“Let me see the papers,” quoth Adam impatiently.

“Gently, gently, kind sir,” said de Chavasse lightly.  “Did you think that you could dictate your own terms quite so easily?”

“What dost thou mean?” queried the other.

“I mean that I am about to place in your hands the proof that you are heir to a title and fifteen thousand pounds a year, but at the same time I wish to assure myself that you will be pleasant over certain matters which concern me.”

“Have I not said that I would hold my tongue.”

“Of a truth you did say so my friend, and therefore, I am convinced that you will not refuse to give me a written promise to that effect.”

“I cannot write,” said Adam moodily.

“Oh! just your signature!” said de Chavasse pleasantly.  “You can write your name?”

“Not well.”

“The initials A. and L. They would satisfy me,”

“Why dost thou want written promises,” objected the smith, looking up with sullen wrath at Sir Marmaduke.  “Is not the word of an honest man sufficient for thee?”

“Quite sufficient,” rejoined de Chavasse blandly, “those initials are a mere matter of form.  You cannot object if your intentions are honest.”

“I do not object.  Hast brought ink or paper?”

“Yes, and the form to which you only need to affix your initials.”

Sir Marmaduke now drew a packet of papers from the inner lining of his doublet.

“These are the proofs of your parentage,” he said lightly.

Then he took out another single sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Lambert.  “Can you read it?” he asked.

He stooped and picked up the lantern, whilst handing the paper to Adam.  The smith took the document from him, and Sir Marmaduke held the lantern so that he might read.

Adam Lambert was no scholar.  The reading of printed matter was oft a difficulty to him, written characters were a vast deal more trouble, but suspicion lurked in the smith’s mind, and though his very sinews ached with the desire to handle the proofs, he would not put his initials to any writing which he did not fully comprehend.

It was all done in a moment.  Adam was absorbed in deciphering the contents of the paper.  De Chavasse held the lantern up with one hand, but at such an angle that Lambert was obliged to step back in order to get its full light.

Then with the other hand, the right, Sir Marmaduke drew a double-edged Italian knife from his girdle, and with a rapid and vigorous gesture, drove it straight between the smith’s shoulder blades.

Adam uttered a groan: 

“My God ...  I am ...”

Then he staggered and fell.

Fell backwards down the edge of the cliff into the mist-enveloped abyss below.

Sir Marmaduke had fallen on one knee and his trembling fingers clutched at the thick short grass, sharp as the blade of a knife, to stop himself from swooning—­from falling backwards in the wake of Adam the smith.