When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant, “If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my name, old woman?” “No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply. “You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger. “That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat so far over your face.” “Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer Bertram all about it.” “I will, kind gentleman.” “Make haste. Good night.” Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in a contrary direction and galloped away. He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road hid him from Betsy’s view. Instead of riding onward, however, he spurred his horse, and leaped hedge after hedge, until he returned to the farm again in less than ten minutes. He tied his horse to a tree in the orchard, and quietly approached the back door of the farm-house again. All was darkness save a ray of light which issued from the farmer’s chamber. Not a sound was heard except the mournful sighing of keen December night winds among the leafless trees. Now and then, ’tis true, watch dogs shook their chains, and howled most dolefully and dismally, in tones unnatural, ominous and death-like. Silently and softly did Bolton approach the house. “He is alone,” he thought, “and too weak to leave his chamber. Now is my time, while all are away. His treasure must be mine!” He tried the back door. It was locked! “It was not locked when I left,” the villain thought. He tried it again. The door chain rattled! A window above was suddenly and violently slammed too, as if by the wind. This startled Bolton. He crawled round to the parlour window. It was open! He got in, and pulled off his boots. He softly opened the door, and found himself in the large, dark entrance hall. The slow and solemn ticking of the old hall clock seemed to strike his heart with pangs of remorse and horror. He held his breath, and cold sweat oozed from his brow. He could distinctly hear the loud pulsation and wild, excited beatings of his own vile heart as there he stood with wild eyes peering up the broad dark staircase. “All is still,” he said, and prepared to ascend to the sick man’s room. Each step was taken cautiously, and with cat-like softness. But the stairs were old, and creaked with a warning sound. He had reached the first landing, and stood in a dark recess to recover his breath. Onward he went. He could see the light streaming through the keyhole of the old man’s bed-room. There remained now but one more flight of stairs. The first step he took was arrested by an ominous click, which sounded like the cocking of a gun! Bolton’s eyes now glared like two burning coals in the darkness around him. His hand upon the bannister trembled, and a cold sweat flowed from every pore. A sense of deadly horror seized him, but he knew not why.