A series of accidents had overtaken the Newbury mail from the hour that
it started in the fine dewy morning, till the sun went down; and as the
twilight deepened over the landscape it was still many miles from its
destination.

The troubles began early in the day. One of the leaders cast a shoe, and
had to be shod at the first village through which they passed. Farther
on something went wrong with the harness, and later still a much more
serious impediment to their progress arose--some accident happened to a
wheel, so that the coach must needs go half-pace, in spite of the oaths
of old Joe, the driver, whose boast it was that he had never reached
Wancote later than midnight.

But this evening old Joe's boasts were doomed to fall to the ground, for
the coach could only crawl along, and the night was closing in fast.

The guard was engaged in a somewhat mysterious occupation, an occupation
which, though only partially visible from the interior of the coach,
caused a faint shriek to issue therefrom.

"What is he doing? What is it?" cried a woman's voice.

"Nothing, madam; be easy, I entreat," was the answer from within. "There
is nothing to alarm, but rather to reassure, in his actions--he prepares
his pistols and looks to their priming. Zounds! one must be ready for
all contingencies with ten miles of unfrequented road ahead of us."

The mail continued on its way, becoming slower and slower, as an ominous