That was how it was, then?'

'Yes, much in that way. I must say, Dick, that if you are so extremely
fond of--well--studying the female character, you should carry on the
pursuit more discreetly. Just see what this miscalculation has cost your
friends!'

'Confound her! She's a heartless wretch, and I hope she'll die in a
ditch.'

'Exactly. Well, she knocked, and a constable opened the outer door.

'"I want to see Sir Ferdinand," she says.

'"He's in bed and can't be disturbed," says the bobby. "Any message I
can deliver?"

'"I have important information," says she. "Rouse him up, or you'll be
sorry for it."

'"Won't it do to-morrow morning?" says he.

'"No, it won't," says she, stamping her foot. "Do what I tell you, and
don't stand there like a fool."

'She waited a bit. Then, Warrigal says, out came Sir Ferdinand, very
polite. "What can I do for you," says he, "Mrs. Mullockson?"

'"Should you like to know where the Marstons are, Sir Ferdinand," says
she, "Dick and Jim?"

'"Know? Would I not?" says he. "No end of warrants out for them; since
that Ballabri Bank robbery they seem to have disappeared under ground.
And that fellow Starlight, too! Most remarkable man of his day. I'd give
my eyes to put the bracelets upon him."

'She whispered something into his ear.

'"Guard, turn out," he roars out first; then, dropping his voice, says
out, "My dear Mrs. Mullockson" (you should hear Warrigal imitate him),
"you have made my fortune--officially, I mean, of course. I shall never
forget your kindness. Thanks, a thousand times."

'"Don't thank me," she says, and she burst out crying, and goes slowly
back to the hotel.

'Warrigal had heard quite enough. He rips over to Daly's mob, borrows a
horse, saddle, and bridle, and leads him straight down to our camp. He
roused me up about one o'clock, and I could hardly make any explanation
to my mates. Such stunning good fellows they were, too! I wonder whether
I shall ever associate with gentlemen again? The chances are against it.

'I had all kinds of trouble to tell them I was going away with Warrigal,
and yet not to tell too much.

'"What the dickens," says Clifford, "can you want, going away with this
familiar of yours at this hour of the night? You're like the fellow
in Scott's novel ('Anne of Geierstein') that I was reading over again
yesterday--the mysterious stranger that's called for at midnight by the
Avenger of Blood, departs with him and is never seen mo