“No; he has escaped.” “How know you this?” “I just came from the village. All is in an uproar. Wildfire Ned, Sir Richard Warbeck’s adopted nephew, is the hero who released him.” The thievish thief-takers were amazed at what they heard. “And now,” said the stranger; “since your mission here is ended, return to town; do you hear me? Return this very hour and carry this strange news to the proper authorities. And mark me, Captain Jack, every one of you remember that if you do not track and discover the real murderer of Farmer Bertram in less than two months, I’ll report you to the king; your death-warrants are now in my pocket. See them,” said the stranger, exhibiting a bundle of printed forms. “Here is one for Captain Jack, another for this red-nosed ass on the floor—Bates, I mean—a third for Faulkner there; in fine, I have been kind enough to provide each of you with a passport into the other world. As you may observe, they only require _my_ signature.” “And who the devil _are_ you?” gasped out one and all. “I’ll let you see—but I had better write it on one of these death-warrants, say yours, Captain Jack, it will save me trouble afterwards. Landlord, pen and ink.” “Do you know _that_ name?” said the stranger, after writing it. All the rascals looked at it in astonishment. “The devil!” said Captain Jack. “Not the devil, exactly,” said the stranger coolly; “but your very humble servant, _Colonel Blood_! a gentleman, I can assure you, who will feel great pleasure in introducing each of you to the common hangman, unless you produce in two months the real murderer of Farmer Bertram, and serve me at all times.” The stranger was in truth no other than Colonel Blood, but what brought him so far from London was a mystery which we shall have to clear up shortly. CHAPTER IX. THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER—COLONEL BLOOD FALLS INTO ROUGH HANDS—THE MURDER ON THE BRIDGE. The reason that Colonel Blood was so far from London is easily explained by what took place in Darlington the second night of his visit. The miller of the village, Hugh Harmer, had a very pretty daughter named Ellen, who was the pride and the toast of the surrounding country. Like a hawk poised in the air, gazing on his intended prey below, did Colonel Blood hover around Hugh Harmer’s house close by the bubbling and splashing mill-stream. He had espied Ellen by chance, and in her saw not the virtuous village maiden, but a beautiful object for his master, the Merry Monarch, who, Blood knew, would pay any price to gratify his beastial passions. Captain Jack and his rough party had left the inn but half-an-hour, when a card was brought to Blood by some one old Horn had never seen before. “Admit the stranger, landlord,” said Blood. A sorrowful-looking fellow walked in, hat in hand. He was very wet from head to foot, and his clothes were in rags around him. “Have you seen her?” “Her answer is here,” said the stranger, producing a small note out of his breast pocket.