"_Everything_ is wrong. I expect the cup was stolen--" "It _is_ stolen--" "Pshaw! I don't mean this time. Pratt stole it himself. I wonder he dare present his spoils to the Church. The fellow must have very little religion to think such an ill-gotten gift could be acceptable." "Stolen!" murmured Raston, putting on his coat. "But why--who is Pratt?" "Simply the cleverest thief in the three kingdoms. Come along!" Raston gasped, but he had no time to ask further questions. The detective had him by the arm and was hurrying him to the door. When outside he made the curate lead, and followed close on his heels. Raston, rather dazed by this experience, turned in the direction of The Nun's House, and, guiding himself along the walls and houses, managed to get into the street in which it stood--that is, he and Marton found themselves on the highroad which led down to King's-meadows. It was fully an hour before they got as far as this, for the fog grew denser every moment. Finally, Raston stumbled on the gate, drew his friend inside with an ejaculation of satisfaction, and walked swiftly up the path that led to the house. On the ground floor all was dark, but in the centre window of the second storey a light was burning. Marton did not wait for the curate, but ran up the steps and knocked at the door; he also rang, and he did both violently. For a time there was no response, then the light disappeared from the window above. In a few minutes the noise of the bolts being withdrawn was heard, and the rattle of the chain. The door opened to show Leo in his dressing-gown standing on the threshold with a lighted candle in his hand. He looked bewildered and angry, as though he had just been aroused from his first sleep, which indeed was the case. "What the devil is the matter?" he asked crossly, peering out into the night. "You make enough noise to wake the dead! Who is it?" "It is I, and a friend, Haverleigh," said the curate, pushed forward by the detective. "Is Mr Pratt within?" "I suppose so," replied Leo, much astonished at this nocturnal visitation; "he is no doubt in bed. I can't understand why he did not hear the noise you made. Has he left anything at your place, Raston?" "Ah! You knew he was going to see Mr Raston?" put in Marton, sharply. "He left here over two hours ago, and I went to bed. Then I heard him come back just as I was falling asleep, but he did not come up to my room. If you will tell me what is the matter, I'll rouse him. "Let us enter, Haverleigh," said the curate, who was shivering. "We have much to tell you."