“You really want me to come in?” It was now Captain Alec’s voice which expressed surprise.

“Why the devil not?” asked Beaumaroy in a tone of frank but friendly impatience.

He turned and led the way into Tower Cottage.  Somehow this invitation to enter was the last thing that Captain Alec had expected.

CHAPTER VIII

CAPTAIN ALEC RAISES HIS VOICE

Beaumaroy led the way into the parlor, Captain Alec following.  “Well, I thought your old friend didn’t care to see strangers,” he said, continuing the conversation.

“He was tired and fretful to-night, so I got him to bed, and gave him a soothing draught—­one that our friend Dr. Arkroyd sent him.  He went off like a lamb, poor old boy.  If we don’t talk too loud we sha’n’t disturb him.”

“I can tell you what I have to tell in a few minutes.”

“Don’t hurry.”  Beaumaroy was bringing the refreshment he had offered from the sideboard.  “I’m feeling lonely to-night, so I—­” he smiled—­“yielded to the impulse to ask you to come in, Naylor.  However, let’s have the story by all means.”

The surprise—­it might almost have been taken for alarm—­which he had shown at the first sight of Alec seemed to have given place to a gentle and amiable weariness, which persisted through the recital of the Captain’s experiences—­how his errand of courtesy, or gallantry, had led to his being on the road across the heath so late at night, and of what he had seen there.

“You copped them properly!” Beaumaroy remarked at the end, with a lazy smile.  “One does learn a trick or two in France.  You couldn’t see their faces, I suppose?”

“No; too dark.  I didn’t dare show a light, though I had one.  Besides, their backs were towards me.  One looked tall and thin, the other short and stumpy.  But I should never be able to swear to either.”

“And they went off in different directions, you say?”

“Yes, the tall one towards Sprotsfield, the short one back towards Inkston.”

“Oh, the short stumpy one it was who turned back to Inkston?” Beaumaroy had seated himself on a low three-legged stool, opposite to the big chair where Alec sat, and was smoking his pipe, his hands clasped round his knees.  “It doesn’t seem to me to come to much, though I’m much obliged to you all the same.  The short one’s probably a local, the other a stranger, and the local was probably seeing his friend part of the way home, and incidentally showing him one of the sights of the neighborhood.  There are stories about this old den, you know—­ancient traditions.  It’s said to be haunted, and what not.”

“Funnily enough, we had the story to-night at dinner, at our house.”

“Had you now?” Beaumaroy looked up quickly.  “What, all about—­”

“Captain Duggle, and the Devil, and the grave, and all that.”

“Who told you the story?”