Presently there was a somewhat heavy lurching noise as the ex-sailor came up the stairs and entered the library with his usual scrape and half-salute. Tumpany was not drunk, but he was not quite sober. He was excited by the prospect of the three days' sport in Essex and he had been celebrating the coming treat in the Mortland Royal Arms. He had enjoyed beer in the kitchen of the old house--by Lothian's orders. "Now be here by seven sharp to-morrow, Tumpany," Lothian said, still in his quiet level voice. "We must catch the nine o'clock from Wordingham without fail. I'm going out for an hour or two on the marshes. The widgeon are working over the West Meils with this moon and I may get a shot or two." "Cert'nly, sir. Am I to come, sir?" "No, I think you had better go home and get to bed. You've a long day before you to-morrow. I shan't be out late." "Very good, sir. You'll take Trust? Shall I go and let him out?" Lothian seemed to hesitate, while he cast a shrewd glance under his eyelids at the man. "Well, what do you think?" he asked. "I ought to be able to pick up any birds I get myself in this light, and on the West Meils. I shan't stay out long either. You see, Trust has to go with us to-morrow and he's always miserable in the guard's van. He'll have to work within a few hours of our arrival and I thought it best to give him as much rest as possible beforehand. He isn't really necessary to me to-night. But what do you think?" Tumpany was flattered--as it was intended that he should be flattered--at his advice being asked in this way. He agreed entirely with his master. "Very well then. You'd better go down again to the kitchen. I'll be with you in ten minutes. Then you can walk with me to the marsh head and carry the bag." Tumpany scrambled away to kitchen regions for more beer. Lothian walked slowly up and down the library. His head was falling forward upon his chest. He was thinking, planning. Every detail must be gone into. It was always owing to neglect of detail that things fell through, that _things_ were found out. Nemesis waited on the failure of fools! A week ago the word "Nemesis" would have terrified him and sent him into the labyrinth of self-torture--crossings, touchings, and the like. Now it meant nothing. Yes: that was all right. Tumpany would accompany him to the end of the village--the farthest end of the village from the "Haven"--there could be no possible idea. . . . Lothian nodded his head and then opened a drawer in the wall below the gun cupboard. He searched in it for a moment and withdrew a small square object wrapped in tissue paper. It was a spare oil-bottle for a gun-case. The usual oil-receptacle in a gun-case is exactly like a small, square ink-bottle, though with this difference; when the metal top is unscrewed, it brings with it an inch long metal rod, about the thickness of a knitting needle but flattened at the end.