“Tut, Mr. Moon; I did but jest. It’s a superfluous service you render me, but since you transact everything according to rule, I’ll give you your discharge of it--hn! hn!” Calmly he endorsed the letter and handed it back. “Take it, Mr. Moon. Ah, I wish you were not passionate. That’s a weakness. Generosity and passion, we cannot afford to entertain them. I say ‘we,’ because a valuable man is lost in you, Mr. Moon. Fatal, I fear; ah, me!--I tell you, my methods are the only methods. We may have to override the law a little now and then--lawyers will find us legal reasons enough after the event. True, an humble instrument like myself may once in a while be sacrificed; judges will tell us we have exceeded our duty----” “I think I’ve warned ye o’ them that’ll sacrifice ye,” interrupted the merchant bluntly, “and now I’ll bid ye good morning.” “So soon?” Cope mused. “Now I believe, Mr. Moon, that if I had a warrant for your arrest in my pocket at this moment I should detain you, if only for the pleasure of further conversation.” His bruised-looking lids blinked rapidly. “I’m capped if ye haven’t,” said Moon composedly; “and lawyers to whitewash ye afterwards an’ all!” Cope sighed. “A great pity, a great pity,” he mused, and Matthew Moon passed heavily down the stairs. There awaited him at his house, circuitously conveyed from Cicely Monjoy, a distraught letter, in which she announced that her goings-out at night had been discovered. This news disturbed him little, as may be imagined, and he took a taper and burned the letter. But it was certain that no time would now be lost in searching the stackyard. He would surely be credited with the dupery, and he now reckoned his time for activity short. Teddy was not about; Matthew strode unhesitatingly across the market-place, and walked into the kitchen of the “Cross Pipes.” Cicely was alone in the kitchen, and the merchant put up his hand warningly. “Quietly!” he said. “He’s safe enough yet--_ssh!_ But there’s no knowing how little time I have. They’ll ha’ found out about the stackyard in an hour or two--let me see----” “Oh, they’ve found out!” Cicely moaned. “Quiet, I tell ye! He’s not there, and hasn’t been. Let me see----” “Not there?” whispered Cicely, dazed; and Moon interrupted her with an impatient gesture. “Ha’ ye anywhere in Wadsworth ye can put him? (For God’s sake stop that choking!) Listen! I’ll send Dooina here; get ye off to Wadsworth as fast as ye can. Find out where he’s to be put, and then back to me. Where’s your bonnet?--Hark! They’re forming up for the stackyard now. Quick! on with your bonnet!” In five minutes Cicely was on her way to Wadsworth, by near cuts and bypaths, for the soldiers were already marching along the road below her to Webster’s stackyard. CHAPTER XIII. THE SCOUT.