Wogan shut the door gently--there was no key in the lock--and bending over the bed looked into the face of his assailant.

The face was twisted with pain, the whites of the eyes glared horribly, but Wogan could see that the man was his landlord.
He stood up and thought.

There was another man who had met him in the village and had guided him to the inn; there was still a third who had gone out of the kitchen as Wogan had entered it; there was the wife, too, who might be awake.
Wogan crossed to the window and looked out.

The window was perhaps twenty feet from the ground, but the stanchion was three feet below the window.

He quickly put on his clothes, slipped the letter from under his pillow into a pocket, strapped his saddle-bag and lowered it from the window by a blanket.