Trembling violently, Rowton sat down before his desk and opened it. He took out some paper of a peculiar make and quality, dipped his pen into a small bottle which contained a preparation not in the least like ordinary ink, and wrote a short sentence. At the end of this sentence he appended a hieroglyphic. The paper was then folded up, put into an envelope and directed. Having done so, Rowton put on his hat and went out. As he was walking up the avenue, Jacob, the footman, who had been unremitting in his active services and presence of mind during the terrible scare of the morning, also put on his hat, and followed his master at a respectful distance. With quick strides, Rowton approached the little post office of the small adjacent village. The post-mistress, who had evidently not yet heard anything of the burglary, looked at him with some slight surprise when he entered her shop. “Am I in time to catch the post, Mrs. Higgins?” he asked. “Yes, sir, just; Polly and me, we are packing the bags now.” “Then here is a letter; hold out the bag and I’ll drop it in.” The woman did so. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Now I want to send off a telegram.” “Here are the forms, sir, and a new pen.” Rowton scribbled two words on a telegraph form, added a brief address, and handed it in. “I want this to go at once,” he said. “I’ll send it off this moment, sir; it is early, and the wires are sure to be clear.” “Very well, I’ll wait and see it off; it is of the utmost importance.” The woman turned to where the little telegraphic apparatus stood, and immediately worked off the message while Rowton stood silently by. “Thank you,” he answered. He left the post-office as he spoke. Just outside he ran almost into Jacob’s arms. “What are you doing here?” cried his master with a scowl. “I beg your pardon, sir; I saw you go out, and I thought I’d run after you, sir, to suggest that the police should be telegraphed for from Pitstow.” “Aye, a good thought,” answered Rowton; “go into the office and send a wire off immediately.” Jacob lingered outside the post-office until his master’s figure had vanished from view. Rowton did not once look round. When Jacob could see him no longer, he too, went into the post-office. “I want to send a telegram,” he said to the post-mistress; “please give me a form.” “Dear, dear, you must be all gone mad on the subject of telegrams,” she answered; “there’s Mr. Rowton sending off the queerest words, enough to frighten a body. Oh, I am not going to tell, so don’t you think it, Jacob Short.” She showed him with a motion of her hand where the telegraph forms were lying. As she did so, his eyes met hers with a fixed and peculiar glance. She faintly nodded to him, and then her face turned pale. “Run, Polly,” she said to a rosy-cheeked girl who was helping her, “and tell Hudson to be quick; tell him it’s time the post was off, or he will miss the train at Pitstow.” The girl immediately left the room.