All was dark; not one glimmer of light to be seen in any of the windows. The garden was secured by an iron gate, and surrounded by iron rails on all sides, except that nearest the river. Here, the only boundary was a hedge of laurels, which were still low and thin; and here Dennis Wayman and his companion found easy access to the neatly-kept pleasure-ground. With stealthy footsteps they invaded Captain Duncombe's little domain, and walked slowly round the house, examining every door and window as they went. "Is the captain a rich man?" asked Milsom. "Yes; I believe he's pretty well off--some say uncommonly well off. He spent over a thousand pounds on this place." "Curse him for his pains!" returned Black Milsom, savagely. "He knows how to take care of his property. It would be a very clever burglar that would get into that house. The windows are all secured with outside shutters, that seem as solid as if they were made of iron, and the doors don't yield the twentieth part of an inch." Then, after completing his examination of the house, Milsom exclaimed, in the same savage tone-- "Why, the man has swept away every timber of the place I lived in." "I told you as much," answered Wayman; "I've heard say there was nothing left of old Screwton's house but a few solid timbers and a stack of chimneys." Screwton was the name of the miser whose ghost had been supposed to haunt the old place. Black Milsom gave a start as Dennis uttered the words "stack of chimneys." "Oh!" he said, in an altered tone; "so they left the chimney-stack, did they?" Mr. Wayman perceived that change of tone. "I begin to understand," he said; "you hid that money in one of the chimneys." "Never you mind where I hid it. There's little chance of its being found there, after bricklayers pulling the place to pieces. I must get into that house, come what may." "You'll find that difficult," answered Wayman. "Perhaps. But I'll do it, or my name's not Black Milsom." * * * * * Captain Joseph Duncombe, or Joe Duncombe, as he generally called himself, was a burly, rosy-faced man of fifty years of age; a hearty, honest fellow. He was a widower, with only one child, a daughter, whom he idolized. Any father might have been forgiven for being devotedly fond of such a daughter as Rosamond Duncombe. Rosamond was one of those light-hearted, womanly creatures who seem born to make home a paradise. She had a sweet temper; a laugh which was like music; a manner which was fascination itself. When it is also taken into consideration that she had a pretty little nose, lips that were fresh and rosy as ripe red cherries, cheeks that were like dewy roses, newly-gathered, and large, liquid eyes, of the deepest, clearest blue, it must be confessed that Rosamond Duncombe was a very charming girl.