Turning away from the smoking ruins, Dick pursued his homeward way. A few minutes later he was surprised to see, stepping into the road from the unfenced moorland, the same figure as he had seen twenty minutes before going in the contrary direction. The man had come from the village; why then had he chosen so roundabout a route? His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Dick hurried on after the lumbering figure, expecting to overtake it before it reached the Towers. He was struck by the strange fact that while his own footsteps rang on the hard surface of the road, he heard nothing of the movements of the man in front, though the wind was blowing towards him. Fast as he walked, the distance between them did not appear to lessen. He was convinced now that the man was a smuggler, hurrying to avoid observation. He slackened his pace; it was not worth while chasing the man, even to discover his identity. To-morrow was Christmas; he was going to sell his burden, so that he might have the wherewithal to make merry on the festive day. The man had just passed the gate leading to the Towers. In less than a minute Dick would turn into the drive and lose sight of him. But suddenly there was a dull thud behind, and a glare momentarily lit up the sky. A portion of the masonry of the Dower House had fallen into the smouldering mass below, and stirred a fitful flame. Immediately afterwards he heard a hoarse cry in front, then a sound of scrambling, of snapping twigs, of heavy footsteps in the field on the other side of the hedge in the direction of St. Cuby’s Well. Dick knew that there was a gap a few yards beyond the gate; he raced on, forced his way through, and sprinted after the retreating footsteps. Coming on to higher ground, he was able to see, in the dim diffused light thrown by the flickering flames behind, two figures, separated by a short interval, rushing towards the well. One minute they were visible; the next, where the ground dipped, they disappeared into pitchy darkness.