“Egad, Dick, I need no persuasion.  He won’t go without me, I promise you that.  I’ve a bone to pick with him myself—­eh, friend Job?”

Grinsell swore a hearty oath.  At this moment the silence without was broken by the sound of a trotting horse.

“Is the door bolted?” whispered Burke.  “I mustn’t be seen here.”

“Trust me fur that,” said Grinsell.  “But no one will stop here at this time o’ night.”

But the three men stood silent, listening.  The sound steadily grew louder; the horse was almost abreast of the inn; it was passing—­but no, it came to a halt; they heard a man’s footsteps, and the sound of the bridle being hitched to a hook in the wall.  Then there was a sharp rap at the door.

“Who’s there?” cried Grinsell gruffly.

“Open the door instantly,” said a loud, masterful voice.

Burke looked aghast.

“You can’t let him in,” he whispered.

The others exchanged glances.

“Open the door,” cried the voice again.  “D’you hear, Grinsell?  At once!—­or I ride to Drayton for the constables.”

Grinsell gave Diggle a meaning look.

“Slip out by the back door, Mr. Burke,” said the innkeeper.  “I’ll make a noise with the bolts so that he cannot hear you.”

Burke hastily departed, and Grinsell, after long, loud fumbling with the bolts, threw open the door and gave admittance to the squire.

“Ah, you are here both,” said Sir Willoughby, standing in the middle of the floor, his riding whip in his hand.

“Now, Mr.—­Diggle, I think you call yourself, I’m a man of few words, as you know.  I have to say this, I give you till eight o’clock tomorrow morning; if you are not gone, bag and baggage, by that time, I will issue a warrant.  Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Diggle with his enigmatical smile.

“And one word more.  Show your face again in these parts and I shall have you arrested.  I have spared you twice for your mother’s sake.  This is my last warning.

“Grinsell, you hear that, too?”

“I hear ’t,” growled the man.

“Remember it, for, mark my words, you’ll share his fate.”

The squire was gone.

Grinsell scowled with malignant spite; Diggle laughed softly.

“Quanta de spe decidi!” he said, “which in plain English, friend Job, means that we are dished—­utterly, absolutely.  I must go on my travels again.  Well, such was my intention; the only difference is, that I go with an empty purse instead of a full one.  Who’d have thought the old dog would ha’ been such an unconscionable time dying!”

“Gout or no gout, he’s good for another ten year,” growled the innkeeper.

“Well, I’ll give him five.  And, with the boy out of the way, maybe I’ll come to my own even yet.  The young puppy!”

At this moment Diggle’s face was by no means pleasant to look upon.

“Fate has always had a grudge against me, Job.  In the old days, I bethink me, ’twas I that was always found out.  You had many an escape.”