The drugging of last night—what of that?
This of that—that too-eager knavery had reacted upon itself in the sense of, by some impolitic stroke, confirming the suspicions of the very antagonist it had sought secretly to circumvent.
Plainly, the rogues had drugged him to secure his non-interference during another determined attempt upon his house—with what success remained to be seen.
And now at least he was definitely acquainted with his enemies, if not with their object; though this, he could not but conclude, was to acquire possession of Luvaine’s legendary stone, which, for some unaccountable reason, they supposed was hidden away on his premises.
Here his way was clear; his justification for pronounced action obvious and inspiriting. He could feel a legitimate joy in striking at villainy that had recklessly ventured to throw off its disguise.
Thinking these thoughts, he came in sight of his gates, and was surprised to see them flung wide, and the rutted tracks of wheels going up the moss.
He rode in, his horse padding it softly on the thick carpet—rode in and drew rein abruptly with a muttered oath.
There, a little way off amongst the trees, was his henchman in earnest talk with the same gaunt hag he had seen him exchange speech with once before.
Now, he had little opportunity to note them; for, almost as he paused, the two separated, the man going off hurriedly towards the house, and the woman advancing in his own direction with a secret manner of haste.
As she plunged into the drive, she saw him and drew up with a startled jerk—then came slowly on, her eyes full of fear and defiance.