The man answered that the master was not yet back from his ship, and that the Lady Margaret had gone out nearly three hours before with her cousin Betty and a sailor—all of them on horseback. “She must have ridden to meet me, and missed us in the dark,” said Peter aloud, whereon the man asked whether he spoke to Master Brome, since, if so, he had a letter for him. “Yes,” answered Peter, and snatched it from his hand, bidding him close the door and hold up the lantern while he read, for he could see that the writing was that of Margaret. “A strange story,” he muttered, as he finished it. “Well, I must away,” and he turned to the door again. As he stretched out his hand to the key, it opened, and through it came Castell, as sound as ever he had been. “Welcome, Peter!” he cried in a jolly voice. “I knew you were here, for I saw the horses; but why are you not with Margaret?” “Because Margaret has gone to be with you, who should be hurt almost to death, or so says this letter.” “To be with me—hurt to the death! Give it me—nay, read it, I cannot see.” So Peter read. “I scent a plot,” said Castell in a strained voice as he finished, “and I think that hound of a Spaniard is at the bottom of it, or Betty, or both. Here, you fellow, tell us what you know, and be swift if you would keep a sound skin.” “That would I, why not?” answered the man, and told all the tale of the coming of the sailor. “Go, bid the men bring back the horses, all of them,” said Castell almost before he had done; “and, Peter, look not so dazed, but come, drink a cup of wine. We shall need it, both of us, before this night is over. What! is there never a fellow of all my servants in the house?” So he shouted till his folk, who had returned with him from the ship, came running from the kitchen. He bade them bring food and liquor, and while they gulped down the wine, for they could not eat, Castell told how their Mistress Margaret had been tricked away, and must be followed. Then, hearing the horses being led back from the stables, they ran to the door and mounted, and, followed by their men, a dozen or more of them, in all, galloped off into the darkness, taking another road for Tilbury, that by which Margaret went, not because they were sure of this, but because it was the shortest. But the horses were tired, and the night was dark and rainy, so it came about that the clock of some church struck three of the morning before ever they drew near to Tilbury. Now they were passing the little quay where Margaret and Betty had entered the boat, Castell and Peter riding side by side ahead of the others in stern silence, for they had nothing to say, when a familiar voice hailed them—that of Thomas the groom. “I saw your horses’ heads against the sky,” he explained, “and knew them.” “Where is your mistress?” they asked both in a breath.