All was silent in the little alley. He could see some brilliant patches of green, swimming in pools of sunlight, in the small garden. Then a faint shuffling of feet came along the pavement, outside in the road. That shuffling and the beating of his heart were the only sounds. All Blacksod lay immersed in a golden mist of quiet. He rang the bell again. “In a minute,” he thought, “I shall hear her coming down! The old man may sleep late o’ Sundays; but she’ll be up.”

The shuffling steps in the road came to a pause.

“Mister!”

He turned towards the voice. It was a little, old-fashioned maid carrying a prayerbook.

“If it’s the Malakites you want, mister, I saw them pass my house, down-street, an hour agone. They were dressed for travel; so it did look to me! I reckon they were minded to catch the eleven-three to Weymouth.”