Suddenly old Walters raised his head to listen. The beat of hoofs was drawing rapidly near, so near that presently he rose in alarm, for a horseman was pounding up the avenue, had drawn rein at the main entrance.
Walters knit his brows in perplexity, and glanced at his master who slept on utterly worn out. A silent pause followed, lasting some minutes. Then it was the dog that rose with a growl, his coat bristling, and an instant later there came a sharp rapping at the hall door.
“Sh! Down, Jack!” whispered Walters, afraid of rousing Mr. Wilding. He tiptoed softly across the room, picked up his musket, and, calling the dog, went out, a great fear in his heart, but not for himself.
The rapping continued, growing every instant more urgent, so urgent that Walters was almost reassured. Here was no enemy, but surely some one in need. Walters opened at last, and Mr. Trenchard, grimy of face and hands, his hat shorn of its plumes, his clothes torn, staggered with an oath across the threshold.
“Walters!” he cried. “Thank God! I thought you'd be here, but I wasn't certain. Down, Jack!”
The hound was barking madly again, having recognized an old friend.
“Plague on the dog!” growled Walters. “He'll wake Mr. Wilding.”
“Mr. Wilding?” said Trenchard, and checked midway across the hall. “Mr. Wilding?”
“He arrived here a couple of hours ago, sir...”
“Wilding here? Oddsheart! I was more than well advised to come. Where is he, man?”