CHAPTER XVIII.
THE OWL'S CRY.
Silence--and then Mr.Rogers's voice uplifted and shouting for Hodgson! But Hodgson, it seemed, had found out a way of his own.

For a fresh sound of hoofs smote on our ears--this time in the lane--a tune pounded out to the accompaniment of loose stones volleyed and dropping between the beats.
"Drat the man's impidence," said Miss Belcher coolly; "he's taken my mare!" "What's that you say ?" demanded Mr.Rogers's angry voice from the yard.
"You won't find another horse, Jack, unless you brought him.
Whitmore keeps but one." "Confound it all, Lydia!" He came sullenly back towards the window.
"You've said that before.

The man's gone, unless Hodgson can overtake him--which I doubt.

He rides sixteen stone if an ounce, and the mare's used to something under eleven.

So give over, my boy, and come in and tell me what it's all about." "Look here," he growled, clambering back into the room, "there's devilry somewhere at the bottom of this.