"Mr. Ducklow'll be going for the trunk, and I _must_ go home and see to
things, Taddy's _such_ a fellow for mischief. I can foot it; I shan't
mind it."

And off she started, walking herself out of breath in anxiety.

She reached the brow of the hill just in time to see a chaise drive away
from her own door.

"Who _can_ that be? I wonder if Taddy's ther' to guard the house! If
anything should happen to them bonds!"

Out of breath as she was, she quickened her pace, and trudged on,
flushed, perspiring, panting, until she reached the house.

"Thaddeus!" she called.

No Taddy answered. She went in. The house was deserted. And, lo! the
carpet torn up, and the bonds abstracted!

Mr. Ducklow never would have made such work, removing the bonds. Then
somebody else must have taken them, she reasoned.

"The man in the chaise!" she exclaimed, or rather made an effort to
exclaim, succeeding only in bringing forth a hoarse, gasping sound. Fear
dried up articulation. _Vox faucibus hæsit._

And Taddy? He had disappeared, been murdered, perhaps,--or gagged and
carried away by the man in the chaise.