sternly resolved, should not be neglected for his private troubles; so he visited the sick, succoured the needy, and returned somewhat calm to his home. As he entered, Mrs. Johnson, querulous as ever, met him.
 
"Where is Bithiah, my son?" she asked, complainingly. "I want Bithiah to help me prepare the supper; Jane is worse than useless."
 
"I have not seen Bithiah, mother."
 
"She went out an hour ago, George, and it is growing dark. This is not the time for a modest maiden to be out. And Jane worries me. She has used up all the milk, and has forgotten to order the meat. Do look for Bithiah."
 
"Very well, mother. I expect she is taking her favourite walk by Farmer Carwell's meadows. I must just see if there are any letters for me in the study."
 
There was ample light in the room when he entered, for the curtains were drawn back from the open window. He approached the desk in an absent frame of mind, but suddenly his attention was fixed by an amazing circumstance. On the blotting-paper lay the pile of bills which had been stolen from him on the previous night. Again during his absence the thief had evidently entered. The plunder was restored. The minister shook, and the perspiration beaded his brow. Then he noticed that his keys, which he had left behind, dangled from the drawer which had contained the pearls.
 
"Gone!" he cried wildly. "The pearls are gone!" For a moment he stood still, looking at the returned bills--the empty drawer. Then, in a frenzy of fear, he rushed from the house.
CHAPTER III A DISAPPOINTMENT
 Originally Korah Brand had been a sailor--careless of religion, and content to live for the day without taking thought of the morrow. Born in England, trained as a weaver, he had really wandered to America and the South Seas at the dictation of a restless and inquiring spirit. In those unregenerate days he had been a law unto himself, and thereby sufficiently ill-governed. But the chance words of a missionary, met with in Samoa, had turned his thoughts towards religion, and, deserting his seafaring life, he henceforth worked as a labourer in the Lord's vineyard.
 
Yet this change hardened rather than softened his character. He held by the Mosaic law, and interpreted the precepts of Christ in a spirit of narrow bigotry. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth;" "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off." These were the fundamental articles of his creed. He spoke much of the punishment, little of the promise, and daunted the minds of his hearers with threats of eternal doom. In his own way he was a good man, but incapable of preaching on the text, "God is Love." He hardly understood that these three words form the true basis of Christianity.
 
In answer to Johnson's urgent letter. Brand presented himself next morning in the study. He had visited it several times before, yet on this occasion he again glanced critically round him as if in search of some indulgence deserving of rebuke. But the room and its contents were plain--even poor. The furniture was of stained deal, the floor was covered with coarse cocoa-nut matting brought by its owner from Koiau. There were savage weapons on the walls between the well-filled bookcases: shells of strange hue and form ranged on the mantelpiece, and bright-coloured chintz curtains, drawn back with red, white, and blue cords, draped the one window. On these last Brand's eyes rested with disapprobation.
 
"The lust of the eye is there, brother," he declared to the pensive Johnson; "why do you deck your dwelling with purple and fine linen?"
 
"Miss Arnott gave them to me," explained Johnson, lifting his heavy eyes; "she thought the room looked bare, and draped the window herself. The curtains are only of chintz, brother Brand, although the cords are of silk. They can scarcely do harm."
 
"Admit God's light into your tabernacle. Let not your heart be led astray by the gifts of a light woman."
 
Though he felt sick in mind and body, Johnson could not let this remark pass without a protest.
 
"Miss Arnott is one of our most devoted sisters," said he, stiffly; "she was once in the bonds of sin as a singing woman, but she gave up the allurements of the world to serve humbly in our Zion."
 
"The old leaven is still in her, brother. Such gay adornments savour of the world. Let me say a word in season----"
 
"This is not the season for words," interrupted Johnson, impatiently. "I have to speak with you on other and more important matters."
 
"Nothing is more important than a man's soul," rebuked Korah, shaking his shaggy head; "but I suppose you desire to talk of the maiden Bithiah?"
 
"Yes. I want you to take her away to Koiau as soon as possible; but I fear that you will not be able to do so." Johnson rose and paced the room. "She has disappeared," he said, in a low voice.
 
"Disappeared!" repeated Brand, harshly. "What do you mean, brother? Have you lost the precious pearl entrusted to your charge?"
 
"Tera is lost. I admit she----."
 
"Not Tera, friend. We know her as Bithiah."
 
"Bithiah is lost," repeated the minister, patiently. "She left my house last evening, shortly after four o'clock, and has not returned. I fear," he added, "that she has taken her pearls with her."
 
"What pearls, brother? What pearls?"
 
"Pearls worth three thousand pounds, which Buli gave her to sell here, before she returned to Koiau. She wished to keep them until the time of her return, and gave them into my keeping. In this drawer," said Johnson, touching the desk, "I locked them up. When I returned yesterday evening the pearls were gone--Bithiah also."
 
It will be perceived that Johnson omitted to explain the loss and return of the bills. This he did for two reasons. Firstly, his private affairs were his own concern. Secondly, to take Brand into his confidence would result only in a lecture. Korah, however, found in the disappearance of Tera and her pearls quite sufficient matter for anger. It was serious that an influential convert, and a comparatively large fortune, should be lost to the sect of which he was a member. At first he was inclined to speak severely; but a momentary reflection convinced him that it would be wiser first to examine Johnson with a view to reaching the root of the matter. Brand was not without diplomatic gifts.
 
"If you please," said he, dryly, "we will approach this matter with more particularity. How do you know that Bithiah has gone away?"
 
"How do I know?" echoed the minister, with surprise on his haggard face; "why, she has not been home all night. Moreover, we had a few words."
 
"About what?"
 
Johnson hesitated. It was unpleasant to tell this unsympathetic zealot the story of his love; but for the sake of gaining help it seemed inevitable. Still he temporized, so that courage to speak boldly might come to him in the interval. "About a man called Finland," said he.
 
"Jack Finland, the sailor? Brother Carwell's nephew?"
 
"Oh, you know him?"
 
"I know of him, and no good either. He was in the South Seas some few months back, and bore no very good character. So far as the low moral standard of fellow-man goes, he is right enough. But he is not a Christian; he is steeped in vanity. One of those who grin like a dog and run about the city. What is Bithiah to him?"
 
"She is in love with him. Wait, don't speak. Since this sister returned to Grimleigh he has followed her constantly with the low, sensual passion which he miscalls love. The other night, after your lecture, she left our Bethgamul to meet him. I found them together, and she--she declared her love," cried Johnson, with sudden passion. "She said it was her intention to marry him--to marry that son of Belial, lost and iniquitous as he is. I took her away from his sinful company, and brought her home into this very room."
 
"And then?" demanded Korah, with his eyes on the quivering white face.
 
"Then I reproved her for consorting with sinners. I told her of my love."
 
"Oh!" said Korah, very dryly, "then it was jealousy, and not pure Christianity, which urged you to save her?"
 
"Call it what you like, Brand. I loved her, and I told her of my love. I asked her to be my wife. I promised to take her back to the islands, that we might work together in the vineyard. She refused."
 
"She was right to refuse. How dare you mingle sacred and profane love?"
 
"I am but a man," replied Johnson, sullenly, "and as a man I feel: what harm was there in telling her that I wished to make her my wife? I am a minister, a follower of Christ. Is it not better that she should marry me, rather than Finland, the infidel?"
 
"You knew that I was about to take her back, brother; you might also have guessed that Buli had other views for her future. He has. This girl shall marry neither you nor Finland. But all you say in no way explains her disappearance."
 
"I think it does, Brand. I told her that she must never see this sailor again; and I believe that she has gone that she may free herself from the prohibition."
 
"Do you think that she has gone away with Finland?"
 
"If she went with him, they are not together now. Early this morning I saw him in the High Street, but I was not able to speak to him. It struck me that Bithiah might have sought out Shackel."
 
"Shackel! Who is he?"
 
"Jacob Shackel," explained the minister, "the captain of the boat we came home in. He is a godless, rum-drinking creature, but Tera--I mean Bithiah--was drawn to him, and she promised to visit him in London."
 
"Where does he live, brother?"
 
"Somewhere near the docks, I believe. He gave Bithiah his address. Oh, I am sure she has gone to him, so that he may take her back to Koiau on his next voyage."
 
"Is he in London now?"
 
"Yes. Bithiah received a letter from him only last week. He will help her to go away, as he has no love for us, Brother Korah."
 
"A mocker!" said Brand, sadly. "Bithiah cannot go away. She has no money."
 
"She has the pearls; and they are worth three thousand pounds at least."
 
"How do you know that she took them?"
 
"I am certain she took them," said Johnson, emphatically, "although I have only circumstantial evidence to go on. Bithiah was the only person who knew that they were locked in this drawer. Unfortunately, I left my keys behind me when I went out visiting yesterday; so it was easy for her to take them away."
 
Korah frowned, and combed his beard with his fingers. "So far as I can judge from your story," said he, rebukingly, "this maiden has departed to avoid your love."
 
"Say rather because I wished to keep her from Finland."
 
"Well, I will see Finland, brother. If he knows where Bithiah is, she shall be brought back--but not to you. I myself will take her to Koiau and deliver her to her father."
 
"You take no account of my feelings," said Johnson, bitterly.
 
"The Lord's work cannot be hindered for your earthly passion. If Buli knew that you wished to take his child from him, he would not protect our missionaries, and the good seed would be sown in barren ground. But we can speak of these things later, Brother Johnson. The first thing to do is to rescue the maiden from the consequences of her foolish flight, I will question Finland. And you?"
 
"I am going up to London by the mid-day train to see Captain Shackel."
 
"Why not write or telegraph?" suggested Korah.
 
"I think it best to be on the spot myself, brother."
 
The missionary nodded and rose to leave the room. At the door he paused and looked at Johnson keenly from under his shaggy brows.
 
"Brother," said he in a deep and solemn voice, "your feet are straying from the narrow path. You love this maiden entrusted to your care, and weary after the pearls."
 
"No, no, I do not. What do I want with the pearls?"
 
"Brother," Brand shook a menacing finger, "it is known that you owe money. With those pearls you would pay the price of your follies."
 
"How do you know that I owe money?" asked Johnson, pale to the lips.
 
"Your handmaiden found a letter swept aside. It was from a tailor, requesting from you payment of eighty pounds due to him. What have you to do with the vanity of dyed garments from Bozrah?"
 
"My private affairs are my own, Mr. Brand," cried Johnson, with spirit. "I allow no man to discuss them in my presence."
 
"Brother, brother, your feet go downwards to the pit. A wastrel, a lover of vanities, how can you be the pastor of our Bethesda? Take heed lest you stumble, for soon the eyes of all shall be open to your iniquity."
 
As the missionary departed, he cast a look over his shoulder, and saw the unhappy minister sink back in his chair with a look of pain. But Brand, in his Pharisaical uprightness, had no pity for the man or for his position. "As he has sown, so shall he reap," muttered he, and dismissed the matter from his mind. He quite forgot that other text, "Bear ye one another's burdens;" yet had he remembered, he would have misapplied it, as he did all other sayings of the Christ whom he professed to follow.
 
In the meantime he searched for Finland, and found him on the stone jetty, smoking and jesting with some fishermen. When Brand appeared, the young sailor turned his back on him, for he had no love for a half-baked missionary. But Korah, who had the pertinacity of a fanatic, was not to be put off so easily.
 
"John Finland, come with me. I have need of you."
 
"Need'll have to be your master then," sneered Jack. "I've more to do than gavort round with psalm-singing critters."
 
Brand seized the young man's shoulders with a grasp like a pair of pincers. "It is about Bithiah," he said, sourly.
 
"I don't know any girl of that name."
 
"She was Tera, when in the bonds of sin."
 
"Tera!" Jack led the missionary aside, and looked at him with a frown on his handsome face. "And what may you have to say about Tera, Mister Missionary?"
 
"Where is she, John Finland?"
 
"How should I know? I am not her keeper."
 
"So answered Cain when he destroyed his brother's body; but you, John Finland, shall not evade my inquiry about the destruction of a human soul. Tera, as you call her, is gone!--and you have taken her from the fold."
 
"Tera gone!" Finland paled through his bronzed complexion. "Where has she gone?"
 
"I ask that," said Brand, sternly. "Last night she left the fold at six o'clock, and has not returned. She went to you, bearing precious jewels."
 
"I never saw her, I swear! Last time I met her was the evening before yesterday, when Johnson took her away. This comes of her being amongst your psalm-singing lot. You have made away with Tera for the sake of her pearls."
 
Finland was desperately in earnest, for he clenched his fists, spoke hoarsely, and looked wicked. Brand was sufficiently a judge of human nature to see that this speech was made in all honesty. Whosoever knew where Tera had gone, Jack was not the man. He was as astonished at her disappearance as Brand himself.
 
"I see you are ignorant of her whereabouts," he said, in a disappointed tone. "We must seek elsewhere for Bithiah."
 
"Oh, I'll seek for her, I'll find her," said Jack, between his teeth; "and if any harm has come to her, I'll wring that parson's neck! I know him--he loves Tera, and I shouldn't be surprised if he has carried her off. But I'll find her--if she is above ground."
 
"Above ground?" echoed Brand. "You--you don't think the girl is dead!"
 
CHAPTER IV IN THE CORNFIELD
 The little town of Grimleigh opened full on to the Channel. Its extension had of necessity been lateral, by reason of the hills which in the rear rose so precipitously as to be hopelessly inaccessible to the builder. But at either extremity the gradient became easier, and here row upon row of houses sloped down towards a lower plane built up of silt. This, too, was well covered, though here again Nature had intervened and the builder had perforce to stay his hand, threatened by the water. A narrow stone jetty ran out abruptly into the harbour, which, sheltered as it was by the high land around, afforded secure haven for those fishers of the deep upon whom in a large degree Grimleigh depended for its prosperity.
 
As you drew from the sea, the precipitous nature of the land ceased, and far into the hazy distance the undulating down now waved with the ripening corn. The comfortable-looking homesteads scattered here and there seemed almost buried in the golden billows. The distinction, too, between the land and sea folk was sharply marked. The one rarely mingled with the other. When Grimleigh folk left Grimleigh it was mostly for the sea, while Poldew--the market-town some ten miles further inland--was the invariable goal of farmer and farm labourer.
 
Mr. Carwell owned the farm nearest to Grimleigh. It stretched directly from the ridge where the hills sloped beachwards. A broad highway running through the corn-lands lifted itself over the rise and dropped gradually down until it ran into the High Street bisecting the silt. Besides this main approach, the place was rich in paths, which ran round the meadows; these the Grimleigh folk put to the fullest possible use, both economic and romantic.
 
A month after the disappearance of Tera two figures might have been seen climbing one of these paths. The one was Herbert Mayne, a smart yeoman squire, of handsome countenance and somewhat fickle disposition; the other Rachel Carwell, to whom for some time past the young man had attached himself. Rachel was small and rather pale; but you would not have denied her prettiness. Her brown curling hair and a neat figure and large blue eyes were attractions quite strong enough for the inflammable Herbert to lose his head over. In spite of her modest slate-coloured garb and close bonnet, Rachel knew very well that she was pretty. She in nowise resented Herbert's attentions, for he was well-looking, well-to-do, and of a good yeoman family. Her father, she knew, would approve of such a match, and as her own inclinations leaned towards it, she grudged Herbert neither her company nor her conversation. It is true that he had been wild, that there were many tales current in the district about his attentions to other girls, and that it was reported that he had once been in love with a gipsy girl; but Rachel looked upon all these things as follies of the past. Herbert was now a reformed character. He went to chapel, he attended to his farm, and he cast no glance at another woman while Rachel was by; and, although he had said no word of love to her, she quite looked on him as her future husband. She was prepared to become Mrs. Mayne whenever he should propose to raise her to that dignity. There was no romance about Rachel or her courting: all was dull and respectable, with just an element of religion thrown in, to render her position irreproachable.
 
When the pair reached the brow of the hill, they cast one glance at a distant field, where Farmer Carwell was cutting and binding his corn, then turned to look back on Grimleigh and the distant ocean sparkling in the strong sunshine. Rachel had taken Herbert's arm to climb the hill, and she still leaned on it with girlish confidence in its strong support. After a time they sat down on a convenient seat, and Rachel, feeling hot, took off her close linen bonnet. Her hair was very beautiful.
 
"What lovely curls you have!" said Herbert, admiringly. "It seems a shame to hide them."
 
Rachel laughed and blushed, not ill pleased. When was a woman impervious to flattery?
 
"It is not right that one of our congregation should give way to the vanities of this world," she said demurely. "I should put on my bonnet again, since my hair attracts your attention."
 
"No, don't, Rachel. I like to see a woman make herself look as pretty as she can."
 
"Vanity and vexation of spirit, Herbert."
 
"Nonsense! I think our people are far too severe. Wouldn't you like to wear dresses of a pretty colour, and a gold brooch and a hat with flowers in it?"
 
"What is the use of thinking of such things?" said Rachel, rather pettishly, for she had the true feminine instinct for fashion and colour. "Father would never let me dress gaily; besides, think of the scandal there would be if I appeared in Bethgamul as you describe."
 
"That native girl, Tera, was gaily enough dressed, Rachel; and no one said anything in rebuke to her."
 
"You mean Bithiah," corrected Rachel, primly. "Don't call her by the name her heathen father gave her; you forget, Bithiah was a king's daughter--not an English girl. Mr. Johnson said that her father wished her to be dressed like a parrot. After all, Bithiah was only a poor heathen."
 
"Tera was; but Bithiah believed, and was baptized like a good Christian."
 
"It did not do her much good, then," said Rachel, with jealousy, "seeing that she ran away from our good minister. They will never find her again."
 
"Never!" said Herbert, confidently. "She has vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed her up. Mr. Johnson thought that she might have gone to London. Indeed, he went there to search for her."
 
"Why to London?"
 
"Oh, it seems that the captain of the ship she came to England in lives in London--a man called Jacob Shackel, to whom Mr. Johnson thought she might have gone. But Shackel knew nothing about her, and Mr. Johnson came home in despair. I often wonder why she ran away."
 
"I don't," said Miss Carwell, shrewdly. "Everybody is making mystery out of her disappearance, but I can't see it myself. She was in love with my wicked cousin Jack--and ran away with him."
 
"You are wrong, Rachel. Mr. Brand, the missionary, asked Jack about that, and he denied it. Besides, Jack was almost mad with grief when he heard the girl was lost, and hunted for her everywhere. There isn't a hole or corner in the country where he has not been to search for her."
 
"Oh, Jack is very wicked and very clever," said Rachel, with a toss of her head. "He never comes to chapel, and was always a scoffer at godly things. He bowed down to that girl as though she were one of her own idols. Jack has been gone from Grimleigh these two weeks. I believe Bithiah ran away first, and he joined her. Bithiah indeed!"--this with a more vigorous toss of the head--"she has forfeited all right to that name by her conduct. I shall call her Tera. Well, Jack, believe me--Jack and Tera, wherever they are, are together."
 
"But, Rachel, Jack left here to join his ship in London."
 
"So he says; but I don't believe him. Jack never did have any regard for the truth. No, he has joined Bithiah; else why did she take her pearls with her?"
 
This reasoning was so purely feminine that Herbert could neither follow nor answer it. He was a friend of Finland's, and had received from him so solemn an assurance about his ignorance of Tera's whereabouts, that he did not for one moment believe that the lovers were together. Moreover, before Jack had left for London he had asked Mayne to watch Johnson, so as to discover, if possible, if the minister were in anyway concerned in his ward's disappearance. In pursuance of his promise, Herbert had made many inquiries about Johnson, and had learned much concerning him which he now imparted to Rachel.
 
"Do you know that our pastor is in debt?" he asked, with a certain amount of hesitation.
 
"What! Mr. Johnson--in debt?" gasped Rachel, brokenly. "I don't believe it; no, I can't. Why, he lives like a pauper--at least, well within his income."
 
"He is hard up, for all that, Rachel. While at college he contracted certain debts, and these are not yet paid. Now he is suffering for the sins of his youth."
 
Rachel, who was a fervent admirer of the minister, jumped up, and began to walk towards the distant cornfield. She seemed very angry. "I would not talk of youthful sins if I were you," she said tartly to the astonished Herbert, as he regained his place by her side; "you are not so good yourself, or were not till lately."
 
"I never pretended to be a saint, Rachel. No man is, that I know of--not even our precious pastor, in spite of what they say. He was in love with Bithiah himself."
 
"I know that," retorted Miss Carwell, unexpectedly. "I have seen him looking at her in chapel. Do you think I have no eyes in my head? Of course Mr. Johnson loved her, and a very lucky girl she was to gain the affection of such a man. But that her heart was set on worldly things, she would have remained here and married our pastor, instead of running away with that wicked cousin of mine. But these debts, Herbert--who told you about them?"
 
"I heard of them from several people. But the main source is through Mr. Johnson's servant, who found one or two of the letters asking for payment, and read them."
 
"Oh, Herbert!--poor Mr. Johnson will be called to account by the elders for this. They think it is a dire sin to owe money."
 
"No doubt; and he will probably be asked to resign the pastorate of our Bethgamul. But----"
 
"Now don't you say a word against him," interrupted Rachel, with crimson cheeks, "or I shall go away."
 
"Rachel, you are not in love with him, I hope?"
 
"No, Mr. Mayne, I am not. How dare you say such a thing to me! I am in love with no one at present."
 
"Not with anyone?" whispered Mayne, looking directly at her.
 
"I refuse to answer questions which you have not the right to ask."
 
By her reply, Rachel hinted very plainly that Herbert could easily become possessed of that right by the simple procedure of a proposal. She quite expected him to do so, seeing that she had thus met him half-way; but to her surprise and secret anger he appeared in no way anxious to avail himself of the opportunity. Making no reply, he walked on gloomily beside her, silent and ill pleased. This behaviour both piqued and frightened her. So, determined not to say the first word in reconciliation of their tiff, she, too, held her tongue. And so they walked on.
 
By this time they had arrived nearly at the cornfield where the harvesting was going on, under the personal supervision of Farmer Carwell. The sturdy old man was no convert to the use of steam, and his corn was reaped with sickle and scythe in the style of his forefathers. A long line of men, whose bodies rose and fell in rhythmic movement, swept the glittering blades through the thick standing grain. At their heels scrambled a crowd of women and boys, binding the swathes into sheaves. After them came the gleaners, picking up what was left. The sun flamed hotly in a cloudless sky of soft blue, and the yellow plain glowed like a furnace, Carwell, with his coat off, was directing operations, and only desisted from shouting and working when he saw his daughter approach with the silent Herbert at her heels.
 
"Hey, lass! you are just in time to give us a hand," said he, wiping the perspiration from off his brow. "And you too, Mayne; but maybe you are too much taken up with your own crops to lend a hand with mine?"
 
"Oh, I'll help," said Herbert, slipping off his coat. "I just came up with Rachel here, although by rights I should be back at the farm."
 
"I'm sorry you troubled to come with me, Mr. Mayne," replied Rachel, not well pleased at this ungallant speech. "But we won't detain you here. Please go back to your own land."
 
"Nay, nay," cried her father; "let the lad have a glass of beer and give us a hand if he will. We need all the help we can get, for I shouldn't be surprised if we have a deal of rain before the end of the week."
 
"The weather looks set enough now," said Herbert, picking up a scythe. "Phew! it's as hot as the tropics. Well, I'll mow. Rachel, will you be my Ruth, and glean after me?"
 
Rachel tossed her head. "Indeed I will not, Mr. Mayne."
 
"It was 'Herbert' a few minutes ago," hinted the young man, dropping his voice.
 
"Ah, you were good then. Just now I am not pleased with you."
 
It was on Herbert's lips to ask her the reason, when a commotion was seen to take place amongst the harvesters. Excited voices were raised; two or three men stepped into the standing corn, and all threw down their hooks.
 
"Hullo, hullo!" cried the farmer, striding towards them. "What's all this?"
 
The answer he received startled him. A woman shrieked, and then several of them came tearing past, wild-eyed and white-faced. Rachel looked at Mayne. "What--what is it?" she gasped. But without reply Herbert rushed on towards the disordered group.
 
"What is the matter?" roared Carwell, parting the crowd right and left. "What are ye----?"
 
Then his eye caught sight of a dark object lying in the middle of the corn, and he recoiled. "A body!" he exclaimed, in horrified tone. "God help us--the body of a lass!"
 
It was, indeed, the body of a woman. The harvesters examined it, but they could not recognize the face. It had evidently lain there several weeks among the standing corn. Recognition of its identity was impossible; indeed rain and sun and wind had combined to blot out well-nigh all semblance to humanity. But the dress showed these were the remains of a woman. There was something very pitiful in this poor clay lying there in the sunshine.
 
"Strangled!" muttered Carwell, bending over it; "there is a cord round the throat. Send the women away," he shouted; "this is no sight for them. Poor lass! Dead--and in my field. I wonder who she was. Keep back, Rachel," he added, as his daughter, attracted by the news, came swiftly up.
 
But Rachel did not pause. She had caught sight of the dead woman's dress, and brushed past her father.
 
"Bithiah!" she cried. "It is Bithiah--Tera--Mr. Johnson's ward!"
CHAPTER V A NINE DAYS' WONDER
 In a surprisingly short space of time the news was in every mouth. It drew the idlers of Grimleigh hot-footed to the half-reaped meadow where the corpse still lay amongst the standing corn. But the police, having received early notice, were quickly on the spot, and drew a cordon round the poor remains, that they might in no way be molested. Beyond this, the crowd of fishers and labourers broke into excited groups, arguing and theorizing.
 
"I smelt 'um," said a grey-headed reaper; "eh, I smelt 'um. 'Tis a very bad smell, sure."
 
"'Tis wonder mun was not found afore, William Lee."
 
"You be a fule, George Evans. The poor lass was bedded out in the middle of the field wi' the corn thick about her. Nor smell nor sight could come to sich as passed on the road."
 
"But the maiden must ha' bin dragged o'er the wheat-ears, and so they'd bin beat down. Now, if one saw sich----"
 
"They would think 'twas the rain or God Almighty's wind, George Evans. Eh, and who would look for mun in a cornfield? He who killed yon maiden was cliver for sure."
 
"And who did that, William Lee?"
 
No one was sufficiently speculative or daring to answer this question. Eyes looked into eyes, heads were shaken at heads, but the labourers could guess neither by whom, nor for what reason, the girl had been killed. Mayne alone made an attempt to solve the mystery as he escorted Rachel to her home.
 
"I wonder what Mr. Johnson knows of this?" said he, suddenly.
 
Rachel looked at him in surprise. "I don't see what he can know of it, Herbert; the poor girl left his house while he was out."
 
"Quite so; but he followed her!"
 
"How do you know?"
 
"I was coming up from Grimleigh on the night Bithiah disappeared. As I climbed that path which goes to the field, I met our pastor coming from it. He looked wild-like, and tore past me like a storm-wind. I did not know then what he was after; now I make sure he was in search of Bithiah."
 
"Not to kill her, Herbert," cried Rachel, shuddering; "not to kill her!"
 
"No; I don't say that, Rachel."
 
"He had no reason to kill her, you know. He loved her. A man does not kill the woman he loves. A minister, set high as an example to the congregation, does not break the sixth commandment."
 
Rachel turned on Mayne with a look of wrath in her usually mild eyes. "Herbert Mayne, for shame!" she cried furiously. "Shame upon you that you say such things! I would as soon believe my own father killed Tera, as Mr. Johnson."
 
"I don't want to accuse the pastor," said Herbert, gloomily; "but if he does not know how she came by her death, who does?"
 
"I believe that Bithiah, or Tera, as I should call her, carried away her pearls on that night, and was killed by some tramp who wished to rob her."
 
"How would a tramp know that Bithiah carried three thousand pounds worth of pearls?" retorted Herbert, sharply. "Your statement only strengthens the case against Mr. Johnson. He alone knew that Bithiah had the pearls with her. He----"
 
"A case against Mr. Johnson?" interrupted Rachel. "There is no case against him. How dare you talk like this?"
 
"It is merely a theory."
 
"It is envy and hatred, Herbert Mayne. Here I am at home. I shall not ask you to come in; you have spoken too cruelly of our pastor. Go away, and ask God for a new heart--a contrite spirit. I am ashamed of you."
 
Rachel entered the house and closed the door in Herbert's face. He stood where he was for a moment. Then he turned and walked back to the field. In spite of Miss Carwell's denunciation, he bore no ill will towards the minister. He only theorized on the sole evidence which he possessed. Johnson loved Tera, and she loved Finland. Johnson was in desperate need of money, and Tera had run away, and, on the very night of her departure, he had met Johnson on the path near the very cornfield in which the body had been found. The evidence, circumstantial if it was, clearly pointed to Johnson's being more or less implicated. "I don't say that he either stole the pearls or killed the girl," mused Herbert, as he strode along. "I merely think he must in some way be connected with the matter, or at least know something about it. At all events, it will be for him to explain how he came to be in that particular place on that particular night. Sooner or later the police are bound to question him."
 
When he reached the field, Herbert found that Inspector Chard had arrived from Poldew. By his directions the body of Tera was carried into Grimleigh, and there laid out in an empty building close to the police-office. Notified that the dead woman was Mr. Johnson's ward, Mr. Inspector, after making a few inquiries, paid a visit to the minister. As luck would have it, he met him coming out of his garden. He looked somewhat scared, and when he saw Chard's uniform he hastened towards him.
 
"What is this? what is this?" he asked hurriedly. "I hear that a terrible crime has been committed."
 
"Yes, sir," said Chard, with military brevity. "Are you Mr. Johnson?"
 
"That is my name. But this murder----"
 
"I have come to speak to you about it, Mr. Johnson."
 
"To speak to me!" repeated the minister, whose face looked emaciated and painfully white. "Why! what have I to do with it?"
 
"Don't you know who has been murdered?" asked Chard, with a keen glance.
 
"No; how should I? My mother was in the town just now, and returned with a story of some crime having been committed. She is rather deaf, and heard no details. I was coming to the police-office to make inquiries."
 
"I will answer all your inquiries now, sir. Please take me within doors."
 
"But who are you?" asked Johnson, who did not recognize the officer.
 
"Inspector Chard, of the Poldew police-office. I come to ask you a few questions."
 
"About what?" said Johnson, conducting the inspector into the study.
 
"About the dead woman."
 
"Ah!" Johnson dropped into his chair with a gasp. "A woman! The victim, then, is a woman?" He looked swiftly at the stern police officer, and passed his tongue over his dry lips. "What questions can I answer? I know nothing of this poor soul."
 
"Pardon me, sir, but I think that is not quite correct," replied the inspector, dryly. Then, with an observant eye, "The dead woman is, I believe, a native girl who----"
 
"Tera!" Johnson leaped up and shrieked the name. "Tera!" he repeated, and dropped back into his chair, "I--I knew it!"
 
"You knew it?" echoed the inspector, pouncing upon the admission. "And how did you know it? Be careful, sir--for your own sake, be careful."
 
But the minister was heeding him not at all. Indeed, in his then state of mind it is questionable whether he even heard the man. Certainly he in no wise took in the meaning of the warnings. "Tera!" he moaned, resting his forehead on the table. "Oh, Bithiah!"
 
"Who is Bithiah?" asked Chard, still on the alert for any clue.
 
"Bithiah is Tera," said Johnson, lifting his haggard face. "When we received her into the fold we named her Bithiah. And now she is dead--dead! Who killed her?" he demanded, with a sudden fierceness.
 
"That is what I wish to learn, Mr. Johnson; and if you will be so good as to answer my questions, we may perhaps arrive at some clue to lead us to the discovery of the assassin."
 
The minister wiped the perspiration from his forehead and drew a long breath. Chard could see that the man's nerves were shattered, and that he was suffering from severe mental excitement and physical prostration.
 
"How long have you been ill?" asked the inspector, suddenly.
 
"I am not ill; I am worried."
 
"Oh!"
 
There was a world of meaning in Chard's ejaculation.
 
"Then how long have you been so worried?"
 
"I don't know."
 
"Shall we say a month?"
 
By this time the minister was beginning to see that there was something strange in the officer's attitude.
 
"Why a month?" he asked, as a new fear filled him.
 
"The body we found has been lying in the field for quite a month."
 
"Man!" cried Johnson, with a wild stare, "you don't mean to infer that I killed her?"
 
"I--I infer nothing, sir. I am here to procure information--to ask questions, not to answer them. This dead woman was your ward. She left you, as I understand, a month ago, and has not been heard of since. To-day we find her dead body in a cornfield belonging to Mr. Carwell. It is my duty to learn how she came there--how she came to be strangled."
 
"Strangled! Was she strangled?"
 
"Yes," said Chard, dryly; "she was strangled, and her body was hidden in the thick of the standing corn. A very clever method of concealment. I don't think I ever heard of a cornfield being used for such a purpose before. Moreover," and Mr. Inspector leaned forward, "the body has been robbed."
 
"Robbed!"
 
"Yes--the pearls, you know."
 
"The pearls?" repeated Johnson, vacantly. "Oh yes, the pearls. But what are they--what is anything compared with her death? Oh! I loved her, how I loved her! And she is dead!" He leaned his head on his hands and wept.
 
Chard was becoming a trifle impatient. The man was in such a state of mental excitement and physical debility, that it seemed unlikely he would prove of much use--at present, at all events. Still, he was the person of all others from whom details regarding the past life of the dead girl could best be learned; and in her past life might be found a motive sufficiently strong to lead to some clue. Ever prepared for emergencies, Chard produced a flask of brandy from his pocket, and pouring a little of it into a cup, handed it to Johnson. As the odour of the spirit struck his nostrils, the minister recoiled with a look of disgust.
 
"I am an abstainer," said he, waving it away.
 
"That may be," rejoined Chard, imperturbably; "but you are all broken up and weak now. 'A little wine for the stomach's sake,' as St. Paul says. You can hardly go against St. Paul, sir. Drink it," he added, sharply. "I insist upon your drinking it."
 
"You have no right to speak to me in that way, Mr. Chard."
 
"I have the right of a Jack-in-office," retorted the inspector. "I wish to learn all about this woman. You can supply the information I require, though at present you are hardly fit to do so. Drink the brandy, I say, and pull yourself together."
 
"I am quite able to answer your questions without the aid of alcohol, thank you," replied Johnson, in so dignified a tone that the officer did not press him further. "What is it you seek to know?"
 
Chard shrugged his shoulders, drank off the brandy himself, and, slipping the flask into his pocket, commenced a brisk examination.
 
"Who is--or, rather, who was, this girl?" he asked, taking out his pocket-book to note down the answers to his inquiries.
 
"A Polynesian girl from the island of Koiau in the South Seas."
 
"And how did she happen to be in England?"
 
"She was brought here by myself, Mr. Inspector. For a year or more I was a missionary in Koiau, and while there I gained the good-will of Buli, the high chief. He inclined his ear to our faith, and, I believe, would have become a professed Christian, had not the heathen party been so strong that they might have deposed and killed him. As it was, he asked me to take his daughter Tera to England, and have her educated in one of our schools, so that she might return civilized and converted, to do good in her own land. I accepted the charge, and, after baptizing the girl as Bithiah, I brought her to England, and put her to a school near London. She was there for a year, and a few months ago she came here to live with my mother and myself, pending her return to Koiau."
 
"Oh, she was about to return, you say?"
 
"Yes, her father, being old and frail, wished her to come back, that he might claim her as his successor. He sent home another missionary, named Korah Brand, to escort her back. It was only shortly before her death that I told Brand he could take her away."
 
"You say you loved her!"
 
Johnson flushed, and looked troubled. "The confession escaped me in my sorrow," he said, in a low voice. "I must ask you to respect the privacy of a statement made under such circumstances."
 
"Nevertheless, I fear you must speak of it," said Chard. "If I am to trace the murderer of this poor creature, I must know all about her."
 
"Well, I don't care who knows," cried the minister, recklessly. "I have nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, Mr. Inspector, I loved her, and I asked her to marry me. She refused, declaring she was in love with a man named Jack Finland."
 
"Oh, here is a fresh element. And who is Finland, may I ask?"
 
"A sailor--a nephew of Farmer Carwell."
 
"H'm!" said Chard; "and it was in Farmer Carwell's field the body was found. Strange!"
 
"I don't think Finland killed her," expostulated Johnson, with some eagerness. "He is not a godly man, and it is true, I believe, that he is a trifle dissipated in his habits; but he is a good-humoured, cheery sailor, and he loved the girl dearly. Indeed, I am certain that he is innocent."
 
"All men are presumed to be innocent until they are found guilty," said the officer, dryly. "And where is Mr. Finland now?"
 
"At sea, for all I know. He left Grimleigh three weeks ago, to join his ship in London."
 
"Do you happen to know the ship's name?"
 
"No," replied Johnson, coldly; "I was not sufficiently interested in Finland to ask. Farmer Carwell may know."
 
"I will ask him," said Mr. Inspector, making a note in his book. "And now, Mr. Johnson, tell me when this girl ran away."
 
"On the evening of August 23rd."
 
"Why did she go?"
 
"Because I informed her that for the future Brand would take charge of her, and would not let her see Finland again. I was absent when she went away, but my mother tells me that she left the house between five and six o'clock."
 
"What did you do?"
 
"I went out to look for her when I returned. I did not think she had run away; but that she had merely gone for a stroll. I therefore went out to find her, and escort her home."
 
"Did you see her?"
 
"No. I walked about for nearly two hours, but I saw nothing of her."
 
"Was there any circumstance which seemed to point to her having run away?"
 
"Well, the pearls were missing. Buli gave his daughter a bag of pearls worth at least three thousand pounds. She was to sell them, and with the money buy goods to take back to Koiau; but she was not to do so until immediately before her departure. For safety, I took charge of them, and they were usually locked up in a drawer of this desk."
 
"Did the girl know where they were?"
 
"Oh yes, I showed them to her frequently. On the day she left I forgot to take my keys with me, and when I returned, both Bithiah and the pearls were gone. Then it was that it crossed my mind she might have run away."
 
"With Finland?"
 
Johnson shook his head. "Finland was questioned by Mr. Brand about that," said he, "and denied having seen the girl. He left Grimleigh a week after her disappearance."
 
"Do you think Finland is guilty?"
 
"I have already said that I do not, Mr. Chard. He loved the girl, and she was quite willing to marry him and give up her fortune, so I do not see what motive he could have had to kill her. No, sir, Finland is innocent."
 
"Had the girl any enemies?"
 
"Not that I know of."
 
"Can you surmise who killed her?"
 
Johnson raised his head solemnly. "As the Lord God liveth, I can not," he said, and his answer had all the solemnity of an oath.
 
This ended the examination for the time being, and Mr. Inspector disappeared. It was yet too early for him to make up his mind, but he was strongly of opinion that Johnson knew more than he chose to confess.
 
CHAPTER VI CONSTABLE SLADE'S DISCOVERY
 There are policemen who in their own eyes are wholly estimable. In Grimleigh dwelt such a one. He was a lean, solemn, taciturn being, with red hair and moustache, a freckled face, and the coldest of blue eyes, shrewdly observant in proportion to their coldness. The man really possessed capabilities, though for want of opportunity they had grown rusty. But that was not his fault. To arrest drunken sailors and seek out rural malefactors of a half-hearted type, and to see to it that public-houses were not open after prescribed hours--of such order were the duties of Jeremiah Slade. And the paltriness of them filled his ambitious soul with disgust. For this village constable was an omnivorous reader of the detective novel, and ardently admired the preternatural acuteness and dexterity brought into play by the fictitious miracle-mongers, who therein are depicted as ever able to solve the most impenetrable of mysteries. He longed for a chance to distinguish himself after the same fashion, and he chafed that opportunity was so long withheld. But now his hour had come, as we are told it comes to all men who know how to wait; and the discovery of Tera's body in the cornfield seemed to promise a criminal thesis intricate enough even for his most ambitious desires.
 
Now, Jeremiah was a married man--married within the last twelve months to a diminutive, albeit not over-shrewd, black-haired tyrant, whose greatest of all desires was to live at Poldew. If only Slade could be transferred to that centre of gaiety--so different from Grimleigh--the little woman would be perfectly happy. At least she thought so. Now, if only Jeremiah could distinguish himself in the performance of his duties sufficiently to attract the intelligent and ever-watchful eye of Inspector Chard, it was not beyond the bounds of probability that the much-desired transference might come to pass. Therefore was Mistress Slade ever goading her good man to accomplish the impossible. She was as anxious as--nay, more so than he, that some tragedy of ample dimensions should take place. She, too, saw nothing but promotion and glory in the mysterious murder of Tera, and, the morning after the body had been transferred to the dead-house, she chose to attack Jeremiah on the subject, while she prepared his breakfast. Slade sat over the kitchen fire reading "The Moonstone." He hoped therefrom to extract inspiration for the task which he was about to undertake. It is truly an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the Slades looked on the tragic fate of Tera as the foundation of their humble fortunes.
 
"Jerry," said Mrs. Slade, pouring out the tea, "you have your chance now. If you can find out who killed that girl, we'll be sent to Poldew, sure."
 
"I'm goin' to find out, Jemima," growled the policeman. "I'm readin' up for the business now."
 
"Bah! your novels ain't no good, Jerry. This is real life, this is."
 
"The chaps that writes takes their ideas from real life, Jemima. But I know what I'm goin' to do."
 
"What is it, Jerry? Sit in to your tea."
 
P.O. Slade hitched up his chair to the table, and loosened his belt the better to enjoy his breakfast.
 
"I'm goin' to see that Mr. Brand, the missionary."
 
"Why, Jerry, what's 'e got to do with it?"
 
"I've been makin' inquiries on my own hook," said Slade, nodding; "and I've found out from some of those Bethesda folk as Mr. Brand, was a-goin' to take that nigger girl back to her island. Now's she's murdered, he won't like it. 'Sides," added Jeremiah, his mouth full of bread-and-butter, "Mr. Brand, he don't like the parson."
 
"What good does that do?"
 
"Good? You never will read to improve your mind, Jemima. Why, don't the book say as the detective always gets 'old of the enemy of the cove as done the crime?"
 
"But Mr. Johnson ain't done it, you fool! Lor'!" suddenly enlightened, "p'r'aps it is 'im!"
 
Jeremiah nodded three times, and drank his cup to the dregs. "And don't you go talkin' about it, neither; or you'll never get to Poldew. D'ye 'ear?"
 
"I'll be as silent as the tomb," said Mrs. Slade, who was a virago chiefly so far as domestic matters were concerned. "What makes you think as Mr. Johnson did it, Jerry? I've seen 'im myself, and 'e's that pale he couldn't kill a little fly."
 
"D'yer know Mr. Mayne?"
 
At the mention of this name the virago side of Mrs. Slade obtruded itself.
 
"Yes, I do, and ashamed I am to 'ear you mention it. Oh, don't look at me like that, Jeremiah. I know how you and 'e used to go on with them gipsy girls."
 
"That was in the exercise of my dooty."
 
"Zara Lovell wasn't your duty, Jeremiah. The way as you and Mr. Mayne be'aved to that girl was disgraceful, it was. If them gipsies 'adn't gone away, her 'usband, Pharaoh Lee, would 'a knifed you."
 
"He wasn't her 'usband; only goin' to be. You 'old yer tongue!" cried Jeremiah, ferociously. "All that's dead and done with two years ago. I ain't got nothin' to do with Zara now. Ain't I married to you?"
 
"That you are; and the best day's work it was you ever did in your life."
 
"An' I'm goin' to do a better, as 'll get us to Poldew, if you'll only 'ear reason. Now, if you're a-goin' to weep, I'll get away."
 
"I ain't crying, Jerry," said Mrs. Slade, hastily, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Tell me, lovey, what's this about Mr. Mayne?"
 
"Well, I knowed 'e was at the findin' of the body, which I wasn't," said the mollified Jeremiah; "so I arsk'd him a few questions, seein' as we was always of a friendly turn with one another."
 
"Them gipsies was----"
 
"Look 'ere; d'yer want me to go? 'Cos I'll go, sure enough, if you don't stop rakin' up them gipsies."
 
Dearly would Mrs. Slade have liked to develop her embryo quarrel, for she loved a few high words, "just to clear the air," as she put it. But an indulgence to this extent meant that her curiosity might not be gratified--it might possibly even jeopardize the contemplated transfer to Poldew; so with great and praiseworthy self-denial she curbed her tongue, and nodded to her husband to continue.
 
"Mr. Mayne," said Slade, with a scowl at her, "told me as 'ow Mr. Johnson was in love with this girl, and she ran away from 'im, not forgettin' to take three thousand pounds' worth of pearls with 'er."
 
"Lor'! you don't say?" screeched Mrs. Slade, her eyes starting out of her head.
 
"Mr. Johnson says she run away," added Jeremiah; "but I ain't read my books for nothin'. Them as does the deed always tells lies." His voice was veritably tragic now. "If she did run away, Jemima, she only got as far as that there cornfield. There, in the dark night, the villain strangled 'er in all her youthful beauty" (this was clearly the influence of the detective novelist), "an' stole the jewels to pay 'is debts."
 
"Lor'!" cried Mrs. Slade again, "you don't say as Mr. Johnson has debts?"
 
"All Grimleigh couldn't pay what he owes. Oh! 'e is the murderer, right enough, Jemima; so I'm a-goin' to see Mr. Brand, and find out what 'e knows about this parson chap. Then I'll call on 'im, and 'ave a squint round 'is parlour."
 
"You ain't likely to find nothing there."
 
"Don't you be so mighty sure about that, missus; I might find them pearls!"
 
"Lor', Jeremiah, what a great man you are! And will you tell all this to Mr. Chard?"
 
"Not till I have a complete case against Mr. Johnson. When I 'ave, then I'll go to him, and I'll say, 'Thou art the man!' and run 'im in. Then we'll go to Poldew."
 
"Oh, can't I help, Jeremiah?"
 
"Well," said the policeman, in a patronizing tone, "you might see Mrs. Johnson, and pick up what yer can. She's an old lady as talks freely; so find out if the nigger girl and Johnson 'ad a row. That'll be strong circumstanshal evidence, any'ow."
 
"I'll do it, Jeremiah; I'll do it! I can easy take up some fish as a gift to Mrs. Johnson. I've met her two or three times, and she's got a friendly side to me."
 
"Mind you're careful, Jemima--and, above all, 'old your tongue."
 
Enunciating these words in his most majestic manner, the new Vidocq put on his helmet, and left Jemima doing her best to cork up the information she had received. No easy task for a lady with a tongue excessively developed longitudinally.
 
In the mean time, Grimleigh was in a great state of excitement. It was rarely that a murder occurred in their quiet neighbourhood, and this fact, coupled with their intimate knowledge of the victim, roused their interest in an extraordinary degree. The inquest was to take place in the afternoon, at "The Fisherman's Rest"--a hostel near the shed in which the body had been laid out. The town was on tiptoe of excitement. Amongst the witnesses whom Chard intended to call was Mr. Johnson; and he sent up the astute Slade to serve the minister with a subp[oe]na. Jeremiah was delighted at this chance, which, as likely as not, would bring him into the study of the man he suspected. He resolved to use his eyes sharply. Fortune often acts generously when she acts at all, and as Slade was climbing the hill, he met Korah Brand. This was the very man he wanted to see, and he at once saluted him.
 
"What is it?" asked Brand, impatiently. He looked older than usual, and a trifle pale. It was evident that the loss of Tera had affected him in an unusual degree, as in truth it had; for without Tera, Brand did not care to return to Koiau. If he did, it would be at the risk of his life; for, on learning of his daughter's death, Buli would as likely as not sacrifice the luckless missionary on the altar of his god. It was therefore with no very great good will that he submitted to be stopped by this raw-boned Goliath.
 
"Who are you?" asked Korah, with a growl.
 
"Jeremiah Slade," replied the officer. "I am a police-constable in this town. I am on my way to serve Mr. Johnson with a subp[oe]na."
 
"Oh, the shame, the shame that has fallen on Bethgamul!" said Brand, in tones of deep grief. "Our dear sister is taken, and our pastor has to bow down in the temple of Rimmon!"
 
"He's got to appear at the inquest, if that's what you mean, sir; but this subp[oe]na"--Slade looked round anxiously, then approached his mouth to the missionary's ear, "why shouldn't it be a warrant?"
 
Brand turned a shade paler, and fixed a keen eye on Slade, whose meaning he at once seized.
 
"Do you know any reason why it should be a warrant?" he asked sharply.
 
"I have my own idea, sir."
 
"What is your idea?"
 
Slade took time to consider, and pulled his red moustache. "See here, Mr. Brand," he said softly, "do you want disgrace to fall on that chapel of yours?"
 
"Why, no. I would do anything to avert that."
 
"Well then, sir, don't ask me questions about your parson."
 
The missionary bent his shaggy brows on the man, and stroked his beard. "Do you suspect Mr. Johnson?"
 
"Yes, I do; but nobody else does, except--yourself."
 
"I!" Brand started back in dismay. "'Get thee behind me, Satan!' Why should I suspect him?"
 
Jeremiah tapped him on the chest. "If you hold your tongue, I can hold mine," said he, and turned away.
 
In a moment Brand was after him, clutching his arm.
 
"Man, what do you mean?"
 
"Gammon! You know. Johnson killed that girl."
 
"Oh!" Brand withdrew his arm with a moan. "I feared so, I greatly feared so. How do you know?"
 
"I'll tell you, if you'll answer my questions and work with me."
 
"Any questions I can answer, I will; but work with you--why should I do that?"
 
"To get that parson chap arrested."
 
"No, no! Think of the disgrace to Bethgamul. I want him saved from the consequences of his sin."
 
"We'll think about that when we prove his guilt," said Slade, dryly. "But see here, it's a chance of his escape I'm offering you. If I tell Chard all I know, you won't get your parson off, I can tell you. I want to find out the truth of this mystery to get promotion. Help me to find out who killed the girl, and I'll perhaps make things safe for the man as done it."
 
This was purely a treacherous offer, as Slade knew that he could not get promotion unless the murderer of Tera was discovered and hanged. However, Korah Brand did not know this, and hoping to save Johnson--which for the sake of the chapel he really wished to do--he at once decided to accept Slade's offer.
 
"I'll help you all I can," he said, "on condition that you don't tell the inspector, should we find out the truth."
 
"It's a bargain, then!" Slade was delighted with the result of this diplomacy. Already he felt worthy to rank with the heroes of any of his favourite novels. "Now then, Mr. Johnson's in debt, isn't he?"
 
"Yes, deeply in debt--the follies of his youth. He now knows how true is the text, 'Be sure thy sin will find thee out.'"
 
"He'll find it truer when I've done with him," said Jeremiah, grimly. "Well, sir, these pearls the girl had with her?"
 
"Yes. She took away some pearls. Johnson said so."
 
"Very good. Then Johnson murdered her for those pearls, so that he might sell them and pay his debts."
 
"How do you know?"
 
"It's a theory."
 
"A very bad one," said Brand, a worldly nature appearing through his religious veneer, "The girl left the house with the pearls during Johnson's absence."
 
"Yes, but Johnson followed her."
 
"What of that? He did not see her. He says he did not."
 
"Oh," cried Slade, contemptuously, "he'd say anything to save his neck! Why, Mr. Herbert Mayne met him coming from the cornfield in which the body was found, that very night. You believe me, Mr. Brand; Johnson met the girl there, strangled her, sold the pearls, and hid her body in the corn."
 
"You can't prove that."
 
"We can prove it between us, Mr. Brand. You can prove as Johnson was sweet on the girl, and she'd have nothing to do with him. You can swear as 'e 'ad the pearls. His servant, by them bills and letters she picked up, can show that he was in debt, and Mr. Mayne can declare as Mr. Johnson left the cornfield on the night the girl ran away."
 
"But all this is merely circumstantial evidence," argued the missionary.
 
"Men have been hanged on as much before now. But I dare say we can make the case stronger. I'm going to serve this on Mr. Johnson, so in his study maybe I'll see something of them pearls."
 
"If he had the pearls, you may be sure he has disposed of them by this time," said Brand, with a sudden thought. "After Bithiah disappeared he went up to London, and was away for a week. He said it was to search for her; but I dare say it was to sell the pearls."
 
"Might be, sir. But if he's got the money for them, he'll have paid his debts."
 
"We must find out if he has."
 
"Very good. I leave that part of it to you; and now, sir, I'll get to business. You wait for me here, and I'll come back after I have had a squint round that room, and tell yer my impressions."
 
"You can't do much in so short a time."
 
"I can watch his face any'ow, as I serve this subp[oe]na. If 'e's guilty, guess I'll twig it--trust me. I ain't read detective stories for nothin'." With a complacent nod Slade made off, and Brand watched him enter the minister's house. He was absent for some ten minutes, during which time Korah stood staring at the sea, and wondered how he could return to his mission work at Koiau without Tera. Absorbed in these thoughts, he failed to hear Slade's returning footsteps, and it was only when he felt a touch on his shoulder that he turned to see the triumphant face of the man.
 
"What have you found?" he asked, guessing that Slade had made some discovery.
 
"Well, I saw Johnson, and he took the subp[oe]na, turning as pale as all villains. Then I looked about me a bit. I noticed the curtains on the winder."
 
"I know, I know," groaned Brand, "vanity and vexation and gauds of the world. Gay curtains they are, tied back with red, white, and blue cords."
 
"Yes, but one of them cords is gone, Mr. Brand," cried Slade, exultingly. "We've got 'im. That girl was strangled with a red, white, and blue cord. It ain't drawing back the curtain now. No, sir, it's round her throat."
 
CHAPTER VII THE MINISTER'S DEBTS
 Slade was present at the inquest. He was deeply interested in the proceedings, and every now and then he might have been seen to smile in a saturnine way. For his own purposes he had impressed on Brand the necessity of absolute silence concerning the discovery in Johnson's study.
 
"That one of them curtain-cords was used to choke the girl proves a good deal," he said, emphasizing with a stumpy finger on the palm of his hand; "but it don't quite show as Johnson killed the girl."
 
"But even before you found out about the cord, you were sure that he was guilty."
 
"And I'm sure now, Mr. Brand--that I am; but I wants certain facts to build up a complete case against him--facts as he can't deny. Now, this window-cord is one fact, but for all that, some one might have been in the room, and took it just to get Johnson into trouble. Now, my wife, Jemima, she's as sharp as sharp. She's been speaking to old Mrs. Johnson, who talks a lot, and Mrs. Johnson says as this girl and her son had a quarrel over her refusing him, afore the murder."
 
"That strengthens the case against Mr. Johnson."
 
"Hold on, sir. Mrs. Johnson says as the window-cord was missing three days afore that row took place. Now, sir, if Johnson killed the girl he wouldn't have got ready the cord and taken it away so long afore he needed it. If he is the murderer, he killed the girl in a fit of passion 'cos she was running away with the pearls as he wanted to pay his debts with. Going on this evidence, sir, some one must have stolen that cord with the idea of murder--and that some one, by reasoning aforesaid--as the lawyers say, wasn't George Johnson."
 
"Then you think that our pastor is innocent?" said Brand, hopefully.
 
"I don't say nothing, sir, because I don't see clear. Wait till I sees him at the inquest, and then we'll talk."
 
So at the inquest, Slade was observant of the minister's demeanour. However, he gained little from his scrutiny. Johnson had exhausted his earlier grief, and was cool and collected, and perfectly willing to repeat the story he had told Chard. He answered the questions which were put to him, but made no voluntary statement. By adopting this course, he was able to keep his secret of the lost and restored bills. Yet several times it was in his mind to tell Chard of the stealthy footsteps and the theft. It was just possible, he thought, that some one might have seen him looking at the pearls, and afterwards, ascertaining in the same way that Tera had taken them, have followed the girl to murder her for their sake. But after debating the subject in his mind, he decided to hold his peace, and the evidence he gave, while exonerating himself, could throw no light on the darkness which environed the case.
 
Nor had Chard procured any other evidence likely to elucidate the matter at all. He had not heard the story of Herbert Mayne's meeting with Johnson on the night of Tera's disappearance, near the field in which her body had afterwards been found. Herbert had told this only to Rachel and the policeman Slade. The first had remained silent, lest the pastor whom she admired should be accused of a crime which she was certain he had not committed: the second, after relating the incident to Brand, had agreed with him that until they found fresh evidence, it was best to hold their tongues. Therefore, no one but these three knew that Johnson had actually been near the scene of the crime, and in the minister's admission to Chard he had merely stated that he had searched two hours for the girl. Johnson repeated his former story, and the jury did the best they could with it; for no other evidence was procurable. There was, indeed, some talk of Finland and his departure; but as every one knew that he loved Tera, and could have secured both the girl and the pearls by marrying her--a course to which she was generally known as willing to consent--no one thought of taxing him with the crime. The peculiarity of the silken tri-coloured cord used passed unnoticed, strange to say. A London detective would have been struck by it immediately; but Chard and his subordinates were unaccustomed to such finnicky data, and it escaped them altogether.
 
On such spare evidence, it can easily be guessed what verdict was given by the thickheaded jury chosen from the Grimleigh wiseacres. They decided that Tera, alias Bithiah, a native of Polynesia, had been murdered by some person or persons unknown; and when the proceedings terminated, all those present thought they had heard the last of the matter. Slade chuckled and rubbed his hands; for now that Chard seemed likely to abandon inquiries as useless, he could go to work at his leisure, and build up a case as he chose. So far he had suspected Johnson alone; but on reconsidering the incident of the curtain-cord having been stolen three days before Tera's disappearance, he concluded that some other person also was concerned in the matter. Who that person might be Slade, in his present state of indecision, was not prepared to say.
 
Having fulfilled the official part of his duties, Inspector Chard returned to the Grimleigh police office for a rest, preparatory to riding back to Poldew. While there, he was informed that Korah Brand wished to speak to him, and on the assumption that the man, having been connected with Tera, might have something of importance to say, he admitted him at once to an interview.
 
"Well, Mr. Brand," said Chard, genially, "and what can I do for you?"
 
"I want to know about this poor girl's murder, sir," replied Brand, in his heavy, solemn way. "What are you going to do now?"
 
"Why, Mr. Brand, I have no very definite plans. But I may tell you that I intend to search for those pearls."
 
"What will that do?"
 
"Reveal the identity of the murderer. There is no doubt in my mind, nor can there be in yours, that Tera was murdered for the sake of the pearls. Now, whoever has them, will surely turn them into money. To do so, he must sell them to some jeweller or pawnbroker. I intend to communicate with the London police on this point. They may discover who sold or pawned them, and thus be able to lay hands on the man we are in search of."
 
"What makes you think of looking in London, Mr. Chard?"
 
"Because that sailor Finland went up there a week after the girl disappeared."
 
"He went to join his ship," said Brand, who believed in Jack's innocence.
 
"So he said," replied Mr. Inspector, dryly; "a very good excuse to get away from the town without suspicion."
 
"But I don't see why you should think Finland guilty. He assured me most solemnly that he never set eyes on Bithiah on that night."
 
"Oh, I dare say. But Finland is Carwell's nephew--the body was found in one of Carwell's fields--so it is not beyond the bounds of probability that Finland placed it there."
 
"I don't believe it," cried Brand, vigorously. "Bithiah, I believe, ran away to marry Finland, and by such marriage he could have secured both her and the pearls. Why should he kill her?"
 
When Korah placed the matter in this light. Inspector Chard was puzzled, and, unable to answer the question, lost his temper.
 
"I don't pretend to be infallible," said he, harshly, "and I may be mistaken. All the same, I believe Finland to be guilty."
 
"Then why don't you arrest him?"
 
"Because I have not sufficient evidence to enable me to get a warrant," replied the inspector, tartly, "nor do I know where the man is. However, it is my intention to find out if possible the whereabouts of those pearls for which the girl was murdered. When I learn who disposed of them, I shall be able to capture the murderer."
 
"He won't be Finland, sir."
 
"That we shall see," retorted Chard, and closed an interview in which he felt he was getting the worst of the argument.
 
Brand left the police-office with the conviction that Tera's murderer would never be discovered by this mulish officer. Slade had twice the man's brains and decision, and Korah resolved to rely on him for the conduct of the case. He looked round for the policeman, but not finding him, and feeling he must talk with some one about the matter, he hurried up the hill to Johnson's house. As Slade suspected Johnson, and as the queer incident of the lost window-cord proved that there was some ground for such suspicions. Brand thought he would do a little business on his own account, and question the minister. In the course of conversation he thought some evidence might be discovered likely to incriminate Johnson. Korah was inclined to beseech the young man to fly, lest he should be arrested, and lest disgrace should fall upon the chapel people of Grimleigh. Even as matters stood now, Johnson was in a dangerous position.
 
On entering the study, Brand cast a glance at the window, and saw that, as Slade had stated, one of the tri-coloured cords was missing. This fact made him wonder if Johnson had really strangled the girl with it; and if so, whether he had committed the crime in order to secure the pearls for the payment of his debts, or in a fit of despair caused by the rejection of his love. If haggard looks, which might be the outcome of remorse, went for anything, Johnson was guilty; for the man was white and worried-looking. Dark circles were under his eyes, his manner of greeting his visitor was uneasy, and he looked as though he had not slept for hours. On the other hand, this physical deterioration might be caused by grief for Tera's death.
 
"Do you wish to see me particularly, brother Korah?" asked Johnson, lifting his heavy eyes with a weary look; "I am scarcely fit to talk."
 
Brand sat down and assumed a stern demeanour. "Is this sorrow on account of your earthly passion, brother, or because an immortal soul has been lost?"
 
"Bithiah's soul has not been lost," cried Johnson, stirred out of his apathy to honest indignation; "she was a good girl, a true Christian. Her death was a martyrdom."
 
"Yet she died in sin," persisted the narrow-minded missionary. "She fled from your house with evil in her heart, and with the pearls."
 
"The pearls were her own property."
 
"No, brother. They were entrusted to her care by Buli, that she might buy goods for the civilization of Kioau. She was his steward, and had no right to remove the pearls from your keeping. But these matters," added Brand, taking a more worldly tone, "we can discuss at leisure. The question now, and the one about which I came to see you, is the funeral."
 
"I have arranged with Inspector Chard about the funeral," said Johnson, wearily. "To-morrow the poor remains are to be buried in our own cemetery, and I shall read the service over the dead. Poor Tera, it is all I can do for her."
 
"You will bury Bithiah the Christian, but not Tera the pagan, brother. Do you think you are wise to appear at the funeral?"
 
"Why not, Brother Korah?"
 
"There may be a riot."
 
"A riot!" Johnson looked surprised. "And why should there be a riot if I appear?"
 
The missionary looked perplexed, and tugged at his grey beard. "Brother, brother," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "do you not know that public opinion credits you with the crime?"
 
Johnson rose slowly, with a look of horror on his colourless face, but this speedily gave way to an expression of indignation, "Who dares to say such a thing?" he demanded.
 
"It is the general opinion," rejoined Korah, coldly. "You were near the field where the body was found on the very night Bithiah disappeared--on the very night when--if we go by medical evidence--the girl was murdered."
 
"I was looking for her. Bithiah often walked near that field, and I thought it likely that I should find her there. Kill her! I swear to you, Brand, that I would as soon have killed myself as her. I loved her dearly; why then should I commit a crime contrary to my earthly love, to my religious principles?"
 
"I do not accuse you--the public voice does that," replied Brand, still cold and unsympathetic; "you are known to be in debt----"
 
"I am not in debt now," interrupted Johnson, hurriedly; "all my debts are paid."
 
"Paid! Your debts paid!" Brand was thunderstruck, for this was the last thing he expected to hear. "How did you pay them?" he demanded with sudden suspicion.
 
"I did not pay them. Brand."
 
"Then who did?"
 
"I don't know," was Johnson's extraordinary reply.
 
Brand looked at him sternly and droned out a proverb: "'Therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way, and be filled with their own devices,'" he quoted.
 
"What do you mean, brother?"
 
"Brother!" repeated Korah, rising with indignation. "I am not a brother to you, man of sin as you are. Your debts are paid! Yes, I believe that. You do not know who paid them. Liar! You paid them yourself with the wages of your sin."
 
"My sin!" gasped Johnson, aghast.
 
"Do not add deceit to your iniquity, man. You killed that girl; you stole her pearls; when you went to London it was to sell them. Now you have paid your debts at the cost of Bithiah's life. 'Be sure thy sin will find thee out.' It has found you out--murderer!"
 
"I am no murderer," cried the minister, vehemently; "as I am a living man, I had no hand in her death. I never saw her after she left my house. I searched, but in vain. Who paid my debts, I do not know. Yesterday I found a pile of receipted bills on this table. Who put them there I know no more than you do."
 
"You cannot impose upon me by such a story," said Brand, coldly; "debts like yours are not paid by unknown people. If such were the case, all you have to do is to see your creditors and ask who paid them."
 
"I intend to, but as yet I have not had the time. After the funeral of Tera I am going to London to see my creditors and learn the truth."
 
Brand smiled. "You are going to London," he repeated; "that is, you intend to seek safety in flight. Well, it is the best thing you can do. I shall not betray your secret."
 
"I do not intend to fly. I have done nothing wrong."
 
"Man! man! why will you try to deceive me? I am your friend, and for your sake, for the sake of our Bethesda, I implore you to fly. What will your congregation say if their pastor is hanged for murder?"
 
Johnson drew back with a shudder. "Hanged! No, they dare not. I am innocent."
 
"You have yet to prove that."
 
"Brand," cried the wretched man, imploringly, "you do not believe that I killed Tera?"
 
"From my soul I believe you did," replied Korah, sternly, "and if I did my duty I should deliver you to justice. But for the sake of Bethgamul I refrain. My man, fly, and repent of your terrible sin! God help you, for I cannot!" and with a gesture of casting off a sinner. Brand walked out of the room.
CHAPTER VIII CAPTAIN JACOB
 Tera's funeral was a function of importance. Well-nigh the entire population of Grimleigh crowded into the little cemetery above the town. Some of them were drawn there in true compassion for the terrible fate of the poor girl, others from sheer morbidness. But perhaps the greater part of the people were attracted by the expectation of a riot. It was vaguely understood that, in some inexplicable way, Johnson was responsible for Tera's death. It was rumoured that if he had not killed her himself--and no one was bold enough to make that assertion--he was at least the means of driving her to destruction. Consequently public feeling ran high against the minister, and it was generally thought that if he read the service over his victim there would be trouble. Chard himself believed this, and accordingly attended the funeral in person with a posse of constabulary.
 
However, these precautions proved unnecessary, for Johnson was wise enough not to put in an appearance, much less take an active part in the ceremony. Whether deterred by the advice of Brand, or by the threats of the townspeople, he remained absent, and Tera was buried by a minister from Poldew, who nearly created a riot on his own account by his sensational references to the death. Farmer Carwell and his daughter, Herbert Mayne and Miss Arnott, were all of them present, and it was with feelings of shame and indignation that they saw the ceremony presided over by a strange divine. When the crowd had dispersed, Carwell looked at the newly-made grave for some moments in ominous silence. Then he turned to Korah Brand, who stood by his side. His pride as an elder of Bethgamul was hurt.
 
"If our pastor cannot clear his character," said he, sternly, "he must be removed from the conduct of the congregation. Our Bethgamul cannot be shadowed thus by shame."
 
"But surely you don't believe that the pastor is guilty, father?" urged Rachel, before Brand could speak.
 
"I do not say that he is guilty; neither do I uphold his innocence," rejoined Carwell; "but he is suspected, and he knows it. It is for him to deny such an accusation. His absence to-day only gives colour to the charge. Therefore, I say, until he refutes his accusers he must be out off from the congregation of the just."
 
"So say I, Brother Carwell," cried Brand. "'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' Still, we must give him every chance. Let us then call a meeting of our brethren, and demand that he disprove the charge or confess. If he be guiltless, the Lord will protect his own."
 
"I don't believe Mr. Johnson killed Bethiah," said Rachel. "Nor does Herbert."
 
"Oh, I am quite neutral," interposed Mayne, hastily. "I am neither for nor against our pastor; though I grant you it was strange that I should have met him where I did on the very night of the girl's disappearance."
 
"No more strange than that you should have been there yourself, surely?"
 
"Well, really; I suppose you don't mean to infer that I had anything to do with the girl's disappearance? I hardly knew her. Any converse I had with her was in your presence."
 
"Rachel is not accusing you, Mr. Mayne," said Brand, coldly. "But she is zealous in support of her pastor, which does her nothing but credit: I trust her zeal may not prove to be misplaced. We must hope for the best."
 
"Do you believe in Mr. Johnson's guilt?" asked Rachel, sharply.
 
"I neither believe nor disbelieve," replied Korah, after a pause. "I know certain facts which are suspicious, and with these I will tax him when he is before us on his trial."
 
"I will see the elders at once," said Farmer Carwell. "No time shall be lost in giving Mr. Johnson an opportunity of clearing himself. Let us hope that God in His mercy will avert disgrace from our Fold."
 
"Amen to that!" cried Brand. "Surely the Lord will judge in all righteousness. He knoweth the sheep from the goats."
 
"Mr. Johnson is not a goat," said Rachel, in all seriousness.
 
Meanwhile, Jeremiah Slade, relieved for the time being from official duty, had gone home to his mid-day meal. Now that Brand had told him how Johnson confessed to the fact of his debts being paid, he was quite confident as to his guilt. The girl had been murdered near Carwell's field, and her body hidden in it. Near that field Johnson had on the night of the girl's death, been met, much agitated. The pearls had been stolen from the dead, and the minister's debts had been paid since that time. Finally, there was the cord used to strangle the wretched girl, which had clearly been taken from the pastor's study. All this pointed conclusively to Johnson's guilt, and Slade had almost made up his mind to arrest him. In the hope, however, of discovering some final and absolutely irrefutable piece of evidence, he decided to wait until he should have made a careful examination of the spot where the body was found. He could then, but only then, move with certainty as to the result.
 
He felt confident of success, and it was with a rosy vision of himself as a full-blown inspector at Poldew that Slade entered his home. Seated by the kitchen fire, he found his wife in tears. At sight of her husband, these gave way to rage. Furious with passion, she jumped up to meet him. Apparently something serious had occurred.
 
"They are back again, you wretch!" shrieked the little woman; "I have seen them myself. How dare you look me in the face?"
 
"Are you crazy, Jemima?" growled Slade, angry and astonished; "what's come to you, woman?"
 
"This has come to me, that I know all about it; oh yes, and your Zara!"
 
"Ho, ho! so it's them confounded gipsies again, is it?"
 
"Yes, it is. They are back--she is back!"
 
The constable sat down heavily. He looked anything but comfortable. "What?" he said, nervously; "you don't tell me that Pharaoh Lee's tribe's come back?"
 
"As if you didn't know, you villain! I went on to the common myself after the funeral. I heard as they were there; and sure enough I saw them; yes, she's come after you."
 
"Nonsense! Don't I tell you I care nothing for the Zara girl? Ain't I your lawful husband? Ain't I tryin' to get you to Poldew? What's Zara Lovell to me?"
 
"That's just what I'd like to know. Perhaps Mr. Mayne can tell me something about that. Any way, I'll ask him."
 
"Better ask the girl herself," sneered Slade. "Wonder you didn't."
 
"I didn't see her."
 
"You didn't see her!" repeated Slade, with a sense of relief; "ah, perhaps she ain't there."
 
"Whether she's there or whether she ain't, you come 'ome straight from your business every night, or I'll know the reason why, Jeremiah."
 
"Oh, I'll come straight home. Like all women, you're making a row about nothing. How am I going to find out all about this murder if you worry me this way?"
 
"Anything fresh?" asked Mrs. Slade, her curiosity getting the better of her temper.
 
"Nothing since the cord, Jemima; but I'm going to examine the place where the body was hidden. Maybe there's something there that's been overlooked."
 
"Near Pharaoh Lee's camp, ain't it, Jeremiah?"
 
"Oh, confound it, Jemima, you've got that girl on the brain!"
 
"I only hope you haven't," said Mrs. Slade, screwing up her mouth; "you deceive me, Jeremiah, and I'll tell Chard all that you've found out."
 
"Spoil my case, will you, you----"
 
"I don't care."
 
"You'll never get to Poldew."
 
"Then I'll stay here," snapped Jemima, with all the recklessness of a woman prepared to sacrifice anything and everything to gain her end. "If I see you speaking to that slut, Zara, I'll go straight to Chard. So now you know."
 
Slade did know, as he also knew that even though it were to ruin them both, she would carry out her threat. He spent the best part of his dinner-hour trying to explain his position, and to pacify the perturbed Jemima. He succeeded only in rendering her more unreasonable and jealous than ever. Mrs. Slade was nothing if not feminine, and her argumentative tactics were strikingly so. So soon as one position she took up was assailed and destroyed, she retreated to another, until beaten on that, she returned to her initial standpoint. Fearful lest she should drive him through sheer exasperation to use physical violence, Slade left the house. When he banged the door, Jemima sat down victorious, and proceeded to twist up her hair, which had broken loose in her excitement.
 
"Zara, indeed!" she went on viciously to herself. "I'll tear the eyes out of her if I catch her as much as looking at my 'usband."
 
And in this strain the good lady continued until she was tired.
 
Meanwhile, Jeremiah, chafing with anger at his wife, and at women in general, went on his beat, which for the day happened to be on the beach road. He noticed a new vessel anchored in the harbour--a graceful schooner of some 600 tons. She was a rakish-looking craft, smart and workmanlike in appearance; and Slade, giving way to his curiosity for the moment, strolled down to the jetty on the chance of hearing something about her. But before he got that far, a boat with two or three men in her put off from the schooner. She reached the pier about the same time as the policeman. To his surprise, he saw that one of the men in the boat was Finland. The young mate sprang lightly up the steps, followed more soberly by a small, sallow-faced man.
 
"Hullo, messmate!" said Jack, greeting Slade, whom he knew; "here I am again, and yonder is my new ship--the Dayspring, ain't she a clipper?"
 
"Pretty enough," said Slade, who was grudging of his praise; "but a bit too slight in the build for my taste."
 
"Stuff! What does a lubber like you know of a craft? Why, she's going round the Horn anyhow, on her way to the South Seas. I just dropped in here to say good-bye to my uncle. I'm first mate this trip, and here's my skipper, Captain Shackel."
 
Slade eyed the small yellow-looking man thoughtfully. He had some skill in reading a face, and he concluded that the skipper was about the last man he would care to trust. In truth, Jacob Shackel was not prepossessing. He had a mean, rat-like little face, as brown and wrinkled as a walnut-shell, and hardly larger. His body was shrivelled up in a suit of blue serge, apparently several sizes too large for him. His voice was screechy and effeminate. He extended a claw in greeting to Slade.
 
"Yes, I'm Captain Jacob, I am," said he, winking his one eye, for he was possessed of only a single optic, and that red as any ferret's. "Well known on the high seas I am. Finland's friends is mine."
 
"Includin' 'is sweet'art, I suppose," said Jeremiah.
 
"What the devil d'ye mean?" asked Jack, with a frown.
 
"Only that if that's so, your skipper will be as sorry to hear the news as you will."
 
"News? What? About Tera? Has she not been found?"
 
"Oh yes, she's been found right enough--found dead."
 
Jack started. "Dead? Tera dead?"
 
"Dead as a door nail. In your uncle's field we found her--strangled. Her funeral was this morning."
 
"Hold up, mate," said Shackel, not unkindly, as Jack staggered; "you'll fall in."
 
"Tera dead?" gasped Finland, in horror. "Who killed her?"
 
"That's just what we're after findin' out."
 
"Was it Johnson?"
 
Slade looked suspiciously at the sailor from under his red eyebrows. "I can't answer no questions," said he.
 
"By gum, it was Johnson!" shouted Jack; "I see it in your face. The hound, I'll see him! I'll----" Without waiting to finish his sentence he ran up the pier like a greyhound.
 
"Guess I'd better go too, or there'll be more murder," said Jacob. "Jack Finland ain't the chap to stick at no trifles when he's on the bust to kill;" and with an activity wonderful for a man of his years, he followed sharp on the track of his first mate.
 
Slade looked after the pair thoughtfully. "He can't 'ave killed the girl," said he to himself. "But he seems to think Johnson did. Perhaps I'd better follow in case there's trouble. Hold on, though, I can't go off my beat. Well, I'll just have to trust to that captain; he won't lose his mate through lettin' him commit murder."
 
Events fully justified Mr. Slade's reasoning. Captain Jacob caught up with Finland, just as the latter was forced to slacken his pace to climb the hill. With much difficulty he persuaded him to abandon his intention.
 
"But I will have it out with him," said Finland, fiercely.
 
"You'll only get yourself into a mess," said Jacob, soothingly; "better let the old man see the job through. I know Johnson well--none better. He came home in my ship with the girl from Koiau, so if any one can straighten him out, Jacob Shackel's the man. 'Sides, we want money, you fool!"
 
"You'll not get it from Johnson. He's as poor as a rat."
 
"You lie low and dry up, sonny. I guess I can engineer this job without you sticking your oar in. Go and see your uncle and get all you can out of him. Your father's in charge this trip."
 
"Get along, then," grumbled Jack, ungraciously; "but that Johnson's a hound. I'll hammer him black and blue if I catch him, the psalm-singing hypocrite!"
 
"Go slow, sonny. I don't want to lose my mate. You've shipped for Koiau, you know. Get yourself into trouble here, and I'll up anchor without you, I guess your papa's as smart as most men."
 
Finland shrugged his shoulders and turned away with a sullen resignation, while his skipper continued his way up the hill to Johnson's house. Shackel knew it almost as well as did its occupant. He had run down repeatedly to see Tera at Grimleigh. As he climbed the hill he smiled to himself in a sour sort of way. He was evidently well pleased with his thoughts.
 
"Who'd a guessed it?" he chuckled; "and a parson of all things! I guess he'll have to light out for kingdom come if he don't trade my way. Lord! Here's an A1 chance of victualing the barky."
 
All day long Johnson had remained in his study, in the deepest despondency. He was astonished and in no wise pleased when Captain Jacob entered. He knew Shackel to have the worst of reputations, and he disliked the man. However, he managed to swallow his repugnance, and greeted the little sailor with as much good-will as he could muster. Shackel evidently did not intend to waste words. He came straight to the point.
 
"So that Kanaka girl's gone," he said, smiling largely.
 
"Tera? Yes, poor soul, she is dead and buried," sighed Johnson, sadly.
 
"Murdered, wasn't she?"
 
"Foully murdered, Shackel."
 
"What did you do it for, then?" inquired the captain, dryly.
 
Johnson jumped up so suddenly as to overturn the chair on which he had been seated. "Oh! heavens, do you accuse me, too?" he cried in distress.
 
"'Course I do. Why!" Jacob fastened his evil eye on his victim, "I know you killed the Kanaka for them pearls."
 
"You liar, I did not! I swear----"
 
"Don't swear," said the captain, coolly; "'tain't no good with me. If ye didn't kill the girl, how did ye get the pearls?"
 
"I haven't got the pearls," said Johnson, in a frenzy.
 
"Yah! that won't do for me," jeered Shackel. "I want a share of the money."
 
"Man, I tell you I have not got the pearls."
 
"Well," said Shackel, "you are a square liar, there's no mistake about that. I saw you myself taking 'em to a London Jew dealer's! Now, then, Ananias!"
 
CHAPTER IX MISS ARNOTT
 The unfortunate Mr. Johnson was so dazed by the many accusations that were made against him, that this last astonished him scarcely so much as it should have done. He stared at Captain Jacob in blank bewilderment, and it was some time before he made any reply. His silence was misunderstood by the blackmailer--for Shackel was nothing else--who proceeded with his attack in more explicit terms.
 
"I guess you ain't got brass enough to tell me I'm a liar," said Jacob, with a twinkle in his one eye. "When you came to me with that yarn of Tera lighting out for a place as you didn't know of, I thought it was a bit queer. I couldn't make out your game, but I made up my mind to keep an eye on you. That trip you came back here; but two weeks later you skedaddled to London."
 
"That is perfectly true," admitted Johnson, quietly. "I went up again to London in connection with some debts I owed."
 
"Oh, rats! You went up about them pearls."
 
"Let us waive that question for the moment, Captain Jacob. I admit that I was in London two weeks after my visit to you about the disappearance of Bithiah. May I ask how you knew?"
 
"Oh, there ain't no harm in telling that," answered the captain, graciously. "I didn't cotton to the idea of the Kanaka gal disappearing while she was in your house, so I wanted to see your game and spile it in the interests of justice. I dropped a line to Papa Brand, as was hanging out here, and asked him to keep an eye lifted your way. He wired as you were going to London by a certain train----"
 
"Korah Brand! He must have watched me!"
 
"You bet, he just did; and I did ditto t'other end. I saw you come out of Victoria Station and follered you. It was Hatton Garden as you made for, and you sneaked into a pop-shop when you thought no one was looking. I just thought to myself, arter the gal disappeared, as you'd be by way of sellin' them pearls, so I waited till you kim out, and dodged in on my own hook. The Sheeny--Abraham Moss is his name, and you know it--was just putting the pearls back in the bag, and I recognized them straight off."
 
"What! the pearls. Impossible!"
 
"Well," drawled Shackel, rather disconcerted, "if I didn't twig the pearls, I knew the bag was Tera's, 'cause she showed it to me when I brought you to England, and I knew the kind of tattoo mark as Buli put on it. Oh, the bag and pearls were Tera's, right enough, but I didn't surmise as you'd put the gal in her little wooden overcoat. No, sir! 'Pears now as you did, seeing as a perlice cove says she was murdered. If I'd knowed that," cried Jacob, with a show of virtuous wrath, "I'd yanked you into quod. I would, by thunder!"
 
Johnson listened to the man without moving a muscle. He looked him calmly in the face.
 
"Captain Shackel," said he, coldly, "allow me to inform you that there is not a word of truth in the statement by means of which you propose to blackmail me. I visited London the first time to inquire if you had seen my ward, who I thought might have gone to you for shelter. You denied that she had been with you, so, believing your statement, I returned to Grimleigh. Two weeks after her disappearance, I was in great trouble about some money I owed. From some unknown person I received my several bills, receipted. They were placed on this very desk one day when I was out visiting. Much astonished, I went to London and saw my creditors, to learn, if possible, who had paid the money. They one and all refused to inform me, as they had promised my benefactor not to reveal his name. Failing in this attempt, I returned for the second time to Grimleigh, and since then I have hardly left my home. Tera has been murdered, but I do not know who murdered her. I myself am wholly innocent. I never saw the pearls after the night she disappeared. I was never near Hatton Garden. I know nothing of the pawnshop you mention or of its Jew owner. The name of Moss is unknown to me. In short, Captain Shackel, I deny your accusation."
 
Jacob, in no wise put about by this denial, winked his one eye and became vulgarly familiar.
 
"That's right, sonny, you stick to it," said he; "it's your only chance of saving your neck. See here, though, you Johnson," he added, in a more threatening tone, "I hold you in the hollow of my hand. I've got a schooner of sorts as I'm sailing round the Horn in, to do trading business in the Islands. It's taken all my savings to buy her; now I want money to buy stores and fit her out properly with rations for the voyage. That money I came here to get from you. Those pearls were worth a mint of coin, and I'm going to have my share--say, five 'undred quid. Pay me that, and I'll tie up my tongue about your killin' the gal and sellin' her pearls. But you refuse me, my son, and I guess you'll be singing psalms in quod this time to-morrow."
 
"There is the door, captain; you can go;" and the minister, pale, but firm, rose to dismiss his visitor.
 
"You won't part?" urged the little man, shuffling to his feet.
 
"I won't pay your blackmail, sir. Your attempt to levy it is, I may remind you, of itself a criminal offence."
 
"What's murder, then?" asked the captain. "Well, I guess I ain't a hard man, and it's true this thing's come on you sudden-like. Me and Finland 'ull give you twelve hours to think about it."
 
"Finland! Is he with you?"
 
"I guess so. First mate. He was coming here to smash you for murdering his sweetheart, but I sent him off to his uncle Carwell, and come myself in his place, being milder-like. Well, what's to be done?"
 
"Nothing, so far as I am concerned. You can go."
 
"Twelve hours, my son," threatened the captain, making for the door. "It's either five hundred pounds to me, or gaol and the gallows for you. Figure it out your own way. So-long;" and the wrinkled embodiment of evil left the room with the utmost nonchalance. Evidently Captain Jacob was satisfied that the game was in his own hands.
 
Left to himself, Johnson gave himself up to a survey of his position. He was almost in despair. This was not the first disagreeable interview through which he had gone that day; for, before the funeral, Brand had been with him urging him to flight.
 
In his desire to save Johnson and avert disgrace from Bethgamul, Korah had broken his promise to Slade, and had related the discovery of the stolen curtain cord. A tri-coloured silken rope had been taken from the study; a tri-coloured silken rope had been used to strangle Tera. Were these one and the same? It certainly seemed so. Who could have stolen it? Who could have committed the murder? Johnson was strong in the consciousness of his own innocence, and he was sustained by his belief in the justice of God; yet the evidence against him was so explicit that he could not but see how difficult it would be to extricate himself from the position in which he was placed. He had been near the field the very night on which Tera had been killed there! his debts had been paid by some person whom he could not even name; the cord used to strangle the girl had been taken from his study; and public opinion was dead against him as the actual criminal. The wretched man knew not how best to combat this evil--how to disprove this evidence. He felt that he was in a net, the meshes of which were gradually closing round him. It was better, perhaps, to adopt Brand's suggestion and fly, lest worse should befall.
 
"It is friendly advice," said Johnson to himself, with a groan; "yet, dare I accept it? After all, how do I know that Brand is my friend? If he were a true friend he would hardly spy on me on Shackel's behalf. This suggested flight may be but a snare to make me inculpate myself. And the selling of the pearls? How can I show that I did not sell them? I was in London! Shackel swears that he saw me enter Abraham Moss's shop. The murderer must have been disguised as myself in order to throw the guilt on my shoulders. What can I do? Tell all these things to Chard? No; then I stand in immediate danger of arrest, and I can offer no defence. Fly? By doing that I make a tacit acknowledgment of guilt. O God, in Thy mercy inspire me with some plan of action. Tera, honour, good name--all gone. And now my life is in danger. What shall I do to help myself?"
 
He paced up and down the narrow room in a frenzy of anguish and futile thought. Then, growing calmer, he determined to question his mother as to Tera's movements and behaviour on the night she disappeared. It might be that the girl had had some enemy of whom he knew nothing. She might perchance have let fall some word which, if followed up, might be likely to elucidate the mystery of her terrible death. In any case there was a chance that his mother might know something which would prove of use to help him. A drowning man will clutch at a straw. Johnson, in his state of distraction, looked on his mother as that straw. He went to look for her. His hope of her aid was faint; still, it was a hope, and that was something.
 
"Mother," he said, as he watched her peeling potatoes, "I want you to tell me what Bithiah did on the night she disappeared."
 
Mrs. Johnson looked up querulously. The name of the murdered girl disturbed her, and she gave a pious moan, such as she sometimes gave vent to in chapel when moved by the words of the sermon.
 
"Bithiah, George! Oh, don't talk of her. She has gone into outer darkness, and I am not quite satisfied about her soul. The misery I've had over that poor heathen you wouldn't believe."
 
"Bithiah was not a heathen, mother, but a Christian, duly received into the fold. But tell me, what did Bithiah do on that evening?"
 
"Nothing more than usual," replied Mrs. Johnson, with another moan. "She was mostly in her bedroom attending to her clothes. I was quite angry at her, George; indeed I was, for the supper was behind, and she would not help. Indeed, no! After leaving her room, she sat in the parlour like a fine lady, talking to Miss Arnott."
 
"What!" cried Johnson, seizing on this admission, "was Miss Arnott here on that evening?"
 
"Didn't I tell you, George? No, of course I didn't. Miss Arnott asked me not to, as she did not wish you to know about her quarrel with Bithiah."
 
"You amaze me, mother. Why should Miss Arnott quarrel in my house?"
 
"Ah," moaned Mrs. Johnson, wagging her head over a potato, "Why, indeed! But the heart of man, and likewise woman, is bad and wicked. Miss Arnott and Bithiah quarrelled over you, my son."
 
Johnson looked at his mother in amazement. "Quarrelled over me?" he said blankly.
 
"They both loved you."
 
A bitter smile curved the minister's lips. "At least Bithiah did not," he said.
 
"Nonsense," replied Mrs. Johnson. "Why, she even struck Miss Arnott out of love for you. I am glad she's gone--but I'm sorry she's dead. I could not have my son marry a heathen; besides, she was most careless about housekeeping, too; you'd much better marry Miss Arnott, George. She's not young, but she's both rich and godly. She hated Bithiah."
 
Johnson waited to hear no more, but returned to his study. Miss Arnott loved him; she hated Bithiah. These words rang in his ears. A fresh thought was born of them, which he at first refused to entertain, but it forced itself upon him. It formed itself into a question--into a series of questions: Had Miss Arnott followed and strangled Bithiah? Was it Miss Arnott who had concealed the girl's body in the field? She had frequently been in his study; she had quarrelled with Bithiah on the very night of the latter's disappearance. So she might have stolen the cord and killed Tera.
 
"She was an actress once," muttered Johnson, "and in spite of grace she may have yielded to temptation. But no!" he shuddered, "even if the woman does love me, she would not have lost her soul by murder."
 
To put an end to this new doubt with which he was battling, Johnson made up his mind to call on Miss Arnott. Since the rumours against him had been rife in the town he had been shy of going out; but in this instance there was no need for him to go far. Miss Arnott was his next door neighbour, and a very few steps would bring him to her door. Only a broken fence of slabs divided her garden from his, and there was really no need for him to step outside the boundary of his own grounds. However, he determined to pay his call with due ceremony, and putting on his tall hat, he stepped out of his own gate and through that of Miss Arnott.
 
The whilom actress was a tall and stately woman. She had been beautiful, and was even now not without some remains of her early beauty. Her figure was still shapely and graceful. Not even the somewhat formless garments she now wore could hide completely the curves of her figure. In truth, she was but forty years of age, although her life of rigorous asceticism and self-denial made her look much older. Her eyes were large and dark--wonderfully eloquent in expression. There was no mistaking the look of devotion with which they fixed themselves on Johnson, as he was shown into her drawing-room.
 
"This is indeed an honour," said she, giving him her hand with much grace. "Pray sit down, Mr. Johnson. You must have some tea."
 
"No, thank you," replied the minister, who felt rather uncomfortable in her presence. "I have come to talk seriously, Miss Arnott."
 
"Is this a duty call as a pastor?" asked the woman, biting her lip. "Have you come to talk religion to me?"
 
"I have come to talk about Bithiah!"
 
Miss Arnott's thin hands clenched themselves on her lap, and she flashed an anxious glance on her visitor.
 
"About that poor murdered heathen?"
 
"Yes, about Tera--although she was no heathen. Do you know, Miss Arnott, that I am accused of having murdered her?"
 
"I have heard the lie," said Miss Arnott, with quiet scorn; "but I need hardly tell you that I do not believe it."
 
"Thank you. My mother tells me that you saw Bithiah shortly before she left the house. I fancied she might have said something in your presence likely to throw light, perhaps, on the darkness of this mystery."
 
Miss Arnott flushed through her sallow skin, but kept her black eyes on the minister.
 
"I asked your mother to say nothing about that meeting," she remarked angrily. "Bithiah acted like the savage she was."
 
"I know she did. Miss Arnott, and I am deeply sorry to know it. It was, of course, because the poor girl's passions were those of a partially uncivilized being, that she so far forgot herself as to strike you."
 
"She did strike me," said Miss Arnott, drawing a long breath; "struck me and tore the ear-ring from my left ear. It was a ring of gold, and her hand or sleeve caught in it so roughly that the clasp gave way. My ear bled from her savage attack."
 
"I am deeply grieved," said Johnson, horrified at this instance of Tera's savage nature; "but, as I have said, she was but half civilized."
 
"She was sufficiently civilized to steal my ear-ring, however," retorted Miss Arnott. "I never got it back."
 
"I must see to that. What did you quarr----"
 
Johnson stopped suddenly, for he remembered what his mother had said was the cause of the quarrel.
 
"We quarrelled about you," said Miss Arnott, in a low voice. "Yes, I can now acknowledge my love for you without shame. While you were prosperous and popular, with a stainless name, I kept silent--there was no other course open to me. Now that you are despised and accused of murder, I can tell you how dear you are to me. If you had not come to me to-day, I should still have told you."
 
The minister rose to his feet, horrified at this bold and, as it seemed to him, shameless confession.
 
"Miss Arnott," he stammered, "I--I--I cannot listen to this; I must go."
 
"No, stay!" she cried, with a theatrical gesture; "I have some claim on you."
 
"Claim on me?" replied Johnson. He could not understand her.
 
Miss Arnott looked at him steadily. "It was I who paid your debts," she said.
 
CHAPTER X A FRESH PIECE OF EVIDENCE
 Johnson made no further attempt to leave. He sat down again. He was too much taken aback to speak. Yet mechanically he repeated the words of Miss Arnott, as if the more clearly to convey their meaning to his mind.
 
"You paid my debts? For what reason, may I ask?"
 
"Because I love you!"
 
"How did you know that I owed money?" inquired the minister, ignoring the confession, which, in truth, confused him beyond measure.
 
Miss Arnott smiled. "Your indebtedness is everybody's secret," she replied quietly. "Your servant found some accounts which you carelessly left lying about, and, as servants will, she talked about them freely. I could not but hear something of this gossip. In fact, I heard you were in difficulties. I wondered how best I could help you. I decided that the first thing to do was to obtain a list of your liabilities--without your knowledge, of course."
 
"Why so? Had you spoken openly to me----"
 
"You would not have accepted my help. Oh! believe me, I know your proud nature. Not even your devotional life has had any effect upon that. At least you would have wanted to know my reason for wishing to help you, and that I could not have given you at that time, for you stood well with the world then. I can tell it to you now--in one word. Love! My love for you!"
 
"The love of one Christian for another, I hope."
 
"No! it is not." Miss Arnott struck her breast theatrically. Her whole attitude now was reminiscent of her early profession. "It is the love of a woman for a man--the passion which, once in her lifetime, is born in the breast of every mortal woman--ay, and of every man. It is no artificial creation of Christianity."
 
"You speak wickedly," said the minister, agitated and shocked.
 
"I speak humanly--as a woman whose life's happiness is at stake. Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Johnson. I joined your denomination knowing full well that it was for the salvation of my immortal soul. I was called to grace, and I left my life of amusement and worldly vanities. But the old leaven is here--here," and she struck her breast again. "For ten years have I laboured to erase the evil of my past life. But I have laboured in vain. When I saw you, I--I loved you. Even my faith seemed as nothing then, beside the hope of becoming your wife: your wife--your wife; let me say it. You came between me and my Creator, try as I would to banish you from my thoughts. In vain, in vain; all in vain were my prayers. Nature was, nature is, too strong for me. I love you. I love you--let all else go!"
 
"Miss Arnott, I really cannot listen to this," said Johnson. Her absolute abandonment scandalized and pained him. He rose to go.
 
"Sit down!" she said, imperiously. "We must understand each other. First, then, let us discuss your position, and see how best you can escape the danger which threatens you. I may be able to help you."
 
"I don't think so." Johnson shook his head despondently. Nevertheless, he resumed his seat.
 
"We shall see. A woman's wit can oftentimes achieve more than a man's logic. That order for women to be silent was a mistake on the part of St. Paul. Nine men out of ten owe what is best in their lives to the advice of their wives or their mothers. Tell me how matters stand with you."
 
"Believe me, I am glad to make you my confidante, Miss Arnott. God knows I need a friend."
 
"I am your friend--more than your friend. Have I not proved at least my desire for your welfare? Trivial, perhaps, of itself, my action in paying your bills shows that. It was I who placed the receipts on your study table."
 
Johnson looked up quickly. "Then it was you who took away the bills?"
 
"It was I," rejoined Miss Arnott, composedly; "what else could I do? It was necessary that I should have a list of your creditors. So I watched at your window to see where you left your accounts. I came through the fence which divides your house from mine; you know it is broken in several parts."
 
"Then it was your footsteps I heard?"
 
"It was, Mr. Johnson. I saw you looking at the pearls and your accounts. I feared lest in your great stress you might be tempted to sell that girl's treasure. I determined to have those bills. On hearing my step you came out, and left them on the table."
 
"Yes, I did. But I could not see you."
 
"Of course not. The moment I saw you move I stepped back into my own grounds. You replaced the pearls in the bag. When you looked round I was behind the fence watching you. Then when I saw you go out and into the street, I seized my opportunity. I ran in quickly and took the bills. I copied the names and addresses of your creditors, with the amounts owing to each, and a day or so later I restored the accounts during your absence. Then I went to London and paid every one of them. Your creditors one and all promised me absolute silence. And one day I watched my opportunity and placed the receipts on your desk."
 
He looked gloomily at the woman. She seemed to attach but little importance to what she had done. There was nothing theatrical about her now. She told it quite simply. He kept looking at her.
 
"You have done me a kindness," he said, "and I thank you for it. But by doing it you have unconsciously added to the difficulties of my position. It is known that my debts have been paid. I am suspected of having stolen Bithiah's pearls in order to pay them. How am I to repudiate this?"
 
"Easily enough. I can tell the congregation of Bethgamul what I have told you."
 
"That may exonerate me in part, Miss Arnott. But I shall be severely censured by the congregation for having accepted monetary aid from a woman--a stranger, so to speak."
 
"There are two answers to that," replied Miss Arnott, quietly. "In the first place, I aided you without your knowledge. In the second, you have only to tell the congregation that I am your promised wife, and no one of them can say a word!"
 
Johnson became agitated. "I cannot say that you are my promised wife," he said. "I cannot lie to them."
 
"Why need it be a lie? Can you not marry me?"
 
"But--but I do not love you!"
 
"You must learn to love me. Such a passion as mine surely deserves some return. You would not be the most ungrateful of men. Have I not done my best to serve you?"
 
"I did not ask you to."
 
"You and I alone know that, Mr. Johnson. No one else does. If I choose to confess the truth to the congregation you will be exonerated; if I say you accepted my help wittingly and willingly, there is nothing for you to do but to amend your position by saying that I am to marry you."
 
"Miss Arnott, you place me in a most difficult position."
 
"Be just. I also show you the way out of it."
 
"A way I cannot--I dare not take," said the minister, desperately.
 
Then the woman's passion got the better of her. She rose, furious. "Yet you dare to slight me--you reject my love which has saved you from disgrace! Oh, I know well that you loved Bithiah--that wretched heathen creature! But she is dead. And I am glad that she is dead, for now there can be no hope for your mad passion. You must forget her. You must marry me. You shall marry me!"
 
"I will not!" said Johnson, rising in his turn, and speaking every word distinctly. "You overstep the bounds of modesty, Miss Arnott. I do not love you. I never could love you. My heart is buried in the grave of Tera."
 
The woman turned pale, and sank back into her chair.
 
"Then is all my wickedness in vain," she moaned.
 
"What do you mean?" asked the minister. He was struck by the peculiarity of the phrase.
 
"You know well what I mean. I have fought that woman for you, and she has beaten me. Once she was out of the way, I thought I could win you for myself. It seems I was wrong. Yet what can you do without me? Your good name is gone; you are suspected of murdering the girl, of robbing her, and of paying your debts with the wages of your sin. Do you think the congregation will keep you as preacher? No; you will be cast out of the fold. You will be disgraced and penniless. Where will you go? What will you do--without a name, without money? I am rich; I can save you. But you refuse my help!"
 
"God will help me," said Johnson, moving towards the door. "He knows I am innocent."
 
"Will God help me?" cried Miss Arnott, wildly. "He knows that I am not innocent. Go, go! Leave me to reap the harvest of my folly. I have loved you too well; and this--this is my reward. Leave me, I say. Go!"
 
She looked so furious, yet so imperious in her wrath--the wrath of a woman scorned--that the minister left the room without a word. In her present state of mind it were idle to argue with her.
 
Deep in thought, Johnson returned to his home. He had expected this interview to end differently. Most assuredly he had not anticipated that the element of love would so have dominated it. Miss Arnott's mad passion, her quarrel with the dead girl, her payment of his debts--all these things perplexed him sorely. He knew not what to think of them. The knowledge that he was so attractive to this woman gave him no pleasure. On the contrary, rather did it cause him to shudder, to wince as at the contact of evil.
 
"I must release myself from this snare," he murmured to himself, "and that can only be done by paying back this money. Yet where am I to get five hundred pounds? I am hampered on all sides. If I do not bribe this Shackel, he will accuse me of selling poor Tera's pearls. Already I am suspected of her murder. Every one is working against me. It is best perhaps to follow Brand's suggestion and fly. Here I may be arrested at any moment."
 
The position was terrible. He did not see his way out of it at all. The more he thought, the more perplexed and confused he became. At length he seized his hat, and went out in the hope that fresh air and rapid motion would clear his brain. Knowing how unpopular he was, he kept away from the town and climbed the hill by the lonely path. Here in his meditation he jostled against a man coming the opposite way. The stranger was tall, slender, and as brown as Tera had been. But those keen black eyes and that hawk-like nose could belong only to a Romany. Having seen him before, Johnson had no difficulty in recognizing the man.
 
"Pharaoh Lee!" said the minister, stopping in his surprise. "I did not know you were here!"
 
"I'm with my people on the common yonder," replied Pharaoh, gloomily; "we came back the other day, rye--and on no very pleasant errand, either."
 
"I am sorry to hear that, Pharaoh! What is the matter?"
 
"A woman is the matter, as usual. D'ye remember Zara Lovell, rye?"
 
"Yes. She was to marry you. Are you now husband and wife?"
 
Pharaoh's brow grew black, and he muttered a gipsy oath. "We'll never be husband and wife in this life, rye, whatever we may be in the next," he said bitterly. "Zara fell in love with one of your Gentile mashers here, and has gone back to him."
 
"Who is he?"
 
"I wish I knew," cried Lee, fiercely; "I'd knife him!"
 
"Hush! Hush!" rebuked Johnson, shivering at the thought of another murder. "You must not speak like that. It is dangerous."
 
"Not always, rye. Why, some Gorgio cove killed a girl here the other day, they tell me, and he has not been caught. I dare say she deceived him."
 
"Are you talking of Bithiah?"
 
"I don't know what the name is; but her body was found in a cornfield."
 
"That was the body of my ward, Bithiah," explained Johnson, sadly; "you must remember her, Pharaoh. A dark handsome girl."
 
"Job!" cried the gipsy, smiting his thigh, "it comes to me now. She was like the gentle Romany in looks. So it's her, rye, is it? And why did he kill her?"
 
"Who?"
 
"The man as did it. She deceived him, I don't doubt; and he strangled her."
 
"You are wrong, Pharaoh; it was no love tragedy. How Bithiah came by her death no one knows. But I beg of you not to let this terrible crime form a precedent in your dealing with Zara. Where is she now?"
 
"I don't know," said Lee, becoming sullen again. "I was up North, and asked her to marry me over the poker and tongs, as we'd been vowed for months to one another. Then she told me of her marriage in the Gentile way with a Gorgio. I tried to get his name out of her; but she knew how ready my knife would be, and refused to tell me. In the night she ran away, and, as I guessed she'd come back here to her husband, I moved my people down as quick as I could. Here I am, but where Zara is I don't know. Curses on her and him."
 
"Hush! Do not swear, Lee. Who is this man?"
 
"I don't know."
 
"Have you any idea as to who he is?"
 
"Yes; it's either a man called Slade, or another, Mayne by name. They were always hanging round our camp when we were here last, and Zara was with them oftener than I liked. I believe it's one or the other."
 
"No, Pharaoh, you must be wrong. Slade, the policeman, has been married for quite a year; and although Mr. Mayne is still a bachelor, it is probable that he will make Miss Carwell his wife. So you see it can be neither of these."
 
"Who can swear to that?" retorted Lee. "You Gorgios make nothing of deceiving our women-folk. We are not of your race, and your laws are not for us. If Zara is not married to one of the two Gentiles I speak of, they know who she is married to. They can tell me if they choose, and I shall force them to speak out," added the gipsy, fiercely. "When I know the truth I'll----"
 
"Lee, I implore you to do nothing rash."
 
"I shall mend my honour in my own way, rye. It is an oath."
 
With this dramatic declaration on his lips, Lee swung off down the hill to escape further reproof and entreaty. Johnson, knowing the fierce nature of the wanderer, looked after him with an air of doubt. When Pharaoh's evil passions were roused, he struck at once, swift and true as a wounded snake. It seemed as if Tera's murder were to be followed by another, and Johnson sighed as he thought of all that had happened so suddenly to trouble the hitherto smoothly-flowing current of his life. Since he had fallen in love with Tera there had been nothing but trouble, and he could not see how or where it was all to end.
 
Anxious-minded and hopeless of aid, the minister resumed his upward way, and shortly reached the brow of the hill, where the corn-lands stretched towards Poldew. Unconsciously his feet had led him into the very path along which Bithiah must have passed to her mysterious death. The omen chilled him for the moment, but shaking off the superstition, as incompatible with his calling as a teacher, he stepped resolutely along the grassy way which meandered through the stubble field. Some power drew him, almost against his will, towards the fatal spot.
 
As he walked along he caught sight of a burly figure bending down in the field. As he approached he recognized Jeremiah Slade. Knowing neither the man's ambitions nor the interest he took in the case, Johnson wondered what he was doing so near the place where the body had been found. His curiosity being excited, he crossed the ridgy furrows, and walked up to the policeman.
 
"What are you looking for, Slade?" Jeremiah straightened himself, and a light came into his dull blue eye. "I ain't lookin' now," said he, cunningly, "as I've found something already--something as is worth the findin' too."
 
"What is it?"
 
"You seem mighty anxious to know, sir," was the constable's reply, with a suspicious glance.
 
"Naturally, I wish to know anything bearing upon the fate of poor Bithiah."
 
"Ah," grunted Slade, "there's more than you, sir, as wants information of that kind. But why are you so perticler, may I ask, if it ain't no offence?"
 
"For two reasons," rejoined Johnson, quietly. "One is, that I wish the assassin of my poor ward to be secured and punished; the other is that I desire to clear my own character from the suspicion which has fallen upon it."
 
"You mean, sir, as folks suspect you of the murder?"
 
"I do; but I need hardly say that I am innocent."
 
"Well," said the policeman, reflectively, "of course, sir, you're bound to say that to save your own neck. I thought as you did it yourself one time, for there ain't no denyin' as the evidence is dead against you. But what I've found now 'as altered me a bit."
 
"Really! Then you are good enough to exonerate me in your own mind? You don't believe me guilty?" said Johnson, ironically.
 
"Not as the principal, anyway; it's come to me as this poor girl was strangled by a woman."
 
"A woman? How do you know that?"
 
"'Cos I found this on the very spot where the girl's body lay," and Slade opened his hand. In the palm lay a golden ear-ring, which Johnson recognized as Miss Arnott's!