furred overcoat--the combination is unusual, and not (I put it to you)
likely to be repeated on this short stretch of waterway. Confess, Mr.--
confess, sir, your game is up. Kidnapping is an ugly offence in this
country, and, in short, I advise you without more ado to hand over the
two children."

Mr. Gavel leaned back against a crane for support.

"Children? What children?" he repeated, staring.

Clearly here was some hideous blunder, and he perceived at length that
the person addressing him in no way resembled a bargee.

"But--but my hosses?" he gasped.

Just then the sound of wheels fell on his ears, and both men faced
about. Mr. Gavel made sure that this must be old Holly with his wagon.
But no; there came around the corner a cart with a single horse, driven
by a lad; and the lad, pulling up before the store, went in, and in less
than a minute reappeared staggering under a heavy burden.

"But, Hallo!" cried Mr. Gavel, pulling himself together, and striding
towards the cart. "It _is_--" he began incredulously; but after a
second look raised his voice in triumphant recognition and demand.
"My hosses! What are you doing with my hosses?"

"Yours, be they?" the lad answered. "Well, I'm takin' 'em to Henley, as
you sent word."

"_I_ sent word?" echoed Mr. Gavel.

"_Somebody_ sent word," the lad persisted. "An' in the devil of a
'urry, 'cordin' to the child what brought it. But, as I said to mother,
where's the sense in sendin' messages by children?"

"Children?"

"There was two on 'em--a boy an' a girl--"

"Ah!" interrupted Dr. Glasson. "Describe them, please."

The lad scratched his head.

"Mother took the message. I was indoors, havin' tea, an' didn' see more
'n a glimpse. But here comes father," he added briskly, as again wheels
were heard on the road, and old Holly drove into the yard with his
belated wagon.

"You must admit, sir," said Dr. Glasson, addressing Mr. Gavel, "that
circumstances are beginning to look too strong for you."

"Oh, to--with circumstances!" retorted Mr. Gavel. "Mortimer's in this,
for a fiver. I don't see how--I don't make head or tail of it; but the
tail you've got hold of belongs to the wrong dog. Kidnapping, is it?
A couple of children you want? Suspect me, do you? Well, suspect away.
_I_ don't mind. I've got my hosses; and when we're loaded up you can
climb on board the wagon, if you like, and we'll pay a call on Mortimer.
I bet he's your man; and the h