“Quiet, Roddy!” whispered Jim. “By heavens, come what may, my arms are going round it this time.” We crouched as motionless as the trunks behind us. Heavy steps ploughed their way through the soft gravel, and a broad figure loomed upon us in the darkness. Jim sprang upon it like a tiger. “_You’re_ not a spirit, anyway!” he cried. The man gave a shout of surprise, and then a growl of rage. “What the deuce!” he roared, and then, “I’ll break your neck if you don’t let go.” The threat might not have loosened Jim’s grip, but the voice did. “Why, uncle!” he cried. “Well, I’m blessed if it isn’t Boy Jim! And what’s this? Why, it’s young Master Rodney Stone, as I’m a living sinner! What in the world are you two doing up at Cliffe Royal at this time of night?” We had all moved out into the moonlight, and there was Champion Harrison with a big bundle on his arm,—and such a look of amazement upon his face as would have brought a smile back on to mine had my heart not still been cramped with fear. “We’re exploring,” said Jim. “Exploring, are you? Well, I don’t think you were meant to be Captain Cooks, either of you, for I never saw such a pair of peeled-turnip faces. Why, Jim, what are you afraid of?” “I’m not afraid, uncle. I never was afraid; but spirits are new to me, and—” “Spirits?” “I’ve been in Cliffe Royal, and we’ve seen the ghost.” The Champion gave a whistle. “That’s the game, is it?” said he. “Did you have speech with it?” “It vanished first.” The Champion whistled once more. “I’ve heard there is something of the sort up yonder,” said he; “but it’s not a thing as I would advise you to meddle with. There’s enough trouble with the folk of this world, Boy Jim, without going out of your way to mix up with those of another. As to young Master Rodney Stone, if his good mother saw that white face of his, she’d never let him come to the smithy more. Walk slowly on, and I’ll see you back to Friar’s Oak.” We had gone half a mile, perhaps, when the Champion overtook us, and I could not but observe that the bundle was no longer under his arm. We were nearly at the smithy before Jim asked the question which was already in my mind. “What took _you_ up to Cliffe Royal, uncle?” “Well, as a man gets on in years,” said the Champion, “there’s many a duty turns up that the likes of you have no idea of. When you’re near forty yourself, you’ll maybe know the truth of what I say.” So that was all we could draw from him; but, young as I was, I had heard of coast smuggling and of packages carried to lonely places at night, so that from that time on, if I had heard that the preventives had made a capture, I was never easy until I saw the jolly face of Champion Harrison looking out of his smithy door. CHAPTER III. THE PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS.