Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/384

376 noise below, Timothy, it seems, had jumped out of bed, and, in the dark, he and the policeman took each other for a midnight robber. A hearty laugh, and a stiff glass of grog to the policeman, settled the affair. Of course, we accounted for the escape of the cellar marauders by having to go to the policeman’s assistance.

Having successfully overcome this triplet of difficulties, we were rapidly approaching the conclusion of our labours. On Thursday night, September the 11th, we had accomplished the 135th yard of tunnelling, and were beneath the Exhibition building. The discrepancy between the number of yards actually accomplished, and Rimouski’s original calculation, was accounted for by a divergence of route which the gas-pipes compelled us to make. On the Friday we were crawling cautiously on our hands and knees beneath the flooring, listening to the tread of the vast multitude above our heads. One trifling circumstance gave us some uneasiness. Close by where Rimouski was crouching, some stupid person let a half-sovereign drop between the boards. Rimouski quietly slipped it into his pocket, and crawled away. We feared the boards would be lifted, and the whole of our plans discovered. They were not.

As Rimouski did not wish Dolan to know where we had arrived, he kept him hard at work driving a fresh tunnel, in a totally opposite direction, alleging that we were somewhat mistaken in the course of the gold-drift.

On the Friday night, when Timothy was fast asleep in his attic, Rimouski and I sat in solemn conclave. The result of two months’ severe and exhausting toil was to be tested. Rimouski spoke.

“To carry off the Koh-i-Noor would be a barren achievement. A gem of such size is practically as useless to us as a bit of Derbyshire spar. No: I prefer flying at smaller, but more profitable game. I will tackle the case of in the French department, you will direct your attention to the display of Messrs.  in the English area.”

On the following day, amid the roar of organs, the jingle of pianofortes, and the tramp of innumerable feet, we sawed away the flooring underneath our respective cases, in such a manner that no cut was observable on the upper side. Rimouski had fixed a couple of small fine-toothed saws in a frame peculiarly adapted for this sort of work. The pieces sawn through were large enough to admit the body of a man, and were supported from below by carefully-arranged props.

The important night had arrived at last. It was dark, moonless, and windy. Rimouski gravely handed me a sharp, small stiletto, reserving a similar one for himself.

“To be used,” he said, “in case of emergency.”

“Which Heaven forefend!” I exclaimed.

He made no reply. We passed through the tunnel, having taken the precaution to lock the door of Tim Dolan’s room. When under the floor of the Exhibition building, Rimouski silently shook my hand. We separated, and took our respective routes for England and for France. I reached the appointed spot with perfect ease, having arranged a line of whipcord from the entrance of the tunnel, which led me directly beneath the jewel-case. With the utmost caution I took away the props, and removed the sawn flooring-boards; I then slowly thrust my head and body through the aperture. Having proceeded thus far, I paused for a few moments, listening to the measured tread of the numerous watchmen perambulating the building. Being satisfied that I was unobserved, I proceeded to fill my pockets with the jewels that surrounded me on all sides. In some instances, I removed the jewels from the case; in others I put case and all into my pockets. While thus engaged the door of the show-case was violently opened, for a moment the uniform of a Sapper glimmered in the darkness; I attempted to lower myself into the aperture; I was suddenly seized by the hair of the head. The horrors of my position overcame me; a blasted character—penal servitude!—I shrieked aloud!

What is this? Where am I? It is broad daylight, and I am lying beneath a hedge in the peaceful fields of Hornsey. My hat has fallen off, and a bramble-bush has caught my hair. And is that all? Has all the strange drama of two months’ duration which I have passed through been but a dream—or has my spirit, beguiled by the hateful influence of Stavros Rimouski, really enacted these scenes, while my body lay here, a mere senseless trunk? Thank Heaven, at any rate, that I am where I am, a free man; honest at least in outward act, if not in inward purpose. I will seek Stavros, and learn whether he has really been here or not.

I returned to London, and made inquiries. It might be only an accidental coincidence, but on the day of my dream, vision, or temporary separation of body and spirit, whichever it might be, Stavros Macdonald Rimouski had disappeared, and none of his friends or acquaintances have since been able to trace him.

Who rides so fast through the blasted pines, While through the cloud-rack the young moon shines?

Who rides so fast through the yew-trees’ gloom, While low in the mountains the thunders boom?

Who rides so fast through the haunted wood, Heedless of midnight, and storm, and flood?

The goodwife at Givers looked out from her door: God save thee, Count Burkhardt, the weather is sore.

Tempt not the wood nor the foaming stream, In marsh and in meadow the witch-lights gleam;

I see through the white mists their flickering spears, Though my eyes are dim with ninety years.”

Count Burkhardt laughed, and flung her good-night, And spurred his good charger, and breasted the height,

And came to the gate by the forest well, Where the hermit prayed in his little cell,

Moaning the deeds of his wilful youth, Pleading for sinners with tender ruth.

He rose from his knees, and called through the dark, Who journeys here on the Eve of St. Mark?