is soothing."

"So I should imagine," Bell said, drily. "No, I must be off. I'll let you
know what happens at Littimer Castle. Good luck to you here."

And Bell bustled off. He was pleased to find a recent telegram of
acceptance from Littimer awaiting him, and before five o'clock he was
in the train for London. It was only after he left London that he began
to crawl along. Thanks to slow local lines and a badly fitting cross
service it was nearly eleven o'clock before he reached Moreton Station.
It did not matter much, because Littimer had said that a carriage
should meet him.

However, there was no conveyance of any kind outside the station. One
sleepy porter had already departed, and the other one, who took Bell's
ticket, and was obviously waiting to lock up, deposed that a carriage
from the castle had come to the station, but that some clerical gentleman
had come along and countermanded it. Whereupon the dog-cart had departed.

"Very strange," Bell muttered. "What sort of a parson was it?"

"I only just saw his face," the porter yawned. "Dressed in black, with a
white tie and a straw hat. Walked in a slouching kind of way with his
hands down; new curate from St. Albans, perhaps. Looked like a chap as
could take care of himself in a row."

"Thanks," Bell said, curtly. "I'll manage the walk; it's only two miles.
Good-night."

Bell's face was grim and set as he stepped out into the road. He knew
fairly well what this meant. It was pretty evident that his arch-enemy
knew his movements perfectly well, and that a vigorous attempt was being
made to prevent him reaching the castle. He called back to the porter.

"How long since the carriage went?" he asked.

A voice from the darkness said "Ten minutes," and Bell trudged on with
the knowledge that one of his enemies at least was close at hand. That
Reginald Henson was at the castle he had not the remotest idea. Nor did
he fear personal violence. Despite his figure, he was a man of enormous
strength and courage. But he had not long to wait.

Somebody was coming down the lonely road towards him, somebody in
clerical attire. The stranger stopped and politely, if a little huskily,
inquired if he was on the right way to Moreton Station. Bell responded as
politely that he was, and asked to know the time. Not that he cared
anything about the time; what he really wanted was to see the stranger's
hands. The little ruse was successful. In the dim light Bell could see a
flatt