“I would,” growled Sir Gavin, “that I’d more men with me. It’s damnably unfortunate, Bradbury, that the coastguard should be held to the shore to-night, while that young whipper-snapper of a lieutenant—Abbott—seeks to cut out Blunt’s brig in the dark.”
“Whatever be the peril,” Mr. Bradbury declared, “we needs must ride for the Stone House this night. For I tell you that, if this be Richard Craike, and he be in the hands of Martin Baynes and the rogues whom we’ve beaten at their game to-night, he is in peril—peril of death.”
“Ay, but you’ll hear Charles—if he’s not gone,” Sir Gavin muttered, rising. “I hear them coming down the stair.”
My uncle had not fled the house, but he was dressed for riding—booted and spurred. He came in with his hat pressed down upon his brows, a hunting crop in his right hand, his left thrust deeply into his greatcoat pocket. He was livid yet; his face wore the cruel and implacable aspect he had shown when first I looked upon him from the window of the Stone House, and I had known that none whom he feared or hated might look for mercy from him. He strode in boldly, the fellows who had brought him down to us hung doubtfully in the doorway—standing back at a wave of Sir Gavin’s hand. He looked upon me, and the hate he showed struck me with terror; his gaze passed from me to Mr. Bradbury and Sir Gavin—to the black box lying on the table by them, with the light of candle and lamp playing upon its silver mountings. He said angrily, “What’s this, Bradbury? Why have you sent your rogues breaking into my room, Masters? Would you lay me by the heels for a thief?”
“I would—ay, surely I would!” roared Sir Gavin, starting to his feet, and pushing forward; at Mr. Bradbury’s plucking at his sleeve, he growled, purple with choler, “Ay, ay, by the Lord, if I had my way. As I will!”
“We sent for you, Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury swiftly, “to ask these questions of you: This man Adam Baynes—who is he? Has he risen from the dead? Or has one come back in place of Adam Baynes? Charles Craike, should not this man—of whose arrival you were warned this night—whom we think held a prisoner at the Stone House, as the lad was held by you, prove to be Richard Craike—your brother?”
My uncle answered instantly, “Bradbury, you had my answer in my father’s hearing—that I’ve no knowledge of my brother—of his death, his disappearance, or his flight from England. The message of that hag conveyed to me no more than that her son is back again from transportation.”
“Galt says the fellow died in England years since!” Sir Gavin growled.
“Galt is a liar and rogue, whom you, Sir Gavin, were you an active justice, would have clapped in gaol long since.”
“Charles Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, seeking to restrain Sir Gavin, “you wear a brave face and use a bold tone to us for all your villainy. Whither would you ride this night?”