There could be no mistake. Voices he heard, though he could not catch the words they said. A tremor shook his whole body. Then, curiosity getting the better of his fear, he wriggled forward flat on his stomach until he was in such a position that he could peer round the corner of the Lady Chapel. Here he saw a sight which scared him. Against the white wall of the mausoleum bulked two figures, one tall, the other short. The shorter carried a lantern. They stood on the threshold of the iron door, and the tall man was listening. They were nearer now, so that he could hear their talk very plainly. "All is quiet," said the taller man. "No one will suspect. We'll get him away easily." Then Cicero heard the key grate in the lock, saw the door open and the men disappear into the tomb. He was sick with terror, and was minded to make a clean bolt of it; but with the greatest effort he controlled his fears and remained. There might be money in this adventure. In ten minutes the men came out carrying a dark form between them, as Cicero guessed, the dead body of Richard Marlow. They set down their burden, made fast the door, and took up again the sinister load. He saw them carry it towards the low stone wall. Over this they lifted it, climbed over themselves, and disappeared into the pine-woods. Cicero waited until he could no longer hear the rustle of their progress; then he crept cautiously forward and tried the door of the tomb. It was fast locked. "Resurrection-men! body-snatchers!" he moaned. He felt shaken to his very soul by the ghastliness of the whole proceeding. Then suddenly the awkwardness of his own position, if by chance any one should find him there, rushed in upon his mind, and, without so much as another glance, he made off as quickly as he could in the opposite direction. CHAPTER II. THE HUT ON THE HEATH "I'm glad it's all over," said the footman, waving a cigar stolen from the box of his master. "Funerals don't suit me." "Yet we must all 'ave one of our own some day," said the cook, who was plainly under the influence of gin; "an' that pore Miss Sophy--me 'art bleeds for 'er!" "An' she with 'er millions," growled a red-faced coachman. "Wot rot!" "Come now, John, you know Miss Sophy was fond of her father"--this from a sprightly housemaid, who was trimming a hat. "I dunno why," said John. "Master was as cold as ice, an' as silent as 'arf a dozen graves." The scullery-maid shuddered, and spread out her grimy hands. "Oh, Mr. John, don't talk of graves, please! I've 'ad the nightmare over 'em." "Don't put on airs an' make out as 'ow you've got nerves, Cammelliar," put in the cook tearfully. "It's me as 'as 'em--I've a bundle of 'em--real shivers. Ah, well! we're cut down like green bay-trees, to be sure. Pass that bottle, Mr. Thomas."