ing down
the creel, but grasping the long landing-net, flew to the back way. Logan
opened the drawing-room window, took out his matchbox, with trembling
ringers lit a candle, and, with the candle in one hand, the rod in the
other, sped through the hall, and along a back passage leading to the
gunroom. He had caught a glimpse of the Earl running down the main
staircase, and had guessed that the trouble was on the ground floor. As
he reached the end of the long dark passage, Fenwick leaped in by the
back entrance, of which the door was open. What Logan saw was a writhing
group--the Prince of Scalastro struggling in the arms of three men: a
long white heap lay crumpled in a corner. Fenwick, at this moment, threw
the landing-net over the head of one of the Prince's assailants, and with
a twist, held the man half choked and powerless. Fenwick went on
twisting, and, with the leverage of the long shaft of the net, dragged
the wretch off the Prince, and threw him down. Another of the men turned
on Logan with a loud guttural oath, and was raising a pistol. Logan knew
the voice at last--knew the Jesuit now. '_Rien ne va plus_!' he cried,
and lunged, with all the force and speed of an expert fencer, at the
fellow's face with the point of the rod. The metal joints clicked and
crashed through the man's mouth, his pistol dropped, and he staggered,
cursing through his blood, against the wall. Logan picked up the
revolver as the Prince, whose hands were now free, floored the third of
his assailants with an upper cut. Logan thrust the revolver into the
Prince's hand. 'Keep them quiet with that,' he said, and ran to where
the Earl, who had entered unseen in the struggle, was kneeling above the
long, white, crumpled heap.

It was Scremerston, dead, in his night dress: poor plucky little
Scremerston.

* * * * * *

Afterwards, before the trial, the Prince told Logan how matters had
befallen. 'I was wakened,' he said--'you were very late, you know, and
we had all gone to bed--I was wakened by a banging door. If you
remember, I told you all, on the night of your arrival at Rookchester,
how I hated that sound. I tried not to think of it, and was falling
asleep when it banged again--a double knock. I was nearly asleep, when
it clashed again. There was no wind, my window was open and I looked
out: I only heard the river murmuring and the whistle of a passing train.
The stillness made the abominable recurrent noise more extra