A Mystery of the Downs

T the rectory, breakfast had just begun. Mrs. Tonga was pouring out the coffee. The old Rector himself was neglecting his correspondence to read aloud the cricket news in the morning paper to his son, Wilton, who had just come in from his early stroll round their little farm.

"Kent is doing splendidly, splendidly!" declared the Rector. "If only Wiltshire were a first-class county, and I'm sure I don't know why we should not be I should like to see you facing Blythe, my boy."

"The only time I ever faced Blythe," remarked Wilton, "he got me third ball."

"Wilton spends quite enough time on cricket, as it is," said Mrs. Tonge, passing the coffee. " Do get on with your breakfast, James."

"Breakfast can wait, cricket results can't," declared the Rector; and Mrs. Tonge held up her hands helplessly, while Wilton laughed.

It was not long since he had left the University, where the fact that he secured his cricket "blue" in his second year quite made amends in his father's eyes for the very modest "pass" he scored in the schools. His future he had not yet decided, finding the present very agreeable with plenty of country house cricket for amusement, and the superintendence of the little rectory farm to fill up spare time. His father wished him to enter the Church, but Wilton felt he lacked the vocation. His mother wished him to do anything he liked, so long as he did not leave England. Fortunately, the problem was not a pressing one, as he had inherited a small capital of a few thousand pounds from an aunt, and, though his own tastes turned towards farming in the Colonies, he had as yet come to no decision. The breakfast proceeded, and Mrs. Tonge said—

"You are not going to Stanstead to-night, are you, Wilton?"

"No, not till the morning," Wilton answered.

Stanstead was a little village in Gloucestershire, about forty miles distant. On the morrow a cricket match was to be played there, in which Wilton had promised to take part, having been invited as a kind of reply to the capture by the other side of a county "pro." A friend, also playing, was to call for him in the morning in his motor-car. Leaving at nine, they would have plenty of time in which to get to their destination for the start of play at half-past eleven.

A knock came at the door. Johnson, the bailiff of the little rectory farm, would like to see Mr. Wilton at once, if he might. Wilton left the room, and returned in a moment or two.

"I say, dad, there's another sheep gone," he announced.

"How very extraordinary!" said the Rector.

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Tonge. "Who can it be?"

"I'll go down and have a look," said Wilton.

"Oh, your breakfast!" cried Mrs. Tonge.

Wilton picked up a small brown loaf from the table, put it in his pocket, swallowed the rest of his cup of coffee, laughed at his mother's horrified face, and hurried away.

Johnson was waiting, and together they made their way to the field whence the missing animal had vanished. Bloodstains in one corner showed where it had been killed; close by, under a hedge, was where it had been skinned and cut up. The best part of both hind and fore-quarters was gone; the rest had been left lying on the ground, and had been a good deal mangled by stray dogs. In all, they supposed that something like forty pounds' weight of solid meat had vanished.

It was the fourth time this had happened within the last few months, and so far every effort to find the culprit had failed. Once a watch was kept night by night for six weeks, and the very first time it was abandoned, the third sheep went. That had made Wilton think that the thief must be someone in the neighbourhood acquainted with their plans, but no definite clue could be found.

He went off now to see the police, and the local sergeant came down, and looked very wise and asked many questions, but achieved no special result. The only real discovery was made by a ploughboy, who came to tell them that on a certain damp and muddy spot was the print of a naked foot. They went to look, and found near by some drops of blood and a piece of wool, which seemed to prove that the slayer of the sheep had escaped that way.

"Only it is so small," Wilton said; "it looks like the print of a child's foot."

"Perhaps whoever it was had a child with him," suggested the policeman. "In which case it must be someone living near here," observed Wilton. "We'll start watching again to-night. I'll catch the fellow somehow if I never sleep in a bed again!"

He kept himself busy the rest of the day, searching for clues, but without success. In the morning his friend called in his motor-car, and Wilton departed with him. They arrived at Stanstead in good time, and found their host in a very bad temper.

"Awfully annoying!" he said. "Last night ten pounds of butter vanished from the dairy, and not a sign to show who took it, except one footmark—that of the naked foot of a child, apparently."

"Oh!" said Wilton. "Naked foot of a child, eh? Curious."

It struck him as an odd coincidence, but, with forty miles dividing Stanstead from the rectory farm, he did not suppose there could be any connection.

"I don't know what is coming to the place," his host went on ill-temperedly. "Twice this year Griggs, of Thicker's End Farm, just next to this place, has lost a steer—found them dead in the morning in one of the fields, with not a sign to show who did it."

"How were they killed?" Wilton asked.

"Knocked down, apparently, and their throats cut," the other answered. "About forty or fifty pounds of the meat was missing, and the first time a long strip of hide. Queer affair altogether."

Wilton agreed that it was queer, and all the day was so deep in thought, he did himself small credit as a cricketer. The county "pro." got rid of him in his first over, and later he missed an easy catch.

"I believe the loss of those sheep has got on my brain," he said, in explanation of his misconduct; and, as some of his hearers did not know the story, he repeated it. One of them, the son of a farmer in a large way, whose place lay some distance west, not very far, indeed, from the foot of the Mendip Hills, remarked that they had lost five or six fine geese that year.

"About one every fortnight," he remarked. "Odd thing is, we can't imagine who it is, or how it's done."

"Foxes," suggested someone.

"None about," retorted the other. "Besides, foxes don't open doors and shat them again afterwards."

"Dishonesty seems very widespread just now," remarked Wilton. "You must be over fifty miles from us, or from this place."

Nothing more was said just then. On his return home, Wilton was careful to set a close watch, and the next day he went to see the chief constable of the county. That gentleman had not much information to give, but one fact appeared very clearly—that there was a good deal of freebooting going on. Chiefly what was stolen was food—sheep, poultry, eggs, and butter from dairies, being the chief losses reported. There were several cases, too, of farmers complaining that someone was milking their cows. Wilton got a list of all cases reported, and then wrote to the chief constables of the neighbouring counties. The result was he found that, over an area extending from the Mendip Hills on the west to the North Downs on the east, from the New Forest in the south to the Cotswolds in the north, these cases had occurred at intervals for more than a year past.

"Looks as though there were a gang out," he said to himself, "or perhaps a party of gipsies in a van perambulating this district."

He began to check the dates carefully, and found that, when one theft occurred, the next invariably happened at least thirty miles, and more often fifty or sixty miles, in an opposite direction.

Wilton gave it up as a puzzle beyond him, and lay down to get a little sleep before going to take his share in the watch still being maintained over the field where the sheep were.

All was quiet and peaceful, and the watchers saw nothing to reward their vigilance. Two o'clock tolled out from the church clock, and suddenly Wilton was sure there was a faint sound he could hear somewhere near.

He lay still, scarcely breathing. The night was dark; there was no moon, and clouds hid the stars. He had enough knowledge to teach him to keep his eyes near the level of the ground, so that anything moving should be apparent against the horizon. Nothing showed, but none the less he was certain something was near by—something that was watching him. Every nerve was tense. He had an impulse to call out, but repressed it. He lay and watched, and he was sure something moved and was still, moved again and was still once more, close by where he was lying. All his life seemed concentrated in his eyes, so intently did he strain them in his attempt to pierce the darkness. He was more and more certain that a little way away the blackness of the night was more intense than elsewhere with the darkness of a crouching shadow that sometimes moved.

On a sudden he leaped to his feet and made a rush. He flung his arms wide, but they closed only on the black and void night. From a distance a low laugh sounded sweetly.

He ran in the direction it seemed to come from. He heard nothing, saw nothing; but when the day broke, they found all the sheep in the field huddled together in the middle of it, pressing close one against the other.

On the dewy grass, too, were faint, indistinguishable tracks circling about the sheep. Beyond doubt during the night someone or something had been in the field, and had herded the sheep together into the position in which dawn showed them.

"It be the Devil hisself," said one of the watchers with conviction.

Wilton said nothing, but in his ears sounded ever the echo of that sweet, mysterious laugh he had heard issue from the void of the darkness of the night. He searched diligently to find any trace or track of any kind, but without success, save for those in the dew about the sheep, that were already vanishing in the breath of the hot sun.

He went back to the rectory, haunted by the memory of that laughter of the night—mysterious, sweet, penetrating. He telegraphed, cancelling for a time all his promises to play cricket, and, taking food and money and a stout stick, he went up on the broad downs below which the rectory lay.

For it seemed to him—though why he knew not— that somewhere in the bosom of the wide and silent downs must lie hid this mystery he sought.

For days he wandered, questioning, inquiring, hearing ever a mysterious, unknown sweet laughter echoing in his ears. He met with but poor success. Stories there were in plenty, vague and strange and unsubstantial as the morning's dew. One man had seen something—what, he did not know; one man had heard something—what, he could not tell. Some who were the wisest and knew the most spoke the least, for why, for the benefit of this wandering stranger, should they risk bringing on themselves the anger of the unknown and ancient powers of the moor? Besides, Wilton evidently belonged to gentlefolk, and gentlefolk are a race apart, of whom one must always be wary, they having odd ideas, though being useful for extracting money from. Wilton grew, during these days of his wanderings, to hate his gentility, his education. The moment they heard his Oxford accent, a veil seemed to drop between him and the people of the downs. At once they regarded him with suspicion; he was not one of them, and those to whom he belonged it seemed he had left. The things he knew about they had never heard of, and of what they knew and were instructed in, he was utterly ignorant.

Disheartened, he would have given up the quest, but that continually he came across fresh evidence of someone, something, some spirit or power, or who could tell what, that roamed the downs over an area with a radius of something like sixty miles, with this district, as it seemed, for a centre. And always he had the memory of the music of the laughter he had heard issuing with a strange beauty from the void of the dark night.

At one farm where he stayed a day or two, they put out every Saturday night a loaf of bread and a bowl of milk. In the morning bread and milk were always gone. In return twice over they had been saved from serious loss. Once a valuable pure-bred cow strayed, and was searched for in vain. Then one night it was brought back.

"Tethered to the yard gate we found her, sir," said the farmer. "Now, who did that?"

Another time a tapping at the window had roused the farmer, who, on going down, had been just in time to save his pedigree mare, which had managed to cast herself in the stable.

"And nothing to show where the tapping came from," his wife told Wilton, "except as next morning, by the pond, there was the print of a naked foot— as it might be, a child's."

Wilton hinted that the next time the bread and milk were put out, he would like to watch. It was an unlucky suggestion. He was told plainly that nothing of the kind would be permitted, nor were his apologies received very willingly.

By this time news of his quest was widely spread, and he received word that something had happened at a certain farm in a very lonely spot some miles distant from where he was then. He went at once to the place indicated, and found the farmer in a state of great indignation and annoyance.

Frequently of late they had found that during the night one or more of their cows had been milked. Finally the farmer decided to watch, and he and his shepherd took up their position one night, one on each side of the field in which was the herd of cows. They had heard nothing, but in the middle of the night one of the cows left the herd, and went off alone, as if in answer to some summons perceptible only to itself. The farmer and his man tried to follow, but soon lost it in the dark, and the next morning it was found quite dry.

"As dry as the back of my hand," said the farmer; "but the oddest thing of all, 'tis, as shepherd says"

"Says what?" Wilton asked.

"Why, he says as he heard someone laugh, in the dark just at his elbow—a low laugh, like a happy child's, he said. He says as he thinks 'twere the Devil tempting him; but for what should the Old 'Un want to tempt the likes of him?"

"It sounds very strange. A laugh, you say?" Wilton asked.

"Yes; but, devils or not, I'll get even with 'em," declared the farmer. "I've got a brother what's foreman to Mr. Dickens—him as breeds them prize bloodhounds. I've wrote to him, and he's coming with one of the hounds, and I reckon we'll give a good chase to anything what comes after my cows again."

By dint of some persuasion, Wilton obtained permission to make one in the contemplated pursuit, and the next day the farmer's brother arrived with a magnificent hound of the purest breed and of perfect temper. For two days nothing happened, and then, on the morning of the third day, one of the farm boys came running to the house with word that the brindle cow had been milked dry again.

Very soon they were on the trail, which the hound found without difficulty. Straight from the farm it led them up to the wide spaces of the downs above, without hesitation or delay, and so swiftly that, had it not been in leash, it would soon have outstripped the three men following.

"The scent is laying fine," declared the farmer's brother. Bill, as everyone called him. "I never knew it better. We'll be able to follow this to the sea."

Swift and silent, its nose down, the hound trotted on, straining against the leash that held it back. Once the farmer pointed to a flat stone, on which some fresh drops of milk were still visible.

"It rested there," he said—"rested and took a drink."

For another mile they ran straight on over the quiet downs. Then the farmer spoke again—

"There's running water ahead," he said. "Nought evil can cross running water."

In fact, they came soon to a little stream. and there, for the first time, the hound was at fault. The hunters had to pause while it ran to and fro, sniffing and seeking.

"Take it up and down the bank," Wilton said. "If whatever we are following took to the water, it must have left again somewhere."

"Which way?" Bill asked.

"Try up first," Wilton said—"the land looks lonelier up there."

"That's so," agreed the farmer; "'tis the loneliest, dreariest spot I know up there."

"And try the further bank," Wilton added. "Probably our quarry has crossed it and gone on, or we should have seen something of him if he had doubled back."

The hunt was resumed accordingly, and half a mile up the stream the hound suddenly began to nose at the ground and then made off at right-angles.

"He has found again," said Bill excitedly.

The scent seemed strong, for the hound pulled with vigour. They followed it, and it led them full speed to a rabbit warren about a quarter of a mile away. At the entrance to one of the burrows the hound sniffed for a minute or two, and then sat down quietly and wagged its tail contentedly, and looked up at the three men with the exact air of saying: "There, haven't I succeeded beautifully?"

Not one of the three men spoke a word. They stood looking oddly at each other and at the mouth of the rabbit-hole. The hound wagged its tail. The farmer was very pale. Bill had the air of expecting next the fall of the skies. Wilton was conscious of a curious thrill of wonder and of fear. He listened intently, half expecting to hear a low, delicious laughter breaking the immense silence of the downs.

"This beats all," said Bill, with tremendous solemnity.

"It's black magic!" said the farmer. "Let's get home quick."

They went back accordingly, and a good deal more slowly than they had come, the only content member of the party being the dog, which kept wagging its tail, and had quite the air of having brought a very difficult business to a satisfactory termination. The news of this hunt that had led to a rabbit's burrow spread wide over the downs, and the general opinion was that the hunters had been strangely fortunate to escape being themselves turned into rabbits. Wilton went to see the dog's owner, Mr. Dickens, who was very interested, but could throw no light on the matter. However, he offered certain advice, on which Wilton determined to act.

He did not possess a motor-car, but he understood them fairly well; and he hired one and kept it at the rectory, always ready for use. Then he made a tour round the downs, distributing prepaid telegraph forms, and promising a reward of five pounds for the first that reached him with authentic news. He went back to the rectory and waited, and before very long a telegram arrived, early on a Monday morning. He rushed away to his car, and it was off and tearing down the main road with all possible speed. First his course took him to the establishment of Mr. Dickens, who, already warned by telegram, was waiting for him with a hound in leash. With few words spoken, Mr. Dickens jumped into the car with his dog. Wilton turned and dashed away again, and by half-past nine was at the farm whence had come his telegram of warning.

It seemed a goose had vanished during the night, and one of the farm-hands was certain he had seen a shadow slipping through the farmyard. He had tried to follow, but failed in the darkness.

The hound was at once put on the trail. The scent seemed strong, for it started at once, running swiftly and strongly. Mr. Dickens, Wilton, and several of the farm people followed, but by the time they had gone four or five miles, Wilton and Mr. Dickens were alone, the others having dropped off.

Wilton was growing excited now. The farm they had just left was several miles distant from the one whence the last hunt had started, but he was sure, from the lie of the country, that the two lines of pursuit were converging.

"Look, look!" he exclaimed at last. "There's that stream where we were baulked before."

At the stream's bank the scent was once more lost. Wasting no time, the two men followed it upwards, and when they came near to the rabbit warren, the scene of Wilton's earlier discomfiture, Mr. Dickens took off his coat and wrapped it round the hound's head. Muffled and blinded, the hound was thus led till they had left the rabbit warren three or four hundred yards behind. Then Mr. Dickens released the dog, which evidently was much puzzled at his proceedings, but accepted them with an air of dignified protest, as though it were really no use attempting to account for human beings.

Some distance higher up they struck the scent again. Evidently here was where their quarry had left the stream, and Mr. Dickens laughed with delight.

"I don't know how that trick at the rabbit warren was managed," he said, "but this is evidently the right place."

They followed the hound, straining hard at the leash that held it. The country here was desolate and wild in the extreme. Not a creature was in sight. On all sides stretched the desolate bareness of the downs. Their course led upwards, almost parallel with the course of the little stream, though at some distance from it. On a sudden the hound, even as they were watching and following, spun round in its tracks and fell dead.

For a moment the two men stood and stared, almost disbelieving their own eyes. No living thing was in sight, save for a bird winging its high path overhead. Not a sound had they heard—nothing to account for what had happened—but there lay the dog dead at their feet.

"Look!" said Mr. Dickens, pointing. "Look!" he repeated in a hoarse whisper.

Blood was coming from the dead animal's head. Looking more closely, Wilton saw that it had been pierced by a smooth round stone about the size of a hen's egg. The missile had come with such force that it had penetrated the brain, causing instant death.

"Who threw that?" Wilton asked, amazed, and staring all round at the wide, blank downs.

"No human hand," said Mr. Dickens, "ever threw a stone with such force as that."

was evidently much shaken, and Wilton himself was conscious of a feeling of strange awe and dread. At their very feet the hound lay where it had been struck dead, and by whose hand or in what way they could not imagine.

For some little time they remained searching the vicinity, without finding anything to account for what had happened. At last they went back to the farm whence they had started, and told their strange tale, which was received with awe and wonder.

They had something to eat—of which they stood badly in need—and then Wilton created a sensation by announcing that he was going to return to the scene of the hound's death. The farm people did their best to dissuade him, and plainly looked on him as a lost man when he persisted in his intention. "I'm not going to let it end here," he said; but in truth it was a memory of faint, delicious laughter heard out of darkness and night that really drew him to return.

He supplied himself with plenty of food and started off. It seemed to him that the slaying of the dog showed that whatever it was they pursued had been hard pressed. Possibly at that very moment they had been near its lair. For one thing, it was significant, he thought, that each line of pursuit had led to the same neighbourhood, and it was his intention to search that neighbourhood thoroughly. If necessary, he meant to remain on watch day and night, and see if someone or something did not appear.

He had with him a good pair of glasses, and, selecting some rising ground, he lay down and waited.

All the remainder of the day he stayed there and saw nothing. Evening came. The last rays of the sun lay slantingly across the wide spaces of the downs. Nothing was to be seen, nothing heard. The passing of a belated bee buzzing its way home was an event. It was so lonely, Wilton had sometimes the impression that perhaps he might be the last man left alive. Immeasurably remote seemed the busy, crowded life of the plains below.

It was night now, and all the downs were wrapped in a soft, impenetrable darkness. An immense silence brooded. Overhead one by one the stars shone out. There was no moon. Once or twice Wilton dozed. In spite of a thick blanket he had come provided with, he was very cold, and the dew drenched him like rain.

Slowly the night passed. A damp mist rolled on the downs, as though the world were drowned in a great grey sea. In the east a light showed. The great, fiery rim of the sun shone gloriously, and, behold, a miracle, for it was day.

Wilton, watching, felt his night of vigil well repaid, and then, on a sudden, he saw, at a little distance below, at the edge of a small hollow or basin in the ground, a human figure, as though it had sprang that instant from the earth. Silent and straight it stood there, apparently also watching the wondrous rising of the sun.

Wilton felt for his glasses, and with a trembling hand adjusted them. He could see more plainly now, though not the face, for the figure had its back to him. He could distinguish that the form was that of a young woman. Her hair, apparently very thick and long, was caught up and secured in thick coils on the top of the head. Over her shoulders and across the upper part of her body she wore a sheepskin, and she wore a short kilt formed of another skin descending to the knees, the lower portion of the legs and the feet being bare.

With infinite caution, Hilton began to creep nearer. All his fieldcraft he called to his aid, and prayed for more, for never since the world began had hunter had nobler quarry. Nearer he crept and nearer, crouching, crawling, taking advantage of every cover the bare down afforded, grateful for every stone, glad even of a mole-leap. She still stood motionless, and so far, at least, evidently did not dream of his approach. It seemed she was absorbed in watching the wonder and the glory of the rising sun. Nearer Wilton crept, light of foot, hoping intently she would not look round. At last he got within five yards, and, crouching behind a stone, where the ground rose slightly, he rested, hesitating what to do.

Now that he was so near, he could appreciate better the extreme strange beauty and wonder of her form. On her delicately sloping shoulders her head was poised with a perfect grace. Her attitude seemed so light, he wondered if the grass bent beneath her feet. He saw her arm and hand, half-closed, hanging by her side, and wondered at them. As she stood there, watching the sun rise, she seemed a thing of air and light compact, as though, perhaps, new-born from the dew and the sweetness of the heather and these first rays of the sun. Had a god dreamed in the fresh morning, before wakening, such a vision as this might have been his.

Whether now he made some slight noise, or whether she began to feel his presence troubling her superb loneliness, he did not know, but she seemed to grow slightly uneasy. She moved, bending forward a little. She put up one hand to her eyes and seemed to gaze away towards the distance of the horizon. Wilton rose carefully to his feet. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him, and on the instant fled away, running with a wonderful, swift lightness.

Wilton followed, more heavily, but not less swiftly.

He called to her once or twice, but she heeded not at all, and afterwards he saved his breath, feeling he would have need of all of it.

Away and away they went over the wide quietness of the downs, away and away, mile after mile in the fresh and solemn dawn, past little rabbits that scampered out of their path, past birds that scarcely winged their airy path more swiftly or more lightly; away and away, by mild sheep that hardly heeded, by solitary shepherds who stood and stared, and told later the tale, to be branded therefore as liars all the rest of their lives; away and away, through solitary places, swiftly where the ground descended, scarce less swiftly where it rose, on and on till the long miles lay uncounted behind, pursuing man, maiden pursued.

By chance, or by preference, she kept ever to the wilder, more solitary districts, of which, indeed, this part of England can show, perhaps, the most remote in the whole country. Sometimes she gained a little, sometimes she lost a little. Wilton dared not relax his pace for one moment lest she should vanish; all his being was concentrated in the one resolve to run on till he overtook her or till his heart burst.

Away and away they went, on over the wide, free spaces of the downs. Though neither of them knew it, their course had brought them circling back to not very far from where they had started. Their run had fallen to a kind of staggering trot; they reeled as they went, and rolled from side to side. The thought was in Wilton's mind, "One spurt, and I could overtake her," but his tired muscles could not respond to the stimulus of his mind. A seven-year-old child could now have outrun them both with ease. Wilton's eyes were dim—a blackness came and went before them. Every sobbing breath he drew was an agony, and sharp knives stabbed him through the sides.

On a sudden the girl fell on the short turf, and where she fell, there she lay motionless. Wilton, with groping hands that sought vainly for support, staggered the few yards that separated them, and, as he reached her, fell also, pitching forward on his face and lying as motionless as she did.

They lay so still they might both have been dead but for their heavy, gasping breath, as their tortured lungs strove to take in air. The girl was the first to move. She made as if to rise. In an instant Wilton, with a supreme effort, flung out his hand and caught her by the wrist, for he knew that, if she once got to her feet and resumed her flight, he would not have the strength to follow her—no, not even another yard.

From the girl's lips there escaped a low, strangling sob. That grip upon her wrist was a sign to her that the days of her wild freedom were over. No longer was her liberty inviolate; it was as though upon her she felt closing the shadows of the prison-house.

In a frenzy of panic she struggled wildly, furiously, as all wild creatures struggle when they feel themselves taken and trapped. She lowered her head suddenly and sank her teeth into the flesh of his wrist. He made no sign that he felt, his grip did not loosen. All at once her struggles ceased; she lay still and quiet, save for long shudders that, succeeded each other at intervals, shaking her from head to foot.

Wilton released his hold. She made no attempt to move, but lay still and silent. He sat up and said in a low, weak voice—

"By Jove, that was a run!"

She did not seem to hear. She remained in the same position, only that her long shudders ceased, or came at least less frequently. Wilton said again—

"Yes, that was a run."

There was another pause. Then she moved and sat up. For the first time he saw her face plainly, and he wondered at its beauty. She was watching him intently from her wonderful bright eyes, that were as blue as the skies of Southern lands. Presently she put up her hands to her hair, disordered by her long flight, and began to rearrange it. The gesture reassured Wilton; it was familiar, reminding him of the women he knew, and bringing her, as it were, into relation with his experience.

"I say," he said, "I'm awfully sorry, you know."

She made no answer. He was aware of an odd feeling of embarrassment—of shyness almost. After another pause he tried again.

"You can just run," he said.

"I thought I could run faster than anyone else," she answered then.

Her voice thrilled Wilton strangely. The blood rushed to his cheeks; he lowered his head that she might not see. But her eyes were sharp, and she asked in tones in which a certain reassurance seemed to show—

"Why are you so red in the face?"

"What made you run away like that?" Wilton asked, judging it easier to counter by another question.

"Because" she said, and then paused.

It seemed that, after all, she was veritable woman.

"I say," Wilton asked suddenly, "it was you, wasn't it, I heard laughing one night over there?" And he pointed in the direction in which the rectory lay.

"May I go now?" she said, without answering his question.

"Go—where?" he asked.

"Back to my father."

"Your father?" Wilton repeated, and nothing she could have said could have more astonished him. "Oh, your father! Who—where is he?"

"At home."

"Oh, your home!" Wilton repeated, more and more surprised. "Where is your home?"

She lifted a hand and pointed without speaking to the slope of the down above.

"Up there?" Wilton asked.

She nodded.

"Will you take me there?" he asked.

She nodded again. She had the air of accepting him as her conqueror, and of considering that he had a right to demand acquiescence of her. She got to her feet and began to walk slowly up the slope of the down, and Wilton followed at her side.

"My father is ill," she said, as though feeling some further explanation were required—"he is ill, and I cannot leave him for long. That is why I went to get milk at the farm near here several times so close together. Father always said we should never go to the same place for what we wanted twice during the same moon."

"How long have you been living here?" Wilton asked.

She appeared to consider, and then shook her head.

"Since I was young," she said presently.

"Since you were young?" Wilton repeated, looking at her.

She nodded gravely.

"And it was you," he went on, "we followed that day with the dog?"

"Yes," she answered.

"The scent led us to a rabbit hole," he said. "Did you change yourself into a rabbit?"

"No," she answered, gravely surprised. "I could not do that—no one could." "Then how was it?" Wilton asked.

She seemed to hesitate, and then laughed—the same low, soft, delicious laughter he remembered so well.

"I ran in the water," she explained, "so that the dog should not be able to trace me. Then, when I got near the rabbits, I stood on the bank and called. When one came, I cut my finger and put blood on its tail and on its feet. It was frightened then, and ran back to its burrow, and I knew the dog would follow the scent of my blood. So I jumped back into the water, and went on up the stream."

"And do the rabbits come when you call them?" Wilton asked.

"It would be strange if they did not," she answered, "when we are friends." "I see," said Wilton. "And that other time, when our dog was killed?"

"Father did that," she answered. "I was sorry for the poor dog, but you were near our home."

"Near your home!" Wilton exclaimed. "We saw nothing."

"Our home is not there to be seen," she answered.

"Was it you," Wilton asked, "who killed those sheep of ours?"

"No, that was father," she answered. "I never kill things; father does that. If I try to kill anything, I go all upside down inside. Father says it is 'wo-man-ish.'" She pronounced this word with care, as though it were one she did not quite understand. "Do you know what 'wo-man-ish' is?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Oh, tell me!" she cried.

"It's feeling all upside down inside when you have to hurt anything," he answered. She appeared to ponder this very seriously, but, from her slight air of disappointment, she did not seem to find the explanation very satisfactory.

"But you were there, weren't you?" Wilton asked.

"I saw you all watching one night," she answered. "I went quite close to you, but you could not see because it was dark. I went into the field, and made all the sheep go together in the middle; and then I went away quite close to you, but you never saw because of the dark. That was why I laughed."

"And was it you," Wilton asked, "who took the butter and stuff, and who milked the cows?"

She nodded.

"Don't you know that sort of thing is stealing?" he asked.

"What is 'stealing'?" she inquired.

"Why, it's wicked!" Wilton answered.

"What is 'wicked'?" she inquired.

"Why, it's—I don't know," said Wilton.

"It is foolish to talk of things you don't know about," she informed him. "Father and I never do."

Wilton accepted the rebuke in silence. They were nearly at the crest of the down now, and, pointing with one hand, the girl said—

"There is our home."

Wilton looked round, but he could see nothing save the short turf of the wind-swept down, with here and there a stone or a mole-heap or a stunted bush.

"There," she said, seeing that he was puzzled.

Where she pointed there was a hollow in the ground, and in the shelter thus provided a few bushes struggled for their existence. Some rabbits were playing about undisturbed, and near one of the bushes was a pile of earth and stones, partly overgrown with grass—that was all. The girl said to Wilton—

"Wait here; I will tell father."

She left him and went down into the hollow. The rabbits gambolled on, taking no notice of her. She went direct to where the bushes grew, and bent down between the largest of them and the heap of earth and stones close to it. Then all at once she vanished.

Wilton waited patiently, and before very long she reappeared. She made him a sign to approach. As soon as he set foot within the hollow, the rabbits playing there scampered away.

"You are very big," the girl said to him disapprovingly, "but perhaps you can crawl through."

He could see now that the bush behind which she had disappeared hid a small cavity in the side of the hollow. To any but a close inspection it seemed nothing more; but, on looking more closely, it could be seen that it was the mouth of a large hole, as it were, the entrance to a tunnel that ran sideways behind the heap of stones and earth. The girl stooped and disappeared down this tunnel; Wilton followed on his hands and knees. The tunnel extended only about six feet, and then led into a small cave in the chalk subsoil. It was lighted by an aperture on one side that could be closed at will by a large stone. Through this opening was a view of the whole extent of the downs below, so that the inmates of this strange refuge would have early knowledge of the approach of any strangers.

The cave was full of a thin, acrid odour from a small fire of dried cowdung smouldering in one corner. The only furniture consisted of some wooden boxes, serving for table and chairs. There were some rough cooking utensils, and near the fire a man lay on a bed of dried leaves, tossing and moaning.

His face was thin and worn, and much hidden by a growth of thick, tangled, closely-cut hair. His clothing seemed composed solely of sheepskins, two or three more of which served as coverings for the bed. Over his head hung something that solved at once the mystery of the death of Mr. Dickens's bloodhound. It was a sling formed of stripe of dried hide, and near by was a small pile of carefully-chosen stones, smooth and round.

One corner of the cave was partitioned off by a curtain made from a piece of old tarpaulin. Wilton guessed that this formed the bed-chamber of the girl, who was standing looking at the sick man.

"You must have a doctor," Wilton said.

"What is 'doctor'?" she asked.

"A man who makes sick people well—sometimes," Wilton explained. "Have you any water?"

She took some from a pail near. Wilton gave it to the sick man, who said suddenly and with a loud voice—

"Not guilty, my lord!"

He went on muttering to himself, tossing restlessly the while on his couch of leaves. Even to Wilton it was plain that he was sinking fast. Looking at Wilton, he said—

"Who are you?"

"A friend," Wilton answered.

"That's a lie, unless you are dead," the other answered, "for all my friends are dead. Are you dead?"

"No," Wilton answered.

"Where is Norah?" asked the sick man.

"Here, father," the girl answered.

He lay quiet then for a few minutes, seemingly soothed by her presence. Now and again he complained of the number of people present, declaring that they crowded the cave inconveniently.

"There is no one here except your daughter and myself," Wilton said.

"The cave is full of all the other people I have ever known," the sick man answered. "Who are you? You are the only one I don't know."

"I want to be your friend," Wilton answered. "You ought to be taken somewhere for care and attention. You are ill, you know."

"No, I am dying," the other answered. "Are you a detective?"

"No, no," Wilton said quickly.

"It wouldn't matter if you were, for I served my time," the sick man answered.

He lay quiet for a few minutes, while Wilton wondered what to do. Help could not be obtained under some hours, and Wilton doubted if this man had as many minutes to live. Presently he spoke again.

"Listen," he said. "I don't know who you are. Listen. I shall die soon. Look after Norah."

"As God shall judge me," Wilton answered solemnly.

The sick man seemed satisfied. Norah was chafing his hands gently. He said again—

"Did you ever hear of Johnson and Mayne's failure? No. Well, it made noise enough fourteen years or so ago. Johnson cut his throat. I am Mayne. They gave me five years. I don't complain. I didn't know all Johnson did, but I ought to have known, and I did know some. They let me out after four years. That is when your punishment begins—when they let you out. I starved a time, and then I went on tramp—I and my little girl. She was seven then. They had not been kind to her where she was staying. Who would be kind to a convict's daughter? Five years I was on tramp. We found this place. At first we just stopped here for a week or two at a time. For the last five years it has been our home. The stream gives us water. At night we went out to get food—sometimes from the farms. Now and again I killed an ox, but generally we took sheep or poultry, or game from the woods. With my sling I could kill plenty, or I got them when they were roosting. Then there were blackberries in the autumn, and fruit from the orchards, and plenty of vegetables. They tried to watch for us, but we never went twice to the same place in the same month, and we could see well in the dark. None of them could. Winter was worst. We could only have a fire at night, but then it was generally warm in here. Once or twice in snow we nearly starved. But Norah always got milk. When she calls the cows, they come. Don't they, Norah?"

"We are friends; they do not mind giving me their milk," the girl answered.

"Potatoes were our stand-by," the sick man continued. "In the time when they were digging them up, we used to get a store every night, and we would watch to see where they buried them, and get them afterwards when we wanted them."

"And have you lived like that for five years?" Wilton asked wonderingly. "A good life," the sick man answered—"better than gaol and better than tramping. I have been happier here than when I was junior partner in Johnson and Mayne. Yes, a good life," he repeated—"always something doing. Why, sometimes we would go many miles in a night! I tell you, you want to spend four years in gaol to know what freedom means."

He asked for water, and Wilton gave him some. He lay quiet then, evidently much exhausted.

Norah produced some meat, dried in the sun, and gave a little to Wilton. They remained sitting by the dying man, doing what they could for him, till nearly noon, when the girl said abruptly—

"Oh, look! Father, father!" she called. "What is it, father?"

"I am going," he said slowly—"going! Good-bye, Norah!"

"Where are you going, father?" she asked.

"Not guilty, my lord!" he cried in a loud voice, and lay back, very still.

Wilton led the weeping girl outside the cave, and made her sit down there in the sun.

"We must wait a little," he said. "A little later I am going to take you to my mother."

She made no answer. After a time she fell into a light sleep, and Wilton watched beside her.

She awoke presently, and he shared with her some of the food he had provided himself with before starting on this adventure.

"We must start now," he said presently; "we have twelve miles to go." She rose obediently.

Hand in hand they went. Behind them lay the vast loneliness of the downs, shrouded in the softness of the falling night.