His lordship slowly and deliberately returned the weapons to the drawer, locked it, and stood awhile staring at the key in his hand. “Why, then,” said he at last, still intent upon the key, “perhaps you will be good enough to pull the bell.” Mr. Sturton obeyed, but, chancing to catch a glimpse of my lord’s face in the mirror, he glanced apprehensively towards the door with the wild glare of one who suddenly finds himself in a trap; but even as he stared at it, the door opened and two men entered. For a moment was silence; then, without troubling to turn, my lord spoke: “You will take this white-livered cur ... strip him and—drive him out! Strip him—you understand!” Ensued riot and confusion; but, despite his cries and desperate struggles, James Sturton was seized and dragged away at last; then my Lord Sayle, chin on breast, stared out into the sunny garden again. Slowly the glory faded and the shadows deepened as evening approached, but surely never was there shadow so dark, so ominous, so evil to behold as that upon the face of my Lord Sayle. Now if, by some coincidence, he had chanced to be regarding the noble constellation of Orion, as was Corporal Robert Doubleday, surely no two pairs of eyes ever gazed upon Orion’s glittering belt with expression so vastly different! For this evening the Corporal’s eyes held a light all their own, his lean, brown face wore an expression of extraordinary gentleness, and as he strode blithely across fragrant meadow he even essayed to sing; to be sure, his voice was somewhat husky, and creaked a little uncertainly as by lack of use, but he sang perseveringly, none the less, an old marching song he had sung often in Flanders years ago, set to the tune of “Lilliburlero.” But, all at once, in the very middle of a note, he checked voice and foot together as forth from a hedge before him protruded a head and a pair of stalwart shoulders clad in an old frieze coat. “Ha! Is that you, George Potter?” “My own self, Mus’ Robert. Might you ha’ chanced to see a man ... or, say, two ... hereabouts, as you come along?” “Not a soul!” “Ah! An’ wheer might Sir John Dering be now, Mus’ Robert, d’ye s’pose?” “I left him at ‘The Cross,’ but he usually walks abroad of an evening.” “Aye, so ’e do, Mus’ Robert ... but ... doan’t ’ee let ’im goo out o’ your sight this night.” “Why not? What d’ye mean, George?” “Well, rackon it bean’t no-wise ’ealthy-like for Sir John to goo a-walkin’ to-night alone, ah—an’ p’r’aps not then.” “And why? Ah ... d’ye think——” “Aye, I do think!” nodded Mr. Potter. “I think as mebbe Murder’ll be a-walkin’ to-night.” “Murder?” repeated the Corporal, falling back a step. “Murder? What d’ye mean, man? Speak plain.” “Why, then, I means plain murder.” “Who d’ye mean, George?” “Well, there be them as wishes others dead, d’ye see—but mum! Only I should keep ’im safe indoors to-night if I was you.”