He stood for a moment or two watching the innkeeper’s receding form, then turned to re-enter the house. But it happened that, in the very act of turning, he caught sight of a dark figure slinking away from a furze bush in Doubledick’s wake. He slipped into the house, turned out the lamps in the passage and the room, and in a quarter of a minute came out again, the darkness completely veiling his movements. With swift steps he followed the two figures down the slope, drawing near to the second of them under cover of the bushes. Having assured himself that Doubledick was being deliberately shadowed, he bent low, rapidly made a circuit, and concealed himself behind a clump which the stealthy pursuer must pass. As the man came abreast of him, wholly engrossed in keeping the innkeeper in view, Polwhele suddenly sprang out, caught his victim by the throat so that he could utter no more than the faintest gurgle, and bore him to the ground. Then, whipping out his pistol, he whispered: "If you make a sound I will shoot you. Get up and come with me." Keeping a firm hand on the fallen man’s collar, he lugged him to his feet, marched him back to the house, and thrust him through the still open door, which he bolted behind him. "So ’tis you, Jake Tonkin," he said, as he relit the lamp. "Iss, ’tis I. Let me go, Maister. Doubledick said ’twas I that split, the villain! Let me go. Scrounch me if the two-faced wretch don’t suffer for this!" "I’m afraid I can’t let you go yet, my son," said the riding-officer. "Now ’tis no good kicking or shouting. Remain quiet, and in a day or two you shall go, safe and sound. If you give trouble I shall have to deal with you as your folk dealt with Penwarden." Jake sullenly submitted. Mr. Polwhele gave him supper, then locked him into a room where the window was heavily barred. "I am sick of this," he thought, as he returned to his own room. "’Tis well Doubledick is going, or, by George, there would be murder." Next morning Sam Pollex, going down to the village to buy some raisins for a plum-pudding, overtook Susan Berry, John Trevanion’s housemaid. "Aw, Ma’am, ye do look wisht, sure enough," said Sam, remarking the gloomy aspect of Maidy Susan’s usually merry face. "And so I be, Sam," she replied, "I wish I were to-home, I do." "Now that be cruel to we, daze me if it bean’t. Why do ’ee wish sech a cruel thing, Ma’am?" "Why, to-morrer be Christmas Eve, and there’ll be no ashton fagot, and no egg-hot, like us have to-home." "What be they, Maidy?" "Don’t ’ee know that? Why, the fagot be made of ash-sticks tied about wi’ nine twigs, and on Christmas Eve ’tis dragged to the Squire’s hearth and set ablaze; and then we do dance and jump for cakes, and dive for apples in a tub o’ water. Oh, ’tis sech fun, you can’t think! And then we drink egg-hot——" "What’s that, if it be so pleasin’?" "Why, silly chiel, ’tis cider and eggs and spice, made as hot as ’ee can drink it."