"Umph! And so you think that caused the storm, Master Numskull?" he rapped out, when Simon had come to an end. "Where is this cross?" It had been passed from hand to hand, but was at once brought back to him. "Here, Hodgson," he said sharply; "what do you make of it?" The officer to whom he appealed turned the thing over and over in his hands, but could make nothing of it. Cromwell watched him with a sparkle in his eye, and at length snatched it from him. "Chut!" he said--but although he scolded, it was evident he was well pleased--"you are as big a fool as Master Numskull there! Didst never see a tally, man?" "A tally, your excellency?" "Ay, a tally, a tally, a tally!" replied his excellency, impatiently. "A thing, I tell thee, that was known in this England of ours, and in the exchequer, when rogues were fewer and thy ancestors were hung without benefit of clergy! This is a tally if ever I saw one. To take an honest tally for a witch's broomstick? But softly! Said I an _honest_ tally?" he continued, looking suddenly about him, while his voice grew hard and stern. "Pownall! count those notches." The officer obeyed. "There are twenty-three, your excellency," he said, when he had accomplished the task. "And how many troops of horse have gone by to-day?" "Twenty-three, your excellency," was the answer, given with military brevity. A murmur of intelligence passed round the circle of officers. The clue once found by Cromwell's sharp eye and strong common sense, the secret became an open one, patent to the dullest intellect. When further examination showed that the number of notches on the other arm of the cross corresponded with the number of foot regiments which had passed that morning, even Simon Gridley began to understand that here was no question of the supernatural, but of some human agency equally hostile to the good cause. Only Luke Gridley remained unconvinced. "Bolts and bars could not hold him," he murmured, "nor----" "We will come to that by-and-by," Cromwell answered. "Let the boy stand forward. Where is he?" Some one thrust Jack forward into the middle of the room, where he stood exposed to the full brunt of Cromwell's formidable gaze. The shock through which the child had passed had left him dazed and weak; his color came and went, his legs faltered under him, and he trembled perceptibly. But his heart was stout, and his breeding stood him in good stead at this crisis. Barely understanding what had passed, or the steps by which his plan had been discovered, on one point he was still clear, steadfast, and resolute: and that was, that come what might, he would not betray his brother! But for the moment Cromwell said nothing about that. The question he put to him took all present by surprise. "Who let you out of the closet, my lad?" he said, in a tone of rough good-nature. "A man," the boy muttered, with dry lips. "Was it one of the men in the house? No? Then how did the man get into the house? Tell us that."