However,--thanks to Carice,--the room was empty when Big Ben and his companion looked into it. Determined not to be baffled thus, he prowled around the house, until he was detected by Rue's quick ears in the hall, and asked what was his business; when he truthfully replied that he was seeking for Mr. Arling. Hearing this, Doctor Gerrish came forward, stated where Bergan could probably be found, and entrusted Ben with the message, which, as we have seen, was scrupulously delivered. Bergan was then knocked down; and the inanimate body was dragged by the two ruffians to what seemed to be a remote point of the Oakstead grounds, where it would not be likely to be discovered for some hours, perhaps days. There, Ben debated within himself, for a minute, whether he would leave it its small remaining chance of life; but he remembered that Bergan had seen both himself and his comrade face to face, and would be able to identify them, on occasion. He drew his knife, muttered, "Dead men tell no tales," and sheathed it in the young man's breast. As he stood upright, his ear caught the faint jar of a closing door, followed by the sound of slow footsteps, and a cracked voice humming a song. Apparently, the spot which he had chosen, lonely as it seemed, was not far from some human dwelling. He and his companion exchanged startled glances, plunged into the underbrush, and fled silently and swiftly. III. FATALITY OR TEMPTATION? Doctor Remy, meanwhile, had made all possible speed from the Rat-Hole to the bedside of a third patient; in order that his time, on that night, might seem to be sufficiently accounted for by his professional visits. His horse was swift, and he had not spared it in his recent expedition; it would seem impossible that he should have been at points so wide apart, within so short a time. By this means he expected to secure himself from Justice, in her human shape; of her divine form, he had no thought nor fear. Yet, all the way, a voice from the Past, which sounded curiously like his own, kept echoing in his ears, with a dull, dead intonation,--"Crime is a mistake." Well, suppose that it was, he had committed no crime. He had merely placed a particular powder, among many others, where a drunken old man, whose life was of no moment to anybody, could take it or not, at pleasure; he had altered a will in such manner as to give him absolute, instead of partial, control of a certain property, which he intended to use for the advance of science and the benefit of the race; and he had provided for the temporary elimination from affairs of a person likely to obstruct their proper sequence. That was all. What was there in it to cause such a chill depression of spirits,--such an unreasoning dread of--he knew not what?