well. I commend
Brother Martin and our sick friend to your keeping, and shall ask
account of them when we meet again."

I pray it may not be this side of hell, for I do not like that Spanish
Abbot and his passengers, dead or living, thought Goody to himself, as
he bowed him from the cabin.

A minute later the Abbot, after a few earnest, hurried words with
Martin, began to descend the ladder to the boat, that, manned by his own
people, was already being drawn slowly through the water. As he did so
he glanced back, and, in the clinging mist of dawn, which was almost as
dense as wool, caught sight of the face of a man who had been ordered to
hold the ladder, and knew it for that of Jeffrey Stokes, who had escaped
from the slaying of Sir John--escaped with the damning papers that had
cost his master's life. Yes, Jeffrey Stokes, no other. His lips shaped
themselves to call out something, but before ever a syllable had passed
them an accident happened.

To the Abbot it seemed as though the whole ship had struck him violently
behind--so violently that he was propelled headfirst among the rowers in
the boat, and lay there hurt and breathless.

"What is it?" called the captain, who heard the noise.

"The Abbot slipped, or the ladder slipped, I know not which," answered
Jeffrey gruffly, staring at the toe of his sea-boot. "At least he is
safe enough in the boat now," and, turning, he vanished aft into the
mist, muttering to himself--

"A very good kick, though a little high. Yet I wish it had been off
another kind of ladder. That murdering rogue would look well with a rope
round his neck. Still I dared do no more and it served to stop his lying
mouth before he betrayed me. Oh, my poor master, my poor old master!"

Bruised and sore as he was--and he was very sore--within little over
an hour Abbot Maldon was back at the ruin of Cranwell Towers. It seemed
strange that he should go there, but in truth his uneasy heart would
not let him rest. His plans had succeeded only far too well. Sir John
Foterell was dead--a crime, no doubt, but necessary, for had the knight
lived to reach London with that evidence in his pocket, his own life and
those of many others might have paid the price of it, since who knows
what truths may be twisted from a victim on the rack? Maldon had always
feared the rack; it was a nightmare that haunted his sleep, although the
ambitious cunning of his nature and the cause he served with heart and
soul p