Mr. Gryce seemed to perceive the wisdom of this precaution and promised to procure me such a note by a certain hour, after which I related to him the various other details of the capture such as I had planned it, meeting to my secret gratification an unqualified approval that went far towards alleviating that wound to my pride which I had received from him in the beginning of this affair.

“Let all things proceed as you have determined, and we shall accomplish something that it will be a life-long satisfaction to remember,” said he; “but you must be prepared for some twist of the screw which you do not anticipate.  I never knew anything to go off just as one prognosticates it must, except once,” he added thoughtfully, “and then it was with a surprise attached to it that well nigh upset me notwithstanding all my preparations.”

“You won a great success that day,” remarked I.  “I hope the fates will be as propitious to me to-morrow.  Failure now would break my heart.”

“But you won’t fail,” exclaimed he.  “I myself am resolved to see you through this matter with credit.”

And in this assurance I returned to my lodgings where I found the landlady sitting where I had left her, darning her twenty-third sock.

“I have to mend for a dozen men and three boys,” said she, “and the boys are the worst by a heap sight.  Look at that, will you,” holding up a darn with a bit of stocking attached.  “That hole was made playing shinny.”

I uttered my condolences and asked if any sound or disturbance had reached her ears from above.

“O no, all is right up there; I’ve scarcely heard a whisper since you’ve been gone.”

I gave her a pat on the chin scarcely consistent with my aged and tottering mien and proceeded to shamble painfully to my room.

CHAPTER XVII

THE CAPTURE

Promptly next morning at the designated hour, came the little note promised me by Mr. Gryce.  It was put in my hand with many sly winks by the landlady herself, who developed at this crisis quite an adaptation for, if not absolute love of intrigue and mystery.  Glancing over it—­it was unsealed—­and finding it entirely unintelligible, I took it for granted it was all right and put it by till chance, or if that failed, strategy, should give me an opportunity to communicate with Mrs. Blake.  An hour passed; the doors of their rooms remained unclosed.  A half hour more dragged its slow minutes away, and no sound had come from their precincts save now and then a mumbled word of parley between the father and son, a short command to the daughter, or a not-to-be-restrained oath of annoyance from one or both of the heavy-limbed brutes as something was said or done to disturb them in their indolent repose.  At last my impatience was to be no longer restrained.  Rising, I took a bold resolution.  If the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the mountain.  Taking my letter in the hand, I deliberately proceeded to the door marked with the ominous red cross and knocked.