not far, I
believe."

"Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to the
left." He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his premises.

We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the instant
that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

"We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he. "I seem
to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no; I can't
possibly leave it."

"I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all about it. A
more self-evident villain I never saw."

"Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses, there
is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock. I
think we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive way."

A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders, stretched
behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making our way up
the hill, when, looking in the direction of Holdernesse Hall, I saw a
cyclist coming swiftly along.

"Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my shoulder. We
had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us on the road. Amid
a rolling cloud of dust I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated face--a
face with horror in every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring
wildly in front. It was like some strange caricature of the dapper James
Wilder whom we had seen the night before.

"The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, let us see what he
does."

We scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we had made
our way to a point from which we could see the front door of the inn.
Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No one was
moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the
windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank behind the high
towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then in the gloom we saw the two side-lamps
of a trap light up in the stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards
heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off
at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

"It looks like a flight."

"A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it certainly
was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door."

A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the middle of
it was the black figure of the secretary, his head advanced, peering out