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Presently he heard the soft clatter of hoofs—the cloof-cloof, cloof-cloof, cloof-cloof of men riding rapidly and easily. Dark forms emerged against the skyline as the road along which Combe peered came over a rise, and he saw that they were returning.

They swung themselves from the saddles, and, without speaking, walked rapidly to the house, where Combe, shambling nervously, went before them into the "office," saying that he would make a light.

This had been Waller's bedroom, and the bed remained. He had built a house large as a barracks, and used but one room of it.

Combe fumbled with a lamp, breaking two or three sulphur matches that he tried to light; and when the wick took fire he puttered for a time, trying to trim it by pinching with his fingers, then couldn't recall where he had set the chimney; and searched from table-top to the floor. He adjusted and readjusted the chimney, doing what he could to delay facing about, for he was sure that they had failed or they would have spoken.