t extremity of doubt and
misery.

"I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window."

"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

"Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir,
that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it
concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you."

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
trembling hand of the butler.

"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see
if there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out
into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black
bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the
moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation,
for a tiny pin-point of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the
dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square
framed by the window.

"There it is!" I cried.

"No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke
in; "I assure you, sir ----"

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet.
"See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it
is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder,
and what is this conspiracy that is going on?"

The man's face became openly defiant.

"It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell."

"Then you leave my employment right away."

"Very good, sir. If I must I must."

"And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred
years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot
against me."

"No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and
Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband,
was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt
might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling
upon her face.

"We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our
things," said the butler.

"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and
because I asked him."

"Speak out, then! What does it mean?"

"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him
perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food
is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to
which to bring it."

"Then your brother i