The great kitchen, with its huge fireplace and carved settle corners, showed that this dwelling was an old-time farmhouse. On one side of the room a line of boxes stood all corded and packed. The furniture was scant and plain, but on a trestle-table in the centre some supper, cold meat, bread, and a jug of beer was laid for me. An elderly manservant, as manifest a Cockney as his master, waited upon me, while my uncle, sitting in a corner, asked me many questions as to my mother and myself. When my meal was finished he ordered his man Enoch to unpack my gun. I observed that two other guns, old rusted weapons, were leaning against the wall beside the window. “It’s the window I’m afraid of,” said my uncle, in the deep, reverberant voice which contrasted oddly with his plump little figure. “The door’s safe against anything short of dynamite, but the window’s a terror. Hi! hi!” he yelled, “don’t walk across the light! You can duck when you pass the lattice.” “For fear of being seen?” I asked. “For fear of bein’ shot, my lad. That’s the trouble. Now, come an’ sit beside me on the trestle ’ere, and I’ll tell you all about it, for I can see that you are the right sort and can be trusted.” His flattery was clumsy and halting, and it was evident that he was very eager to conciliate me. I sat down beside him, and he drew a folded paper from his pocket. It was a _Western Morning News_, and the date was ten days before. The passage over which he pressed a long, black nail was concerned with the release from Dartmoor of a convict named Elias, whose term of sentence had been remitted on account of his defence of a warder who had been attacked in the quarries. The whole account was only a few lines long. “Who is he, then?” I asked. My uncle cocked his distorted foot into the air. “That’s ’is mark!” said he. “’E was doin’ time for that. Now ’e’s out an’ after me again.” “But why should he be after you?” “Because ’e wants to kill me. Because ’e’ll never rest, the worrying devil, until ’e ’as ’ad ’is revenge on me. It’s this way, nephew! I’ve no secrets from you. ’e thinks I’ve wronged ’im. For argument’s sake we’ll suppose I ’ave wronged ’im. And now ’im and ’is friends are after me.” “Who are his friends?” My uncle’s boom sank suddenly to a frightened whisper. “Sailors!” said he. “I knew they would come when I saw that ’ere paper, and two days ago I looked through that window and three of them was standin’ lookin’ at the ’ouse. It was after that that I wrote to your mother. They’ve marked me down, and they’re waitin’ for ’im.” “But why not send for the police?” My uncle’s eyes avoided mine. “Police are no use,” said he. “It’s you that can help me.” “What can I do?”