It suited their purpose well that the night was a dark one. The moon was not yet high in the heavens, and was still half-veiled by a thin film of fleecy clouds, leaving the whole vista of the Moor wrapped in mysterious grey-blue semitones. "You have brought the lanthorn," whispered Sir Humphrey, hurriedly. "Y ... y ... y ... yes, your Honour," stammered Mittachip. "Then quick’s the word," said his Honour, pointing to a thick clump of gorse and bramble quite close to the shed. "The letters are in the very centre of that clump, and only just below the surface. Do you creep in there and get them." There was nothing for Master Mittachip to do but to obey, and that with as much alacrity as his terror would allow. His teeth were chattering in his head, and his hands were trembling so violently that he was some time in striking a light for the lanthorn. Sir Humphrey suppressed an oath of angry impatience. "Lud preserve me," murmured the poor attorney, "if that highwayman should come upon me whilst I am engaged in the task! ... You ... you’ll not leave me, Sir Humphrey?..." "I’ll lay my stick across your cowardly shoulders if you don’t hurry," was his Honour’s only comment. He watched Mittachip crawling on his hands and knees underneath the bramble, and his deep stertorous breathing testified to the anxiety which was raging within him. A few moments of intense suspense, and then Master Mittachip reappeared from beneath the scrub, covered with wet earth, still trembling, but holding the packet of letters triumphantly in his hand. Sir Humphrey snatched it from him. "Quick! find the shepherd now! Don’t waste time!" he whispered, pushing the cowering attorney roughly before him. "One feels as if every blade of grass had a pair of ears on this damned Heath!" he muttered under his breath. Jock Miggs, the shepherd, had counted over his sheep, closed the gate of the pen, and was just turning into the hut for the night, when he was hailed by Master Mittachip. "Shepherd! hey! shepherd!" Miggs looked about him, vaguely astonished. Since his adventure of the previous night, when he had been made to play a tune for mad folks to dance to, he felt that nothing would seriously surprise him. When therefore he felt himself seized by the arm without more ado and dragged into the darkest corner of the hut, he did not even protest. "Did you wish to speak with me, sir?" he asked plaintively, rubbing his arm, for Sir Humphrey’s impatient grip had been very strong and hard. "Yes!" said the latter, speaking in a rapid whisper, "here’s Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law, whom you know well, eh?" "Aye, aye," murmured Jock Miggs, pulling at his forelock, "t’ sheep belong to his Honour Oi believe."