Martin had no idea what hour of the night it was, and he was surprised, before they had gone far on the homeward way, to notice signs of dawn in the sky. When they reached the house the sun was peering above the horizon, its beams competing with the glow of the Fire.
Descending into the basement, Martin found the old Frenchman in anxious consultation with the Gollops.
“Here’s Martin!” cried Lucy gleefully. “Oh, I am glad you’ve come home. We’ve been in such a state about you.”
“Not a wink of sleep for any of us all night,” said Susan. “Why, bless me! Here’s the blackamoor too.”
Gundra had crept in timidly behind the elder boy.
“Now what have you to say for yourself?” the woman went on. “As if there weren’t worries enough without——”
“Peace, woman!” cried the constable. “Don’t rate the lad. He’s fair foundered, by the look of him. Sit you down, Martin, and tell us what has kept you out all night.”
Martin was glad enough to rest, and Lucy had already taken possession of Gundra, placed him in a corner of the settle, and was asking eager questions about the strange girdle he wore about his body.
Without wasting words Martin related how he had followed Mr. Slocum’s handcart, been trapped in the yard, and finally carried off to the disused warehouse; how he had escaped with Gundra, and got away on the barge.
“You’re a chip of the old block,” said Gollop delightedly; “and your poor father would be proud of you.”