not, and as land stood it was impossible to
raise it. Ah, if only that great treasure which old Sir James de la
Molle had hid away and died rather than reveal, could be brought to
light, now in the hour of his house's sorest need! But the treasure
was very mythical, and if it had ever really existed it was not now to
be found. He went to his dispatch box and took from it the copy he had
made of the entry in the Bible which had been in Sir James's pocket
when he was murdered in the courtyard. The whole story was a very
strange one. Why did the brave old man wish that his Bible should be
sent to his son, and why did he write that somewhat peculiar message
in it?

Suppose Ida was right and that it contained a cypher or cryptograph
which would give a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure? If so it
was obvious that it would be one of the simplest nature. A man
confined by himself in a dungeon and under sentence of immediate death
would not have been likely to pause to invent anything complicated. It
would, indeed, be curious that he should have invented anything at all
under such circumstances, and when he could have so little hope that
the riddle would be solved. But, on the other hand, his position was
desperate; he was quite surrounded by foes; there was no chance of his
being able to convey the secret in any other way, and he /might/ have
done so.

Harold placed the piece of paper upon the mantelpiece, and sitting
down in an arm-chair opposite began to contemplate it earnestly, as
indeed he had often done before. In case its exact wording should not
be remembered, it is repeated here. It ran: "/Do not grieve for me,
Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly and wickedly done to death by
rebel murderers, for nought happeneth but according to God's will. And
now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in heaven. My moneys have I
hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, knowing that not
one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom God shall appoint shall all my
treasure be, for nought can I communicate./"

Harold stared and stared at this inscription. He read it forwards,
backwards, crossways, and in every other way, but absolutely without
result. At last, wearied out with misery of mind and the pursuit of a
futile occupation, he dropped off sound asleep in his chair. This
happened about a quarter to eleven o'clock. The next thing he knew was
that he suddenly woke up; woke up completely, passing as quickly from
a con