fee on his table; arranged that I should write
to him, in a day or two; and left the office, with
my head in a whirl, and my blood throbbing
through my veins at fever heat.

It was just getting dark. The idea occurred
to me that I might be followed again, and
attacked on the high road.

My walking-stick was a light one, of little
or no use for purposes of defence. I stopped,
before leaving Knowlesbury, and bought a
stout country cudgel, short, and heavy at the
head. With this homely weapon, if any one
man tried to stop me, I was a match for
him. If more than one attacked me, I could
trust to my heels. In my school-days, I had
been a noted runner—and I had not wanted
for practice since, in the later time of my
experience in Central America.

I started from the town at a brisk pace,
and kept the middle of the road. A small
misty rain was falling; and it was impossible,
for the first half of the way, to make sure
whether I was followed or not. But at the last
half of my journey, when I supposed myself to
be about two miles from the church, I saw a
man run by me in the rain—and then heard the
gate of a field by the roadside shut to, sharply,
I kept straight on, with my cudgel ready in
my hand, my ears on the alert, and my eyes
straining to see through the mist and the darkness.
Before I had advanced a hundred yards,
there was a rustling in the hedge on my right
hand, and three men sprang out into the road.

I instantly drew aside to the footpath. The
two foremost men were carried beyond me,
before they could check themselves. The third
was as quick as lightning. He stopped—half
turned—and struck at me with his stick. The
blow was aimed at hazard, and was not a severe
one. It fell on my left shoulder. I returned it
heavily on his head. He staggered back, and
jostled his two companions, just as they were
both rushing at me. This gave me a moment's
start. I slipped past them, and took to the middle
of the road again, at the top of my speed.

The two unhurt men pursued me. They were
both good runners; the road was smooth and
level; and, for the first five minutes or more, I
was conscious that I did not gain on them. It
was perilous work to run for long in the darkness.
I could barely see the dim black line of
the hedges on either side; and any chance
obstacle m the road would have thrown me down
to a certainty. Ere long, I felt the ground
changing: it descended from the level, at a turn,
and then rose again beyond. Down-hill, the men
rather gained on rne; but, up-hill, I began to
distance them. The rapid, regular thump of their
feet grew fainter on my ear; and I calculated
by the sound that I was far enough in advance
to take to the fields, with a good chance of their
passing me in the darkness. Diverging to the
footpath, I made for the first break that I could
guess at, rather than see, in the hedge. It
proved to be a closed gate. I vaulted over, and
finding myself in a field, kept across it steadily,
with my back to the road. I heard the men pass
the gate, still running—then, in a minute more,
heard one of them call to the other to come
back. It was no matter what they did, now; I
was out of their sight and out of their hearing.
I kept straight across the field, and, when I had
reached the further extremity of it, waited there
for a minute to recover my breath.

It was impossible to venture back to the road;
but I was determined, nevertheless, to get to
Old Welmingham that evening.

Neither moon nor stars appeared to guide me.
I only knew that I had kept the wind and rain at
my back on leaving Knowlesbury—and if I now
kept them at my back still, I might at least be
certain of not advancing altogether in the wrong
direction. Proceeding on this plan, I crossed the
country—meeting with no worse obstacles than
hedges, ditches, and thickets, which every now
and then obliged me to alter my course for a little
while until I found myself on a hill-side, with
the ground sloping away steeply before me. I
descended to the bottom of the hollow, squeezed
my way through a hedge, and got out into a
lane. Having turned to the right on leaving the
road, I now turned to the left, on the chance of
returning to the line from which I had
wandered. After following the muddy windings of
the lane for ten minutes or more, I saw a cottage
with a light in one of the windows. The garden
gate was open to the lane; and I went in at
once to inquire my way.

Before I could knock at the door, it was
suddenly opened, and a man came running out with
a lighted lantern in his hand. He stopped and
held it up at the sight of me. We both started
as we saw each other. My wanderings had led
me round the outskirts of the village, and had
brought me out at the lower end of it. I
was back at Old Welmingham; and the man
with the lantern was no other than my acquaintance
of the morning, the parish clerk.

His manner appeared to have altered strangely,
in the interval since I had last seen him. He
looked suspicious and confused; his ruddy cheeks
were deeply flushed; and his first words, when
he spoke, were quite unintelligible to me.

"Where are the keys?" he said. "Have you
taken them?"

"What keys?" I asked. "I have only this
moment come from Knowlesbury. What keys do
you mean?"

"The keys of the vestry. Lord save us and
help us! what shall I do? The keys are gone!
Do you hear?" The old man shook the lantern
at me in his agitation. "The keys are gone!"

"How? When? Who can have taken them?"

"I don't know," said the clerk, staring about
him wildly in the darkness. "I've only just
got back. I told you I had a long day's work
this morning—I locked the door, and shut the
window down—it's open now, the window's open.
Look! somebody has got in there, and taken
the keys."

He turned to the casement-window to show
me that it was wide open. The door of the
lantern came loose from its fastening as he swayed
it round; and the wind blew the candle out.