He broke off and looked at Mr. Fentolin meaningly.  The man on the bed shrank back, his eyes lit with horror.  Mr. Fentolin smiled pleasantly.

“I fear,” he said, “that we must not stay for that just now.  A little later on, perhaps, if it becomes necessary.  Let us first attend to the business on hand.”

Meekins once more clambered on to the little heap of furniture.  The doctor stood by his side for a moment.  Then, with an effort, he was hoisted up until he could catch hold of the floor of the outhouse.  Meekins gave one push, and he disappeared.

“Any one up there?” Mr. Fentolin enquired, a shade of anxiety in his tone.

“No one,” the doctor reported.

“Has anything been disturbed?”

Doctor Sarson was some little time before he replied.

“Yes,” he said, “some one seems to have been rummaging about.”

“Send down the steps quickly,” Mr. Fentolin ordered.  “I am beginning to find the atmosphere here unpleasant.”

There was a brief silence.  Then they heard the sound of the ladder being dragged across the floor, and a moment or two later it was carefully lowered and placed in position.  Mr. Fentolin passed the rope through the front of his carriage and was drawn up.  From his bed Mr. Dunster watched them go.  It was hard to tell whether he was relieved or disappointed.

“Who has been in here?” Mr. Fentolin demanded, as he looked around the place.

There was no reply.  A grey twilight was struggling now through the high, dust-covered windows.  Meekins, who had gone on towards the door, suddenly called out: 

“Some one has taken away the key!  The door is locked on the other side!”

Mr. Fentolin’s frown was malign even for him.

“Our dear friend, Mr. Hamel, I suppose,” he muttered.  “Another little debt we shall owe him!  Try the other door.”

Meekins moved towards the partition.  Suddenly he paused.  Mr. Fentolin’s hand was outstretched; he, too, was listening.  Above the low thunder of the sea came another sound, a sound which at that moment they none of them probably understood.  There was the steady crashing of feet upon the pebbles, a low murmur of voices.  Mr. Fentolin for the first time showed symptoms of fear.

“Try the other door quickly,” he directed.

Meekins came back, shaking his head.  Outside, the noise seemed to be increasing.  The door was suddenly thrown open.  Hannah Cox stood outside in her plain black dress, her hair wind-tossed, her eyes aflame.  She held the key in her fingers, and she looked in upon them.  Her lips seemed to move, but she said nothing.

“My good woman,” Mr. Fentolin exclaimed, frowning, “are you the person who removed that key?”

She laid her hand upon his chair.  She took no notice of the other two.

“Come,” she said, “there is something here I want you to listen to.  Come!”