Somewhat regretting their prolonged enjoyment of the hospitality of Home
of Halyburton, the search-party thoroughly ransacked every hole and
corner of Redbraes Castle. Inside they could find no trace nor pick up
one crumb of information, but from an outside servant they heard of John
Allen's departure, Morpeth way, with three horses.

"_Horses,_ indeed! for Morpeth Fair?" the dragoon officer hooted at the
thought. "Boot and saddle, lads!" he called to his men; "we'll run the
traitorous fox to earth long before he gets to Berwick!" At a canter
they were off down the drive, the contents of Halyburton's case-bottles
still warming their hearts and giving extra zest to their enterprise. It
was a dark night, and they were thick black woods that they rode
between, but they had not ridden very many miles when they were able to
make out, some way in front of them, the outlines of two horses.

"We've got him, lads!" cried the officer; "run him down at last. Worry,
worry, worry!"

But instead of the horses in front breaking into a gallop at the sound
of pursuit, they were pulled up short by the roadside, and instead of
there being two riders there was only one, leading an unsaddled horse.
More exasperating than all to the ardour of the hunters was the fact
that in place of the thin, clever face of Sir Patrick Home being the one
to confront them, the round, scared face of a Berwickshire peasant
stared at them in dismay. In vain did the officer question, bully,
cross-examine. John Allen was unshakeable. He was gaun tae Morpeth Fair
tae sell the horse. Na, he didnae ken where the maister was. Sure's
daith he didnae ken. Aye, he left Redbraes mebbes twa hour sin', in the
darkening. No amount of hectoring, no quantity of loudly--shouted oaths