“And who asked _you_ to speak?” Bates growled, in such a wicked manner as made Tim stop on the instant. “Misfortune follows misfortune,” sighed Tim to himself; “it is out of the frying-pan into the fire. When will all these strange ups and downs cease?” “The truth is, young man,” said Captain Jack to Bob Bertram, after he had bandaged his comrades’ wounds, “the truth is as you say, we _have_ fallen into rough hands to-night—very rough hands indeed. Did you ever hear of a person hereabouts called Bob Bertram?” “Yes, I think I have,” said Bob, coolly. “What of that?” “Well, it’s all through him that we’ve got all these cuts and wounds.” “Indeed!” “Yes,” said Captain Jack, inventing lies as he went on; “we are officers of the crown, and were sent to escort this Bob Bertram to London, but he escaped just in time. We got scent of where he was hiding, and overtook the carriage in which he was escaping. Like brave men and good officers, we attacked it, but just as we were on the point of securing the rascal, out pounces a score of villains upon us from a wood. After a desperate encounter we killed and wounded a great many, but were at last compelled to fly, for the whole village was at our heels.” “Indeed!” said Bob, in wonder; “but are you sure that the person in the carriage really _was_ Bob Bertram?” “Not a doubt of it!” said Captain Jack, pleased with his well-told string of lies. During this conversation, and while Jack was dilating at great length upon the bravery of himself and comrades, a stranger entered the room and took a seat on the dark side of the fire-place. Bob and Tim exchanged quick looks at one another on the stranger’s entrance. It was not Wildfire Ned. Who, then, could it be? It was Phillip Redgill. The place where he sat was shaded from the firelight so completely that he had a good view of each person’s countenance, but yet no one saw his own. “You are mistaken, my friend,” said Redgill, at the conclusion of Captain Jack’s remarks, “you are mistaken; the murderer, Bob Bertram, was not in the carriage at all.” “No!” “Who dare dispute our word?” “Who told you so?” said Bates, Faulkner, and Captain Jack in a breath, and in tones of annoyance. “_I_ did!” said Redgill, rising, “the murderer was not near the spot.” “Not near the place?” “No! he was sitting quietly in the parlour of a roadside inn during the whole of the fight.” “Prove it.” “Do you want to make us all out liars, then?” “I _can_ prove it!” said Redgill, all the time speaking in a forced voice, quite unnatural to him; “and if you put me to the test, I can tell you where the murderer is now at this present moment.” “Ha!” “Where?” “There’s a good reward offered, tell us at once,” said Captain Jack and others. “You have not to look far for him,” said Redgill, with a triumphant laugh. Bob Bertram’s blood now ran cold. “I am betrayed,” he thought, “and must fight my way out of this.” “And who told you?” said Bates.