The servants ran out to the gates, and returned with the news that one of the burglars was caught.
Followed by a crowd came two constables, dragging a man with them. His clothes had been torn to shreds in the struggle, the dirt and dust of the roads were upon him, and the blood from a blow on his head had trickled down his face.
None of the crowd knew him. They thought he was a tramp, and in the dark night his face, disfigured as it was, was almost unrecognisable.
The crowd stopped outside while the constables led their charge into the hall to confront him with the squire.
The prisoner shuddered as he passed the lodge-gates, and looked fearfully at the doorway.
There was no one there.
Up the broad walk he went, preserving the same dogged silence which had been unbroken since his capture.
The officers led him into the library, where the squire sat, still trembling and exhausted from his recent encounter, Marks standing near him. They pushed him into the middle of the room, and then the man raised his eyes.
For a moment the squire looked at him wonderingly. Marks, who had turned white and trembled violently as the group entered, gave one agonized glance at the figure before him, and then, throwing up his hands, exclaimed in a tone of horror, ‘Master George!’
The squire’s eyes were fixed upon his son. He recognized him now through the dirt and the blood and the tatters. His lips shaped themselves to speak, he rose trembling from his chair, then, gasping out, ‘My son! It was my son!’ fell forward a huddled-up mass upon the floor.