“Well, if ever two strange gentlemen did live in inns it’s Mr Stratton and Mr Brettison,” said Mrs Brade as she reluctantly went back to her lodge. “Nice state their rooms must be in; and him, once so civil and polite, as awkward and gruff as you please.”

She had some cause for complaint, Brettison having dismissed her with a request not to talk quite so much.

In spite of the woman’s declaration of Stratton’s absence, the old man felt that he must be there; and after knocking twice, each time with his heart sinking more and more with dread, he applied his lips to the letter-box after forcing open the spring flap.

“Stratton, if you are there, for Heaven’s sake open at once!” he whispered loudly.

There was a rustling sound directly, the bolt was shot back, and Stratton admitted him, afterward taking a letter from the box, glancing at it, and thrusting it into his pocket.

“That woman said you had gone out,” said Brettison eagerly. “I was alarmed. I thought—how is he?”

Stratton pointed to the chair where the man lay as if asleep.

“Why, how haggard you look,” said Brettison excitedly. “Has there been anything the matter?”

“Nothing much; only I have had a struggle with a madman who tried to murder me.”

“My dear boy!”

“It is a fact,” said Stratton. “I found him with that piece of rock in his hand, and about to strike me down.”

He pointed to the massive stone lying on the table, and then said, smiling:

“I was just in time to save myself.”

“Good Heavens! Was he dangerous for long?”

“For long enough. We had a short struggle, and he went down with a crash. One moment he was tremendously strong; the next helpless as a child, and he has been like that ever since. Our plans must be altered.”

“No, not now,” said Brettison decisively. “The man has been over-excited to-day. Your presence seems to have roused up feelings that have been asleep. I ought not to have left you alone with him. Come, it is getting late. We have very few minutes to spare.”

“Then you mean to go?”

“Yes, I mean to go. You shall see us to the station. I have no fear of him; he will be calm enough with me.”

“Very well,” said Stratton, “anything to get him away from here. If he keeps on turning violent he must be placed under restraint.” Stratton opened the door, placed his travelling bag outside, and came back.

“What does that mean?” said Brettison, pointing to the bag.

“Mine. You do not suppose I shall let you go alone.”

“You cannot go now. I have managed him so long, and I can manage him still.”

“We shall miss the train,” said Stratton quietly; and taking the man’s arm he drew it quietly through his, and after pausing to secure the door, walked with him down to the cab, Brettison following with the little valise.

They reached the station within five minutes of the time, and soon after were rattling down to Southampton, Stratton throwing himself back in a corner to draw a deep breath of relief as they left the busy town behind, and taking out his letter, but only to glance at the handwriting, and thrust it back.

Their prisoner sank back to sleep heavily, and he was still in a drowsy state as they went on board, lying down quietly enough in his berth, where they left him and went on deck as soon as they were well out of the dock.

“Safe!” said Stratton exultingly. “Now, Brettison, that man must never see England again.”

They reached Jersey in due time, and next morning were in Saint Malo, where they stayed two days, making inquiries which resulted in their taking boat and being landed twenty miles along the coast at a picturesque, old-world fishing village—Saint Garven’s—where, lodgings being found, they both drew breath more freely, feeling at ease now—their companion having settled down into a calm, apathetic state, apparently oblivious of all that went on around him.

It was hard to believe that the dull, vacant-looking man was the same being as the one with whom Stratton had had his late terrible encounter; for in spite of the light, indifferent way in which he had treated it to his friend, none knew better than he that he had been within an inch of losing his life. It was hard even to Stratton, and as the days glided by in the peaceful calm of the tiny bay, with its groups of fishermen and women on the soft white sands, or wading into the clear blue water to reach their boats, the surroundings made the place a pleasant oasis in the desert of his life. The rest was sweet and languorous, and he passed his time now strolling out on the dry, warm sands, thinking, now high up on the grassy top of the cliff, where he could look down on people enjoying their seaside life.

At times he would go out with some of the fishermen, who readily welcomed the English stranger, and talked to him in a formal, grave way, and in French that he found it hard to follow.

Meanwhile Brettison had hunted out a brawny pleasant-faced fisherman’s wife, who had been pointed out to him as an able nurse, and placed their charge in her care—the ex-convict obeying her lightest sign and giving little trouble, suffering himself to be led to some nook or other at the foot of the high cliffs, where he would sit down, watched by his attendant—the Breton woman—while Brettison busied himself on the cliffs collecting.

There was no trouble; the man grew more apathetic day by d............