But Mrs. Varden was a lady of uncertain temper, and she was on this occasion so ill-tempered, and put herself to so much anxiety and agitation, aided and abetted by her shrewish hand-maiden, Miggs, that next morning she was, she said, too much indisposed to rise.  The disconsolate locksmith had, therefore, to deliver himself of his story of the night’s experiences to his daughter, buxom, bewitching Dolly, the very pink and pattern of good looks, and the despair of the youth of the neighbourhood.

Calling next day in the evening, Gabriel Varden learnt the wounded man was better, and would shortly be removed.

Varden chatted as an old friend with Barnaby’s mother.  He knew the Maypole story of the widow Rudge—­how her husband, employed at Chigwell, and his master had been murdered; and how her son, born upon the very day the deed was known, bore upon his wrist a smear of blood but half washed out.

“Why, what’s that?” said the locksmith suddenly.  “Is that Barnaby tapping at the door?”

“No,” returned the widow; “it was in the street, I think.  Hark!  ’Tis someone knocking softly at the shutter.”

“Some thief or ruffian,” said the locksmith.  “Give me a light.”

“No, no,” she returned hastily.  “I would rather go myself, alone.”

She left the room, and Varden heard the sound of whispers without.  Then the words “My God!” came, tittered in a voice dreadful to hear.

Varden rushed out.  A look of terror was on the woman’s face, and before her stood a man, of sinister appearance, whom the locksmith had passed on the road from Chigwell the previous night.

The man fled, but the locksmith was after him and would have held him but for the widow, who clutched his arms.

“The other way—­the other way!” she cried.  “Do not touch him, on your life!  He carries other lives besides his own.  Don’t ask what it means.  He is not to be followed or stopped!  Come back!”

“The other way!” said the locksmith.  “Why, there he goes!”

The old man looked at her in wonder, and let her draw him into the house.  Still that look of terror was on her face, as she implored him not to question her.

Presently she withdrew, and left him in his perplexity alone, and Barnaby came in.

“I have been asleep,” said the idiot, with widely opened eyes.  “There have been great faces coming and going—­close to my face, and then a mile away.  That’s sleep, eh?  I dreamed just now that something—­it was in the shape of a man—­followed me and wouldn’t let me be.  It came creeping on to worry me, nearer and nearer.  I ran faster, leaped, sprang out of bed and to the window, and there in the street below—­”

“Halloa, halloa, halloa!  Bow, wow, wow!” cried a hoarse voice.  “What’s the matter here?  Halloa!”

The locksmith started, and there was Grip, a large raven, Barnaby’s close companion, perched on the top of a chair.