And so at last came lights and houses, and the sound of excited voices as we pulled up before the Posting House at Cranbrook.  Looking from the window, I saw a ring of faces with eyes that gleamed in the light of the lanthorns, and every eye was fixed on me, and every foot gave back a step as I descended from the chaise.  And, while I stood there, the Postilion came with two white-faced ostlers, who, between them, bore a heavy burden through the crowd, stumbling awkwardly as they went; and, as men saw that which they carried, there came a low, deep sound —­wordless, inarticulate, yet full of menace.  But, above this murmur rose a voice, and I saw the Postilion push his way to the steps of the inn, and turn there, with hands clenched and raised above his head.

“My master—­Sir Maurice Vibart—­is killed—­shot to death —­murdered down there in the ’aunted ’Oller!” he cried, “and, if you axes me who done it, I says to you—­’e did—­so ’elp me God!” and speaking, he raised his whip and pointed at me.

Once more there rose that inarticulate sound of menace, and once more all eyes were fixed upon me.

“’E were a fine gen’man!” said a voice.

“Ah! so gay an’ light-’earted!” said another.

“Ay, ay—­a generous, open open-’anded gen’man!” said a third.

And every moment the murmur swelled, and grew more threatening; fists were clenched, and sticks flourished, so that, instinctively, I set my back against the chaise, for it seemed they lacked only some one to take the initiative ere they fell upon me.

The Postilion saw this too, for, with a shout, he sprang forward, his whip upraised.  But, as he did so; the crowd was burst asunder, he was caught by a mighty arm, and Black George stood beside me, his eyes glowing, his fists clenched, and his hair and beard bristling.

“Stand back, you chaps,” he growled, “stand back or I’ll ’urt some on ye; be ye all a lot o’ dogs to set on an’ worry one as is all alone?” And then, turning to me, “What be the matter wi’ the fools, Peter?”

“Matter?” cried the Postilion; “murder be the matter—­my master be murdered—­shot to death—­an’ there stands the man as done it!”

“Murder?” cried George, in an altered voice; “murder?” Now, as he spoke, the crowd parted, and four ostlers appeared, bearing a hurdle between them, and on the hurdle lay a figure, an elegant figure whose head and face were still muffled in my neckerchief.  I saw George start, and, like a flash, his glance came round to my bare throat, and dismay was in his eyes.

“Peter?” he murmured; then he laughed suddenly and clapped his hand down upon my shoulder.  “Look ’ee, you chaps,” he cried, facing the crowd, “this is my friend Peter—­an honest man an’ no murderer, as ’e will tell ye ’isself—­this is my friend as I’d go bail for wi’ my life to be a true man; speak up, Peter, an’ tell ’em as you ‘m an honest man an’ no murderer.”  But I shook my head.