* * * * *

In consequence of this letter a deed was drawn and engrossed, and Bartley had written to say he would come to Clifford Hall and sign it, and have it witnessed and delivered.

About nine o’clock in the evening one of the detectives called on Colonel Clifford to make a private communication; his mate had spotted a swell mobsman, rather a famous character, with the usual number of aliases, but known to the force as Mark Waddy; he was at the Dun Cow; and possessing the gift of the gab in a superlative degree, had made himself extremely popular.  They had both watched him pretty closely, but he seemed not to be there for a job, but only on the talking lay, probably soliciting information for some gang of thieves or other.  He had been seen to exchange a hasty word with a clergyman; but as Mark Waddy’s acquaintances were not amongst the clergy, that would certainly be some pal that was in something or other with him.

“What a shrewd girl that must be!” said the Colonel.

“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” said the man, not seeing the relevancy of this observation.

“Oh, nothing,” said the Colonel, “only I expect a visit to-morrow at twelve o’clock from a doubtful clergyman; just hang about the lawn on the chance of my giving you a signal.”

Thus while Monckton was mounting his batteries, his victims were preparing defenses in a sort of general way, though they did not see their way so clear as the enemy did.

Colonel Clifford’s drawing-room was a magnificent room, fifty feet long and thirty feet wide.  A number of French windows opened on to a noble balcony, with three short flights of stone steps leading down to the lawn.  The central steps were broad, the side steps narrow.  There were four entrances to it:  two by double doors, and two by heavily curtained apertures leading to little subsidiary rooms.

At twelve o’clock next day, what with the burst of color from the potted flowers on the balcony, the white tents, and the flags and streamers, and a clear sunshiny day gilding it all, the room looked a “palace of pleasure,” and no stranger peeping in could have dreamed that it was the abode of care, and about to be visited by gloomy Penitence and incurable Fraud.

The first to arrive was Bartley, with a witness.  He was received kindly by Colonel Clifford and ushered into a small room.

He wanted another witness.  So John Baker was sent for, and Bartley and he were closeted together, reading the deed, etc., when a footman brought in a card, “The Reverend Alleyn Meredith,” and written underneath with a pencil, in a female hand, “Mrs. Walter Clifford.”

“Admit them,” said the Colonel, firmly.

At this moment Grace, who had heard the carriage drive up to the door, peeped in through one of the heavy curtains we have mentioned.

“Has she actually come?” said she.