“I didn’t get my eyes on him. I had closed with Ferguson and we were having quite a lively time of it when the other one came in; then the man who came to my help mixed us all up,—he was a very lively person,— and what became of Ferguson and the rest of it I don’t know.”

There was food for thought in what he said. He had taken punishment in defense of my property—he crack on his head was undeniable—and I could not abuse him or question his veracity with any grace; not, at least, without time for investigation and study. However, I ventured to ask him one question.

“If you were guessing, shouldn’t you think it quite likely that Morgan was the other man ?”

He met my gaze squarely.

“I think it wholly possible, Mr. Glenarm.”

“And the man who helped you—who in the devil was he ?”

“Bless me, I don’t know. He disappeared. I’d like mightily to see him again.”

“Humph ! Now you’d better do something for your head. I’ll summon the village doctor if you say so.”

“No; thank you, sir. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“And now we’ll keep quiet about this. Don’t mention it or discuss it with any one.”

“Certainly not, sir.”

He rose, and staggered a little, but crossed to the broad mantel-shelf in the great chimney-breast, rested his arm upon it for a moment, passed his hand over the dark wood with a sort of caress, then bent his eyes upon the floor littered with books and drawings and papers torn from the cabinets and all splashed with tallow and wax from the candles. The daylight had increased until the havoc wrought by the night’s visitors was fully apparent. The marauders had made a sorry mess of the room, and I thought Bates’ lip quivered as he saw the wreck.

“It would have been a blow to Mr. Glenarm; the room was hie pride,—his pride, sir.”

He went out toward the kitchen, and I ran up stairs to my own room. I cursed the folly that had led me to leave my window open, for undoubtedly Morgan and his new ally, St. Agatha’s gardener, had taken advantage of it to enter the house. Quite likely, too, they had observed my absence, and this would undoubtedly be communicated to Pickering. I threw open my door and started back with an exclamation of amazement.

Standing at my chiffonnier, between two windows, was a man, clad in a bath-gown—my own, I saw with fury—his back to me, the razor at his face, placidly shaving himself.

Without turning he addressed me, quite coolly and casually, as though his being there was the most natural thing in the world.