“That’s a useful thing to have, Spargo,” he remarked.  “I slipped it into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did it.  Now it’ll come in handy.  For anything we know Myerst may be armed.”

“Well?” said Spargo.

“Come up to the cottage.  If things turn out as I think they will, Myerst, when he’s got what he wants, will be off.  Now, you shall get where I did just now, behind that bush, and I’ll station myself in the doorway.  You can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I’ll cover him.  Come on, Spargo; it’s beginning to get light already.”

Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such cover as the willows and alders afforded.  Together, he and Spargo made their way to the front of the cottage.  Arrived at the door, Breton posted himself in the porch, motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the bushes and to look through the window.  And Spargo noiselessly followed his directions and slightly parting the branches which concealed him looked in through the uncurtained glass.

The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the extreme.  There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough chairs and tables, plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a corner; some food set out on a side table.  At the table in the middle of the floor the three men sat.  Cardlestone’s face was in the shadow; Myerst had his back to the window; old Elphick bending over the table was laboriously writing with shaking fingers.  And Spargo twisted his head round to his companion.

“Elphick,” he said, “is writing a cheque.  Myerst has another cheque in his hand.  Be ready!—­when he gets that second cheque I guess he’ll be off.”

Breton smiled grimly and nodded.  A moment later Spargo whispered again.

“Look out, Breton!  He’s coming.”

Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his protecting bush and took the other angle.  The door opened.  And they heard Myerst’s voice, threatening, commanding in tone.

“Now, remember all I’ve said!  And don’t you forget—­I’ve the whip hand of both of you—­the whip hand!”

Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light—­to find himself confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly revolver within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a remarkably firm and steady grip.  Another glance showed him the figure of a second business-like looking young man at his side, whose attitude showed a desire to grapple with him.

“Good-morning, Mr. Myerst,” said Breton with cold and ironic politeness.  “We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly.  And—­I must trouble you to put up your hands.  Quick!”

Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but a sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his head, whither the left followed it.  Breton laughed softly.