R XXXI

THE HERO PLAYS SECOND FIDDLE

Now, while Elsie was dancing the hours away in desperate danger of her
life and to the peril of her reason, Mr. Ablethorpe and I had not been
idle. That is, so far as was within our power to act or our knowledge
to foresee. He had allowed me to judge of the state of the rings which
had been passed through the furnace. I was still uncertain of their
portent till he produced an oval plaque with the mark V.R. upon it. It
was of brass, and had doubtless formed part of the single leathern sack
which Harry Foster kept open so as to take on to Bewick anything which
might be committed to his care _en route_.

There could be no doubt. We had found the murderer of Harry
Foster--that is, we had only to find who made the bread at Deep Moat
Grange in order to be sure of him. It was, indeed, a known thing that,
save on a rare occasion, the Moat Grange people made their own
bread--but whether in the shape of griddle-cakes, soda scones, or
properly baked oven loaves, no one knew. But Mr. Ablethorpe and I were
sure there would be no more difficulty. More than that we meant to
find out--the clew was the first one which had really promised well,
and we meant to follow it. That very night we got ready to go, even
though Mr. Ablethorpe ought now to have been at home, preparing for his
Sunday services, instead of doing detective business across country on
the strength of a few calcined rings and a brass plate.

* * * * *

It was about this time that my father, with torn and bleeding hands,
was working desperately at the bar of iron. His knife was worn to a
stump, but the open door of Elsie's cell tempted him with a terrible
sense of the unknown which was passing outside. Besides, he could not
tell at what moment Jeremy might return, and, shutting the door, shut
off at the same time his hopes of escape and of helping Elsie, whom he
saw already in the grasp of the midnight assassin.

Now if I were writing this to show what a hero I was, I should, of
course, have put my own part in the forefront. But as I was at the
time little better than a boy who does what he can, and it really was
my father who helped Elsie the most--and had done for some time--I am
not going to take away the credit from him. Mine is the proper sort of
father, that a fellow can be proud of. I think I would have done all
that he did if I had been there and had his chances. But then I
wasn't