A half-hour thence we were in saddle—Sir Gavin, Mr. Bradbury, and I—and riding with the two runners, and four of Sir Gavin’s servants, as swiftly as we might through the dark for the Stone House. Roger Galt had not waited for us; but, taking horse, had ridden off immediately in pursuit of my uncle escaping with the jewels. We conjectured that Mr. Charles would not proceed now to the Stone House, but would ride for London, hoping to out-distance us, and lie hid there, till he might find a ship and escape for the Continent.

Ere we dared leave Craike House, we assured ourselves that the Haven was emptied of its rogues. My cousin Oliver remained with two of Sir Gavin’s folk, to guard Miss Milne, lest any of the carrion crows fly back thither. Now fully assured from my uncle’s speech and action that the Stone House held the secret of my father’s disappearance from England—that, indeed, he had returned and was held a prisoner by Martin Baynes and his fellow-rogues, Mr. Bradbury, with an activity beyond his years, was bent himself on riding thither; I—for all my bitter chagrin that the gems should have fallen into my uncle’s hands—was shaking with excitement for the thought that my father was at last come home, yet lay at the Stone House in peril of his life. The horses were gone from the stables; my uncle had ridden away on Sir Gavin’s own horse—to the justice’s choler; he must needs mount his servant’s horse, and I the other fellow’s.

We rode out then in the dark; swept down the avenue, and out the open gates—the woods yet roaring about us in the straining wind, though the strength of the gale had abated.

So long as we held to the open road and to the byeways by which Roger Galt had brought me off the moors on the morn of my escape from the Stone House, we went at high speed—not pausing or drawing rein. And the wind blowing from the sea smote roundly on us; the beating of the breakers on the cliff rolled up like thunder; once, as we passed in view of the sea, I saw a red flash out of the blackness, and thought that, belike, the King’s ship fired upon Blunt’s brig; but I could be sure of nothing for the pitch blackness or distinguish sound of cannon over the thunderous beat of the seas and crying of the wind.Coming out on the wastes, we were compelled for the dark to go more cautiously for the broken ground; Sir Gavin pressed on steadily a little ahead, guiding us for the Stone House. We went in silence—intent upon our purpose; I wondering over the grim events of the long night, and dreading yet the event—that we should come too late, and that the rogues fleeing from Craike House, and black with rage at their defeat, should wreak their vengeance on my father—if indeed they held him at the Stone House—ere we might arrive.

I thought of Charles Craike flying through the night: he who had wrought this evil; victorious yet, the plundered jewels in his possession,—the jewels for which, as surely as my grandfather, he had sold his very soul. I thought of his triumphant laughter, as he fled through the night; I thought of all the cunning and the tricks by which he surely would escape us yet, and fly to France, and spend the treasure as he would, and where upon the Continent he would. But I thought, too, of black Roger racing grimly after through the night; I trusted yet that he, with all his knowledge of the roads, mounted on his great horse which many a time had carried him to safety, would come up with my uncle, and take him and the treasure.On in the dark we rode. The way over the moorlands seemed unending; black coppice and rock, black upland appeared to join the blackness of the moonless, starless night; the bleak winds blowing at our backs, the lash of rain now falling on our shoulders. On and on, the blackness giving place to the one greyness of clouded skies and moorlands; the pale dawn coming.

And with the dawn we came out on the height above the Stone House, and saw it lie grey in the hollow below us; no gleam of firelight showed from its windows; no smoke curled up. No one was stirring; the house seemed deserted. The baying of the hound sounded up to us. But, as we paused and drew together, Sir Gavin Masters, pointing with his whip, growled out, “They’re here—some of the rogues. See the horses feeding down by the wall there”—and suddenly bellowing with triumph, “Ay, and by God, Charles Craike himself is here; that’s my nag with the saddle on its back—inside the wall!”

Mr. Bradbury cried out sharply, “Come down, Sir Gavin! Come down! We dare not wait! What may be done within?”—and rode off apace.

Sir Gavin, following with the rest of us, gasped, “But what of Roger Galt? What’s come to the fellow?”Roger Galt was nigh the gateway. He stood, hatless, mired, and bleeding from a gash upon his brow, regarding his horse, lying dead on the stones before him. He was dazed yet from his fall, for, as we rode all about him, and Sir Gavin cried out, “What’s chanced to you, Galt?” he stood blinking at us stupidly a moment without answering. He swept his hand across his brow then, and wiped back the blood; and muttered, “That’s his work—damn him! The horse there! I come up with him at the gate. He pulled his barker on me, and I whipped out mine, and blazed at him. He’s away—and his bullet’s in my horse! He tried to take the London road; he couldn’t get away from me in the dark. I know the dark.”

“You’re not hurt, Galt,” cried Sir Gavin. “The fellow’s like to be in the house still. Ah, the gate’s open. See to your barkers, all of ye! Two of you ride to the back of the house. Come now!”

At our head then Sir Gavin rode through the gateway; we clattered after him over the cobbles and up to the house. The front door was shut fast and the windows closed; no sound and no light came from within. Sir Gavin scrambling down, we all dismounted; he, pistol in right, hunting crop in left, strode boldly up to the door, and hammered upon it, roaring out, “Open this door! In the King’s name—d’ye hear me? Open the door!”

No sound coming in answer, he turned back, and beckoning to his two fellows, ordered, “Look about ye for a log! We’ll have the door down!” and while they searched about the house, again he approached the door, and beat upon it, roaring out, “Open! Open! In the King’s name! Damn ye all—why don’t ye open the door?”

Roger Galt came staggering up from the gates, a bludgeon in his hand. Mr. Bradbury looked carefully to his pistols. I, staring up at the barred window of the room where I had been held a prisoner, cried out suddenly and pointed upwards. For a hand had drawn aside the sacking, and my uncle stood looking down upon us. My uncle—nay, though in the greyness of the morn the face had seemed my uncle’s for the instant; this face was lean and sunburnt, the eyes sunken, the grey hair was blown back by the wind. The face was gone immediately; crying out, I rushed forward to the door, as Sir Gavin’s men came plunging forward with a great log between them; still crying out I know not what, I gripped it with them, and aided them propel it with a crash against the door. Mr. Bradbury beside me was calling out, “What is it, lad? What did ye see? Who stood at the window?”

And I cried back, as again we staggered under the weight of the log, and again propelled it against the door, “My father! I think my father—held a prisoner here!”

With a crash, the rotten timbers and rusted ironwork broke before us. And we were rushing forward into the house.