He turned and walked briskly out of the vicarage and, taking a short cut across the churchyard, made his way to the curve of the road, the bells still clashing out discordantly as he passed through the lich-gate and turned to the Castle cottages--and the duke and the marquis, the captain and the vicar, and Mr. Maverick Narkom, too, followed close upon his heels. CHAPTER XV THE LAYING OF THE VALEHAMPTON "GHOST" AS they issued from the churchyard a couple of gamekeepers, standing on guard with loaded shotguns, challenged them. "That's all right, Norton," said Cleek, as one of them stepped forward to bar the way. "It is only His Grace and the rest of us coming to see the final kick-up. You can let us pass with impunity." "Right, sir," said Norton, and stepped aside. "The beggars made fine work of it, didn't they, Mr. Narkom?" said Cleek with a laugh, as he pointed to the battered condition of the raided cottage. "Door, window, and half the wall battered down! They _were_ an energetic lot! Did they all go in, then, Norton?" "Yes, sir, every blessed one of them; and Mr. Naylor himself with the lot. They'll be coming out in a minute, I'm thinking--fancy I can hear someone running." He had scarcely more than finished speaking than there came a clatter of hasty footsteps running up wooden steps, and presently a man, smeared and streaked with yellow clay, dashed in through the scullery door of the cottage and flung himself across the main room, as if running for dear life. The two gamekeepers rushed forward, and their guns went up like clockwork. "Now, then, _you_! Stop where you are," sang out Norton. "You don't take your hook without there's a line on it--and a sinker, too, if you don't look sharp. Hands up!" The runner obeyed one part of the command at least. That is to say, he stopped short, but instead of throwing up his hands he shouted out in a voice of great excitement: "Don't make a fool of yourself, Norton; it is only I--Naylor. Get a litter! Get a doctor! We've nabbed the two Hurdons and the gypsy, Costivan; but that fellow Carstairs had a pistol with him, the brute, and after putting a ball through Weston's leg and another into Farley's cap, the beggar shot himself." "What's that? Shot himself? Carstairs?" "Oh, that you, Mr. Cleek, is it? Yes, sir, shot himself--through the temple, and I'm afraid he's done himself in." "Dead?" "As a doornail, sir. Hole in his head you could put your two fingers in! It's Weston I want the doctor and the litter for. Carstairs won't need anything any more--his little jig is done!" "And I let the beggar slip me like that!" said Cleek, striking his tongue against the roof of his mouth with a mild clicking sound thrice repeated. "A cold-blooded butcher of that fellow's type--the one real tiger in the whole skulking pack of jackals--and to get off so easily! Too bad, too bad. Well, it can't be helped, I suppose. You got the others all safe and sound, didn't you?" "Yes, sir, all three."