Presently he came to a quiet spot where the trees grew by the roadside. He crept behind the trunk of one, and stood there to rest awhile, wondering whither he could turn his footsteps to escape the hue-and-cry which he felt sure was now raised. As George Heritage rushed past him, Marks was so astonished that for the moment he did not move. He was about to follow him, when suddenly a cry rang across the stillness of the night: ‘Help! help! help!’ There were lights in the lower rooms up at the hall, and the servants were now hurrying about. With a cry of terror, Marks ran, as well as his aged limbs would let him, up to the house. A fearful suspicion flashed across his mind. George had seen his father. There had been a quarrel, and—— He dared not shape his thoughts into words. Terrified and trembling, he arrived at the hall. ‘What is it?’ he gasped to the old housekeeper, who was on the landing wringing her hands. ‘Thieves and murder’s the matter!’ she screamed. ‘Some villain’s half murdered the master, and carried off all the jewellery and goodness knows what.’ The whole village was gradually aroused by the news of the burglary and the attack on the squire, and every part of the estate was searched for traces of the culprits. Presently there was a great noise heard as of a crowd coming nearer and nearer. The servants ran out to the gates, and returned with the news that one of the burglars was caught. Followed by a crowd came two constables, dragging a man with them. His clothes had been torn to shreds in the struggle, the dirt and dust of the roads were upon him, and the blood from a blow on his head had trickled down his face. None of the crowd knew him. They thought he was a tramp, and in the dark night his face, disfigured as it was, was almost unrecognisable. The crowd stopped outside while the constables led their charge into the hall to confront him with the squire. The prisoner shuddered as he passed the lodge-gates, and looked fearfully at the doorway. There was no one there. Up the broad walk he went, preserving the same dogged silence which had been unbroken since his capture. The officers led him into the library, where the squire sat, still trembling and exhausted from his recent encounter, Marks standing near him. They pushed him into the middle of the room, and then the man raised his eyes. For a moment the squire looked at him wonderingly. Marks, who had turned white and trembled violently as the group entered, gave one agonized glance at the figure before him, and then, throwing up his hands, exclaimed in a tone of horror, ‘Master George!’ The squire’s eyes were fixed upon his son. He recognized him now through the dirt and the blood and the tatters. His lips shaped themselves to speak, he rose trembling from his chair, then, gasping out, ‘My son! It was my son!’ fell forward a huddled-up mass upon the floor.