the tapping of the withered vines without the window, jarred like thunder.

Suddenly madam leaned forward in her chair. “There is some one at the door,” she said.

As she spoke, the latch rose and some one pushed heavily against the door. I had drawn the bars across. “Who is it?” I demanded, going to it.

“It is Diccon, sir,” replied a guarded voice outside. “I beg of you, for the lady’s sake, to let me speak to you.”

I opened the door, and he crossed the threshold. I had not seen him since the night he would have played the assassin. I had heard of him as being in Martin’s Hundred, with which plantation and its turbulent commander the debtor and the outlaw often found sanctuary.