"They're gold hoarders, Mr. Jobling," she said. "The mistress an' Lootenant Allen was there yesterday an' saw it." "Ah," put in somebody, "an' where do they get their food from, eh? Not in the village, nor yet from London. You go an' 'ave a look round, Artie, an' if you come back all right you'll be made a sergeant." "Why shouldn't I come back all right?" demanded Artie, with a chill at his spine. "Miss FitzPeter did." "She's quality--they wouldn't dare touch _'er_." P.C. Jobling returned to his cottage in a despondent mood. There was no going back for him now--he had burnt his boats. All the old ladies of the village would be on duty behind the curtained windows to see him start on his quest. Struck with self-compassion he prepared himself a more than usually lavish meal, just in case it should be his last. Then he smoked a reflective pipe. The sun was hot, and a comfortable drowsiness began to steal over him.... His head nodded.... For a second or two he dozed off.... Then, suddenly wakeful, he put on his helmet and started out, feeling every inch a hero. The village street was deserted except for a dog asleep in the very middle of it; but Jobling knew that he was performing under the eyes of an appraising and critical public. He walked as jauntily as his official boots would allow, his head well back and his chest well out. As soon as he was clear of the village, however, and had reached the stretch of lonely road leading to the Manor gates, his pace slackened and his chest deflated suddenly. He began to recall all the wild and vaguely terrific rumors about the people at Denmore and his heroism oozed slowly out of his backbone. When he came at last in sight of the gates themselves, he stopped stock still on the road and wrestled fiercely with himself. Supposing he turned tail now, would he ever be able to live it down in the village? He thought of his aunt's tongue--of Mrs. Green's wicked old face as she talked to her wicked old crony in the street--of Bobby Myers' taunt, and he knew that whatever lay before him would be the lesser of two evils. He reached the gates and paused once more, as though he could see written above them in letters of fire "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Then with shaking knees he passed in and up the gloomy avenue. Alf chanced to be looking out of a window overlooking the drive, and saw him as he turned the corner. "Lumme!" he called to Bill. "The police!" "Let 'em," responded Bill lazily. He was lying back on a long chair, with his beloved flagon beside him; and the indefatigable Lucy, garbed like Solomon in all his glory, was fanning him with enthusiasm. "Let 'em," he repeated, and closed his eyes happily. "But look 'ere, what can 'e _want_? An' 'sposin' 'e wants to know 'oo we are?" "Tell 'im," said Bill, "Mr. Wentworth an' 'is friend, Mr. Montmorency, of Denmore Manor." "But if 'e wants to see our papers?" Bill sat up with a spasm of energy.