“Yes, my lord. He is leaving no stone unturned that can work to my injury.” “Then, depend upon it, the story of the arrest is all a sham, and so are his wounds. I know our Headlandshire constables better than that. But wait till we have him in sight.” “It can not be long, my lord.” “I pray it may not be.” Late on the evening of this second day, so late that Percy had retired to his chamber at the inn for the night, as he sat by his small table reading, he was disturbed by a rap on his door, and upon bidding the applicant to enter, the door was opened by the rosy-faced host, who ushered into the room Donald Rodney. “My dear old friend!” as soon as the landlord had gone and closed the door, “what now? You know I am glad to see you under any circumstances, but something unusual must have happened to bring you hither at such an hour.” “Something unusual has happened, Percy, and I thought you’d like to know. This evenin’, along about eight, or just when it was fairly dark, a boat from the landing came alongside with Abel Jackman in it. He, ye know, is Cap’n Tryon’s servant. He came aboard with orders for three men--Gurt Warnell, Bryan Vank, and Jack Dormer--to come with him and join the cap’n on shore. P’raps ye know, and p’raps ye don’t, them is three of the very worst--the bloodiest villains of the lot. Well, they went ashore with Jackman, but where they’ve gone or what it all means I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon. All is, I made an excuse that I’d got business ashore that couldn’t be put off, and here I am.” “You don’t know whether Tryon is here in town or not?” “No, I’m not sure anything about it; but the fancy kind o’ strikes me that he is. Something that Abel Jackman said give me the idea that he couldn’t be a great way off.” “And you know nothing more about him?” “Not a thing, my dear boy. If anything comes to my knowledge, you shall hear of it.” Percy called for a bowl of punch, which the old seaman preferred to wine, and after a social chat on various matters, but chiefly on the subject of the pirate chief, and his possible intentions for the future, the visitor took his leave. Our hero, when left alone, paced to and fro in his chamber, far from satisfied with the appearance which matters connected with Ralph Tryon had assumed. He did not like it at all. Why had the villain thus come back under cover of night? And why had he sent off his servant to the brig, instead of going himself? And, further still, what did he want with those three men? He remembered them very well. They were comparatively young men, young in years, but evidently old in crime. They were strong, muscular, brutish fellows, in all probability from the slums of the metropolis. These were the men whom the chief had called to his aid. Once more, what did he want with them? For a full hour the young man remained up, a prey to various and conflicting emotions, and not until he had become too worn and weary to think further did he seek his pillow.