"Only the priest!" muttered Coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman.

Giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, "That you, Father Rogier?"

"C'est moi!" answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. "Ah! mon bracconier! you're having something nice for supper. Judging by the aroma ragout of hare. Hope I haven't disturbed you. Is it hare?"

"It was, your Reverence, a bit of leveret."

"Was! You've finished then. It is all gone?"

"It is. The dog had the remains of it, as ye see."

He points to the dish on the floor.

"I'm sorry at that—having rather a relish for leveret. It can't be helped, however."

"I wish I'd known ye were comin'. Dang the dog!"

"No, no! Don't blame the poor dumb brute. No doubt it too has a taste for hare, seeing it's half hound. I suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?"

"Yes, your Reverence. There be a good wheen o' them about."

"In that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, I'll have it jugged for myself. By the way, what have you got in that black jack?"

"It's brandy."

"Well, Monsieur Dick, I'll thank you for a mouthful."

"Will you take it neat, or mixed wi' a drop o' water?"

"Neat—raw. The night's that, and the two raws will neutralize one another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm."

"It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein' out—exposin' yourself in such weather!"

"All weathers are alike to me—when duty calls. Just now I'm abroad on a little matter of business that won't brook delay."

"Business—wi' me?"

"With you, mon bracconier!"

"What may it be, your Reverence?"

"Sit down, and I shall tell you. It's too important to be discussed standing."

The introductory dialogue does not tranquillize the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand.

After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark,—

"If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?"

"You ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, Father Rogier."

"And you'd like to be a rich one?"

Thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. Smilingly he makes reply,—

"I can't say as I'd have any particular objection. 'Stead, I'd like it wonderful well."

"You can be, if so inclined."

"I'm ever so inclined, as I've sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this hard work-o'-day world 'tan't so easy to get rich."

"For you, easy enough. No labour, and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows."

"Somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?"

"No; 'twill need a bigger boat—one that will carry three or four people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?"

"I think I do. I've a friend, the name o' Rob Trotter, who's got just sich a boat. He'd lend it me, sure."

"Charter it, if he doesn't. Never mind about the price. I'll pay."

"When might you want it, your Reverence?"

"On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later—say half-past."

"And where am I to bring it?"

"To the Ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don't leave it to go up to the 'Harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. Above all, you're to make no one the wiser of what you're to do, or anything I'm now saying to you. The service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about."

"May I have a hint o' what it is?"

"Not now; you shall know in good time—when you meet me with the boat. There will be another along with me—maybe two—to assist in the affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, such as you displayed on Saturday night."

No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him.

"How—where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror.

The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate.

"You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, 'How?' I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. With the second I'll be more particular, if you wish me. Place—where a certain foot-plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It—the plank, I mean—last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?"

The man thus interrogated looks more than confused—horrified, well-nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him!

Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply—sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice,—

"I don't want to know one way or the other. D——n the plank! What do I care?"

"You shouldn't blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That's not becoming—above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you're excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse."

"I beg your Reverence's pardon. I was a bit excited about something."

He has calmed down a little at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest's last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues:

"Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I've made you aware—more than once, if I rightly remember—there's no sin so great but that pardon may reach it—if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So be there with the boat!"

"I will, your Reverence, sure as my name's Richard Dempsey."

Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come as if led on a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier.

"Enough!" returns the priest. "If there be anything else I think of communicating to you before Thursday, I'll come again—to-morrow night. So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don't let there be any failure about that, coÛte que coÛte. And let me again enjoin silence—not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. Verbum sapientibus! But as you're not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I suppose my Latin's lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?"

To the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,—

"I do, Father Rogier—perfectly."

"That's sufficient. And now, mon bracconier, I must be gone. Before starting out, however, I'll trench a little further on your hospitality. Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials."

Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy—best Cognac from the "Harp" it is—then quaffing it off, bids "bon soir!" and takes departure.

Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils—the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil!

While thus gloomily cogitating, he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen—a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night—its tone altered by the whistling of the wind.

"Bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!"

And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed—not to sleep, but lie long awake, kept so by that same fear.