bottom, and across a grassy shoulder
of the park to a small gate in the ring-fence. Beyond this gate a
lane, or cart-road, dipped steeply downhill to the right; and
following it, we came on a high stone wall overtopped by trees.

"Here's your post, Hodgson," whispered Mr. Rogers, after waiting for
the constables to come up. "Jim will take the back of the house: and
understand that no one is to enter or leave. If anyone attempts it,
signal to me: one whistle from you, Hodgson, and two from Jim.
Off you go, my lad! The signal's the same if I want you--one whistle
or two, as the case may be."

The constable he called Jim crept away in the darkness, while Mr.
Rogers found and cautiously opened a wicket-gate leading to a
courtlage, across which a solitary window shone on the ground-floor
of a house lifting its gables and heavy chimneys against a sky only
less black than itself.

"Gad!" said Mr. Rogers softly, "I wonder what Whitmore's doing?
The fun would be, now, to find one of these windows unfastened, and
slip in upon him without announcing ourselves. 'Twouldn't be the
thing, though, for a Justice of the Peace, let alone Mr. Doidge here.
No: we'll have to do it in order and knock. The maid knows me.
Only you two must keep back in the shadow here while she opens the
door."

He stepped forward and knocked boldly.

To the astonishment of us all the door opened almost at once, and
without any noise of unlocking or drawing of bolts.

"For Heaven's sake, my dear--unless you want to wake the village--"
began a voice testily. It was Mr. Whitmore's, and almost on the
instant, by the light of a candle which he held, he recognised the
man on the doorstep.

"Mr. Rogers? To what do I owe--"

"Good evening, Whitmore! May I come in? Won't detain you long--
especially since you seem to be expecting company."

"It's the maid," answered Mr. Whitmore coldly, though he seemed
confused. "She has stepped down to the village for an hour, to her
mother's cottage, and I am alone."

"So you call her 'my dear'? That's a bit pastoral, eh?"

"Look here, Rogers: if you're drunk, I beg you to call at some other
time. To tell the truth, I'm busy."

"Writing your sermon? I thought Saturday was the night for that.
'Pon my honour now I wouldn't intrude, only the business is urgent."
He waited while Mr. Whitmore somewhat grudgingly set the door wide to
admit him. "By the way I've brought a couple of friends with me."

"Confo