"No hurry, Dickon. Lucky the squire was used to London hours in his
youth, or we'd find him abed. See, there's a light in the Hall; 'tis in
the strong room next to the library; Sir Willoughby is reckoning up his
rents maybe, though 'tis late for that."

"Ay, ya knows the Hall, true. Theer be a terrible deal o gowd an' silver
up in that room, fur sure, more 'n a aged man like me could tell in a
week."

"The light is moving; it seems Sir Willoughby is finishing up for the
night. I hope we shall not be too late."

But at this moment a winding of the path brought another face of the Hall
into view.

"Why, Dickon," exclaimed Desmond, "there's another light; 'tis the
squire's own room. He cannot be in two places at once; 'tis odd at this
time of night. Come, stir your stumps, old man."

They hurried along, scrambling through the hedge that bounded the field,
Desmond leaping, Dickon wading the brook that ran alongside the road.
Turning to the left, they came to the front entrance to the Hall, and
passed through the wicket gate into the grounds. They could see the
squire's shadow on the blind of the parlor; but the lighted window of the
strong room was now hidden from them.

Stepping in that direction, to satisfy a strange curiosity he felt,
Desmond halted in amazement as he saw, faintly silhouetted against the
sky, a ladder placed against the wall, resting on the sill of the strong