Under Padlock and Seal

After some little delay, the Fury was ready for another voyage. In moving round the pond Elsie had found a broken lead soldier lying on the brick-work, a relic of some bygone naval engagement.

"Here!" she said; "let me put this man on board."

Brian seldom refused any of Elsie's requests.

"All right," he said; "put him on the bridge."

The lead soldier was propped up against the little wire railing. "There!" cried Elsie; "that's William Cole going out to Australia."

Once more the little vessel was placed in the water, and her propeller allowed to revolve. Away she went in grand style, straight across the pond, and leaving quite a miniature wake in her stern.

"Oh, bother!" muttered Brian, as again the straight course became a curve. "There she goes! That rudder will work round."

"Hullo!" exclaimed Guy. "Look out! She'll be wrecked in a minute!"

The "destroyer" was now heading for one of the submerged pots; a moment later she struck, and remained with her screw still working, but with her bow entangled in a bunch of weed.

"I shall have to court-martial the captain for running his ship ashore," said Brian.

"Poor William!" cried Elsie; "fancy being shipwrecked on his first voyage!"

For some minutes the children stood gazing idly at the disabled craft; her engines had stopped working, and it was evident that she would have to be towed into port.

"We must get a long stick – a fishing-rod, or something of that kind," said Guy. "Hullo!" he added. "Look, Brian! I believe she's sinking."

It was only too true; the "destroyer" was slowly settling down, stern foremost.

"Oh, do get it!" cried Elsie; but the wreck was well out of reach – at least ten feet from the shore. For a minute the spectators stood hesitating, undecided what to do; then the vessel gave a lurch, her bows slipped from the edge of the flower-pot, and down she went.

"O Brian, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Elsie. "You've taken so much trouble to make it, and poor William's drowned!"

Brian laughed. "Oh, we can get her out again," he said. "I think she must have been leaking where the propeller shaft goes through her stern."

If it had been summer one of the boys would probably have rolled up his trousers and waded into the water to recover the boat. As it was, they had to improvise some form of drag.

"We must get that big rake," said Brian. "We can lash it to one of those clothes-props, and then we shall be able to reach her and haul her out."

The rake was found, and bound with stout cord to the clothes-prop, and the process of "salving" the wrecked steamer commenced.

"I must mind and not damage her with these iron spikes," said Brian, carefully thrusting out the head of the rake and lowering it into the water.

"Hullo! I've got something," he remarked an instant later, as he hauled in the drag. "But it isn't the boat. What can it be?"

The prongs of the rake grated on the bricks, and there, amid dead leaves, rotten twigs, and muddy sediment, lay something which at first glance might have been mistaken for a dead fish. Guy stooped down and picked it up out of the water. For a moment he gazed at it in utter astonishment.

"Why, it's the missing carving-knife!" he exclaimed.

CHAPTER VI.

MORE MYSTERY

"It's that poultry-carver right enough," repeated Guy – "the one the mater said was lost."

His sister and Brian all crowded round to have a nearer view of the object in question.

"So it is!" cried Elsie. "How on earth could it have got into the pond?"

"I suppose some one threw it in," answered her brother. "It couldn't have walked or flown there of its own accord."

"But why should any one throw a knife into the pond? Who could have done such a silly thing?"

"Oh, ask me something easier," laughed Guy. "All I know is, 'twasn't my doing."

"Let's have a look," said Brian, holding out his hand. "The point's broken, and the little plated knob from the end has gone."

He took the knife and examined it more closely.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Look at the blade. That's queer."

"What? what?" demanded the others.

"Why, something's been done to it; it's as thin as paper."

The knife blade certainly presented a curious appearance. Though maintaining its original form and size, it seemed to have wasted away until it was scarcely thicker than a sheet of note-paper. It was probably owing to this fact that the point had snapped off when it came into contact with the bricks at the bottom of the pond.

"Perhaps the water has made it go like that," suggested Elsie.

"Oh no," answered her cousin. "You can see where it's rusty. It must have been ground or rubbed down on a stone."

"But why should any one grind a knife blade as thin as that?" asked the girl. "If you tried to cut anything, the blade would bend all up or break."

"The best thing for us to do will be to take it indoors and show it to the mater," said Guy. "I expect she'll be jolly surprised when she hears we found it in the pond."

"Wait half a minute," answered Brian, who was always practical. "Let me get my ship out first."

The rake was once more thrust out, and the end lowered into the water; after two unsuccessful attempts the whereabouts of the sunken Fury was discovered, and she was carefully dragged to the edge of the pond.

"There!" said Brian, as he carefully emptied the water out of the little craft. "That's where she leaks. I'll stop that up before we try her again. Now let's go and find aunt, and show her the knife."

Elsie walked along beside the others in silence; she was dying to say something, but was afraid to speak. Brian's statement that the knife blade must have been reduced by grinding or rubbing on a stone had at once reminded her of her midnight, or, rather, early morning adventure. Could it have been this poultry-carver that the mysterious intruder was working at when she had awoke and seen the faint light in the tool-house? She longed to hazard the suggestion, but Guy and Ida had already made so much fun of her story that she feared to mention the subject again lest it should occasion a fresh teasing.

The children found Mr. and Mrs. Ormond in the hall, just preparing to start out for a walk.

"Mother, we've found the carving-knife!" cried Guy. "'Twas at the bottom of the pond."

With three people all assisting one another in the telling, the story did not take long to relate. Mr. and Mrs. Ormond seemed equally astonished.

"Look, uncle, how thin it is," said Brian. "It must have been ground down carefully on a stone."

"So I see," was the answer. "It's very extraordinary."

"Most extraordinary," echoed Mrs. Ormond. "Then, who could have thrown it into the pond? – Guy, are you sure you know nothing about it?"

"Quite sure, mother."

"I don't like to doubt the honesty of that boy Henry," began Mr. Ormond, "but the thought has just occurred to me that he might, when he was cleaning the knives, have tried to put an edge on this one, and ground it too much; then, being afraid to bring it back to the house, have thrown it into the pond."

"Oh, I don't think that," answered Mrs. Ormond. "I'm quite sure Henry's honest. I asked him about the knife, and he said he never remembered having seen it; in fact, as I said before, I don't think he's had it to clean since he's been here."

"Besides, if he had wanted to put an edge on it, he'd never have ground the whole blade thin like that," added Brian.

"Put it away somewhere," said Mr. Ormond, "and I'll have a look at it again when I come back."

The little group dispersed. Brian and Guy went away to mend the boat, while Elsie, left to herself, wandered out into the yard and entered the tool-house. There stood the grindstone in its usual place, looking a very unromantic object indeed; but the girl viewed it with almost bated breath. She had quite made up her mind that connected with that grindstone was a mystery in which the poultry-carver was somehow concerned. What this secret was she could not imagine; but the belief grew in her mind that if she had been able to summon up sufficient courage to have crossed the yard that night, and to have peeped round the door of the tool-house, she might now be able to explain how and why the poultry-carver had found its way to the bottom of the pond.

She longed to tell the others what was in her thoughts, but pride made her hold her tongue. She did not like being made fun of, and she felt sure that any reference to what Ida called her "dream" about the grindstone was certain to be received with nothing but ridicule by both brother and sister.

In one corner of the tool-house stood Uncle Roger's iron-bound box, which, since the eventful evening when it was opened, had been banished from the library in disgrace, Mr. Ormond wishing to put a small bookcase in the space which the box had hitherto occupied.

Elsie tried to lift the lid, but the two padlocks had been refastened to prevent their being lost. She sat down on the chest, and began drumming her feet on the dark oak planks.

"What a disappointment that old box has proved!" thought the girl. "I wonder if there ever was anything in it. Father seems to think it couldn't possibly have been opened, but then how did that cork with Greenworthy's name on it come to be inside? I do wish it had been full of money. It would have been jolly to have had a real pony, and to have learned to ride."

"If wishes were horses," runs the old proverb, "then beggars would ride;" and Elsie had to rest content with a short day-dream, from which she at length awoke with a little sigh of regret.

An hour or two later, as Guy unstrapped his pile of school books and flung them down on the breakfast-room table, he referred to the discovery which had been made earlier in the day.

"The pater can't understand that carving-knife. I wonder how in the world it got into the pond!"

"Yes, I wonder too," said Ida, rather suspiciously. "And I wonder if you, Guy, could explain it if you chose."

"I explain it!" exclaimed the boy. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know you have done things like that," returned his sister calmly. "You smashed a big flower-pot the other day, and threw the pieces away into the hedge."

"Look here, Ida," cried Guy, with a great show of indignation. "You're always accusing me of doing things, and it's not fair. The other day you tried to make out I'd taken cook's methylated spirit when I said I hadn't. What's the good of a fellow telling the truth if he isn't believed?"

"Shall I tell you what I think about it?" asked Brian, looking up from the open book before him, with his finger at the spot where he had left off reading.

"Yes," was the reply.

"Well, the idea's come into my head that some one was grinding the knife that night when Elsie woke up and heard the stone turning."

Elsie clapped her hands with delight; her cousin's words were exactly what she herself had been longing to speak.

"That's just what I've been thinking, Brian!" she cried. "I'm sure that's right."

"What nonsense!" ejaculated Guy. "You never did hear any one working at the grindstone. It was a dream."

"I'm not sure about that," answered his cousin. "When I looked at the grindstone next day there were spots of candle-grease on the wooden frame."

"What if there were?" interrupted Guy. "Henry may have taken a light in there late in the afternoon. Because there were a few spots of grease about, it doesn't prove that some one was working there in the middle of the night. Besides, supposing the knife was ground on our stone at that unearthly hour, it doesn't explain anything. It doesn't show what earthly object there could be in making the blade as thin as possible, and then throwing it into the pond."

"Oh, of course it doesn't," answered Brian; "but if you're ever going to get at the explanation of a thing like that, you must begin at the beginning, and ravel it out bit by bit. I believe it began that night when Elsie heard the stone turning, and I shall continue to think so until I have reason to believe otherwise."

"Oh, you're talking nonsense!" said Guy, who could think of no better reply to make. "Now, let's get on with our work."

It so happened that at the same time the children were talking over the strange loss and reappearance of the carving-knife, the subject was also being discussed in the dining-room.

"If I hadn't been quite sure that Guy was speaking the truth, I should have set it down as his doing," said Mrs. Ormond.

"It's neither of the boys' doing," answered her husband from behind his newspaper. "I saw that at once."

"How?"

"Why," replied Mr. Ormond, laying down his paper, and reaching for the knife, which lay on a side table, "it's a difficult matter to grind a blade as thin as that. No boy did it; at least that's my opinion. It was done by a man, and one who knew what he was about.

"I shall be at the police court on Monday," the speaker continued after a pause, "and I have a good mind to ask Evans, the sergeant, to step round and have a look at it. I'm inclined to think there's more in this matter than may appear on the surface."

CHAPTER VII.

SAD NEWS

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Ormond, opening his morning paper and glancing at one of the headings printed in big black letters. "Heavy loss of life at sea again; two vessels in collision, and both sunk. Why! good gracious!" he continued; "the Arcadia– that was the ship William Cole sailed on!"

There was a dropping of knives and forks all round the table, and a general exclamation of dismay.

"O father!" cried Ida. "You don't mean to say that the Arcadia is lost?"

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "Yes; it says, 'which sailed from London on Friday, October 28th.' It must be the same boat."

"But perhaps William wasn't drowned," exclaimed Elsie. "Doesn't it say if any of them were saved?"

"Only fourteen souls from the liner," was the reply. "Ten of the crew, and four passengers. Their names are given here, but poor William Cole isn't mentioned."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Ida. She pushed away her plate, and the tears started to her eyes. Elsie, too, leant back in her chair, the corners of her mouth beginning to turn down.

"She must have sunk very quickly, uncle," said Brian. "How did it happen?"

"She seems to have come in collision with a sailing ship named the Cumberland," answered Mr. Ormond. "'It was in a fog, and during the early hours of the morning, when all the passengers were below in their berths. The Arcadia sank almost immediately. Two boats were filled and lowered, but one capsized as it touched the water. The survivors were taken on board the Cumberland, but that vessel was so badly damaged that it was found impossible to keep her afloat. Fortunately the rockets she sent up were seen by a merchant steamer, which took the Cumberland's crew and the survivors from the Arcadia on board, and eventually landed them at one of the Spanish ports. One man on the sailing ship was killed and another injured by the falling of spars from aloft, which were brought down by the blow.'"

"But isn't there any hope that William was saved?" asked Elsie in a choking voice. "Has he really been drowned?"

"I'm afraid so," was the reply. "The names of all those saved were telegraphed at once by the British consul."

"I can't think how a big ship like that can possibly sink so quickly," said Guy.

"You wouldn't wonder at it if you saw the size of the hole that one vessel can make in another's side," answered his father. "It's very sad. Poor William! If he'd only known what was before him, he'd have been content to stop in England."

A dark shadow seemed to have fallen on the breakfast table. The children went on with their meal in silence. William Cole had always been popular with them, for reasons which have already been given. He was a civil-spoken, dapper-looking young fellow, perhaps not over fond of work, and a little too ready for a half-hour's gossip, or for spending his time making the tail of a kite, when he should have been cleaning the yard or digging in the garden. But whatever his faults had been, they were for the time forgotten, and only his better qualities remembered. Even Guy seemed shocked and subdued by the terrible news.

"I say," he remarked, as he and Brian walked along on their way to school, "it's awful to think that William's drowned! Somehow, I can't believe it's true. He was such a sharp, lively sort of chap, it seems almost impossible that he's dead, and that we shall never see him again. Even now I feel inclined to shout for him, and ask him to do things, just as if he were still at work somewhere about the place."

Mr. Ormond, who was a magistrate, had to attend at the police court that morning, and was rather late in returning home to dinner.

"By the way," he said, speaking to his wife, "I mentioned that carving-knife to Evans, our police sergeant, and asked him to call in when he's passing, and just have a look at it; so he says he'll be round some time this evening. I'll see him here in the dining-room, if he comes when the children are at their lessons. They needn't know the reason why he called."

"You don't suppose either of them threw the knife into the pond, do you?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Oh no!" answered her husband, laughing. "Only I thought that if they heard that a policeman had been called in, it might fill their heads with all kinds of fancies, and I don't want to do that. Elsie, especially, seems highly nervous, and is blessed with a rather too vivid imagination. If it got on her mind I don't know what blood-curdling story she wouldn't be telling us next."

Punctually at the time appointed, Sergeant Evans presented himself at the Pines, and was ushered into the dining-room. He was a stout, rosy-cheeked man, and so tall that he seemed almost obliged to stoop as he entered the door.

"Good-evening, sergeant," said Mr. Ormond. "This is the knife I spoke to you about. What d'you think of it? Look at the blade."

The officer laid down his helmet and walking-cane, and, taking the carver, subjected it to a careful examination.

"Where did you say it was picked up, sir?" he asked.

"It was at the bottom of our little pond," was the answer. "The boys had one of their toy boats sunk, and, in dragging for it with a rake, they brought up this."

"At the bottom of the pond," murmured the policeman thoughtfully. "Then it is evident that the person who ground it down threw the knife into the water, so that it shouldn't be found again. – You don't remember on what day the knife was lost, I suppose, ma'am?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't tell you that," answered Mrs. Ormond. "We missed it first last Saturday week; but we don't use it every day, so it might have been before then."

"You've no idea who could have done this?"

"None whatever. We had an idea that one of the boys might have been the culprit; but, as I said to Mrs. Ormond, I don't think a boy could have ground a knife blade down as cleverly as that."

The sergeant held the carver nearer to the lamp, and looked at it for a few moments in silence.

"I've seen some queer tools," he said, "manufactured by what's called a thieves' blacksmith, and sometimes by the men themselves – all kinds of odd contrivances, made out of the most unexpected things you can imagine, from a knitting-needle to a steel fork or a poker."

"You don't think that was done by a robber, do you?" exclaimed Mrs. Ormond, looking up from her work.

"No, ma'am; I can't see what the use of it could have been, it's so thin and fragile. Now, if it had been turned into a fine saw," the speaker continued, feeling along the edge of the blade with his finger and thumb, "it would have made me feel a bit suspicious. – I suppose, sir, you've had no cause lately to think the house has been broken into – no drawers forced, or windows opened?"

"Oh no!" answered Mr. Ormond. "Nothing of the kind."

The sergeant nodded. "It's difficult to understand," he said, "why any one should take the trouble to grind a knife like this, and then throw it into a pond, unless they was trying their 'and to see how thin the blade could be made."

The speaker stood thoughtfully balancing the carver across the palm of his large hand; then a close observer might have seen the ghost of a smile appear on his ruddy face.

"I expect, sir, you've got a grindstone on the premises?"

"Yes, there's one out in the tool-house."

Evans made no reply, but after a moment's pause laid the knife down on the table, and prepared to go.

"Then you don't think it was the work of a thief?" inquired Mrs. Ormond, smiling.

"Oh no, ma'am," was the answer. "It don't strike me as being that."

"By the way," said Mr. Ormond, "I suppose you saw the account in the paper to-day of that terrible shipwreck? You remember William Cole, my gardener? The Arcadia was the ship he sailed on, and I'm afraid there's very little doubt but that the poor fellow's drowned. At all events, he's not mentioned as one of the four passengers who were saved."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Evans, the little twinkle in his eye disappearing in an instant. "So Will Cole was on board that ship! Well, well, it's sad news, very!"

"It is," answered Mr. Ormond. "He had his faults, but he seemed a sharp, promising young fellow; and I hoped he'd do well in the Colonies."

"So did I, sir. When I heard he was going abroad I thought it was about the best thing that could happen. I was afraid that if he stayed on much longer in these parts he'd find himself in trouble."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir," continued the man in blue, slowly, and with his eyes bent on the tablecloth. "One don't wish to talk ill of the dead, and I don't know as I've got anything to say against Will himself more than this, that of late he seemed to be getting mixed up with them as would have done him no good."

"I knew nothing of this," said Mr. Ormond.

"No, I don't suppose you would, sir; but such things naturally come under our notice, and he wouldn't have been the first young chap I've seen get associated with an idle, drinking, betting lot, and then come to grief. However, the poor fellow's beyond all that now, and I can only say I'm sorry to hear of his death."

As Mr. Evans walked home, cogitating on the interview which has just been described, the sly smile once more returned to his face; and on entering his own door, and being greeted with the savoury smell of something hot for supper, his good-humour was so far increased that he laughed aloud. Seated at table, he entertained his wife with an account of his visit to the magistrate's house.

"Well, what could have been the meaning of it all?" inquired Mrs. Evans. "Where's the sense in treating a knife in that fashion?"

The sergeant leant back in his chair and chuckled. "It beat me for some time," he answered. "But then I saw through it clear enough."

"And who done it, then? A burglar?"

"Burglar my grandmother!" replied Mr. Evans. "No, 'twas like this – so at least I puts it together. The servant gal, who ought to have kept the knife in its proper place, leaves it lying about in the damp, and lets the blade get rusty. Then, instead of telling her mistress, she gets Cole to put it on the stone, or else does it herself, and they keeps grinding away till the knife's spoilt, and then, to end the matter, one of 'em chucks it into the pond, and so it gets lost."

"And didn't you tell Mrs. Ormond?"

"No fear! I couldn't say for certain. I wasn't going to get the pore gal out of her place, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt."

"Pore gal!" cried Mrs. Evans indignantly. "I'd pore gal her, the careless hussy! I don't consider you've done your duty, Samuel."

"Well, if I didn't," replied the culprit, "'twas because I was reminded of the fact that you was once in service yourself, Sarah."

"Get along with you!" cackled Mrs. Evans, trying hard not to laugh, but failing in the attempt. "If I was in service I didn't throw no carving-knives into no fishponds."

CHAPTER VIII.

ELSIE HAS A FRIGHT

"It's my birthday on Thursday, mother," said Guy. "Have you decided what you're going to give me?"

"That sounds as if you quite expected a present," answered Mrs. Ormond, laughing.

"Of course I do," continued the boy. "And, I say, mother, can I ask Naylor to come to tea and spend the evening? He's one of the boarders, and a great friend of mine. I think his Christian name is George, or Gerald, or something of that sort."