He opened the door, slid in, and closed it noiselessly after him. Then he bolted it from the inside.
He was now the solitary occupant of a large red brick building, which had the unenviable reputation of being haunted, and hence it was that it had been so long tenantless.
But, cheerless and dilapidated as the place was, it afforded him a temporary shelter, and as no one suspected that he had effected an entrance he was safe for the present.
He listened and heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs—the footsteps of men, who were carrying on an animated conversation.
“I tell you he went this way,” cried one; “I saw his shadow on the path. He’s not far ahead, and can’t escape us, the villain.”
“No—no!” cried another, “he turned down the lane to the right, and is, doubtless, making for the high road.”
“Well, if you are so positive about it, Vensill, have your own way. You and one or two more go that road, while I and some of the others go my way.”
“All right—so be it. We will separate into two parties, and hunt the scoundrel down.”
“Very wise of you to do so,” murmured Peace. “You may go to the devil for what I care! I wish you success.”
The party of pursuers separated into two detachments, and soon the silence of the night was still and unbroken, as far as the ruined mansion or its occupant was concerned.