“Already had the honour of making myself known to Mrs. Staple,” bowed Mr. Babbacombe. “Just wishing you both very happy! Feel bound to say I never saw a better matched pair! I won’t intrude on you: daresay you have much to say to each other!”

“No, pray don’t go away!” Nell said. “Indeed, I must only remain for a minute!”

“Your grandfather?” John said.

“Oh, John, he—Dr. Bacup thinks this sleep he is in is coma. He has scarcely roused since I left him last night, and it may be that he will not again. But if he does—you must see that I cannot stay!”

“Of course. You’ll send me word. And particularly if you should need me, my love! Remember, you are mine now! No one can harm you in any way, and it will be very much the worse for anyone who tries to! Oh, confound that gate!” He kissed her hands, and released them. “I must go. Bab will take you to your horse. But tell me one thing more! Is your cousin still abed?”

“No, I believe not. I have not seen him, however. Don’t be afraid he will tease me! I am always in my own or Grandpapa’s rooms, and Winkfield has forbidden Henry to come into that wing. Since he knocked him down, Henry is a great deal too much afraid of him to make the attempt!”

He was obliged to go, for the shouts from the gate were becoming exasperated; and when he was able to return, Mr. Babbacombe had just come back from escorting her to where she had tethered her horse.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Mr. Babbacombe did not leave the toll-house until dusk, when he returned to the Blue Boar for dinner; and although he would have gone back to sit chatting to John after this repast, he was not allowed to do so, since John expected to see Chirk as soon as it was dark, and did not feel that he would take kindly to the presence of a stranger.

But it was not, after all, until past midnight that John heard the owl’s hoot. He set the door wide, and, as Chirk led Mollie through the wicket, said: “I had given you up! What the deuce kept you so late?”

“That ain’t a question as you should ask a cove of my calling, Soldier!” retorted Chirk.

“Well, stable the mare, and come into the house!”

In a few minutes, Chirk entered the kitchen. He threw his hat on to a chair, but removed his greatcoat with noticeable care. This did not escape the Captain’s eye. “Winged?” he enquired.

“Just a flesh wound,” acknowledged Chirk, with a rueful grin. “That’s what made me late. It ain’t so easy to stop one arm bleeding, when you’ve only t’other to work with. Besides, it made a mess of my coat, so I loped off to have things set to rights. What’s the lay tonight?”

“I’m going out, and I want you to wait for me here. If all goes as I hope it may, I shall need you in the morning. I’ve seen Stogumber today, and he has agreed to stay within doors until he hears from me again.”

“Are you going to tell him where the ready and rhino’s hid?”

“No: you will do that! You’ve nothing to fear from him. I must go now: I’ll tell you what I’ve planned when I come back!”

“Just a moment, Soldier! Where might you be off to?”

“I’m off to have a quiet chat with Henry Stornaway!” grinned the Captain, and left him gaping.

The moon had risen, and a quarter of an hour later, John was walking up the drive at the Manor which led to the stables. Skirting these, he went on to the path across the garden. The house loomed before him, a dark mass silhouetted against the sky. No light shone from any window that he could see, but he trod silently, keeping to the turf beside the path. The door through which he had entered on his two previous visits was on the latch, and on the chest in the passage Winkfield had left the lamp burning low. John paused only to take off the brogues he was wearing. Leaving these beside the chest, he went softly up the stairs. The broad corridor at the top was dimly lit by another lamp, and on the table beside it was set a candlestick and a taper, innocent seeming objects which had been placed there, John guessed, by Winkfield, for his use. He lit the taper at the lamp, kindled the wick of the candle from it, and stood for a moment, listening. The house was wrapped in a profound silence, but when he came to the dressing-room door, and paused outside it, he thought that he could detect the sound of movement in the room beyond it. He passed on, and through the archway which opened on to the three-sided gallery at the top of the main staircase. Below, the hall was a well of darkness, above, the great beams supporting the root could be seen like shadows spanning the centre block of the house. John went on, the solid oaken boards under his feet as unyielding and as noiseless as a stone floor. He reached the archway leading to the other wing, and paused again. The silence seemed to press on his eardrums. Two steps brought him to the first door on the right; his fingers closed round the handle, and began slowly and firmly to turn it. The catch slid back so silently that he suspected the efficient valet of having lately oiled the lock. Pressing the door open a few inches, he released the handle, as cautiously as he had turned it the other way. The sound of heavy breathing now could be heard. The Captain slid into the room, shielding the flame of the candle with his hand. But the curtains were drawn close round the bed, and he saw that they were of worn velvet, too thick to be penetrated by candlelight. He shut the door, and although the tiny click as the catch slid home sounded like a pistol-shot in his ears, it was not loud enough to rouse the sleeper in the four-poster.

The Captain turned, and took unhurried stock of his surroundings. Beside the bed stood a table, with a half-burnt candle on it, the snuffer poised on top of the quenched wick; a gold watch and chain; and a glass containing what appeared to be a paregoric elixir. John set his own candlestick down on this table, and softly parted the bed-curtains. Henry Stornaway was lying on his side, turned away from him, his mouth slightly open, and his night-cap over one eye. John looked down at him, considering him, and then bent over the bed.

Mr. Stornaway woke with a convulsive start, and a shriek that was strangled in his throat. A hand was clamped hard over his mouth, forcing his head back against an equally vicelike grip on the nape of his neck. His body plunged, after the manner of a landed fish; his own hands, scrabbling free of the bedclothes, clawed at the one over his mouth, with as little effect as they would have had upon an iron clamp. A deep, soft voice said close to his ear: “Quiet!”

He could not move his head, but rolling his terrified eyes he caught a glimpse of a face bent over him.

“I am going to take my hand from your mouth,” said that soft voice, “but if you raise the smallest outcry, it will be the last sound you will ever make, for I shall break your neck. Do you understand me?”

Mr. Stornaway, unable to speak, unable to nod, could only tremble, and roll his eyes more frantically than before. He trembled so much that the bed shook, and this seemed to satisfy his captor, for the hand left his mouth. With the best will in the world he could not have cried out; he could do no more than gasp for breath. The grip on his neck had not relaxed; it was not only painful, but it conveyed an exact impression to him of the ease with which this appalling visitor could put his threat into execution.

“Unless you oblige me to, I shan’t hurt you,” John said. “But you will answer me truthfully, and you will not raise your voice! Is that understood?”

“Yes, yes!” he whispered chokingly. “Pray do not——! Pray let me go!”

He then broke into a fit of coughing, saw that dreadful hand descending again to cover his mouth, and dived under the bedclothes. While he thus muffled the sound of his paroxysm, John pushed back the curtains on that side of the bed, and sat down on the edge of it, waiting for his victim to emerge again. When the coughing ceased, and Mr. Stornaway showed no signs of emerging, he pulled the clothes down, saying: “Sit up, you hen-hearted creature! Here, drink this!”

Mr. Stornaway, struggling up on to one elbow, took the glass held out to him. It clattered against his teeth, but he managed to swallow the elixir. It appeared to revive him a little, for he dragged himself to a sitting position, and looked fearfully at his visitor. The candle now cast its light on to the Captain’s face. Stornaway’s eyes stared at him; he gasped: “Who are you?”

“You know very well who I am. Brean’s cousin. Did he never tell you that he had an aunt who married into a better order of society than her own? I am the son of that marriage, and I took a fancy to visit some of the relations I had never before seen. But one of them I didn’t find, Mr. Stornaway. Perhaps you can tell me what has become of Ned Brean?”

“No, no, I haven’t seen him! I don’t know where he is!” Stornaway whispered, white to the lips.

“You’re lying. Ned was working for you and Coate. It was you who bought his services. You wanted him to pass a vehicle, heavily laden, through the pike, and afterwards to deny all knowledge of that vehicle. You wanted him also to assist in unloading from it some very weighty baggage. He did these things, but, later, he disappeared.” He saw that Stornaway was watching him with dilating eyes, and continued: “I think, sir, that you have murdered Ned Brean.”

“No! I swear I did not!”

“Keep your voice down! Why should you hesitate to murder him, when you had murdered two others already?”

“No, no, no, no! It’s a lie! I did not! I would not! I tell you I had no hand in it!”

“No hand either in attempting to murder a Bow Street Runner? Do you take me for a flat?” John said contemptuously. “Do you take him for a flat? Let me tell you that he reached the toll-house, with a knife-slash across his shoulder, and a broken head, and he knew very well who had attacked him! When he is recovered enough to leave his bed, you will be arrested, Mr. Stornaway, and you may try then to convince a jury that you did not thrust a knife into the Runner’s back. I wish you joy of that task!”

“No, I tell you, no!” Stornaway uttered hoarsely, drops of sweat starting on his brow. “I was not there! I knew nothing about it! O God, you must believe me!”

“Believe you! I’ll come to watch you strung up at Tyburn! I know more of you than the Runner has yet discovered. I have been busy while I took charge of the gate—busy tracing your movements since the day you left London! Do not let us waste time! I know that it was you who laid the plans to steal a consignment of sovereigns on its way to Manchester. You not only knew that there would be such a consignment; you persuaded your friend at the Treasury to disclose the very date when it would set out from London!”

“It’s untrue! If he said that, he is a liar! I did not—I never thought of such a thing! It was he who told me, cupshot, one night! I didn’t plan it—it was Nat Coate! He saw how it could be done, but he promised there should be no killing! He promised me!”

“But there was killing, and two men were guilty of that double murder.”

“I was not one! I had no hand in it! On my soul, I had not!”

“You were there, at the ford,” John said implacably. “I know that, if the Runner does not.”

“You can’t prove I was there! I did nothing, nothing! It was Nat, and the Gunns—all of it! Nat and Roger Gunn shot the guards, and Gunn’s brother drove the waggon! It was his own, and when—after the gold was taken off it, he drove it away, before daylight. I can tell you where he lives! It’s in Yorkshire, not far from———”

“Ah, you are altogether contemptible!” John said involuntarily.

This was not perfectly understood. “It’s true! Nat made me go with them, because I know the roads here! I did not wish to! He forced me, I tell you! I was in his power and could not refuse him!”

“You would not have been for long in his power had you carried the information to Bow Street of what he planned to do,” said John.

Tears began to run down Stornaway’s ashen cheeks. “I wish I had! I wish I were well out of the business! Nat said there would be no danger. I never dreamed he meant to shoot the guards! He swore they should be bound and gagged only!”

“How could two armed men be bound and gagged, you fool?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t think! I had no hand in it!” Stornaway repeated desperately.

“No hand in it! Was it Coate, then, who knew where the gold could be hidden safely? Or was it you who knew that somewhere in these hills there is a cavern, in which your father once broke his leg? A cavern which has been closed ever since, and is now almost—but not quite!—forgotten?”