"Then already you have your wish. I do not question one word of your
charges against Lance. I have reason to believe them true. But I am
not Lance. Lance lies at this moment dead at Great Glemham. He died
this afternoon of cholera. Here are his letters," and he laid the
letters on the table. "I rode in with them at once. You do not believe
me, but you can put my words to the test. Let one of you ride to Great
Glemham and satisfy himself. He will be back before morning."

The three officers listened so far with impassive faces, or barely
listened, for they were as indifferent to the words as to the passion
with which they were spoken.

"We have had enough of the gentleman's ingenuities, I think," said
Chantrell, and he made a movement towards his companions.

"One moment," exclaimed Mitchelbourne. "Answer me a question! These
letters are to the address of Mrs. Ufford at a house called 'The
Porch.' It is near to here?"

"It is the first house you passed," answered the Major and, as he
noticed a momentary satisfaction flicker upon his victim's face, he
added, "But you will not do well to expect help from 'The Porch'--at
all events in time to be of much service to you. You hardly appreciate
that we have been at some pains to come up with you. We are not
likely again to find so many circumstances agreeing to favour us, a
dismantled house, yourself travelling alone and off your guard in a
country with which you are unfamiliar and where none know you, and
just outside the window a convenient pool. Besides--besides," he broke
out passionately, "There are the little mounds about Tangier, under
which my friends lie," and he covered his face with his hands. "My