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 him much troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

“By the way, Mortimer,” said I, as we jolted along the rough road, “I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this whom you do not know?”

“Hardly any, I think.”

“Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L. L.?”

He thought for a few minutes. “No,” said he. “There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I can’t answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose initials are those. Wait a bit, though,” he added, after a pause. “There is Laura Lyons—her initials are L. L.—but she lives in Coombe Tracey.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“She is Frankland’s daughter.”