However, for a time there was to be no galloping.  Sir George when all were up took a lanthorn from the nearest man, and bidding one of the others run at his stirrup, led the way into the road, where he fell into a sharp trot, his servant and Mr. Fishwick following.  The attorney bumped in his saddle, but kept his stirrups and gradually found his hands and eyesight.  The trot brought them to Manton Corner and the empty house; where Sir George pulled up and dismounted.  Giving his reins to the stable-boy, he thrust open the doors of the yard and entered, holding up his lanthorn, his spurs clinking on the stones and his skirts swaying.

‘But she—­they cannot be here?’ the lawyer ejaculated, his teeth chattering.

Sir George, busy stooping and peering about the yard, which was grass-grown and surrounded by walls, made no answer; and the other two, as well as Mr. Fishwick, wondered what he would be at.  But in a moment they knew.  He stooped and took up a small object, smelt it, and held it out to them.  ‘What is that?’ he asked curtly.

The stable-man who was holding his horse stared at it.  ’Negro-head, your honour,’ he said.  ‘It is sailors’ tobacco.’

‘Who uses it about here?’

‘Nobody to my knowing.’

‘They are from Bristol, then,’ Soane answered.  And then ‘Make way!’ he continued, addressing the other two who blocked the gateway; and springing into his saddle he pressed his horse between them, his stirrups dangling.  He turned sharp to the left, and leaving the stable-man to stare after them, the lanthorn swaying in his hand, he led the way westward at the same steady trot.

The chase had begun.  More than that, Mr. Fishwick was beginning to feel the excitement of it; the ring of the horses’ shoes on the hard road, the rush of the night air past his ears exhilarated him.  He began to feel confidence in his leader, and confidence breeds courage.  Bristol?  Then Bristol let it be.  And then on top of this, his spirits being more composed, came a rush of rage and indignation at thought of the girl.  The lawyer clutched his whip, and, reckless of consequences, dug his heels into his horse, and for the moment, in the heat of his wrath, longed to be up with the villains, to strike a blow at them.  If his courage lasted, Mr. Fishwick might show them a man yet—­when the time came!

Trot-trot, trot-trot through the darkness under the stars, the trees black masses that shot up beside the road and vanished as soon as seen, the downs grey misty outlines that continually fenced them in and went with them; and always in the van Sir George, a grim silent shape with face set immovably forward.  They worked up Fyfield hill, and thence, looking back, bade farewell to the faint light that hung above Marlborough.  Dropping into the bottom they cluntered over the wooden bridge and by Overton steeple—­a dim outline on the left—­and cantering up Avebury hill eased their horses through Little Kennet.  Gathering speed again they swept through Beckhampton village, where the Bath road falls off to the left, and breasting the high downs towards Yatesbury, they trotted on to Cheril.