THE stone which woke Ella Bennett was aimed with such force that the pane cracked. She slipped quickly from bed and pulled aside the curtains. There had been a thunderstorm in the night, and the skies were so grey and heavy, and the light so bad, that she could only distinguish the shape of the man that stood under her window. John Bennett heard her go from her room and came to his door. “Is it Maitland?” he asked. “I think so,” she said. He frowned. “I can’t understand these visits,” he said. “Do you think he’s mad?” She shook her head. After the precipitate flight of the old man on his last visit, she had not expected that he would come again, and guessed that only some matter of the greatest urgency would bring him. She heard her father moving about his room as she went through the darkened dining-room into the passage which opened directly on to the garden. “Is that you, miss?” quavered a voice in the darkness. “Yes, Mr. Maitland.” “Is _he_ up?” he asked in an awe-stricken whisper. “You mean my father? Yes, he’s awake.” “I’ve got to see you,” the old man almost wailed. “They’ve took him.” “Taken whom?” she asked with a catch in her voice. “That fellow Balder. I knew they would.” She remembered having heard Elk mention Balder. “The policeman?” she asked. “Mr. Elk’s man?” But he was off on another tack. “It’s you he’s after.” He came nearer to her and clutched her arm. “I warned you—don’t forget I warned you. Tell him that I warned you. He’ll make it good for me, won’t he?” he almost pleaded, and she began to understand dimly that the “he” to whom the old man was referring was Dick Gordon. “He’s been with me most of the night, prying and asking questions. I’ve had a terrible night, miss, terrible,” he almost sobbed. “First Balder and then him. He’ll get you—not that police gentleman I don’t mean, but Frog. That’s why I wrote you the letter, telling you to come up. You didn’t get no letter, did you, miss?” She could not make head or tail of what he was saying or to whom he was referring, as he went on babbling his story of fear, a story interspersed with wild imprecations against “him.” “Tell your father, dearie, what I said to you.” He became suddenly calmer. “Matilda said I ought to have told your father, but I’m afraid of him, my dear, I’m afraid of him!” He took one of her hands in his and fondled it. “You’ll speak a word for me, won’t you?” She knew he was weeping, though she could not see his face. “Of course I’ll speak a word for you, Mr. Maitland. Oughtn’t you to see a doctor?” she asked anxiously. “No, no, no doctors for me. But tell him, won’t you—not your father, I mean, the other feller—that I did all I could for you. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. They’ve got Balder——” He stopped short suddenly and craned his head forward. “Is that your father?” he asked in a husky whisper. She had heard the footsteps of John Bennett on the stairs.