“That's right, Martin,” he said kindly. “That's the kind of boy I thought you.” Again we were quiet, till at last he said: “You're going in a barquentine to Dartmouth. Can you remember Blick of Kingswear?” “Blick of Kingswear,” I repeated. “Yes, sir.” “He's the man you're to go to.” “Yes, sir. What am I to tell him?” “Tell him this, Martin. Listen carefully. This, now. King Golden Cap. After Six One.” “King Golden Cap. After Six One,” I repeated. “Blick of Kingswear. King Golden Cap. After Six One.” “That's right,” he said. “Repeat it over. Don't forget a word of it. But I know you're too careful a lad to do that.” There was no fear of my forgetting it. I think that message is burned in into my brain under the skull-bones. “There'll be cipher messages, too, Martin. They're also for Mr. Blick. You'll carry a little leather satchel, with letters sewn into the flap. You'll carry stockings in the satchel. Or school-books. You are Mr. Blick's sister's son, left an orphan in Holland. You'll be in mourning. Your mother died of low-fever, remember, coming over to collect a debt from her factor. Your mother was an Oulton fish-boat owner. Pay attention now. I'm going to cross-examine you in your past history.” As we rode on into the gloom, in the still, flat, misty land, which gleamed out at whiles with water dykes, he cross-examined me in detail, in several different ways, just as a magistrate would have done it. I was soon letter-perfect about my mother. I knew Mr. Blick's past history as well as I knew my own. “Martin,” said Mr. Jermyn suddenly. “Do you hear anything?” “Yes, sir,” I answered. “I think I do, sir.” “What is it you hear, Martin?” “I think I hear a horse's hoofs, sir.” “Behind us?” “Yes, sir. A long way behind.” “Hold on then, boy. I'm going to pull up.” We halted for an instant in the midst of a wide fiat desert, the loneliest place on God's earth. For an instant in the stillness we heard the trot trot of a horse's hoofs. Then the unseen rider behind us halted, too, as though uncertain how to ride, with our hoofs silent. “There,” said Mr. Jermyn. “You see. Now we'll make him go on again.” He shook the horse into his trot again, talking to him in a little low voice that shook with excitement. Sure enough, after a moment the trot sounded out behind us. It was as though our wraiths were riding behind us, following us home. “I'll make sure,” said Mr. Jermyn, pulling up again. “You're a cunning dog,” he said gently. “You heard that?” Indeed, it sounded uncanny. The unseen rider had feared to pull up, guessing that we had guessed his intentions. Instead of pulling up he did a much more ominous thing, he slowed his pace perceptibly. We could hear the change in the beat of the horse-hoofs. “Cunning lad,” said Mr. Jermyn. “I've a good mind to shoot that man, Martin. He's following us. Pity it's so dark. One can never be sure in the dark like this. But I don't know. I'd like to see who it is.”