him, another person with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air
with a wild impatience, redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which
had brought the locksmith to the spot.

'What's here to do?' said the old man, alighting. 'How's
this--what--Barnaby?'

The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his eyes,
and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon
him a look which told his history at once.

'You know me, Barnaby?' said Varden.

He nodded--not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a
fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for
an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye
sternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an
inquiring look.

'There's blood upon him,' said Barnaby with a shudder. 'It makes me
sick!'

'How came it there?' demanded Varden.

'Steel, steel, steel!' he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand the
thrust of a sword.

'Is he robbed?' said the locksmith.

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded 'Yes;' then pointed towards