After Neddy had dropped Mr. Saffron’s scepter into Captain Duggle’s grave (had he known that it was Captain Duggle’s, and not been a prey to the ridiculous but haunting fancy that it had been destined for, or even—­oh, these errant fancies—­already occupied by, Mr. Saffron himself, Neddy would have been less agitated) Mike dealt with him roundly.  In bitter hissing whispers, and in language suited thereto, he pointed out the folly of vain superstitions, of childish fears and sick imaginings which interfered with business and threatened its success.  His eloquent reasoning, combined with a lively desire to get out of the place as soon as possible, so far wrought on Neddy that he produced the sack which he had brought with him, and held its mouth open, though with trembling hands, while Mike scraped up handful after handful of gold coins and poured them into it.  They were busily engaged on their joint task as Beaumaroy stole along the passage and, reaching the front door, again stood listening.

The Sergeant was still keeping his vigil before the door.  He had no doubt that it was locked; did not Beaumaroy see Mrs. Wiles and himself out of it every evening—­the back door to the little house led only on to the heath behind and gave no direct access to the road—­and lock it after them with a squeaking key?  He would have warning enough if anyone turned the key now.  He was looking towards the road; a surprise was more possible from that quarter; his back was towards the door and only a very little way from it.

But when Beaumaroy had entered with Doctor Mary, he had not re-locked the door; he opened it now very gently and cautiously, and saw the Sergeant’s back—­there was no mistaking it.  Without letting his surprise—­for he had confidently supposed the Sergeant to be in the Tower—­interfere with the instant action called for by the circumstances, he flung out his long right arm, caught the Sergeant round the neck with a throttling grip, and dragged him backwards into the house.  The man was incapable of crying out; no sound escaped from him which could reach the Tower.  Beaumaroy set him softly on the floor of the passage.  “If you stir or speak, I’ll strangle you!” he whispered.  There was enough light from the passage lamp to enable the Sergeant to judge, by the expression of his face, that he spoke sincerely.  The Sergeant did not dare even to rub his throat, though it was feeling very sore and uncomfortable.

There was a row of pegs on the passage wall, just inside the door.  On them, among hats, caps, and coats—­and also Mr. Saffron’s gray shawl—­hung two long neck-scarves, comforters that the keen heath winds made very acceptable on a walk.  Beaumaroy took them, and tied his prisoner hand and foot.  He had just completed this operation, in the workmanlike fashion which he had learnt on service, when he heard a footstep on the stairs.  Looking up, he saw Doctor Mary standing there.