a formal nod, without allowing a smile to irradiate his features.

We found old Thomas waiting at the hall door with his blunderbuss on his
shoulder. My father walked on with hurried steps some distance, not
uttering a word. At last he said--

"To what did Sir Reginald allude when he talked of your connexion with
young Riddle?"

I told him how Mark had been seized and locked up and how I had
unintentionally assisted him to escape.

"I believe what you say, Richard; but you can't be surprised at the
baronet being annoyed, and I'm afraid from his tone that we must not
expect much from him."

We had got about two-thirds of the way home when we saw three men coming
towards us, one of whom I recognised as Burden. I had not yet told my
father that I believed him to be one of the men who had shut me up in
the old mill. He started as he saw me, and then scanned me narrowly, as
if uncertain whether it could really be myself.

Though I knew that old Thomas and his blunderbuss were close behind us,
I felt very uncomfortable, as I could not tell how the men might be
inclined to act. Mustering courage at last, I looked Burden in the
face. My father nodded to him and the other men, as he was accustomed
to do to his parishioners. They hesitated for a moment, and then passed
on. I looked back and saw them watching old Thomas, but they didn't
speak to him, and he trudged sturdily after us without paying them any
attention.

"I wonder what was the matter with Burden?" asked my father, as we got
to some distance.

I then told him it was my belief that he was one of my captors.

"We can't prove it, even if he were," said my father. "He deserves
punishment, but the law is expensive and uncertain, and I should prefer
letting him alone."

As far as I could tell the matter was likely to rest here. I lost a
jacket and waistcoat, but was not otherwise the worse for my adventure.
The next day, however, a letter came by the post addressed to my father,
at the top of which was a death's head and cross-bones, very rudely
drawn, and beneath it the words:--

"Informers must look out for what informers deserve. The young master
who got off t'other day must look out for squalls. He has been and dug
his own grave, and in it he'll lie before long; so he had better say his
prayers. He won't have long to say them. This comes from one who knows
him. John Grimes."

My father turned pale when he read the letter. Aunt Deb insist