'Who's there?' a man called out.
'It's me—Kate Trevenna. Police work. Look alive.'
'All right, Mrs. Trevenna,' replied a cheery voice. 'Wait till I strike a light. Here we are. Walk in and sit down.'
'Oh, it's you, Tracy; I'm glad of that. Look here, is your horse in the stable and fit?'
'Fit as a fiddle; what's up?'
'Hell's up—murder—robbery—the devil's turned out, or something like it. You'll have to ride, I tell you. Where's Dayrell?'
'At Warrandorf, fifty miles off.'
'That's all right,' she answered; 'he'll do it yet, if he's sharp. Can you start in half an hour and take a letter to him?'
'Yes; in a quarter. Where's your letter?'
'You go and saddle your horse. You'll have to ride harder than ever you did since you were in the force, and I'll tell you what to write. Is your paddock all right?'