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Rh I’ll repay it faithful—I swear to that.—Your servant, sir,

“.”

“Dated from Granite Bungalow, Hoppaton, Dartmoor. I’m afraid I regarded it as rather a crude method of relieving me of a couple of hundred which I can ill spare. If it’s any use to you” He held it out.

“Je vous remercie, monsieur. I start for Hoppaton à l’heure même.”

“Dear me, this is very interesting. Supposing I came along too? Any objection?”

“I should be charmed to have your company, but we must start at once. We shall not reach Dartmoor until close on nightfall, as it is.”

John Ingles did not delay us more than a couple of minutes, and soon we were in the train moving out of Paddington bound for the West Country. Hoppaton was a small village clustering in a hollow right on the fringe of the moorland. It was reached by a nine-mile drive from Moretonhamstead. It was about eight o’clock when we arrived; but as the month was July, the daylight was still abundant.

We drove into the narrow street of the village and then stopped to ask our way of an old rustic.

“Granite Bungalow,” said the old man