"Take me away, Jim! Take me away!" I cried.

I was glaring down the avenue, and his eyes followed mine. Amid the
gloom of the oak trees something was coming towards us.

"Quiet, Roddy!" whispered Jim. "By heavens, come what may, my arms
are going round it this time."

We crouched as motionless as the trunks behind us. Heavy steps
ploughed their way through the soft gravel, and a broad figure
loomed upon us in the darkness.

Jim sprang upon it like a tiger.

"YOU'RE not a spirit, anyway!" he cried.

The man gave a shout of surprise, and then a growl of rage.

"What the deuce!" he roared, and then, "I'll break your neck if you
don't let go."

The threat might not have loosened Jim's grip, but the voice did.

"Why, uncle!" he cried.

"Well, I'm blessed if it isn't Boy Jim! And what's this? Why, it's
young Master Rodney Stone, as I'm a living sinner! What in the
world are you two doing up at Cliffe Royal at this time of night?"