“But—­but—­but—­”

Miss Greeby lifted him off the sofa by the scruff of the neck.  “Do you want to be killed?” she said between her teeth, “there’s no time to be lost.  Chaldea tells me that Lambert threatens to have me arrested.”

The prospect of safety and prosperity in a distant land so appealed to Silver that he regained his courage in a wonderfully short space of time.  Rising to his feet he hastily drained another glass of brandy and the color came back to his wan cheeks.  But for all the quantity he had drank that same evening he was not in the least intoxicated.  He was about to rush out of the room to get his coat and cap when Miss Greeby laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Is there any one else in the house?” she asked suspiciously.

Silver cast a glance towards the sofa.  “There’s no servant,” he said in a stronger voice.  “I have been cooking and looking after myself since I came here.  But—­but—­but—­”

“But what, you hound?” she shook him fiercely.

“Garvington’s behind the sofa.”

“Garvington!” Miss Greeby was on the spot in a moment pulling away the concealing rugs and cushions.  “Have you murdered him?” she demanded, drawing a deep breath and looking at the senseless man.

“No, he’s only stunned.  I struck him with the poker because he wanted to denounce me.”

“Quite right.”  Miss Greeby patted the head of her accomplice as if he were a child, “You’re bolder than I thought.  Go on; hurry up!  Before Garvington recovers his senses we’ll be far enough away.  Denounce me; denounce him, will you?” she said, looking at Garvington while the secretary slipped out of the room; “you do so at your own cost, my lord.  That forged letter won’t tell in your favor.  Ha!” she started to her feet.  “What’s that!  Who’s here?”

She might well ask.  There was a struggle going on in the passage, and she heard cries for help.  Miss Greeby flung open the sitting-room door, and Silver, embracing Mother Cockleshell, tumbled at her feet.  “She got in by the door you left open,” cried Silver breathlessly, “hold her or we are lost; we’ll never get away.”

“No, you won’t!” shouted the dishevelled old woman, producing a knife to keep Miss Greeby at bay.  “Chaldea came to the camp and I learned through Kara how she’d brought you down, my Gentile lady.  I went to tell the golden rye, and he’s on the way here with the village policeman.  You’re done for.”

“Not yet.”  Miss Greeby darted under the uplifted knife and caught Gentilla round the waist.  The next moment the old woman was flung against the wall, breathless and broken up.  But she still contrived to hurl curses at the murderess of her grandson.

“I saw you shoot him; I saw you shoot him,” screamed Mother Cockleshell, trying to rise.