ufficient," rejoined de Chavasse blandly, "those initials are a
mere matter of form. You cannot object if your intentions are honest."

"I do not object. Hast brought ink or paper?"

"Yes, and the form to which you only need to affix your initials."

Sir Marmaduke now drew a packet of papers from the inner lining of his
doublet.

"These are the proofs of your parentage," he said lightly.

Then he took out another single sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded
it and handed it to Lambert. "Can you read it?" he asked.

He stooped and picked up the lantern, whilst handing the paper to Adam.
The smith took the document from him, and Sir Marmaduke held the lantern
so that he might read.

Adam Lambert was no scholar. The reading of printed matter was oft a
difficulty to him, written characters were a vast deal more trouble,
but suspicion lurked in the smith's mind, and though his very sinews
ached with the desire to handle the proofs, he would not put his
initials to any writing which he did not fully comprehend.

It was all done in a moment. Adam was absorbed in deciphering the
contents of the paper. De Chavasse held the lantern up with one hand,
but at such an angle that Lambert was obliged to step back in order to
get its full light.

Then with the other hand, the right, Sir Marmaduke drew a double-edged
Italian knife from his girdle, and with a rapid and vigorous gesture,
drove it straight between the smith's shoulder blades.

Adam uttered a groan:

"My God ... I am ..."

Then he staggered and fell.

Fell backwards down the edge of the cliff into the mist-enveloped abyss
below.

Sir Marmaduke had fallen on one knee and his trembling fingers clutched
at the thick short grass, sharp as the blade of a knife, to stop himself
from swooning--from falling backwards in the wake of Adam the smith.

A gust of wind wafted the mist upwards, covering him with its humid
embrace. But he remained quite still, crouching on his stomach now, his
hands clutching the grass for support, whilst great drops of
perspiration mingled with the moisture of the mist on his face.

Anon he raised his head a little and turned to look at the edge of the
cliff. On hands and knees, like a gigantic reptile, he crawled, then lay
flat on the ground, on the extreme edge, his eyes peering down into
those depths wherein floating vapors lolled and stirred, with subtle
movements like spirits in unrest.

As far as the murderer's eye could reach