anybody, but I must know first what I'm expected to do for it."

"It's an easy enough thing to do," he replied. "Only it's got to be done
this very night, and I'm laid here, and can't do it. You can do it,
without danger, and at little trouble--only--it must be done private."

"You want me to do something that nobody's to know about?" I asked.

"Precisely!" said he. "Nobody! Not even your mother--for even the best of
women have tongues."

I hesitated a little--something warned me that there was more in all this
than I saw or understood at the moment.

"I'll promise this, Mr. Gilverthwaite," I said presently. "If you'll
tell me now what it is you want, I'll keep that a dead secret from
anybody for ever. Whether I'll do it or not'll depend on the nature of
your communication."

"Well spoken, lad!" he answered, with a feeble laugh. "You've the makings
of a good lawyer, anyway. Well, now, it's this--do you know this
neighbourhood well?"

"I've never known any other," said I.

"Do you know where Till meets Tweed?" he asked.

"As well as I know my own mother's door!" I answered.

"You know where that old--what do they call it?--chapel, cell, something