A log fire burnt clearly on the wide stone hearth of the “Mariner’s Rest.” Two men sat smoking. A narrow table held their pots of beer, and they had a dingy pack of cards between them. One of these men had lost the third finger of his right hand, and the sinews having contracted, the maimed hand had the rigidity of a claw. This man was alert in expression, his eyes restless. The receding chin suggested the rodent type, and his ears set back on the narrow head completed it. Opposite him sat Daniel Maidment, and his was an open face, with broad beard, honey-coloured. He wore a blue flannel shirt, falling open at the collar, and a red belt. His hands were brown as mahogany, and he wore gold rings in his ears. Over these two men stood Master Crumblejohn, the landlord, and watched the game. “Dan hasn’t the luck to-night he had yesterday,” said the rat-faced man, in the tone of voice that whines at you, “Dan hasn’t the luck. Not but what you play very well, Dan, my boy--not but what you play re-markably.” Daniel rose from the table, pushing a small pile of silver and copper coins towards his companion in the game. “You’ve got the luck, Rat. I believe it’s that monkey’s paw of yours that gets the cards witched the way you want them,” and he raised his tankard. Crumblejohn watched him as he stood draining it, and in the moment that Dan’s face was covered, the landlord looked at the rat-faced man. Some intelligence passed between them. A message slid from the lowered lid of old Crumblejohn to the shifty, watery eyes of the man called Rat. Daniel replaced the tankard, and saying good-night to his companions, left the room. Crumblejohn rose and barred the shutters and locked the outer door, then closing the door of communication between the inner parlour and the kitchen, he sat down again to smoke. “We’ve got a big job on hand, and it’s likely to miscarry if we can’t get a message over. How do you think Dan’l is working out in the matter?” he asked of his companion. “He won’t come in,” Rat replied in his whingeing voice. “And if you think you’ll get Dan’l into it you’re much mistaken, my friend; what’s more, we must keep an eye on Dan’l.” “Keep an eye on him?” said Crumblejohn, “a more guileless crittur you couldn’t find, to my thinking. Keep our eye on Dan’l?” he repeated. “What d’you think he’s hanging about here for, living as he does two villages off?” said the other. “D’you think he comes here for the hair and hexercise? No, he’s deeper than what you take him for, is Dan’l--you take my word for it. What news of the Lambkin, eh?” “Nothing but this,” answered Crumblejohn, stretching a bit of rag upon the table. Both men leaned closely over it, deciphering with difficulty the ill-written message it contained:-- “_Fresh lot to be shipped 18. If change of place, send lad._” “When did you get this?” asked Rat.