CHAPTER ELEVEN.
A feeling of misery that he could not have explained came over Archy Raystoke as he grasped the position, and he wished that he had never undertaken the task he had in hand.
For it seemed so shocking that the noble-looking lady and gentleman he had seen that day should be in league with a gang of smugglers, and have lent their out-of-the-way house to be a depository for the contraband goods.
"Oh, it's impossible," he said to himself.

"They could not.

The scoundrels have hidden the things somewhere up in the wood by the house, thinking that nobody would come in there to search." "The artful rascal!" said Archy to himself, feeling better now that he had put this interpretation upon the proceedings; and, knowing his way better now, and thinking of the dog the while, he hurried on, and had nearly reached the house, meaning to hide somewhere among the abundant shrubs which surrounded it till the smugglers had passed, when all doubt as to the party being those he was tracking was chased away by his hearing a voice just before him say,-- "All right, father.

Here they come." Archy stopped short, as he felt his position.

The farmer and his son had come up here, and were waiting for the men to act as carriers.
"What shall I do ?" he asked himself, for he was between two parties, and a step might mean discovery.