ion under
the will of the second and last baronet, Edward de la Molle, who died
in exile, that they failed to recover this portion of the property.
And if this was so, and Sir James, the murdered man, had buried his
treasure in the mount, what did the mysterious letters A.B.C. mean?
Were they, perhaps, directions as to the line to be taken to discover
it? Harold could not imagine, nor, as a matter of fact, did he or
anybody else ever find out either then or thereafter.

Ida, indeed, used afterwards to laughingly declare that old Sir James
meant to indicate that he considered the whole thing as plain as
A.B.C., but this was an explanation which did not commend itself to
Harold's practical mind.

CHAPTER XL

BUT NOT TO BED

Harold glanced at the clock; it was nearly one in the morning, time to
go to bed if he was going. But he did not feel inclined to go to bed.
If he did, with this great discovery on his mind he should not sleep.
There was another thing; it was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas
Day, the day of Ida's answer. If any succour was to be given at all,
it must be given at once, before the fortress had capitulated. Once
let the engagement be renewed, and even if the money should
subsequently be forthcoming, the difficulties would be doubled. But he
was building his hopes upon sand, and he knew it. Even supposing that
he held in his hand the key to the hiding place of the long-lost
treasure, who knew whether it would still be there, or whether rumour
had not enormously added to its proportions? He was allowing his
imagination to carry him away.

Still he could not sleep, and he had a mind to see if anything could
be made of it. Going to the gun-room he put on a pair of shooting-
boots, an old coat, and an ulster. Next he provided himself with a
dark lantern and the key of the summer-house at the top of Dead Man's
Mount, and silently unlocking the back door started out into the
garden. The night was very rough, for the great gale was now rising
fast, and bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a moment before
making up his mind to go on. However, he did go on, and in another two
minutes was climbing the steep sides of the tumulus. There was a wan
moon in the cold sky--the wind whistled most drearily through the
naked boughs of the great oaks, which groaned in answer like things in
pain. Harold was not a nervous or impressionable man, but the