"Oh, dear no! I can’t imagine anything of the kind," said the officer, cheerily. "Don’t be down-hearted. He’ll come home-along by-and-by as large as life. I’ll ride to the wood and look about, and tell my men to search too. The young rascal! Up to some mischief, you may be sure. Go home, my good woman, and don’t distress yourself, and you folks, instead of standing gossiping here, go and hunt. Christmas Day is coming, you know, and we must have Jake back in time for the parson’s dinner." But the day closed without the discovery of any trace of the missing lad, and some of Mrs. Tonkin’s kind neighbours were already condoling with her on the loss of her only son, and assuring her that Zacky would be in a terrible way when he came home. Mr. Mildmay and the riding-officer supped together before setting out, the one by sea, the other by land, for the scene of the expected run. "Would to heaven we had never come to terms with Doubledick!" said Mr. Polwhele. "Never again for me, Mildmay. Set a thief to catch a thief, they say, but I don’t know how you feel: I feel myself a mean rascal, old stager as I am at the game." "Honestly, I agree with you, and having Jake Tonkin mewed up here complicates things desperately. The moment he is let loose he’ll tell his father, and if I know the man, Doubledick’s life won’t be worth a snap of the finger." "Well, I warned him. I couldn’t foresee that Jake would come upon him in that accidental way. Scheme as we will, Mildmay, there’s a Power that overrules us all." "The best thing we can do now is to warn Doubledick. We’ve gone into partnership with the fellow, and we can’t in honour keep silence. Give him a chance to escape." "You’re right. I’ll call at the inn as I ride down, and tell him we have Jake locked up here. That will give him about twelve hours’ grace—time to clear away bag and baggage." When the lieutenant went aboard his cutter, Mr. Polwhele entered the inn. "Where’s Doubledick?" he asked of the inn-keeper’s wife. "He be gone along to Trura, Maister," she replied, in her usual vinegary manner. "What for?" "Well, I don’t know as it be any business o’ yourn, but ’tis to buy some figs for the pa’son’s dinner." "Oh, well, if he comes back, tell him I want to see him first thing in the morning, will you?" "He hain’t done nawthin’ agen the law." "I’m glad of that. Don’t forget my message." Mr. Polwhele left, firmly convinced that Doubledick had become suspicious and already beat a retreat. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST The Attack on the Towers