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“Good Lord!” cried Captain Pond, gazing at the paper. “Look, Doctor–a plan!”

“A sketch plan!”

“A plan of our defences!”

“Damme, a plan of the whole Castle, and drawn to scale! Search him, Clogg; search the villain!”

“Wha-wha-what,” stuttered the little man, “WHAT’S the m-m-meaning of this? S-some-body shall p-pay, as sure as I–I–I–“

“Pay, sir?” thundered Captain Pond as Mr. Clogg dragged forth yet another bundle of plans from the poor creature’s pocket. “You have seen the last penny you’ll ever draw in your vile trade.”

“Wha-what have I–I–I DONE?”

“Heaven knows, sir–Heaven, which has interposed at this hour to thwart this treacherous design–alone can draw the full indictment against your past. Clogg, march him off to the guard-room: and you, Doctor, tell Pengelly to post a guard outside the door. In an hour’s time I may feel myself sufficiently composed to examine him, and we will hold a full inquiry to-morrow. Good Lord!”–Captain Pond removed his hat and wiped his brow. “Good Lord! what an escape!”

“I’ll–I’ll have the l-l-law on you for t-th-this!” stammered the prisoner sulkily an hour later when Captain Pond entered his cell.

No other answer would he give to the Captain’s closest interrogatory. Only he demanded that a constable should be fetched. He was told that in England a constable had no power of interference with military justice.

“Y-you are a s-s-silly fool!” answered the prisoner, and turned away to his bench.

Captain Fond, emerging from the cell, gave orders to supply him with a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. Down in Falmouth the bells were ringing for church. In the Castle a Sabbath stillness reigned. Sergeant Topase, napping and reading his Bible by turns before the gatehouse fire, remarked to his wife that on the whole these silly amachoors were giving less trouble than he had expected.

At 7.45 next morning Gunner Israel Spettigew, having relieved guard with Gunner Oke at the breach, and advised him to exhibit a dose of black-currant wine before turning in (as a specific against a chill in the extremities), was proceeding leisurably to cut himself a quid of tobacco when he became aware of two workmen–carpenters they appeared to be in the dim light–approaching the entry.

“Who goes there?” he challenged. “‘Tis no use my asking you for the countersign, because I’ve forgotten it myself: but there’s No Admittance except on Business.”

“That’s what we’ve come upon,” said one of the workmen. “By the looks of ‘ee you must be one of the new Artillerymen from Looe that can’t die however hard they want to. But didn’ Jackson tell you to look out for us?”

“Who’s Jackson?”

“Why, our Clerk of the Works. He’s somewhere inside surely? He usually turns up half an hour ahead of anyone else, his heart’s so set on this job.”

“I haven’t seen ‘en go by, to my knowledge,” said Uncle Issy.

The two men looked at one another. “Not turned up? Then there must be something the matter with ‘en this morning: taken poorly with over-work, I reckon. Oh, you can’t miss Jackson when once you’ve set eyes on him–a little chap with a face like a rabbit and a ‘pediment in his speech.”

“Hey?” said Uncle Issy sharply. “What? A stammerin’ little slip of a chap in a moleskin waistcoat?”

“That’s the man. Leastways I never see’d him wear a moleskin waistcoat, ‘xcept on Sundays.”

“But it was Sunday!”

“Hey?”

“Oh, tell me–tell me, that’s dear souls! Makes a whistly noise in his speech–do he?–like a slit bellows?”

“That’s Jackson, to a hair. But–but–then you hev seen ‘en?”

“Seen ‘en?” cried Uncle Issy. “A nice miss I ha’n’t helped to bury ‘en, by this time! Oh yes . . . if you want Jackson he’s inside: an’ what’s more, he’s a long way inside. But you can’t want him half so much as he’ll be wantin’ you.”