And Cicely carried food by night to the stackyard, wasting her cunning had she but known it. It was only a question of time before she was followed, and (to come to that at once) it happened on that very Sunday evening. Reaching the stackyard, she found herself forestalled, and she lay low with her basket under a wall, listening in an agony of fear to the voices of three strangers, who talked in an outhouse. She heard her husband’s name spoken. They were questioning Webster, the owner of the stackyard; and it was much that she did not throw herself at their feet and implore mercy for him there and then. Matthew had judged wisely to keep her in ignorance. The voices ceased; she heard steps; she thrust her basket into the roadside weeds and fled. Dooina Benn had to watch Sally that night, and by morning a further calamity had happened. This was the disappearance from the niche in the kitchen of Eastwood Ellah. He had scarcely stirred since he had been put there, and, maybe, they had grown a little careless in watching him; anyway, he was gone. Neighbours were sent to search for him. Cicely was calmer, but very pale, and she started at sudden sounds. At nine o’clock on the Monday morning the soldiers in the clogger’s shop saw Matthew Moon walk up the croft. They stretched their necks for a sight of the man who had publicly abused Jeremy Cope--Cope of Bow Street, the most ruthless manhunter in the land (you had to leave Horwick to learn of what consequence the Horwick folk were). Moon demanded of the sentry at the door whether Mr. Cope was up, and at a sign from the sentry one of the soldiers went inside to announce the visitor. Cope, in a grey dressing-gown, was drinking chocolate at a desk and opening letters. He rubbed his hands as if with pleasure at seeing the merchant. “You honour me, Mr. Moon--honour me, honour me--hn!--(leave us, you). Be seated, Mr. Moon, be seated.” “I’ll stand,” said the merchant; “my business won’t take so long.” “Nay, sit, and let me ring for a cup of chocolate. I failed--hn!--I fear I failed a little the other morning in my expression of esteem for you. To tell you the truth, Mr. Moon, I was for the moment a little chagrined. Let me make amends now--hn! hn! hn!” “I think you know my handwriting,” said the merchant abruptly. “I’ve something here might advantage ye to read, and when ye’ve read it I’d be obliged if ye’d gi’e me an attestation ye’ve seen it. It might come in useful for me if aught were to happen to you.” He handed him a copy of Monjoy’s letter. Cope read it with perfect composure. “So you want a sort of receipt for this? Irregular, irregular, Mr. Moon. Suppose, with your indemnity in your pocket, you were to change your mind, and even to take a hand in my despatch yourself?...” “I lose little for want o’ asking; and for changing my mind, I’ve been i’ one mind all along the sort ye are,” the merchant replied imperturbably. Cope patted the air with his smooth deprecating little gesture.