It was now after ten o'clock, and most of the villagers were in bed. Mr Raston then ventured upon a course of which he would have thought twice had the situation been less desperate. He placed his hands to his mouth and sent an Australian "cooe" through the night. This accomplishment had been taught to him by an Australian cousin. As this especial cry carried further than most shouts, Raston congratulated himself that he knew how to give it. It was the only way of getting into communication with Marton. After shouting once or twice, Raston heard a faint cry in response. It came from the right. So the curate, feeling his way along the houses, started in that direction, shouting at intervals. Shortly the answering cry sounded close at hand, and after some difficulty and inarticulate conversation the two men met. With an ejaculation Marton grasped the hand of his friend. "Thank Heaven you have found me," said the detective. "I have been going round in a circle." "Did you catch up with Pratt?" asked Raston. "No; the rascal disappeared into the fog, and I lost myself in pursuit of him in about three minutes." "Why do you call him a rascal?" "Because he is one; I know all about him. But I never thought I should have stumbled on 'Mr Angel' in this locality. I feel like Saul, who went out to look for his asses and stumbled on a kingdom." "Is his name Angel?" "That is _one_ of his names; he has at least a dozen. Why he should have chosen one that fitted him so badly I cannot say." By this time Raston, holding on to Marton's coat sleeve, had guided the detective back to his lodgings. The man was shivering with cold, for he had gone out without coat or hat. He hastily swallowed a glass of port, and began getting his things to go out. "You're not going into that fog again!" protested Raston. "You'll only get lost." "Not under your capable guidance," laughed the detective. "You must guide me to the house of this Mr Pratt. I intend to arrest him." "Arrest him!" echoed the curate, staring. "Dear me, what has he done?" "Ask me what he hasn't done," said Marton, with a curl of his lip, "and I'll be better able to tell you. It's a long story, Raston, and time is passing; I want to go to the man's house. Is it far from here?" "Some little distance," replied the curate, wondering at this haste. "I can find my way to it by guiding myself along the walls. But you can't arrest him, Marton, whatever he has done, unless you have a warrant." "I accept all responsibility on that score," replied Marton, grimly. "The police have wanted Mr Angel, _alias_ Pratt, for many a long day. Now the rascal knows that I am here, he will clear out of Colester in double quick time. I want to act promptly and take him by surprise. Now don't ask questions, my dear fellow, but take me to the house. I'll tell you all about this man later on. By the way, he is the individual who gave your church this celebrated cup?" "Yes. I really hope there is nothing wrong."