“None, my lord,” answered the man-servant, drawing a soft pace backward as he watched that rigid face. “Send Sturton to me.” “Yes, my lord.” “And hark’ee! If I should ring again, see that Tom and Roger answer—themselves only!” “Yes, my lord!” murmured the servant, shrinking again as with a last stealthy glance he went softly forth, closing the door gently behind him. So Orme and Lingley had gone! Even they had deserted him at last! Well, so much the better ... considering. But the smile that distorted my lord’s mouth was evil to see. And after some while the door opened and Mr. Sturton appeared, who, at sign from my lord, entered and closed the door. “So—o—o!” said his lordship, dwelling upon the word while he stared into the haggard face before him. “You have failed—again, Sturton?” “’Twas no fault o’ mine, my lord; in another ten minutes we should ha’ had him safe aboard ship——” “Ship?” The word was almost a whisper, and yet James Sturton recoiled and his face seemed even more livid as he met the speaker’s glance. “Fool!” continued my lord in the same dreadful, hushed voice. “Fool, in the corner yonder you will find a sheet o’ crumpled paper ... open and read it ... read it—aloud!” Looking whither my lord pointed, Mr. Sturton took up and smoothed the crumpled sheet, glanced at it and hesitated. “Aloud, my lord?” “Aloud, fool!” Then, mumbling somewhat, Mr. Sturton read as follows: “Sir John Dering begs to say that unless my Lord Sayle is out of the country within forty-eight hours, Sir John proposes calling upon my Lord Sayle with the stoutest horse-whip to be found.” “And you said ‘ship,’ I think?” inquired my lord in the same strangled voice. “My lord, once aboard that ship he would trouble your lordship never again.” “‘Trouble me never again!’” murmured Lord Sayle. “He never will ... he never shall ... but a ship? No, no!... A ship? Pshaw! We know a better way and a surer—eh, Sturton?” “Your—your lordship means?” “Exactly what you are thinking, Sturton!” As he spoke, my lord crossed to a cabinet and, opening a drawer, came back with a brace of pistols in his hands. Now, glancing from these murderous things to the face above, James Sturton flung out wild hands and started back. “No, no!” he cried. “Not this way, my lord; I cannot!” “You will!” nodded my lord gently. “You know very well he walks or rides frequently to High Dering of an evening—alone! It will be simple.” “My lord, I ... I cannot!” “Meaning you will not?” James Sturton stared desperately about him at floor and ceiling and walls, but never once at the speaker’s face; finally he spoke: “I ... I cannot, my lord.” “Ah!” said his lordship, and stood regarding Sturton with an expression of mild curiosity. “So you—refuse?” “I do, my lord!” mumbled the wretched man. “Knowing that I can hang you for the murderer you already are? Still, you—refuse?” “My lord, I do.... I must.... I—I cannot do it!”