The breeches and rough shirt of the smith hung over the arm of Hymn-of-Praise Busy; the dark stain on the shirt was plainly visible by the light of one of the lanterns.

Petty constable Pyot had the leather wallet in his hand, and was peeping down with grave curiosity at the bundle of papers which it contained.

Then with infinite caution, Marmaduke de Chavasse worked his way between the trees towards the old wall which encircled his park.  The three men obviously would be going back either to Acol Court, or mayhap, straight to the village.

Sir Marmaduke knew of a gap in the wall which it was quite easy to climb, even in the dark; a path through the thicket at that point led straight out towards the coast.

He had struck that path from the road on the night when he met the smith on the cliffs.

The snow only penetrated in sparse flakes to the thicket here.  Although the branches of the trees were dead, they interlaced so closely overhead that they formed ample protection against the wet.

But the fury of the gale seemed terrific amongst these trees and the groaning of the branches seemed like weird cries proceeding from hell.

Anon, the midnight walker reached the open.  Here a carpet of coarse grass peeping through the thin layer of snow gave insecure foothold.  He stumbled as he pursued his way.  He was walking in the teeth of the northwesterly blast now and he could scarcely breathe, for the great gusts caught his throat, causing him to choke.

Still he walked resolutely on.  Icy moisture clung to his hair, and to his lips, and soon he could taste the brine in the air.  The sound of the breakers some ninety feet below mingled weirdly with the groans of the wind.

He knew the path well.  Had he not trodden it three nights ago, on his way to meet the smith?  Already in the gloom he could distinguish the broken line of the cliffs sharply defined against the gray density of the horizon.

As he drew nearer the roar of the breakers became almost deafening.  A heavy sea was rolling in on the breast of the tide.

Still he walked along, towards the brow of the cliffs.  Soon he could distinguish the irregular heap of chalk against which Adam had stood, whilst he had held the lantern in one hand and gripped the knife in the other.

The hurricane nearly swept him off his feet.  He had much ado to steady himself against that heap of chalk.  The snow had covered his cloak and his hat, and he liked to think that he, too, now—­snow-covered—­must look like a monstrous chalk boulder, weird and motionless outlined against the leaden grayness of the ocean beyond.

The smith was not by his side now.  There was no lantern, no paper, no double-edged dagger.  Down nearly a hundred feet below the smith had lain until the turn of the tide.  The man’s eyes, becoming accustomed to the gloom, could distinguish the points of the great boulders springing boldly from out the sand.  The surf as it broke all round and over them was tipped with a phosphorescent light.