The evening was chilly, but not cold for the time of year. Therewas no moon. The stars were out, and the wind was quiet. Upon thewhole, the inhabitants of the little Somersetshire village ofBaxdale agreed that it was as fine a Christmas-eve as they couldremember for some years past.

Toward eight in the evening the one small street of the villagewas empty, except at that part of it which was occupied by thepublic-house. For the most part, people gathered round theirfiresides, with an eye to their suppers, and watched the processof cooking comfortably indoors. The old bare, gray church,situated at some little distance from the village, looked alonelier object than usual in the dim starlight. The vicarage,nestling close under the shadow of the church-tower, threw noillumination of fire-light or candle-light on the dreary scene.The clergyman's shutters fitted well, and the clergyman'scurtains were closely drawn. The one ray of light that cheeredthe wintry darkness streamed from the unguarded window of alonely house, separated from the vicarage by the whole length ofthe church-yard. A man stood at the window, holding back theshutter, and looking out attentively over the dim void of theburial-ground. The man was Richard Turlington. The room in whichhe was watching was a room in his own house.

A momentary spark of light flashed up, as from a kindled match,in the burial-ground. Turlington instantly left the empty room inwhich he had been watching. Passing down the back garden of thehouse, and crossing a narrow lane at the bottom of it, he openeda gate in a low stone wall beyond, and entered the church- yard.The shadowy figure of a man of great stature, lurking among thegraves, advanced to meet him. Midway in the dark and lonely placethe two stopped and consulted together in whispers. Turlingtonspoke first.

"Have you taken up your quarters at the public-house in thevillage?"

"Yes, master."

"Did you find your way, while the daylight lasted, to thedeserted malt-house behind my orchard wall?"

"Yes, master."

"Now listen--we have no time to lose. Hide there, behind thatmonument. Before nine o'clock to-night you will see me cross thechurchyard, as far as this place, with the man you are to waitfor. He is going to spend an hour with the vicar, at the houseyonder. I shall stop short here, and say to him, 'You can't missyour way in the dark now--I will go back.' When I am far enoughaway from him, I shall blow a call on my whistle. The moment youhear the call, follow the man, and drop him before he gets out ofthe church-yard. Have you got your cudgel?"

Thomas Wildfang held up his cudgel. Turlington took him by thearm, and felt it suspiciously.

"You have had an attack of the horrors already," he said. "Whatdoes this trembling mean?"

He took a spirit-flask from his pocket as he spoke. ThomasWildfang snatched it out of his hand, and emptied it at adraught. "All right now, master," he said. Turlington felt hisarm once more. It was steadier already. Wildfang brandished hiscudgel, and struck a heavy blow with it on one of the turf moundsnear them. "Will that drop him, captain?" he asked.

Turlington went on with his instructions.

"Rob him when you have dropped him. Take his money and hisjewelry. I want to have the killing of him attributed to robberyas the motive. Make sure before you leave him that he is dead.Then go to the malt-house. There is no fear of your being seen;all the people will be indoors, keeping Christmas-eve. You willfind a change of clothes hidden in the malt-house, and an oldcaldron full of quicklime. Destroy the clothes you have got on,and dress yourself in the other clothes that you find. Follow thecross-road, and when it brings you into the highroad, turn to theleft; a four-mile walk will take you to the town of Harminster.Sleep there to-night, and travel to London by the train in themorning. The next day go to my office, see the head clerk, andsay, 'I have come to sign my receipt.' Sign it in your own name,and you will receive your hundred pounds. There are yourinstructions. Do you understand them?"

Wildfang nodded his head in silent token that he understood, anddisappeared again among the graves. Turlington went back to thehouse.

He had advanced midway across the garden, when he was startled bythe sound of footsteps in the lane--at that part of it whichskirted one of the corners of the house. Hastening forward, heplaced himself behind a projection in the wall, so as to see theperson pass across the stream of light from the uncovered windowof the room that he had left. The stranger was walking rapidly.All Turlington could see as he crossed the field of light was,that his hat was pulled over his eyes, and that he had a thickbeard and mustache. Describing the man to the servant on enteringthe house, he was informed that a stranger with a large beard hadbeen seen about the neighborhood for some days past. The accounthe had given of himself stated that he was a surveyor, engaged intaking measurements for a new map of that part of the country,shortly to be published.

The guilty mind of Turlington was far from feeling satisfied withthe meager description of the stranger thus rendered. He couldnot be engaged in surveying in the dark. What could he want inthe desolate neighborhood of the house and church-yard at thattime of night?

The man wanted--what the man found a little lower down the lane,hidden in a dismantled part of the church-yard wall--a letterfrom a young lady. Read by the light of the pocket-lantern whichhe carried with him, the letter first congratulated this personon the complete success of his disguise--and then promised thatthe writer would be ready at her bedroom window for flight thenext morning, before the house was astir. The signature was"Natalie," and the person addressed was "Dearest Launce."

In the meanwhile, Turlington barred the window shutters of theroom, and looked at his watch. It wanted only a quarter to nineo'clock. He took his dog-whistle from the chimney-piece, andturned his steps at once in the direction of the drawing-room, inwhich his guests were passing the evening.