“I was afraid—in this cursed light,” he muttered, “that I might have bungled.” Opening the dead man’s coat, he went swiftly through the pockets. He found papers, sealed and loose; a purse and a few trinkets.
The money he flung out into the marsh; the other matters he thrust carefully into the breast of his coat; it was not light enough to distinguish the papers; he took every scrap the dead man carried, without pausing to select.
Then he rose beside the body and looked round. It would soon be utterly dark; the snow was recommencing to fall heavily; it was now nearly completely dark; he had to feel his way cautiously over the marsh as he turned in the direction of the light that glanced through the snow-storm.
He made steadily toward it; the snow stinging in his face, and saw it grow larger till he could discern the snowflakes drifting swiftly through the faint halo it cast upon the dark.
The ground grew firmer under foot; he had gained a tongue of dry land, and in front of him, barely visible, was the black outline of the smuggler’s hut with the lamp flaring yellow in the square window; with this aid he found his way to the door and, using the hilt of his sword, knocked heavily.
There was a little silence, then the sound of cautious footsteps.
The door was slowly unbolted, opened an inch or so.
“Who is it?” said a woman’s voice in a quick whisper.
“Mr. Wedderburn—the King’s messenger,” he answered.
“The password?”