"Oh, my God, Mr. Laurence!" he almost shrieked on catching sight of Carrington; "they're after him! They'll kill him! They'll tear him in pieces! Quick, quick! What can be done, sir? Oh, they'll hang me for murder!"
"Calm yourself, my dear Nichols," replied Laurence, "and tell me distinctly what's the matter. Anything happened to the Marquis?"
"No, sir," replied Nichols, trembling with fear; "the Markiss's all right, but it's your visitor!"
"What visitor?"
"Why, the gent with the black face and the dress!"
"Gent with black face and dress!" echoed Laurence. "Quick, what do you mean? What has happened to him?"
"I was taking Tiger and Nap for exercise, sir, when suddenly, as though they scented something unusual, they both jumped forward, knocking me down. When I fell down I let loose of the leash, and they simply flew away across the fields in this direction—me after them. I vaulted the gate by the common in time to catch sight of a queer little gent with black face and an old black coat, and some kind of dress on, tearing down the road with the hounds after him. I tried to follow, but lost sight of 'em in no time. Then I ran back as hard as I could for a horse, and a lad at the gate told me he'd seen the black gent come out of your gate. Let me have the mare, sir, quick."
"Yes, yes! Fetch her out at once. I will follow you on my bicycle." And the two men rushed from the house.
Laurence knew in an instant what had happened.
The Marquis of Moorland's savage bloodhounds were in pursuit of the Squire's enemy—the Thug!