Mary did not take the candle.  “I’ve said some hard things to you, Mr. Beaumaroy.  I dare say I’ve sounded very self-righteous.”  He raised his hand in protest, but she went on:  “So I should like to say one different thing to you, since we’re to part after to-night.  You’ve shown yourself a good friend, good and true as a man could have.”

“I loved my old man,” said Beaumaroy.

It was his only plea.  To Mary it seemed a good one.  He had loved his poor old madman; and he had served him faithfully.  “Yes, the old man found a good friend in you; I hope you will find good friends too.  Oh, I do hope it!  Because that’s what you want.”

“I should be very glad if I could think that, in spite of everything, I had found one here in this place—­even although she can be a friend only in memory.”

Mary paused for a moment, then gave him her hand.  “I know you much better after tonight.  My memory of you will be a kind one.  Now to our work!”

“Yes—­and thank you.  I thank you more deeply than you imagine.”

He gave her the candle and followed her to the passage.

“You know where the room is.  I shall put the—­the place—­straight, and then bring him up.  I sha’n’t be many minutes—­ten, perhaps.  The cover’s rather hard to fit.”

Mary nodded from the top of the stairs.  Strained by the events of the night, and by the talk to Beaumaroy, she was again near tears; her eyes were bright in the light of the candle, and told of nervous excitement.  Beaumaroy went back into the parlor, on his way to the Tower.  Suddenly he stopped and stood dead still, listening intently.

Mary busied herself upstairs, making her preparations with practiced skill and readiness.  Her agitation did not interfere with her work —­there her training told—­but of her inner mind it had full possession.  She was afraid to be alone—­there in that cottage.  She longed for another clasp of that friendly hand.  Well, he would come soon; but he must bring his burden with him.  When she had finished what she had to do, she sat down, and waited.

Beaumaroy waited too, outside the door leading to the Tower.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SCEPTER IN THE GRAVE

Sergeant Hooper took up his appointed position on the flagged path that led up to the cottage door.  His primary task was to give warning if anybody should come out of the door; a secondary one was to give the alarm in case of interruption by passers-by on the road—­an unlikely peril this latter, in view of the hour, the darkness of the night, and the practiced noiselessness with which Mike might be relied upon to do his work.  Here then the Sergeant was left, after being accorded another nip from the flask—­which, however, Neddy kept in his own hands this time—­and a whispered but vigorously worded exhortation to keep up his courage.