It will readily be understood that, by the movements of the various players in the game in which, in a sense, I was merely a pawn, I had been placed in such a position that I was to an extent no longer master of my own actions. I had been compelled, by the turn of events, to place Debora in the hands of my uncle, and I knew that at any moment now news might come from Green Barn that the girl was gone. I marvelled that that news had not arrived ere this.

Upon that latter point the only conjecture I could arrive at was that the woman Martha Leach had not yet dared to send her news to Bardolph Just, and in that act of cowardice she would probably be supported by Harvey Scoffold. Moreover, I knew that the doctor was too fully occupied with his own fears concerning the man Capper to give much attention to anything else.

Nor, on the other hand, did I feel that I had advanced matters as rapidly as I could have wished. True, I had got Debora out of the hands of the doctor and Harvey Scoffold; true again, I had hidden her in the house of Uncle Zabdiel. But there the matter stood, and I was relying, in a sense, solely on the help of one whom every instinct taught me to distrust: I mean, of course, Zabdiel Blowfield. Moreover, I was no further advanced in regard to any future status on my own account. I had no prospect of making my way in the world, or of doing anything to help the girl I loved. It seemed as though I stood in the midst of a great tangle, twisting this way and that in my efforts to free myself, and getting more hopelessly involved with each movement.

In my doubts and perplexities I turned naturally to Debora; I may be said to have haunted that house wherein she lived. Uncle Zabdiel appeared to be very friendly, and for two days I came and went as I liked, seeing Debora often. And even in that short time I came to see that the deadly old house was having its effect upon the girl, just as it had upon every one that came within its walls; she began to droop, and to wear a frightened look, and not all my reassurances would bring any brightness into her eyes.

"I'm afraid of the place," she whispered the second day, clinging to me. "That tall boy creeps about like a ghost——"

"And looks like one," I broke in with a laugh. "He's the best fellow in the world, is Andrew Ferkoe; you've nothing to fear from him."

"And Mr. Blowfield: he looks at me so strangely, and is altogether so queer," went on Debora. "Last night he begged me to sit up with him in his study until quite late—kept on asking me if I didn't hear this noise and that, and was I sure that nothing stirred in the shadows in the corner? I felt at last as if I should go mad if I wasn't allowed to scream."

"My darling girl, it won't be very long now before I'm able to take you away," I said, more hopefully than I felt. "My uncle's a good fellow, in his way, but he has lived a lonely life so long that he's not like other men. Have a little more patience, Debora dear; the sun will shine upon us both before long, and we shall come out of the shadows."

"But there is something else," she said. "I was in my room last night, at the top of the house here, sitting in the dark, thinking. Everything was very silent; it was as if all the world lay asleep. And then I saw a curious thing—something that frightened me."

"What was it?" I asked quickly.

"On the other side of the road facing the house is a long wall," she began in a whisper, "and just outside the gate, as you know, is a lamp-post. From where I sat in my window I could see that the wall was lit up, and across it again and again, while I watched for more than an hour, went two shadows."

"What sort of shadows?" I asked, as lightly as I could; yet I'll own I was startled.

"Shadows of men," she replied. "It was evident that they were walking up and down in the road, watching the house. The shadows were curious, because one was a very big one, walking stiffly, while the other was small, and seemed to creep along behind the first. And I know whose the shadows were—at least, I know one of them."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I know the one man was Dr. Just," she answered me confidently, with a little quick nod.

"My dearest girl, how could you possibly know that?" I asked.

"Because the man walked with an easy stride, and yet his shadow showed only one arm swinging," she said. "Don't you see what I mean? The other arm was fastened to him in some way, held close against him."

I whistled softly, and looked into her eyes. "I see," I said; "that would be the sling. Now, what in the world has brought him here?"

"He's come to find you," said Debora quickly. "He will have heard from Green Barn that I am gone, and that you are gone; he will guess that if he finds you he may find me. The reason for his waiting outside would be that he might intercept you going in or coming out."

"There's something in that," I admitted. "However, of one thing I am certain in my own mind. Uncle Zabdiel won't give you up, nor will he admit the man into the house if he can avoid it. I'm not taking any stand by Uncle Zabdiel's integrity," I added. "I am only certain that he has a wholesome dread of me, and will not offend me. Rest easy; nothing will happen to you, my darling."

Just before my departure I was met by my uncle at the door of his study. He mysteriously beckoned me in, and closed the door. Then, something to my surprise, he buttonholed me, and pulled me further into the room, and stared up into my face with a pathetic expression of entreaty in his eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"My dear boy—my only nephew—I want you to believe that I'm being honest with you as far as I can; I don't want you to judge me hastily," he began. "People get such wrong notions in their heads, and you might hear something that would bring you rushing back here, and would leave me no time for explanation. Will you believe what I'm going to tell you?"

He was fumbling me all over. I saw that he had been troubled by something, and that his dread of me had been strongly revived. I was playing for too great a stake then to make the blunder of being smooth with him. I frowned and folded my arms, and looked down at him sternly.

"Come, out with it!" I said.

"There, now you're beginning to lose your temper before ever I've begun to say a word," he said, backing away from me. "Do be reasonable!"

"I don't know what the word is yet," I answered him. "Let's hear it."

"Well, to put it briefly, that woman Leach has been here." He blurted out the words, and stood looking at me as though wondering how I should take the news.

"Well, what then?" I asked him gravely. "What did you do?"

"Everything you would have wished me to do," he replied quickly. "I told her nothing; I sent her away again."

"Did she enquire about me, or about Debora?" I asked.

"About you first, and then about Debora," he whispered. "But, oh, I put her off the scent. I was sharp with her. I asked what sort of man she took me to be, to admit any minx to my house. And she went away, knowing nothing."

"That's good, and I'm very grateful to you," I assured him, now feeling that I could give him all my confidence. "They'll leave no stone unturned to get hold of the girl."

"They?" He looked at me questioningly.

"Yes, the woman as well as her master. I have just heard that Dr. Just has been seen hanging about outside the house late last night, with another man."

I saw his face blanch, I saw him moisten his lips with his tongue and clutch with one feeble hand at the back of his chair. I took no particular notice of that, although long after I wished I had done; I knew how easily startled he was.

"You say that two men—two men watched this house last night, very late?" he muttered.

"Yes," I answered carelessly. "And one of them at least—this Bardolph Just—will stick at nothing to get what he wants. He's of the sort that snaps his fingers at a small matter of death."

My Uncle Zabdiel twisted the chair round with a nervous movement, and sank into it. I saw that he was trembling from head to foot. He seemed to be brooding heavily upon something. Looking at him, I caught his eyes more than once wandering covertly in my direction.

"And you think that he would do anything to get hold of this girl?" he asked.

"There is not only the girl to be considered by him, but the very large fortune which belongs to her, and which he also wishes to get hold of. I tell you he will stick at nothing," I assured him earnestly.

"He will stick at nothing!" he echoed, drawing a deep breath.

"By the way, Uncle Zabdiel, have you been troubled with that dream of yours again?" I asked carelessly.

To my surprise he started to his feet with what was almost a cry. "No, no! why should I dream that again?" he stammered, staring at me. "Haven't I tried to forget it—haven't I persuaded myself that I had forgotten it. Oh, dear God! that these things should be sent to trouble a poor old man who has done his best always for everybody!" he moaned. "There, there—go away; leave me alone! I want time to think—or rather time not to think."

I went away and left him, closing the door after me. Just as I reached the hall door I came upon that tall youth, Andrew Ferkoe. He grinned amiably. A sudden thought occurring to me, I drew him aside, and whispered to him—

"Look here," I said, "I believe you're a friend of mine, aren't you?"

"Rather!" he said. "You're so wonderful; you've seen such things, and done such things."

"Never mind about that," I said hastily. "I want you to promise to come to me, if you think Miss Matchwick is in any danger, or if you think anyone is plotting against her. See, here is my address"—I scribbled it on a scrap of paper and thrust it into his hands—"and I shall rely upon you to be faithful, to her as well as to me. Will you?"

He seemed quite elated at his commission. "Do you really trust me?" he asked gleefully. "I'd do anything for you, and for her. I feel somehow that I'm getting braver and stronger. I shan't put up much longer with old Blowfield's bullying. I feel sometimes when I look at him that I could do murder!"

I laughed as I went out of the house. The idea of this weak-kneed, lanky youth, of all others, "doing murder" seemed too ridiculous. I went on my way feeling pretty well satisfied with the turn of events, and firmly convinced that the very fears under which Uncle Zabdiel laboured were the greatest safeguard Debora and I could have. Moreover, I had gained one other friend in that strange house, and that was Andrew Ferkoe.

My lodging was in a little house not very far, as you may have guessed, from that house belonging to Uncle Zabdiel in which Debora had so opportunely found shelter. On this particular evening I was in no hurry to retire to the one little room I had rented. On a sudden impulse I made up my mind that I would linger a little while in the neighbourhood, and would see, if possible, for myself whether or not those two shadows on the wall really belonged to the doctor and to William Capper. So I took up my station not very far from the house, but in a position from which I could observe it easily; and there I waited.

I will not describe my long wait, nor the shadows I saw, which might have been the shadows of the doctor and Capper, but which were not. I was disappointed fifty times at least, felt my heart jump as many times when two men, or even one man, came anywhere in my direction, or happened by the merest chance to glance towards that house. I had not fully made up my mind what to do should either man put in an appearance, and indeed I was saved the trouble of putting into execution any plan I might have evolved, by reason of the fact that no one I knew came near the house.

Once, it is true, from where I watched, I saw an upper window open, and the head of Uncle Zabdiel, like some extremely ugly gargoyle, obtrude itself into the night. I guessed, with an inward chuckle, that he might be looking for those shadows for which I also was on the watch. But soon afterwards that window was closed, and the house was wrapped in silence and darkness. I kept my vigil until something towards three in the morning, and then went off to my lodging. In five minutes I was undressed and in bed; the rest was a dreamless sleep.

Lest I should be watched, I determined that I would not go near Zabdiel Blowfield's house in daylight, or without taking due precautions. I thought it possible that the woman Martha Leach might make a further attempt, for the sake of her master, to discover something about me or about Debora. I determined that I would not play into their hands. I remembered what Bardolph Just had said about going abroad; I had great hopes that he might carry that into effect, and so rid us all of his presence. Perhaps in a saner moment I reflected that he was scarcely the type of man to give up the game so lightly; but then when one is in love one is usually optimistic. However, there was nothing for it but to wait, and to possess my soul in patience.

I was taking things very easily indeed that evening, lounging in the window of my room, and smoking, and looking at the early stars that were peeping out above me, when I became aware of a strange-looking figure coming slowly up the deserted little street. Without troubling very much about it, I became interested in the figure, which was that of a tall, ungainly young man, whose face and head, from my elevated position, were hidden by a hat which appeared to be many sizes too large for him. He was craning his neck this way and that, apparently looking for some particular house; every now and then he referred to a scrap of paper which he held in his fingers. I was watching him idly, when all at once I woke from my half-dream and started to my feet; with my hands leaning on the window-sill I stared down at him intently.

At that same moment he happened to look up towards me and I recognised him. It was Andrew Ferkoe. I waved my hand, and nodded to him, and with every extravagant sign of precaution he looked to right and to left, and then came to the door of the house. I ran down and admitted him myself; then I took him up to my room before permitting him to say a word. Once in the room, with the door shut, I saw to my horror that he was shaking from head to foot, and was alternately slapping his breast, and striving to get some words out.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Take your time about it; there's nothing to get excited about."

He gasped again in that inarticulate fashion once or twice; then he blurted out his message.

"She—she's gone!"

I pushed him into a chair and stood over him, with my hands on my hips, striving by my own steadiness to put some steadiness into him. For a time he only moaned, and shook his head and gaped at me, but at last, by dint of threats and even some coaxing, I got his story out of him.

"Early this morning old Blowfield sent me with a telegram addressed to a Dr. Just; it was written out on a piece of paper, and I had to copy it at the post-office. It was addressed to Dr. Just at a house in Highgate.

"Well, well, what did it say?" I asked impatiently.

"I'm coming to it as fast as I can," said Andrew Ferkoe resentfully. "You forget I ain't used to this sort of thing. It simply said, 'Come at once; can give you news of the runaway,' and it was signed 'Z. Blowfield,' with the address."

I strangled an oath in my throat; I vowed that Uncle Zabdiel should pay dearly for his treachery. "And what happened after that?" I demanded.

"About mid-day a tall, dark man drove up in a great hurry and asked for old Blowfield—at least, he asked for Mr. Blowfield," went on Ferkoe. "I was turned out of the room, but they talked together for a long time. Then the bell was rung, and I was told to go and find the young lady, and tell her she was wanted. After she'd gone into the room I did what I'd never done before," he added with a chuckle. "I listened outside."

"Good lad!" I murmured.

He went on again, seemingly elated at my praise of him. "They kept on talking, all three of them, and I heard the young lady say over and over again, 'I won't! I won't!' and the dark man kept on threatening, and saying what he would do, and old Blowfield kept on telling her that it was for the best, and that she'd better go back, though I don't know in the least where he meant her to go. The door was open just the least little bit, and I saw and heard everything, because old Blowfield would never dream that I should dare to do a thing like that."

"You're very slow!" I cried impatiently. "Tell me what happened then; what did the young lady do? Did she refuse to leave the house?"

"Yes, she kept on saying she wouldn't. And I'm being as fast as I can, only there's such a lot to tell. I should get on faster if you weren't so impatient."

I subdued my wrath as best I could. I decided to let him go on in his own fashion.

"And then the funniest thing happened," he said, sitting upright in his chair in his excitement, and staring at me round-eyed. "The dark man—Dr. Just, I suppose—began to spread out his hands—like this"—he made a curious fluttering movement with his hands before my face, so grotesque a movement that I should have laughed under any other circumstances—"and began to talk in a very low, smooth voice to the young lady. At first she cried out to him to keep away from her, and covered up her face with her hands, but after a time she dropped the hands and stared at him. I saw her drop down into a chair and shut her eyes. He never left off talking; he seemed to be telling her something she was to do. He spoke so softly that I couldn't catch everything, but he said something about a carriage, and about four o'clock in the afternoon. Then suddenly he clapped his hands, and she jumped up, and looked at him as if she was frightened."

"You dolt!" I shouted, shaking him. "This devilish business happened at mid-day, and here's night, and you've only just arrived to tell the tale."

"It wasn't my fault," he whimpered. "You ought to know what that house is like; I'm watched every minute. I tried over and over again to slip out, and couldn't; I only managed it, as it was, after it got dark. I've done my best."

"I beg your pardon," I said penitently. "I'm quite sure you have. Now tell me what else happened."

"Dr. Just went away, and the young lady went off to her room. I went back to work, and old Blowfield kept on walking up and down the room, and muttering to himself. Once he stopped, in order to ask me about you. He wanted to know if I'd seen you."

"Yes, I should think he would want to know that!" I muttered between my teeth.

"He said if you came near the house I wasn't to let you in; I was to go for the police, or do something else to keep you away. Above all, I was to give him warning, so that he could lock himself in somewhere."

I laughed grimly. I knew that I had already secured the allegiance of this poor warder, and could get at my man when I wanted to do so. I urged him to go on with his tale.

"Then, just as four o'clock was striking, and I was working, old Blowfield gave me an awful fright; he suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. 'Do you hear that?' he said; and I wondered what he meant. And then I heard someone coming downstairs, singing as they came."

I could scarcely contain myself, but I determined I would wait for the end. In his excitement Andrew Ferkoe had risen to his feet, and was staring at me in the wildest fashion.

"Old Blowfield went to the door and opened it, and I had a look out, too. And there was the young lady," he went on, lowering his voice, "going along the hall, and taking not the slightest notice of anybody. She opened the door, and left it open; she walked across the garden; she opened the gate, and left that open. Old Blowfield and me walked after her, never so much as saying a word. There was a carriage waiting at the gate, and she got into it and shut the door; then the carriage drove away. And all the time she had never said a word. Old Blowfield laughed, and shut the door, and went back to his room, and I went back too. And that's the end of it."

I sank down into a chair, and hid my face in my hands, and gave myself up to my own bitter thoughts. What power had I against such arts as these? What could I do, when a man could so steal the very soul out of a woman and make her do his bidding in this fashion? What might not have happened in all these hours during which I, drugged into a false security, had stayed in this place, doing nothing but dream dreams? I sprang to my feet at last, for I felt that this was no time for idle dreaming. The time had come for action, and I would step now into the matter, with no thought for myself, or for what might happen to me. It must be Debora first, and Debora always; I would save her, if I dipped my hands in blood to do it.

"What are you going to do?" asked Andrew, staring at me.

"I don't know yet," I answered him. "It depends on whether I can get what I want by peaceful means; I'm going to try that first. After that, I'm going to surprise certain friends of ours—give them such a shaking-up as they'll remember to the end of their days."

"And what are you going to do to old Blowfield?" he asked; and I thought I saw in his face that he would relish anything that might happen to his master.

"What I'm going to do to old Blowfield, as you call him, won't bear thinking about," I said. "Now, I don't want you to get into trouble; you'd better cut off. I'm very grateful to you; I'm sorry if I seemed impatient. Good-night!"

He gripped my hand, and went downstairs. I followed him and let him out into the silent street; saw him flutter off round the corner like a long, awkward ghost. Then I closed the door and went upstairs again.

I own I was puzzled what to do. My own crude methods had failed hitherto; I must, if possible, meet subtlety with subtlety. Of what use was it for me to induce Debora to come willingly to me, if all my plans could be upset in a moment by Dr. Just, as they had been this day? Yet I knew that I must first go to that house in which she was imprisoned; my business with Zabdiel Blowfield could wait, I told myself fiercely.

I got a tram down to Highgate, cursing its slowness all the way; and so at last stood outside the house, not having yet made up my mind what to do. I opened the gate cautiously, and went into the grounds. I saw that the house, so far as the front, at least, was concerned, was in darkness. I knew that it would be madness to attempt to obtain admittance in the usual fashion; I determined to break into the house, as I had done once before.

I was on the very point of selecting my window, when I heard a rustling among the leaves close to me; I drew back and waited. There came into sight out of the shadows William Capper; but not the William Capper I seemed to have known. For this man stood alert and ready, and the face I saw in the light of the stars was the keen, watchful face I had surprised before. He seemed to be waiting for something; he, too, was watching the house. Determined to put the matter to the test, I stepped out quickly from my hiding-place and confronted him.

The instant change in the man was surprising; but this time it did not deceive me. I gripped the now drooping figure by the shoulder and shook him. He looked up at me with that vacant smile on his face, but said nothing.

"What's the game, Capper?" I asked quickly in a whisper. "Why are you pretending you don't understand things, and can't remember things? I hate this man Just, quite as much as you do; why won't you confide in me?"

For a moment I thought he was going to do so; he kept very still under my grip, and I knew that he was thinking the matter over carefully. It was almost as though I could see into his mind. But a moment later he seemed to come to some resolution; he looked up quickly, and shook his head, with that lost look again in his eyes.

"I don't understand," he whispered. "I don't remember."

"Yes, you do," I retorted roughly. "You're as sane as I am; and you've got some purpose in your mind—and I can guess what it is."

"You frighten me, sir," he said in a whisper. "I am old and feeble, and I have forgotten so many things. Please let me alone."

He did it so well, that for a moment I believed that I had not seen that change in him; at all events, I saw that I could do nothing with him, and I watched him as he drifted away among the trees and was lost to my sight. Then I turned my attention to the house.

But I found that every door and every window was strongly fastened and shuttered; evidently they had been expecting a visit from me. I had nothing with which I could effect an entrance, so that I merely raged round the place, in a futile fashion, in the darkness, wondering what I should do. Every now and then I thought I caught sight of the man Capper, dodging about in the shadows; but even of that I could not be sure. At last, in desperation, I went to the big hall-door and boldly rang the bell.

I waited for a long time, while I heard slight movements within the house; then there was a whispering behind the closed door. I had made up my mind that the moment that door was opened I would force my way in, at whatever risk. I prepared to rush the citadel now, by drawing back a little, where no light could reach me as the door was opened, so that I could force anyone who had answered my ringing to peer out. While I waited, I was certain that I saw Capper waiting, too, a few yards away.

My ruse succeeded. The door was opened a little way, and the voice of Martha Leach demanded to know who was there; then there was more whispering, and the door was opened a little further, and Martha Leach stepped out under the porch. I made one leap at her, and caught her in my arms; and before she quite knew what was happening, had literally rolled with her into the hall, keeping a tight clutch of her. In the confusion someone slammed the door, and I put my back against it.

I saw that it would be a matter of three to one, at the least, even though one of the three was partly disabled. The doctor had backed away as he saw us come flying in, and I think it must have been Harvey Scoffold who shut the door. I blurted out at once what I had to say.

"There's a young lady here—Miss Matchwick—detained against her will. Where is she?"

"Turn that fellow out!" shouted the doctor. "Two of you ought to be able to manage him, I should think. Turn him out!"

Now, it is a most undignified thing to be tackled by a woman; yet I am bound to confess that in the rough and tumble that ensued, Martha Leach did more than her full share. Bardolph Just had run back into the house, and had set a bell ringing; a couple of men-servants came rushing up. I did not want to hit the woman; but I longed for one blow at Harvey Scoffold, and as a matter of fact I contrived to get one or two really serviceable ones in on his rotund person. But by this time, while we were all scrambling about together, and while I was raising my voice in repeated shouts of "Debora," in the hope that I might attract her attention, the woman had literally wound herself about me, so that I was powerless. The door was pulled open, and this time we tumbled out instead of in. And as Martha dexterously released me only when I was outside, and contrived to trip me up very neatly down the steps, she was inside again, and the door closed, before I could get to my feet. Then I heard the bolts shooting into place, and knew that the victory was with them.

I had a mind to set the bell ringing again, in the hope to force them to open the door. But I had the good sense to understand that I should serve no good purpose in that way; I should, in all probability, bring some night policeman down upon me, when explanations would be difficult. For after all, on the face of it, you cannot very well demand that a young lady shall be fetched out at night from the house of a highly-respectable guardian by a stranger who can give no really good account of himself. And that, as you will acknowledge, was exactly the position of affairs.

Baffled, I went away again, and was fortunate enough to be able to get back to Barnet in the same fashion as before. You may imagine my frame of mind by the time I got to Uncle Zabdiel's house; I was in a state of ungovernable fury. I marched into the garden, and rang the bell violently, and waited. After a minute or two, during which I had repeated the summons, I heard a window raised above me, and, looking up, saw Uncle Zabdiel's wicked old head looking out. All about me was very quiet, for the house stood somewhat retired from an unfrequented road, and I could hear his voice distinctly.

"Who is it? What do you want?" he demanded.

"I want to come in," I said, stepping back a little from the door so that he could see me. "You know me, Uncle Zabdiel."

"I should think I do," he sneered. "Do you think I should be fool enough to let you in—you wild beast!—you bully!—I've too great a care for my own safety for that."

"You'd better let me in quietly," I warned him.

"I won't—I won't!" he almost shouted. "I mean to protect myself. And I'll tell you something else, my young friend," he went on, leaning further out of the window, and shaking a fist at me. "I've made up my mind to see you comfortably put away again."

"Indeed?" I retorted, "and how are you going to manage that?"

"I've written to the authorities, telling them that if they come here to-morrow night I can give them a full and true account of a certain convict called Norton Hyde, supposed to be buried in Penthouse Prison, but really very much alive. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! I've cooked your goose, my boy, and I shall sleep peaceful o' nights in future."

He slammed down the window, leaving me standing in the darkness, thinking long thoughts. I saw that it was as hopeless for me to get in here as it had proved to be at the house of Bardolph Just; I went sorrowfully out of the gate, realising that all was over. As I turned into the road, I almost cannoned against a man who seemed to be lounging there. He turned away his face quickly, and although for a moment I had a feeling that it was a face that was familiar to me, the thought merely flitted through my mind for a moment, and was gone as the man lurched away. I saw that he was dressed roughly, like a labouring man.

You may be sure that I did not sleep that night. I paced my room, wondering what I should do; I varied that only by seating myself at the window, and staring out at the sky, telling myself over and over again that all I had striven to do had come to naught. To-morrow the true story would be told to the world; to-morrow Norton Hyde would be a hunted man again, with three or four people interested in his capture, who would know all his movements, and could supply a dozen clues towards finding him. It was impossible for me to do anything to help Debora, because Bardolph Just's house would be one of the first places to be watched, if it came to a hunt for me. I was done.

And then it was that I came to a desperate resolution. I was homeless and hopeless, and I had failed; I determined that I would keep the appointment that night, and would meet those who were to see my uncle. I would give myself up to the authorities, and so end the miserable business by going back to my prison. There was nothing else for it; I felt that it was far better to close the matter once and for all time.

I got to Uncle Zabdiel's house after darkness had set in. Just as I turned into the road leading to it, I saw two men, respectably dressed in dark clothing, and with bowler hats, going along in front of me; my heart gave a little jump, for I thought I knew their errand. They came to the gate in the wall and opened it. I had determined by this time that I would waste no time, and so I came up with them as they passed into the garden. One of them turned and looked at me.

"What do you want, sir?" he asked.

"I've come to see Mr. Blowfield," I replied; for I had made up my mind to see the matter out in my uncle's presence.

The man said nothing, but joined his companion, who was standing before the door of the house, and who had just rung the bell. There was no answer to the summons, and after a time he tugged at the bell-pull again. In moving to do this he made a discovery.

"Why, the door's open," he murmured; then he pushed it, and stepped into the dark hall.

"Hadn't you better call out?" said the other man.

The first man lifted his voice, and called out sharply, "Mr. Blowfield! Mr. Blowfield!"

His voice echoed in a dreary fashion through the house, and seemed to come back at us. The first man had by this time touched a shelf which stood in the hall, and on which was a lamp. Looking about him sharply while he did so, he dexterously got a light and lit the lamp; then, with a glance at his companion, he stepped into the room which was the dining-room. It was empty.

I followed them from that room into the study, which again was empty. Then the first man, still carrying the lamp, after muttering something to his companion which I did not hear, began to ascend the stairs. I was the last of the trio, and I suddenly heard the first man cry out in an excited voice.

"Here, catch hold of this!" he exclaimed, passing the lamp down to the other man. "There's been an accident!"

I pressed forward then, and looked. Lying prone upon the staircase, with his head and shoulders hanging down over the top stairs, lay Uncle Zabdiel. Beside him was a heavy stick—that stick with which he had once threatened me—and his head and face were cruelly beaten in. Whoever had killed him had not been able to bear the sight of him afterwards, for the clothes from his bed had been dragged out of the room and pulled across him.

Uncle Zabdiel's dream had come true.