“Precede me to the house,” said Mr. Red.
Mr. Dick walked on. He crossed the grass rapidly and came to the gravel sweep in front of the house. Here his feet began to give him great pain again. The gravel was in some ways worse than the stones on the beach had been. Mr. Dick felt it severely.
“I’ve heard stories,” said Mr. Dick, “of the way you Irish landlords treated your tenants in the past. I know now that I didn’t hear half the truth. Anything more abominable, more outrageous, more utterly illegal——”
He reached the door of the house as he spoke, and stepped with a sigh of relief on to the smooth step.
“Look here,” he said, “where’s Sanders? Have you murdered Sanders?”
He went forward again, passed through the door, and stood in the hall.
There, in front of him, bound hand and foot, guarded by the long-bearded anarchist, lay Mr. Sanders.