ble--only--it must be done private."

"You want me to do something that nobody's to know about?" I asked.

"Precisely!" said he. "Nobody! Not even your mother--for even the best of
women have tongues."

I hesitated a little--something warned me that there was more in all this
than I saw or understood at the moment.

"I'll promise this, Mr. Gilverthwaite," I said presently. "If you'll
tell me now what it is you want, I'll keep that a dead secret from
anybody for ever. Whether I'll do it or not'll depend on the nature of
your communication."

"Well spoken, lad!" he answered, with a feeble laugh. "You've the makings
of a good lawyer, anyway. Well, now, it's this--do you know this
neighbourhood well?"

"I've never known any other," said I.

"Do you know where Till meets Tweed?" he asked.

"As well as I know my own mother's door!" I answered.

"You know where that old--what do they call it?--chapel, cell, something
of that nature, is?" he asked again.

"Aye!--well enough, Mr. Gilverthwaite," I answered him. "Ever since I was
in breeches!"

"Well," said he, "if I was my own man, I ought to meet another man near
there this very night. And--here I am!"

"You want me to meet this other man?" I asked.

"I'm offering you ten pound if you will," he answered, with a quick look.
"Aye, that is what I'm wanting!"

"To do--what?" I inquired.

"Simple enough," he said. "Nothing to do but to meet him, to give him a
word that'll establish what they term your bony fides, and a message from
me that I'll have you learn by heart before you go. No more!"

"There's no danger in it?" I asked.

"Not a spice of danger!" he asserted. "Not half as much as you'd find in
serving a writ."

"You seem inclined to pay very handsomely for it, all the same," I
remarked, still feeling a bit suspicious.

"And for a simple reason," he retorted. "I must have some one to do
the job--aye, if it costs twenty pound! Somebody must meet this
friend o' mine, and tonight--and why shouldn't you have ten pound as
well as another?"

"There's nothing to do but what you say?" I asked.

"Nothing--not a thing!" he affirmed.

"And the time?" I said. "And the word--for surety?"

"Eleven o'clock is the time," he answered. "Eleven--an hour before
midnight. And as for the word--get you to the place and wait about a bit,
and if you see nobody there, say out loud, 'From James Gilverthwaite as
is sick and can't come himself'; and when the man appears, as