Despite the almost aggressive touch of luxury in the fur coat, it
soon became apparent that Sir Walter's large leonine head was for
use as well as ornament, and he considered the matter soberly and
sanely enough. Five chairs were set round the plain deal table, for
who should Sir Walter bring with him but his young relative and
secretary, Horne Fisher. Sir Walter listened with grave attention,
and his secretary with polite boredom, to the string of episodes by
which the police had traced the flying rebel from the steps of the
hotel to the solitary tower beside the sea. There at least he was
cornered between the moors and the breakers; and the scout sent by
Wilson reported him as writing under a solitary candle, perhaps
composing another of his tremendous proclamations. Indeed, it would
have been typical of him to choose it as the place in which finally
to turn to bay. He had some remote claim on it, as on a family
castle; and those who knew him thought him capable of imitating the
primitive Irish chieftains who fell fighting against the sea.

"I saw some queer-looking people leaving as I came in," said Sir
Walter Carey. "I suppose they were your witnesses. But why do they
turn up here at this time of night?"

Morton smiled grimly. "They come here by night because they would
be dead men if they came here by day. They are criminals committing
a crime that is more horrible here than theft or murder."

"What crime do you mean?" asked the other, with some curiosity.

"They are helping the law," said Morton.

There was a silence, and Sir Walter considered the papers before him