“Here,” she said, “I found this.  It is the Bible that Sir James begged might be sent to his son, just before they shot him, you remember,” and she handed him a small brown book.  He took it and examined it carefully.  It was bound in leather, and on the cover was written in large letters, “Sir James de la Molle.  Honham Castle, 1611.”  Nor was this all.  The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest copies of the authorised version, were torn out, and the top corner was also gone, having to all appearance been shot off by a bullet, a presumption that a dark stain of blood upon the cover and edges brought near to certainty.

“Poor gentleman,” said Harold, “he must have had it in his pocket when he was shot.  Where did you find it?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ida, “in fact I have no doubt of it.  I found it when I was a child in an ancient oak chest in the basement of the western tower, quite hidden up in dusty rubbish and bits of old iron.  But look at the end and you will see what he wrote in it to his son, Edward.  Here, I will show you,” and leaning over him she turned to the last page of the book.  Between the bottom of the page and the conclusion of the final chapter of Revelations there had been a small blank space now densely covered with crabbed writing in faded ink, which she read aloud.  It ran as follows: 

“Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus suddenly 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 monies 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.”

“There,” said Ida triumphantly, “what do you think of that, Colonel Quaritch?  The Bible, I think, was never sent to his son, but here it is, and in that writing, as I solemnly believe,” and she laid her white finger upon the faded characters, “lies the key to wherever it is that the money is hidden, only I fear I shall never make it out.  For years I have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form of acrostic, but I can make nothing of it.  I have tried it all ways.  I have translated it into French, and had it translated into Latin, but still I can find out nothing—­nothing.  But some day somebody will hit upon it—­at least I hope so.”

Harold shook his head.  “I am afraid,” he said, “that what has remained undiscovered for so long will remain so till the end of the chapter.  Perhaps old Sir James was hoaxing his enemies!”

“No,” said Ida, “for if he was, what became of all the money?  He was known to be one of the richest men of his day, and that he was rich we can see from his letter to the King.  There was nothing found after his death, except his lands, of course.  Oh, it will be found someday, twenty centuries hence, probably, much too late to be of any good to us,” and she sighed deeply, while a pained and wearied expression spread itself over her handsome face.