His master smiled.

“You shall have your rise out of the police, if you can, Middleton,” he observed.  “It seems queer, though, to believe that the fellow’s still in hiding round here.”

As though by common consent, they all stood, for a moment, perfectly still, looking across the stretch of marshland with its boggy places, its scrubby plantations, its clustering masses of tall grasses and bullrushes.  The grey twilight had become even more pronounced during the last few minutes.  Little wreaths of white mist hung over the damp places.  Everywhere was a queer silence.  The very air seemed breathless.  The Professor shivered and turned away.

“My nerves,” he declared, “are scarcely what they were.  I have listened in a primeval forest, listened for the soft rustling of a snake in the undergrowth, or the distant roar of some beast of prey.  I have listened then with curiosity.  I have not known fear.  It seems to me, somehow, that in this place there is something different afoot.  I don’t like it, George—­I don’t like it.  We will go home, if you please.”

They made their way, single file, to the road and up to the house.  Lord Ashleigh did his best to dispel a queer little sensation of uneasiness which seemed to have arisen in the minds of all of them.

“Come,” he said, “we must put aside our disappointment for the present, and remember that after all the chances are that Craig will never make his escape alive.  Let us forget him for a little while....  Mr. Quest,” he added, a few minutes later, as they reached the hall, “Moreton here will show you to your room and look after you.  Please let me know if you will take an aperitif.  I can recommend my sherry.  We dine at eight o’clock.  Edgar, you know your way.  The blue room, of course.  I am coming up with you myself.  Her ladyship back yet, Moreton?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Lady Ashleigh,” her husband explained, “has gone to the other side of the county to open a bazaar.  She is looking forward to the pleasure of welcoming you at dinner-time.”

* * * * *

Dinner, served, out of compliment to their transatlantic visitor, in the great banqueting hall, was to Quest especially a most impressive meal.  They sat at a small round table lit by shaded lights, in the centre of an apartment which was large in reality, and which seemed vast by reason of the shadows which hovered around the unlit spaces.  From the walls frowned down a long succession of family portraits—­Ashleighs in the queer Tudor costume of Henry the Seventh; Ashleighs in chain armour, sword in hand, a charger waiting, regardless of perspective, in the near distance; Ashleighs befrilled and bewigged; Ashleighs in the Court dress of the Georges—­judges, sailors, statesmen and soldiers.  A collection of armour which would have gladdened the eye of many an antiquarian, was ranged along the black-panelled walls.  Everything was in harmony, even the grave precision of the solemn-faced butler and the powdered hair of the two footmen.  Quest, perhaps for the first time in his life, felt almost lost, hopelessly out of touch with his surroundings, an alien and a struggling figure.  Nevertheless, he entertained the little party with many stories.  He struggled all the time against that queer sensation of anachronism which now and then became almost oppressive.