“Not here,” answered the landlord. “I don’t like his looks and don’t care where he stays as long as he don’t ask for a room here.”
“You don’t mind selling him drink, landlord?”
“Not as long as he’s got money to pay. That’s a different matter.”
A few minutes later John Trafton left the tavern.
He had drunk considerable, but not enough to make him incapable of action. The drink excited him and nerved him for the task he had in view, for upon this very evening he had decided to force an entrance into the hermit’s mysterious residence, and he hoped to be well paid for his visit.
He had to pass his own cabin on the way. He glanced toward it and saw a light shining through the window, but he took care to keep far enough away so that he might not be seen.
Half a mile farther and he stood opposite the cavern. There was the ladder making access to the cave easy. He looked for the hermit’s boat, which was usually kept fastened near the entrance to the cave, and to his joy he saw that it was missing.
“The old man must be out in his boat,” he said to himself. “All the better for me! If I am quick, I may get through before he gets back.”
With a confident step he ascended the ladder and entered what might be called the vestibule of the cave.
He halted there to light the candle he had brought with him. He was bending over, striking the match against his foot, when he was attacked from behind and almost stunned by a very heavy blow.