Black Bill and his accomplice had set out across the field in a direction which Hugh felt sure would bring them out on to the high road. It was, therefore, with all speed that the Cubs scrambled back along the little path, over gates, and through gaps, until they found themselves once again near the gipsy camp. Fetching the bicycle from their hiding-place in the old cistern, they wheeled it quietly across the grass on to the road. After lighting the lamps Hugh mounted, waited for David to be firmly settled on the carrier of the bike, and then began to fairly hog it down the road. Fortunately for him the way lay almost entirely down hill.

The Cubs must have gone nearly a mile when they noticed two black figures walking in the middle of the road, just ahead. Hugh jammed on his brakes and rang his bell loudly. The figures jumped out of the way, and as the bicycle flashed past them, the golden circle from its lamp lit them up. Unmistakably it was Black Bill and the stranger.

“That’s good,” panted Hugh over his shoulder; “there’s still four miles for them to walk to the cross-roads. I don’t suppose they’re walking more than four miles an hour, and we must be going about fourteen. We shall get there long before they do.”

And sure enough the church clock was striking twelve as the Cubs flashed through the little sleeping village and passed the cross-roads.

“I’m jolly glad there’s two of us,” said David. “I wouldn’t like to be on this job alone. It’s so beastly dark, and I hate all these plotting people. I wish I was at home in bed.”

“Don’t give in to yourself,” said Hugh. “Let’s stick it out. Once we’ve found the Tramp we shall be all right.”

They turned up the little lane that led to the farm. At the gate they got off the bike and propped it up against the fence. Then they crept across the yard to the barn where the tramp slept.

Hugh was carrying the bicycle lamp. Standing just inside the barn, he flashed it round to find the Mysterious Tramp. Yes, there he was, lying on a pile of straw.

Creeping up to him, David shook him gently.

“Hullo,” said the Tramp, opening his eyes, and then sitting up. “Who is it?”

“Us,” whispered David; “two of the Cubs.” Hugh put down the bicycle lamp, and the two boys squatted in its circle of yellow light.

“What on earth brings you two kiddies here?” said the Tramp.

It was very comforting to hear his cheery voice. The Cubs each got hold of one of his hands.

“Oh, sir,” said Hugh, “we are in the middle of such an awful adventure.”

“And you want to drag me into it?” said the Tramp.

“Yes,” said David, “but it won’t be long before they meet at the cross-roads. We want to tell you all the story, and then you will know what to do.”

“Fire ahead then,” said the Tramp.

David quickly told all they had done, seen, and heard.

As he reached the part about the conspiracy in the cowhouse, the Tramp started.

“What,” he said, with sudden feverish interest, “a gang of what?”

“Forgers,” said David, dwelling with an enjoyable thrill of horror on the word.

“And they want to re-form the gang,” said Hugh, “and make Mr. Ogden one of the partners—the one who provides the money.”

“And they say if he doesn’t promise all they want they will tell everybody all about the past, when (as they say) he was the boss of their gang, and made off to America with all the swag. And they say he wasn’t called Ogden in those days—his name was Crale.”

“What!” said the Tramp, with a sudden, hard, fierce note in his voice that startled the Cubs, and made them peer through the dim light to try and see his face. “What!” he repeated.

“Crale!” said David.

He little knew what that name called up in the mind of the Mysterious Tramp—sad scenes of eight years ago. In the darkness he seemed to see a long white road, winding between green woods, and on the road he himself, a gay young artist, with a little fair-haired girl holding on to his hand, and jumping about for very joy of being alive, and then a dark, sinister-looking house, with Mr. Crale standing at the gate. “The wicked uncle looks very cross this morning, daddy,” would say Mariette; “poor wicked uncle, perhaps he wishes he had a little girl. He must be awful lonely.”

And then another scene. The sneering face of Crale, as handcuffs are clipped on to the wrists of the young artist, and he (an innocent man) is arrested as a forger. And then his face again, in the court, giving evidence, and showing the false letters, supposed to be from the artist, making over his little girl to one of the members of his gang.

But David was continuing his story, and the Tramp was obliged to turn his mind from the sad past to the strange present.

“We were hunting for Danny,” continued David, “and we heard this plot by accident. We don’t much care what happens, as long as we find Danny. We thought we’d better follow up and hear what Black Bill says to grandfather, because it might give us a clue.”

“Yes,” said the Tramp eagerly. “Yes, we will go to the wood at once and try and hear what passes.”

Danny’s fate was far from the Tramp’s mind. Here at last he was getting close to that which had occupied all his thoughts for nearly eight years. Here was a chance of learning the whereabouts of his little Mariette and—of revenge.

Extinguishing the lamp the two Cubs and their friend crept down the little lane towards the wood. They did not step out into the open, at the cross-roads, but crawled through a gap into the wood, and made their way silently along a narrow mossy path. The clouds had dispersed, and now the moon shone brightly.

Crouching in the black shadow of a holly bush, the three “detectives” took up their position where they could see the white roads, and the signpost in the moonlight, and also command the wide, fern-fringed path leading down the wood, from the little gate.

They had not been waiting long before two black figures appeared, swinging along the Bradmead road. Reading the signpost, they halted and looked around. Then it was that the tall spare figure of Mr. Ogden stepped forward from the gloom and advanced towards Black Bill.

“It’s our old friend Crale right enough,” said Black Bill, turning to his companion, “but his beard forms a good disguise. Thought he’d pass for a blooming gent, and a high and mighty squire, he did. Here’s your old mate, Bingey,” he said, turning to Mr. Ogden.

The squire grunted. “Come into the wood,” he growled sullenly, “and then get on with what you’ve got to say.”

Moving with the extreme caution Danny had taught them, the Cubs crawled towards the spot where the three men had gone, followed by the Tramp, until they were close enough to hear every word that passed.

“Well,” began Black Bill, “this here is our proposition to you, Mr. Crale.” He began to unfold a long plan that it was difficult for the Cubs to understand. When he had explained everything he made his threat of exposing Mr. Ogden’s shameful past, unless he would agree to fall in with their scheme.

The Tramp was breathing hard; thoughts raced through his brain. Here he was, close at last to his old enemy, and he would have his revenge at last.

“Make your choice,” said Black Bill in a threatening voice. “Sign this paper, and write me a cheque for £1,000, or go back to your swell house and wait for the police to come along to-morrow.”

The squire stretched out his hand and took the paper. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a fountain pen. Smoothing the paper out on his knee, he bent over it, trying to read it in the moonlight.

“What’s this sentence?” he said, peering closer. “How can I sign what I can’t even read?” He ran his finger along a line. Black Bill came near, and bent over the paper to see what it was the squire could not understand. He was altogether off his guard and in a defenceless position. Like a steel spring Mr. Ogden’s hands shot out, catching him by the throat, and forcing him down on to the ground. At the same moment another figure sprang up from behind a log and grappled with Bingey.

A cry of horror broke from the Cubs and a muffled exclamation from the Tramp. So his revenge was not to be so easy after all. Ogden might yet escape. But even as he looked, he saw the tide turn. The squire, for all his wiry strength and all his knowledge of jujitsu, was a poor match for Black Bill’s powerful muscles. Besides, he was well over fifty, and Black Bill was some years younger. The Tramp breathed hard. He was seeing a terrible revenge upon his enemy.

Then, like a golden flash, a memory came into his mind—his conversation with Danny last autumn: “God won’t answer your prayers till you forgive your enemies,” Danny had said. Revenge was a terrible sin—the Tramp knew that. And then, in those breathless moments he knew that his time for deciding had come. For God’s sake he would forgive his enemy. More, he would risk his life to save him. Springing forward he threw himself on to the struggling men.

With a yell of rage Black Bill let go of the squire, and turning on his new assailant aimed a blow at him with a knife. It sank deep into the Tramp’s arm, and things would have gone badly for him had not David and Hugh joined into the fray.

Catching hold of Black Bill’s legs, they little by little managed to wind them up with the rope they had brought with them. Then, while the squire and the Tramp held him down, they bound his arms also. At last he was helpless, and the Tramp and Mr. Ogden stood up; Bingey had been settled by Mr. Ogden’s man, and lay gagged and bound.