“May I tell you?--no, not that. But, if you will let me--I have much to say that I have never dared to say yet. I am a coward and I dare so little. Perhaps living in the shadow of this haunted place has wrought upon and unnerved me. But now, if you will let me--I have so longed to ask your leave--to lean humbly upon your boldness and your strength and learn, if I could, to be a man at last.” Tuke held up a warning finger. “Ah, no!” said the other. “I am not exciting myself into a fever. Master, if you only knew how I have sickened with the desire to unburden myself to you! But I dared not; and I saw the suspicion and distrust grow in your eyes, and then I dared less and less.” “Tell me now what it is you have wished to say.” “Will you let me? Will you be content to take a humble servant’s word for the truth of what he states, when at the same time he implores you not to force him answer where he fain would be silent?” “A thundering preface. Go on, my friend. I believe that what you do elect to tell me will be God’s truth.” “Oh, yes, yes, yes! Sir, I would ask you--do you know--did you ever hear who was the last tenant of ‘Delsrop’?” “I have heard. ’Twas one Turk; some dull saturnine fellow that met an unchancy fate.” “God help him! By such a name was he known. He took me into his employment here scarce a month before he was murdered.” “The deuce he did.” “Oh, sir! ’twas the first of my misdirected attitude towards you that I dreaded you would cast me forth did you learn my last service had been with a highwayman.” “A highwayman!” “He was indeed, were the truth confessed; as wicked and notorious an outlaw as ever hoodwinked the justices; and his name Cutwater.” “Cutwater? Good heavens! Surely a past generation was familiar with it?” “Well, I fear. This was the man--come hither to live on the fruits of his ill-gotten gains, and so to his dreadful fate. Mr. Tuke, he died--God pity him!--according to his deserts; but he left a terrible heritage of evil.” The listener sat half-bewildered by the revelation. The little cloud that had once before gathered about his father’s memory, broadened and grew darker. From a thief of the road, then, had he passed on this pregnant estate to his son. Haunted in truth--perhaps as the price of blood, and the earnest of deeds too foul for mention. “Go on,” he muttered. “Once,” continued the servant in a low, fearful voice, “men came to the house, while I was there. He forced me to be present; and there followed a dreadful scene. The worst of them--bloody Jack Fern--was spokesman. Him you have seen, sir.” “Have I? Aye, aye. I note the rascal’s white hair.” “Yes, it is he. It seemed my master, the highwayman, held a great stone of value that they all claimed a share in. ’Twas called, as you will know, the Lake of Wine.” “The plot opens out.”