In the half dark of the house, as we leaped forward—Sir Gavin and I, the runners and his fellows coming scurrying after—I saw Martin Baynes and Bart spring back before us, and gain the stairway. Martin faced us there—his pistol quivering in his hand, and Bart at his back with cutlass lifted. Sir Gavin cried out, “In the King’s name! Down with your arms! Or, by God, you’ll hang for it.”

Martin spat out a curse in answer and drew trigger; at the blaze and roar of the pistol, Sir Gavin hopped smartly back; flung up his arm and fired. Martin cried out, and fell down before us. Bart, leaning forward, cutlass in hand, leaped down suddenly upon us. I, slipping aside to the wall, heard the clash of his blade upon a tough bludgeon, and the fall of one of Sir Gavin’s fellows; instantly it seemed that the runners were on Bart, and the cutlass was dragged from his hand, and clanking against the stones. I had no thought save only to mount the stair. I saw faces peering down through the dark above me; I knew the folk for Barwise and big Nick; but as Sir Gavin, pushing me aside and snatching my pistol from me, plunged up the stair, they did not stay, and vanished in the dark before the door, scurrying away, I took it, to shelter in one of the rooms. I reached the stair-head; groping in the dark, I found the key yet in the lock, and presently had the door open, and with Sir Gavin was staring into the room where I had been held those days a prisoner. There faced us a tall man, poorly-clad and travel-stained, staring at us with sombre eyes; looking upon my father’s face, I understood the tragedy of weary years of suffering and exile written upon it; feature for feature he seemed like my uncle—yet so unlike.

He said no word as we advanced, but looked upon us dully, as without comprehension; Sir Gavin, gasping for very breathlessness as from excitement, demanded of him, “Who are ye? Aren’t ye Richard Craike?”

“Richard Craike—yes—come from overseas, brought to this place, and gaoled here.”

I sprang forward, stretching out my hands. I cried out, “I am John Craike—your son! Don’t you know me, father? Don’t you know me?”

His hands clasped mine,—rough, toil-worn hands—all trembling; he bent his head and stared down at me, and whispered, “John Craike! Ay, ay—John Craike,” in lifeless tone.

As I drew back, and stared at him in terror, Sir Gavin put his hand upon my shoulder and whispered, “He is mazed yet, lad; he doesn’t know you—he doesn’t understand! Ah—they’re quiet below”—and rushing out, roared down the stairs, “Is all safe there? Have you taken that rogue?”

“Ay, ay, sir—we have him safe!” they shouted up in answer; and Sir Gavin growling, “Ay, but where the devil’s that villain, Charles?” took my father’s arm and brought him with me down the stair. Bart struggled in the grip of one runner, whilst the second bound his hands; Roger Galt and Sir Gavin’s men were standing guard over Martin lying against the wall, and seeking to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder; Mr. Bradbury, pistol in hand, stood in the doorway. But Mr. Bradbury, at the sight of my father, stepped forward, crying out, “My dear Richard! My dear sir! Alive and well,—that’s brave!”

“Ay, ay—alive, but not too well,” growled Sir Gavin. “He’s dazed yet—sick. Bradbury, get him out in the air! Stay here, boy! Leave him with Bradbury awhile. Now, you hangdog”—to Martin—“where the devil’s Charles Craike?”

Martin cursed him bitterly in answer; Sir Gavin, approaching the door of the living-room, sought to open it; and finding it locked, cried out, “Open the door! Or by the Lord, we’ll have it down! In the King’s name—d’ye understand! Open it! Here, you Charles Craike—if you’re in there, the game is played—d’ye hear? It’s gone against you!”

I believed that I heard my uncle’s voice faintly within. I heard a chair drawn back, and presently the key turn in the lock. And the door was drawn slowly open; and old Thrale, shuddering and ghastly, was looking at us.

“Out of the way!” cried Sir Gavin, and flung the door wide. “See to the stairs and doors. Let no one pass!”—and, pistol raised, he strode into the room with me at his heels.

The green curtain was drawn across the window; the room was dim in green light, as the sunrise struck against the house. I saw three figures in the room: old Thrale slinking back to the wall; Mistress Barwise, cowering in her chair by the fire; my uncle seated at the table—the black box broken open before him. I saw the blue jewels in the skull gleam dully. My uncle said no word, and did not stir in his chair.“Pull back the curtain!” cried Sir Gavin to Thrale.

Thrale’s shaking hands plucked the green curtain from before the window. The room was illumined instantly by the sun. The yellow light woke the blue jewels in the eye sockets of the skull to life, and the gems spilt from the casket on to the black flag into a many-coloured flame.

My uncle sat staring at us; his eyes flickering, his lips smiling, blood-smeared; his face ghastly as death. His white hands fluttered over the black silk; touched the skull; clawed among the jewels. He stood up from his chair; pressed his hands against his red-stained breast, and fell forward suddenly among the gems.

“Galt’s bullet—by God!” Sir Gavin cried, rushing towards him, whilst I stood trembling and aghast, and Mistress Barwise cowered by the fire, and Thrale shuddered by the wall.