"Oh, yes, you would. The greater the sinner the more need she or he
has of help, you know, my dear fellow. But get your coat on, and let us
toddle. I don't suppose we need pistols."
Sir Frank laughed, as, aided by the artist, he struggled into his
military greatcoat.
"I don't suppose that Mrs. Jasher will be dangerous," he remarked.
"We'll get what we can out of her, and then arrange what is best to be
done to recoup her fallen fortunes. Then she can go where she chooses,
and we can,--as the French say--return to our muttons."
"I think Donna Inez and Lucy would be annoyed to hear themselves called
muttons," laughed Archie, and the two men left the room.
The night was darker than ever, and a fine rain was falling incessantly.
When they left the dimly lighted archway of the fort through the
smaller, gate set in the larger one they stepped into midnight blackness
such as must have been spread over the land of Egypt. In accordance
with the primitive customs of Gartley inhabitants, one of them at least
should have been furnished with a lantern, as it was no easy task
to pick a clean way through the mud.---However, Archie, knowing the
surroundings better even than Random, led the way, and they walked
slowly through the iron gate on the hard high road which led to the
Fort. Immediately beyond this they turned towards the narrow cinder path
which led through the marshes to Mrs. Jasher's cottage, and toiled on
cautiously through the misty rain, which fell continuously. The fog was
drifting up from the mouth of the river and was growing so thick that
they could not see the somewhat feeble lights of the cottage. However,
Archie's instincts led him aright, and they blundered finally upon the
wooden gate. Here they paused in shocked surprise, for a woman's scream
rang out wildly and suddenly.
"What, in heaven's name, is that?" asked Hope, aghast.
"We must find out," breathed Random, and raced through the white
cotton-wool of the fog up the path. As he reached the veranda the door
opened and a woman came running out screaming. But other screams inside
the cottage still continued.
"What is the matter?" cried Random, seizing the woman.
She proved to be Jane.
"Oh, sir, my mistress is being murdered--"
Hope plunged past her into the corridor, not waiting to hear more. The
cries had died down to a low moaning, and he dashed into the pink parlor
to find it in smoky darkness. Striking a match, he held it above his
head. It showed Mrs. Jasher prone on the floor, and a dark figure
smashing its way through the flimsy window. There was a snarl and the
figure vanished as the match went out.