The voice of Rooksby hailed me suddenly from downstairs. “Hey, John--John Kemp; come down, I say!” I started away from the glass as if I had been taken in an act of folly. Rooksby was flicking his leg with his switch in the doorway, at the bottom of the narrow flight of stairs. He wanted to talk to me, he said, and I followed him out through the yard on to the soft road that climbs the hill to westward. The evening was falling slowly and mournfully; it was dark already in the folds of the sombre downs. We passed the corner of the orchard. “I know what you’ve got to tell me,” I said. “You’re going to marry Veronica. Well, you’ve no need of my blessing. Some people have all the luck. Here am I ... look at me!” Ralph walked with his head bent down. “Confound it,” I said, “I shall run away to sea! I tell you, I’m rotting, rotting! There! I say, Ralph, give me Carlos’ direction....” I caught hold of his arm. “I’ll go after him. He’d show me a little life. He said he would.” Ralph remained lost in a kind of gloomy abstraction, while I went on worrying him for Carlos’ address. “Carlos is the only soul I know outside five miles from here. Besides, he’s friends in the Indies. That’s where I want to go, and he could give me a cast. You remember what Tomas Castro said....” Rooksby came to a sudden halt, and began furiously to switch his corded legs. “Curse Carlos, and his Castro, too. They’ll have me in jail betwixt them. They’re both in my red barn, if you want their direction....” He hurried on suddenly up the hill, leaving me gazing upwards at him. When I caught him up he was swearing--as one did in those days--and stamping his foot in the middle of the road. “I tell you,” he said violently, “it’s the most accursed business! That Castro, with his Cuba, is nothing but a blasted buccaneer... and Carlos is no better. They go to Liverpool for a passage to Jamaica, and see what comes of it!” It seems that on Liverpool docks, in the owl-light, they fell in with an elderly hunks just returned from West Indies, who asks the time at the door of a shipping agent. Castro pulls out a watch, and the old fellow jumps on it, vows it’s his own, taken from him years before by some picaroons on his outward voyage. Out from the agent’s comes another, and swears that Castro is one of the self-same crew. He himself purported to be the master of the very ship. Afterwards--in the solitary dusk among the ropes and bales--there had evidently been some play with knives, and it ended with a flight to London, and then down to Rooksby’s red barn, with the runners in full cry after them. “Think of it,” Rooksby said, “and me a justice, and... oh, it drives me wild, this hole-and-corner work! There’s a filthy muddle with the Free Traders--a whistle to blow after dark at the quarry. To-night of all nights, and me a justice... and as good as a married man!”