Pass it over--thank you. And now, if you please,
we'll exchange coats." Mr. Rogers began to strip.

The Rector hesitated, but after a moment his eye twinkled and he
comprehended. The coats were exchanged, and he, too, began to steal
towards the window.

"This will do for me, sir," said I, pointing to a cupboard under the
bookcase.

"Plenty of room beneath the bed," he decided, as Miss Belcher
disappeared behind her curtain. And so it happened that better than
either she or the Rector I saw what followed.

We were hiding some while before the owl's cry sounded again and (as
it seemed to me) from the same distance as before. Mr. Rogers, in
the Rector's coat and the curate's hat, stepped hurriedly to the
valise and began to re-pack it, kneeling with his back to the window,
and full in the line of sight. I am fain to say that he played his
part admirably. The suspense, which kept my heart knocking against
my ribs, either did not trouble him or threw into his movements just
the amount of agitation to make them plausible. By and by he
scrambled up, collected a heap of garments, and flung them back into
a wardrobe beside the bed; stepped to the bureau--still keeping his
face averted from the window--picked up and pocketed the licence
which the Rector had left there; returned to the valise, and,
stooping again, rammed its contents tighter. I saw that he had
disengaged the leather straps which ran round it, pulling them clear
of their loops.

It was then that I heard a light sound on the cobbles outside, and
knew it for a footstep.

"W'st!" said a voice. "W'st--Whitmore!"

CHAPTER XIX.

CHECKMATE.

Mr. Rogers's attitude stiffened with mock terror. So natural was it
that I cowered back under the bed. He closed the valise with a snap
as a heel grated on the window-ledge and George Leicester dropped
into the room.

"Wh--ew! So _that's_ why you couldn't hear an old friend's signal!
Bolting, were you? No, no, my pretty duck--pay first, if you
please!"

"Take it then!"

Mr. Rogers swung round on him and smote him full on the jaw--a neat
blow and beautifully timed. The man went down like an ox, his head
striking the floor with a second thud close beside my hiding-place.

Miss Belcher ran from her curtain, clapping her hands. But Mr.
Rogers had not finished with his man.

"Shut the window!" he commanded, flinging himself forward and
gripping Leicester's hands as they clutched at the carpet.