"This is most extraordinary!" thought Quentin to himself. "He is evidently going out. But what is he about to do? what can all this mean?"
The valet's bewilderment was increased when he beheld the Resurrection Man take a pair of pistols from his trunk, deliberately charge them with powder and ball, and then consign them to his pocket.
"What can he mean?" was the question which Quentin repeated to himself a dozen times in a minute.
The bell on the roof of the mansion now proclaimed the hour of midnight; and Tidkins, having suddenly extinguished the candle in the lantern, made a motion as if he were about to leave the room.
Quentin accordingly retreated a few yards up the passage, which was quite dark.
Almost immediately afterwards, he heard the door of Tidkins' room open cautiously: then it was closed again, and the sharp click of a key turning in a lock followed.
Tidkins was now stealing noiselessly down the passage, little suspecting that any one was occupied in dogging him. He descended the stairs, gained the servants' offices, and passed out of the mansion by a back door.
But Quentin was on his track.
The night was almost as dark as pitch; and the valet had the greatest difficulty in following the steps of the Resurrection Man without approaching him so closely as to risk the chance of being overheard. From time to time Tidkins stopped—evidently to listen; and then Quentin stood perfectly still also. So cautious indeed was the latter in his task of dogging the Resurrection Man, that this individual, keen as were his ears, and piercing his eyes, neither heard nor saw any thing to excite a suspicion that he was watched.
By degrees, black as was the night, Quentin's eyes became accustomed to that almost profound obscurity; and by the time the Resurrection Man had traversed the gardens, and clambered over the railings which separated those grounds from the open fields, the valet could distinguish—only just distinguish—a dark form moving forward before him.