relentless destiny sweeping him onward whether or not
he would go.

But it was too late to consider or turn back even if such had been
his desire. Already he began to see white gleams as of stone work
along the water's edge. The willow trees came to an end; a wall
bounded the river for fifty yards or more, and then there arose
before his eyes the structure of the lonely old house, guarded by
its giant elms--a house seeming to be actually built upon the water
itself, one door, as Cuthbert had been told, opening upon the
flight of steps which at high water were almost covered.

It was well nigh high water now, and Cuthbert could bring the prow
of his boat to within a foot of the door. There were rings all
along the topmost step for the mooring of small craft, and he
quickly made fast his wherry and stood at the iron-clamped portal.

How dark and silent and lonely the house looked, rising gaunt and
dim in the uncertain light! Who would choose such a spot for a
home? Surely only those whose deeds would not bear the light of
day. And why that deadly silence and torpor in a house inhabited by
human beings? It seemed unnatural and uncanny, and as a great white
owl swept by on silent wing with a hollow note of challenge,
Cuthbert felt a chill sense of coming ill creep through his veins
and run down his spine; and fearful lest his resolution should
desert him at the last, he raised his hand and gave the
thrice-repeated knock he had been taught by Father Urban.

He doubted if the signal would be heard. He could scarcely believe
that the house boasted any inhabitants, but soon he heard a heavy
yet cautious tread approach the door from the other side. Some
heavy bolts were drawn back, and the door was opened a little way.

"Who is there?" asked a muffled voice.

"One wishful to see Master Robert Catesby."

"Why come to this back door, then? Why not approach the house by
the front way, like an honest man?"

Cuthbert was rather taken aback by this question. He answered with
a touch of sharpness:

"I came the way I was bidden to come. If I am in fault, the blame
lies with him who sent me."

"And who is that?"

"Father Urban."

At the sound of that name the door was cautiously opened a little
further, and Cuthbert felt himself confronted by a man whose face
still remained in deep shadow.

"You come from Father Urban, and with a message to Robert Catesby?"

"Not a message; a packet which methinks contains papers. I w