Mrs. Bassat rose to her feet at once, dropping the book from her lap.

"It isn't one of the horses, is it?" she said. "Richards told me Solomon had been coughing and that Diamond would not take his food. With this undergroom anything may happen." Mary shook her head. "Your household is not in trouble," she said gravely. "I bring news of another kind. If I could speak to you alone—"

Mrs. Bassat appeared relieved that her horses were not affected, and she spoke quickly to her children, who ran from the room, followed by the manservant.

"What can I do for you?" she said graciously. "You lock pale and frightened. Won't you sit down?"

Mary shook her head impatiently. "Thank you, but I must know when Mr. Bassat is returning home."

"I have no idea," replied his lady. "He was obliged to leave this morning at a moment's notice, and, to tell you the truth, I am seriously concerned about him. If this dreadful innkeeper shows fight, as he is certain to do, Mr. Bassat may be wounded, in spite of the soldiers."

"What do you mean?" said Mary swiftly.

"Why, the squire has set out upon a highly dangerous mission. Your face is new to me, and I conclude you are not from North Hill, otherwise you would have heard of this man Merlyn who keeps an inn upon the Bodmin road. The squire has suspected him for some while of terrible crimes, but it was not until this morning that the full proof came into his hands. He departed at once for Launceston to summon help, and from what he told me before he went, he intends to surround the inn tonight and seize the inhabitants. He will go well armed, of course, and with a large body of men, but I shall not rest until he returns."

Something in Mary's face must have warned her, for she turned very pale and backed towards the fire, reaching out for the heavy bellpull that hung on the wall. "You are the girl he spoke about," she said quickly, "the girl from the inn, the niece of the landlord. Stay where you are; don't move, or I'll summon my servants. You are the girl. I know it; he described you to me. What do you want with me?"

Mary put out her hand, her face as white as the woman's by the fire.

"I won't hurt you," she said. "Please do not ring. Let me explain. Yes, I am the girl from Jamaica Inn." Mrs. Bassat did not trust her. She watched Mary with troubled eyes and kept her hand upon the bell rope.

"I have no money here," she said. "I can do nothing for you. If you have come to North Hill to plead for your uncle, it is too late."

"You misunderstand me," said Mary quietly. "And the landlord of Jamaica Inn is a relative to me by marriage only. Why I have been living there does not matter now, and the story would take too long in the telling. I fear and detest him more than you or anyone in the country, and with reason. I came here to warn Mr. Bassat that the landlord intended to leave the inn tonight, and so escape justice. I have definite proof of his guilt, which I did not believe Mr. Bassat to possess. You tell me that he has already gone, and perhaps even now is at Jamaica Inn. Therefore I have wasted my time in coming here."

She sat down then, her hands in her lap, and stared blankly at the fire. She had come to the end of her resources, and for the moment she could not look ahead. All that her weary mind could tell her was that her labour of the evening had been purposeless and in vain. She need never have left her bedroom at Jamaica Inn. Mr. Bassat would have come in any case. And now, by her secret meddling, she had blundered into the very mistake she had wished to avoid. She had stayed away too long; and by now her uncle would have guessed the truth and in all probability made his escape. Squire Bassat and his men would ride to a deserted inn.

She lifted her eyes once more to the lady of the house. "I have done a very senseless thing in coming here," she said hopelessly. "I thought it clever, and I have only succeeded in making a fool of myself and of everyone else. My uncle will discover my room is empty and guess at once that I have betrayed him. He will leave Jamaica Inn before Mr. Bassat arrives."

The squire's lady let go of the bell rope now and came towards her.

"You speak sincerely, and you have an honest face," she said kindly. "I am sorry if I misjudged you at first, but Jamaica Inn has a terrible name, and I believe anyone would have done the same had they been confronted suddenly with the landlord's niece. You have been placed in a fearful position, and I think you very brave to come here tonight, all those lonely miles, to warn my husband. I should have gone mad with fear. The question is this: what would you have me do now? I am willing to help you in any way you think best."

"There is nothing we can do," said Mary, shaking her head. "I must wait here, I suppose, until Mr. Bassat returns. He won't be overpleased to see me when he hears how I have blundered. God knows I deserve every reproach…."

"I will speak for you," replied Mrs. Bassat. "You could not possibly know my husband had already been informed, and I will soon smooth him down if he needs it. Be thankful you are here in safety meanwhile."

"How did the squire learn the truth so suddenly?" asked Mary.

"I have not the slightest idea; he was sent for very suddenly this morning, as I have told you already, and he only gave me the barest details before his horse was saddled and he was gone. Now, won't you rest yourself, and forget for the time the whole hateful business? You are probably famished for want of food." Once more she approached the fireplace, and this time she pulled the bell rope three or four times, For all her worry and distress, Mary could not help seeing the irony of the situation. Here was the lady of the house offering hospitality, who a moment ago had threatened her with seizure by the same servants who would now bring her food. She thought also of the scene in the market square when this same lady, in velvet cloak and feathered hat, had paid a high price for her own pony, and she wondered whether the trickery had been discovered. If Mary's own part in the deception should come to light, Mrs. Bassat would hardly be so lavish with her hospitality.

Meanwhile the servant appeared, his inquisitive nose in the air, and was told by his mistress to bring a tray of supper for Mary, and the dogs, who had followed him into the room, came now to make friends with the stranger, wagging their tails and pushing their soft noses into her hands, accepting her as a member of the household. Her presence in the manor house at North Hill was still without reality, and, though Mary tried, she could not throw aside anxiety and relax. She felt she had no right to be sitting here before a glowing fire, when outside, in the darkness, life and death fought hand to hand before Jamaica Inn. She ate mechanically, forcing herself to swallow the food she needed, aware of the prattle of her hostess at her side, who in the mistaken kindness of her heart believed that incessant conversation about nothing at all was the only method of alleviating worry. The chatter, had she but realised, increased it, and when Mary had finished her supper and sat once more with her hands on her lap, staring at the fire, Mrs. Bassat, searching in her mind for suitable distraction, fetched an album of her own water colours and proceeded to turn the pages for the benefit of her guest.

When the clock on the mantelpiece chimed eight o'clock in piercing tones, Mary could bear it no longer. This dragging inactivity was worse than danger and pursuit. "Forgive me," she said, rising to her feet; "you have been so kind, and I can never thank you enough; but I am anxious, desperately anxious. I can think of nothing but my poor aunt, who at this moment may be suffering the tortures of hell. I must know what is happening at Jamaica Inn, if I walk back there myself tonight."

Mrs. Bassat dropped her album in a flutter of distress. "Of course you are anxious. I have seen it all along, and tried to take your mind off it. How terrible it is! I am as concerned as you are, for my husband's sake. But you cannot possibly walk back there now, alone. Why, it would be after midnight before you arrived, and heaven knows what might not happen to you on the way. I will order the trap, and Richards shall go with you. He is most trustworthy and dependable, and can be armed in case of need. If there is fighting in progress, you would see it from the bottom of the hill, and would not approach until it was over. I would come with you myself, but my health is delicate at the moment and—"

"Of course you will do nothing of the kind," said Mary swiftly. "I am used to danger and the road by night, and you are not. I shall be putting you to very great trouble in harnessing your horse at this hour and rousing your groom. I assure you I'm no longer tired, and I can walk."

But Mrs. Bassat had already pulled the bell. "Have word sent to Richards to bring the trap around immediately," she said to the astonished servant. "I will give him further orders when he arrives. Tell him there must be as little delay as possible." She then fitted Mary out with a heavy cloak and hood, thick rug and foot warmer, protesting all the while that only her state of health prevented her from making the journey, too, for which Mary was utterly thankful, Mrs. Bassat being hardly the ideal companion for so improvident and dangerous an escapade.

In a quarter of an hour the trap drove up to the door, with Richards in charge, Mary recognising him at once as the servant who had ridden with Mr. Bassat originally to Jamaica Inn. His reluctance at leaving his fireside on a Sunday night was soon overcome when he learnt his mission, and with two large pistols stuck in his belt, and orders to fire at anyone who threatened the trap, he assumed at once an air of truculence and authority hitherto unknown to him. Mary climbed in beside him, the dogs baying a chorus of farewell, and it was only when the drive twisted and the house was out of sight that Mary realised she had set out on what was probably to be a foolhardy and dangerous expedition.

Anything might have happened during the five hours she had been absent from Jamaica Inn, and even with the trap she could scarcely hope to arrive there before half past ten. She could make no plans, and her action depended upon the moment when it came. With the moon now high in the sky and the soft air blowing upon her she felt emboldened to face disaster when it came, and this ride to the scene of action, however dangerous, was better than sitting like a helpless child listening to the prattle of Mrs. Bassat. This man Richards was armed, and she herself would use a gun if necessary. He was burning with curiosity, of course, but she gave short answers to his questions and did not encourage him.

The drive was silent then, for the most part, with no other sound but the steady clopping of the horses's hoofs upon the road, and now and again an owl hooted from the still trees. The rustle of hedgerow and the creeping country whispers were left behind when the trap came out upon the Bodmin road, and once again the dark moor stretched out on either side, lapping the road like a desert. The ribbon of the highway shone white under the moon. It wound and was lost in the fold of the further hill, bare and untrodden. There were no travellers but themselves upon the road tonight. On Christmas Eve, when Mary had ridden here, the wind had lashed venomously at the carriage wheels, and the rain hammered the windows; now the air was still cold and strangely still, and the moor itself lay placid and silver in the moonlight. The dark tors held their sleeping faces to the sky, the granite features softened and smoothed by the light that bathed them. Theirs was a peaceful mood, and the old gods slept undisturbed.

Briskly the horse and trap covered the weary miles that Mary had walked alone. She recognised each bend in the road now, and how at times the moor encroached upon it, with high tufts of grass or twisted stem of broom.

There, beyond her in the valley, would be the lights of Altarnun, and already the Five Lanes branched out from the road like fingers from a hand.

The wild stretch to Jamaica lay before them. Even when the night was still the wind played here, bare and open as it was to every compass point, and tonight it hummed from Rough Tor in the west, keen as a knife and cold, gathering the marsh smells as it came, over the bitter turf and the running streams. There was still no sign of man or beast upon the road, which rose and dipped again across the moor, and, though Mary strained her eyes and her ears, she could hear nothing. On such a night the slightest sound would be magnified, and the approach of Mr. Bassat's party, numbering, as they would, a dozen men or so, said Richards, would easily be heard two miles or more away.