still he
did not relinquish his hold of Count Victor's sleeve.

"That need not prevent us comforting the lady," said Count Victor,
releasing himself from the grasp.

"Let her alane, let her alane!" cried the servant distractedly,
following the Frenchman upstairs.

Count Victor paid no heed: he was now determined to unveil a mystery
that for all he knew might menace himself in this household of strange
midnight happenings. The cries of the woman came from the corridor he
had guessed her chamber to occupy, and to this he hastened. But he had
scarcely reached the corridor when the flambeau Mungo held was suddenly
blown out, and this effectively checked his progress. He turned for an
explanation.

"D--n that draught!" said Mungo testily, "it's blawn oot my licht."

"We'll have to do without it, then," said the Count, "but you must show
me the way to this shrieking woman."

"A' richt," said Mungo, "mind yer feet!" He passed before the Count and
cautiously led him up to the passage where the woman's cries, a little
less vehement, were still to be heard.

"There ye are! and muckle gude may it dae ye," he said, stopping at a
door and pushing it open.

Count Victor stepped into darkness, thrust lightly as he went by the
servant's hand, and the door closed with a click behind him. He was a
prisoner! He had the humour to laugh softly at the conventionality of
the deception as he vainly felt in an empty room for a non-existing
doorhandle, and realised that Mungo had had his own way after all. The
servant's steps declined along the corridor and down the stair, with a
woman's to keep them company and a woman's sobs, all of which convinced
the Count that his acquaintance with Annapla was not desired by the
residents of Doom.

CHAPTER X -- SIM MACTAGGART, CHAMBERLAIN

On the roof of a high old church with as little architectural elegance
as a dry-stone barn, a bell jerked by a rope from the church-yard
indicated the close association of law and the kirk by ringing a sort
of triumphal peal to the procession of the judges between the court-room
and the inn. Contesting with its not too dulcet music blared forth the
fanfare of two gorgeous trumpeters in scarlet and gold lace, tie wigs,
silk stockings, and huge cocked hats, who filled the street with a
brassy melody that suggested Gabriel's stern and awful judgment-summons
rather than gave lightness and rhythm to the feet of those who made
up the procession. The processio