Midnight had descended on the sleeping village, and all were hushed in slumber.
Inside the mansion none heard the clock strike twelve but the invalid owner of the estate.
As the last peals of the silver hammer died away, he arose from his chair in the study, and was about to open the door leading into his bedroom, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
He stopped short, and with more surprise than alarm turned to see who it was, for the moment believing that it might be his son, who had stolen into the room on tiptoe.
He was mistaken.
He found himself face to face with a man of middle age, powerfully built, heavily bearded, and furnished with a pair of dark, restless eyes, that were ever flashing about him, as if seeking a victim.
He looked like a tough customer, in his rough dress of homespun material, and the host grew somewhat alarmed when he saw a knife half hidden in the left hand of this midnight visitor.
“Who are you?” he faltered, sinking down upon a chair and looking up dubiously at the man before him. “What do you want of me?”
“Much,” said the visitor, in the most easy and off-hand style. “That’s right; sit down and take it easy. I’ve been waiting some time to see you.”
And so saying, he drew up a chair quite close to the invalid, and seated himself with the utmost composure.