"I think I am able to follow you, my friend. You mean 'To-day to me, to-morrow to thee,' which would be all right if it was I who quoted the saying. But this time it is not your day, and as to your to-morrow, it may never come." "We shall see about that," said Cicero savagely and pointedly. Alan felt an unpleasant thrill run through him, for the man's look was evil beyond telling. But he betrayed nothing of this, and signed to Gramp to continue. Quite understanding the position, Cicero reverted to his grand theatrical manner. He rose from his chair, rested one hand on the back of it, and thrust the other into his breast. As from a rostrum he delivered his speech, and dwelt upon his own words with the gusto of a modern Micawber. "Mr. Thorold and Clara Maria," he began in deep tones, "a few days ago circumstances connected with money turned me weary and hungry from the seaport of Southampton. I went--let us be plain--I went on the tramp, and in the course of my peregrinations I drew near Heathton, a salubrious village, notorious at the present moment for the crimes which have been committed there. I spun a coin, my only sixpence, to decide if an intrusion into that village would bring me good or evil fortune. The coin said good, so to Heathton I went. As I shall shortly pocket fifty quid--a vulgar term, but eloquent, Clara Maria, so don't frown--I dare not say that my only sixpence told me a lie. That sixpence bought me a meal in the Heathton public-house. Where is that meal or sixpence now? _Eheu! Fuit Ilium._" "Go on," said Alan curtly, for the orator paused. "At the Good Samaritan I heard much about Mr. Marlow and the funeral, and learned a few facts which were of use to me afterwards." "When you thrust yourself into the kitchen at the Moat House, I presume?" "You are correct, Mr. Thorold. I did good business there; and I learned, from the irresponsible chatter of the domestics, a few other facts which may also prove valuable." He looked directly at Alan as he said this. "Go on! go on!" said Thorold again. But he felt uneasy. "I was turned out of the Good Samaritan by a hard-hearted landlady called--appropriately, I confess--Mrs. Timber. As the night was fine, I slept in the churchyard, opposite the tomb of Mr. Marlow. Soon after midnight I was awakened by voices. I looked out, and saw two men, one tall, the other short." "Who were they?" Alan asked anxiously. "One I knew later; the other one I am still in doubt about, as I did not see his face." "But the names?" "You shall hear the names, Clara Maria, when I am ready, not before. These men went into the tomb, remained there for some time, and came out with the body. They lifted it over the low wall of the churchyard, and went, I think, across the moor." "You followed?" cried Alan breathlessly.