_Author of_ “_The Bubble Moon_,” “_The Vats of Tyre_,” _etc._
_HODDER AND STOUGHTON_ _LIMITED_ _LONDON_
Printed in Great Britain by C. TINLING & CO., LTD., 53, Victoria Street, Liverpool, and at London and Prescot.
CHAPTER PAGE I. MR. BRADBURY 9 II. AT THE HALL 15 III. MRS. MARY HOWE 29 IV. A JOURNEY PLANNED 39 V. THE JOURNEY BEGUN 45 VI. THROUGH THE DARKNESS 53 VII. THE RIDERS 59 VIII. THE GREEN-CURTAINED ROOM 65 IX. MR. CHARLES CRAIKE 75 X. SCRUPLES OF ROGER GALT 83 XI. EVENTS AT THE STONE HOUSE 89 XII. CAPTAIN EZRA BLUNT 97 XIII. OUT OF THE STONE HOUSE 105 XIV. MODESTY OF MR. GALT 111 XV. THE DOOMED HOUSE 119 XVI. OLD MR. EDWARD CRAIKE 129 XVII. CREED OF MR. CHARLES 139 XVIII. COMPACT OF TOLERANCE 147 XIX. COMPANY AT DINNER 155 XX. SOUL OF A MAN 161 XXI. MY COUSIN OLIVER 169 XXII. THE WEB OF IVY 177 XXIII. DYING FIRES 185 XXIV. THE WOOD 191 XXV. INSISTENCE OF CAPTAIN BLUNT 201 XXVI. SIR GAVIN MASTERS 207 XXVII. SUSPICIONS OF MR. CHARLES CRAIKE 213 XXVIII. SPILT WINE 219 XXIX. INTERVENTION OF MR. BRADBURY 225 XXX. NOT YET 233 XXXI. THE NIGHT WATCH 239 XXXII. WILL OF A MAN 251 XXXIII. CARRION CROWS 259 XXXIV. FLIGHT OF CROWS 269 XXXV. DEPARTURE OF MR. CHARLES CRAIKE 279 XXXVI. DAWN 291 XXXVII. MY UNCLE COMES TO HIS OWN 299 XXXVIII. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 305
But for the coach and pair carrying Mr. Bradbury to Chelton, Tony Vining and I would not have been haled before the Squire, but would have got off scot-free as any time before. Tony and I had made the round of our snares. Tony had poked a young rabbit into his jacket-pocket; I was carrying a hare in my bag, and we were sneaking homewards through the dusk, when Tim Kerrick, ash-plant in hand, and brace of keepers at heel, stepped out of the coppice.
“What be you lads doin’ here?” Tim demanded, barring our way. “You’re after no good, I’ll warrant. What’s in your bag, John Howe?”
I did not stay to answer. I swung round and was away. Tony raced off with me; old Tim and his keepers followed. We led them about the coppice, but they pressed us hard, Tim roaring, “Stop, ye young varmint! Stop! It’ll be all the worse for ye. Stop, I say!”
Dreading Tim’s ash-plant, we ran on with all speed. The hare in the bag hung heavily on me; when we were out in the furze, I let the bag slip from me, and ran more swiftly. I had need, for Tony was now well ahead, and Tim and the keepers were hot at my heels; I could hear Tim’s snorting as much for anger as the rigour of the chase. Furze tore my breeches and stockings; as we took the bank above the road, a bramble almost led to my undoing; it caught the tail of my jacket, and for the moment held me. Tim charged forward with a yell of triumph; it was premature, for, kicking his toe against a root, he tumbled forward on his nose; on the evidence of his curses he pitched headlong into the bramble. I tore myself away from the thorn, and dashed up the bank after Tony.