“Help—the Squire and the Savage have—”
and that was all. Whoever had written that hurried scrawl had not had time to finish the sentence which would probably have thrown some light upon the inexplicable affair.
“There has been some foul play, I am convinced,” cried Frank. “My friends, let us go at once and confront the squire.”
“You need not go far, insolent hind!” cried a hoarse voice, and Frank turned suddenly to where the sound proceeded from, saw Squire Learmont himself standing upon the threshold of the cottage.
Squire Learmont of Learmont, only as he preferred being called, was a man far above the ordinary standard of height; his figure, however, was thin and emaciated, which, coupled with his height, gave him an ungainly appearance. His complexion was a dead white—there was nothing of the sallow or brown in it—it was ghastly white, and contrasting with his lank black hair which hung far down from his head straight and snake-like without the shadow of a curl, it had a hideous corpse-like appearance.
“I am glad,” said Frank, when he had recovered his first surprise at the sudden appearance of Learmont, “I am glad we have not far to go, for the business is urgent.”
Learmont waved his hand for him to proceed.
“Last night there was a storm,” continued Frank.
“Indeed!” sneered Learmont. “That is news this morning.”
Frank Hartleton felt his cheek flush with colour, but he controlled his passion and continued,—