Whoso Sheddeth...

Roy Glashan's Library
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THOMAS CHARLES BRIDGES

WHOSO SHEDDETH...

First book edition: Aldine Publishing Company, London, 1917

Published as a syndicated serial in, e.g.:

The Auckland Star, New Zealand, 12 Jan 1917 ff

The Bendigonian, Bendigo, Victoria, Australia, 7 June 1917 ff
(this version)

The Southern Cross, Invercargill, New Zealand, 18 Aug 1917 ff

The Daily Mail, Brisbane, Australia, 31 May 1919 ff

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-04-06

Produced by Keith Emmett and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

Click here for more books by this author

"Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be
shed: for in the image of God made He man." —Genesis 9:6.

ABOUT THIS NOVEL

AN arresting story of mystery and adventure, entitled "Whoso Sheddeth..." by T. C. Bridges, will commence serial publication, in to-morrow's issue of "The Daily Mail." The action takes place principally amid tho tors and combes of Devonshire, where Colonel Keeling, with his son Nick and his daughter Gwen, have their country home. Gwen is betrothed to Kit Willoughby, but Gerald Swanton, a strong-willed and unscrupulous man, who also loves the girl, plots to remove his rival from his path, and when Nick is reported to have been murdered the suspicion falls on Willoughby, who was known to have been on unfriendly terms with the dead man. An absorbing series of complications is thus brought about, and tho solution of the mystery brings several surprises in its train.

Chapter I. The Mischief Maker.
Chapter II. A Baseless Quarrel.
Chapter III. This Shadow Of Death.
Chapter IV. What Had Once Been A Man.
Chapter V. The Inquest.
Chapter VI. The Verdict.
Chapter VII. A Friend In Need.
Chapter VIII. Unexpected Evidence.
Chapter IX. The Verdict.
Chapter X. Gwen's Decision.
Chapter XI. Preparations.
Chapter XII. Gwen Bides Her Time.
Chapter XIII. The Message.
Chapter XIV. Suspense.
Chapter XV. The Best Laid Plans.
Chapter XVI. The Return Of Coles.
Chapter XVII. A Friend Indeed.
Chapter XVIII. Gwen Faces The Music.
Chapter XIX. Blackmail.
Chapter XX. Gwen's Agony.
Chapter XXI. The Warning.
Chapter XXII. Just Cause.
Chapter XXIII. Wharton's Resolve.
Chapter XXIV. Swanton Gets The Worst Of It.
Chapter XXV. At Wild Tor Farm.
Chapter XXVI. Coles Goes Too Far.
Chapter XXVII. The Blow Falls.
Chapter XXVIII. Wharton's Worst Hour.
Chapter XXIX. Swanton Blunders.
Chapter XXX. Exit Swanton.

CHAPTER I. — THE MISCHIEF MAKER.

COLONEL Keeling served a couple of practice balls with care and precision into the net. Then he looked up from the tennis court towards the long creeper-covered front of the old house that had been the home of the Keelings for three hundred years past.

"Come along, Willoughby!" he shouted, in his deep, cheery voice. "How much longer are you going to be over that cigar."

There was a laugh, and a tall, athletic-looking young man in white flannels stepped lightly out of a French window, followed by an extremely pretty girl, in equally summer-like attire.

"So you don't want to go for a walk with me, Kit?" said Gwen Keeling, with a smile in which there was just a suspicion of mockery.

"I was only chaffing," said Gwen, with quick repentance. "You know I would far sooner you had a sett with dear old dad. We'll have our walk afterwards. You'll find me down by the river."

Kit was beginning indignantly to deny the accusation when the Colonel's voice broke in again.

"Hurry up, Willoughby. The dew will begin to fall very soon. Gwen, you little chatterbox send him along."

As she spoke she turned off into the path leading down through the shrubberies towards the river, and Willoughby, with a wave of his racquet sprang down the bank on to the terraced court.

Combe Heriot stood on the hillside, high above the River Strane. The sun low in the west shone full on its mellow red brick gables and twisted chimney-stacks, and threw the shadows of the great cedar sentinels far across the close-cropped lawns. The warm air was full of the scent of early autumn flowers, and the sound of the Strane falling among her boulders came softly up from the deep combe below.

Such a scene, so quiet and peaceful, could hardly be matched outside Devonshire, certainly not outside England, and as Gwen walked slowly down the winding path the beauty of it sank into her very soul. She loved it all as she loved no other place on earth, and young as she was had seen many, having wandered with her father over half the Continent and visited Egypt and even India.

Reaching the fisherman's path which ran beside the bank of the Strane she turned idly down the stream. A kingfisher flashed by, a jewel of blue fire, and in the curiously sudden way peculiar to kingfishers, perched upon a long slender branch overhanging a clear pool.

Gwen paused to watch, but at that moment there was a rustle, and the bird vanished like magic. A big, heavily-built man, with a rod in his hand, pushed the bushes aside and stepped up on to the path.

"Hoped I was, you mean, Mr. Swanton," corrected Gwen lightly, "instead of disturbing your fish."

"That's not fair," he said earnestly. "You know one sight of you would make up for losing the finest trout in the Strane. But anyhow the rise is over. May I come with you?"

"If you like," answered Gwen carelessly. "But K—that is Mr. Willoughby—is coming to meet me in a few minutes."

At sound of Willoughby's name Gerald Swanton's face darkened, and a frown gave his heavy but rather handsome features a very unpleasant expression.

"Willoughby isn't playing the game. I hardly get a minute of your company, Miss Keeling."

"And I think you must know," he added more gravely, "that that is the one thing which I want more than anything else."

"Yes, Miss Keeling, I mean it," he said quickly. "No, you must hear me"—as Gwen tried in vain to speak. "I love you. I have loved you from the first minute that I met you. I am not a very young man. I am nearly thirty-five. I have met many women, but you are the only one whom I have ever wanted to marry. You and you only can make me happy, and I feel it is in me to do the same for you. Marry me, Gwen, marry me, and I swear you shall never regret it."

His voice was low and deep, his dark eyes glowed with passion, he poured out his words with astonishing force and fervour.

Gwen's face had gone a little pale, and she paused a moment as if seeking words in which to answer him.

"I am sorry, Mr. Swanton," she said, with gentle dignity—"very sorry indeed. But I fancied—I hoped that you knew that Mr. Willoughby and I were already engaged to be married."

He seemed to be almost choking with fury. Then before he could find words there was a sound of footsteps coming down the path towards them, and Gwen, only to anxious to escape an unpleasant scene, turned quickly. Next instant a man came round the corner and was right upon them.

It was no one that either of them had ever seen before. A youngish man, dressed in greasy rags that hung upon his body like the discarded suit that a farmer hangs upon a scarecrow. His hair was long and unkempt, his face pinched and unwholesome looking. His boots were broken, his hands unclean. He was the sort of human wreck one may see at nightfall upon the Embankment, but amid the sweet scents and surroundings of the lovely Devonshire combe his rags end squalor were inexpressibly repulsive.

The tramp did not seem to notice her movement. He stopped and raised lack-lustre eyes to Swanton.

"Spare us a copper, guv'nor," he whined. "Spare us a copper. S'welp me, but I ain't slep' in a bed nor 'ad a decent meal for a week past."

"Get out of this. What are you doing, trespassing here? Get out of it at once or I'll pitch you into the river."

The wretched man showed no sign of resentment. His head dropped again and once more he shambled onwards.

"For shame, Mr. Swanton!" she exclaimed hotly. "For shame! Can't you see the man is ill—starving?"

"Stop!" she called to the tramp, and hurried after him. As she went, she took a tiny purse from the pocket of her tennis skirt.

"Here," she said, handing the man a half-crown. "Take this and go and get yourself some food. Cross the bridge when you come to it, and go up the hill on the right. The village is a mile further on. And come up to the house in the morning—Colonel Keeling's house—and I will see what can be done for you."

"God bless you, miss," he muttered. "God bless you for a real lidy." He touched his greasy forelock and was gone.

Gwen, with her head held high, turned and walked straight back past Swanton. He bit his lip, but had sense enough not to follow her.

For a long time after she was out of sight he stood quite still, staring in the direction in which she had vanished.

Then with a harsh laugh he picked up his rod and made his way slowly back up the hill.

Reaching the house he found that it was still a quarter to seven. He went into the smoking-room for a whisky and soda and a few minutes rest before dressing for dinner.

The smoking-room adjoined the billiard room, and as the soda fizzed into the long glass he heard someone knocking the balls about. A minute later the curtains across the opening between the two rooms were pushed aside, and a young fellow of about twenty-three strolled into the smoking-room.

No one who had seen Nick and Gwen Keeling together could have mistaken their relationship, for in feature the brother and sister were extraordinarily alike. Both had the same fair skin and grey eyes. Both had the straight nose, the broad low forehead, and the look of breeding which they inherited from their handsome soldier father. But there the resemblance ended. For while Gwen's face was full of a quiet strength and steadiness, Nick's, unfortunately, indicated the opposite temperament. His chin was less firm and his lips more full than those of his sister. There was, too, a certain restlessness about his manner, and ever since childhood he had shown a curious inability to stick to one pursuit or interest for any length of time.

It was this lack of perseverance which had caused his failure to pass into Sandhurst, to the bitter disappointment of his father. At present he was living at home, doing nothing in particular but talking vaguely of finding a berth as land agent.

"Precious little," answered Swanton, "The rise was almost over before I got down to the river."

Nick stood drumming idly with his fingers on the polished top of the table. The sound irritated Swanton, but be gave no sign of his annoyance. He was a man possessed of considerable powers of self-control, and was already bitterly sorry for letting his temper get the better of him when the tramp interrupted his interview with Gwen.

"I say, Swanton," said Nick abruptly, "do you happen to be specially flush just now?"

"That's a happy state that I seldom find myself in," he said rather grimly. "As a matter of fact, I'm infernally hard up at the moment. Why do you ask?"

"To tell the truth, I was going to ask if you could lend me a pony. Fact is, I went the whole hog on Mortiboy for the St. Ledger. I've just had a wire to say he was beaten by a short head, and the consequence is I'm in a bit of a hole."

"He's helped me twice this summer already," answered Nick ruefully. "I simply daren't go to him again. Last time there was the deuce of an upset, and he told me straight I'd got to live within my allowance in future."

"That's bad," said Swanton. "I wish I could give you a leg up, Nick, but the fact is I'm overdrawn at my bank and I've nothing coming before the end of the month."

"And I've got to find fifty by Monday. Well, I'll just have to see if Willoughby can oblige."

"What do you mean?" demanded Nick irritably. "Hang it all, why shouldn't a chap borrow a few pounds from his future brother-in-law. He's done as much for me before now."

"My dear fellow," said Swanton, in his quietest manner, "I wish you wouldn't ask questions. I only advised you not to go to Willoughby for a loan."

"And I want to know the reason why you say so," returned Nick obstinately. "There must be some reason."

"Willoughby is an excellent fellow," he said smoothly, "but I sometimes think that he is a little previous in assuming the duties of an elder brother. The fact is, Keeling, that he is down on you for your extravagance, and he makes no secret of it either."

"Don't ask anything more. I don't want to make trouble between you and a future relative."

"Oh, well, if you force me to speak, on your own head be it," answered Swanton. "He calls you a hopeless young waster, and says that, if he had the drilling of you, he'd see you did something to earn your own living."

"Hang him!" he said furiously, bringing his hand down with a crash on the table. "I'll teach him a thing or two before I've done with him. Elder brother indeed! I'll show him. I'll—"

The rest of his sentence was drowned in the brazen boom at that moment sounded in the hall outside.

CHAPTER II. — A BASELESS QUARREL.

GWEN had been wise enough not to mention to Willoughby her meeting with Swanton nor its upshot, yet for all that dinner was not altogether a comfortable meal. Gwen was rather silent, Swanton talked too much; as for Nick, he sat in gloomy silence glowering across at Willoughby.

The latter and Colonel Keeling were the only two out of the five who were at their ease, and before the meal was over they also had begun to feel the tension in the atmosphere.

Immediately after dinner Swanton excused himself on the plea of having letters to write, and just then, Hobbs, the butler, came in to tell the Colonel that Caunter, one of the tenants, wished to see him.

It was a hot and rather sultry night, and Gwen, with a shawl over her shoulders, had gone outside and was strolling on the gravel path which ran along the garden front of the house. Kit would dearly liked to have joined her, but he felt that it would be a little unmannerly to lease Nick alone. The latter, with a face black as thunder, was drinking glass after glass of his father's fine old port. Still he did not offer a remark of any sort, and Kit was left to wonder what had so completely upset him.

At last the silence grew unbearable. Willoughby took his cigar out of his mouth, knocked off the ash into his empty coffee cup and turned to his silent companion.

The insult was so gross—so utterly unexpected—that for the moment Willoughby could find no answer. He merely sat and stared at the other. But next moment he had recovered himself.

Between the grievance he had been musing and the wine which he had drunk, Nick was beside himself.

Willoughby went a little white beneath his bronze. His eyes narrowed and for a moment there was a dangerous look upon his face. Then he rose to his feet and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know whether you're mad or drunk," he said, "but I tell you straight that, if you were anyone but Gwen's brother, I'd give you the thrashing you've asked for."

Nick, too, sprang up, and with such violence that he sent his chair crashing to the floor.

"Thrash me!" he cried hoarsely, his face crimson with passion. "I'd like to see you try it."

"We'll wait till the morning, Nick. Then, if you're still of the same mind, I shall have pleasure in carrying out my promise."

"No, you don't," roared Nick, and made a dash round the table. Kit, whirling round, was just in time to ward a heavy blow at his face.

Before the other could repeat it, Kit caught him by both wrists, and, exerting all his strength, forced him backwards against the table.

There was a clatter of breaking china, as a dessert plate splintered under his weight, then for a moment no sound except the heavy breathing of the two men, as Nick struggled wildly in Willoughby's powerful grip.

"You young fool!" said Kit angrily. "Keep quiet, or I shall hurt you. Keep quiet, I tell you."

It was at this moment that the door opened, and Gwen came hurrying into the room.

"Kit, what does this mean?" she demanded peremptorily. "Nick, what have you been doing?"

The sound of her voice acted like magic. Kit released his hold upon Nick's wrists, and the two men stood up, both looking rather sheepish.

"Nick was just showing me a wrestling trick," he answered, with a rather grim smile.

Kit glanced at Nick, but Nick said nothing. His face had again the same sullen look which it had worn all dinner time.

"Suppose we go for a stroll, Gwen?" said Kit, and Gwen, after one more glance at her brother, turned and passed out through the door which Kit held open for her.

"I haven't a notion, dearest—absolutely not an idea. Something has upset Nick. You saw for yourself how sulky he was all dinner time. Afterwards he was very rude, and fancying he had a little more port than was good for him I thought it best to clear out and leave him alone. Then he went for me, and I had to hold him."

"He went for you," repeated Gwen, in a horrified voice. "But Kit, there must have been some reason."

"I suppose there must, but I give you my word I haven't the remotest notion what it was."

"I don't know what we shall do with him, Kit. He's got quite good brains, and dad did so hope he would get into the Army. It was a terrible blow to him when he failed for Sandhurst. And now he simply loafs—there's no other word for it—and he's spending a dreadful lot of money. He's always in debt. I've helped him all I can, but this sort of thing can't go on."

"Don't grieve, dearest," he said comfortingly. "Nick is very young yet. He will settle down as he grows older. We must find some sort of job for him to keep him out of Mischief."

"You always help me, Kit," she said softly. "I don't know what I should do without you."

"You don't have to do without me," replied Kit with a little laugh. "And anyhow I couldn't get on without you, so that makes it all square."

For a minute or more neither spoke. They moved slowly along the walk through the warm darkness. Then Kit broke the silence.

"Gwen," he said, "If you can get hold of Nick to-night have a talk with him, will you, and try to find out what's amiss. He'll tell you I daresay."

"Never. We're very good friends as a rule. He did get a little huffy the other day when I asked him why he didn't go up to Hampshire about that land agency that his uncle Arthur wrote about. But it was nothing. To-night's explosion seemed to have no cause."

"But why—how? I don't understand. What possible object could he have in doing such a thing?"

"Why?" she repeated. "You ask why! Do you know, Kit, that for a man with your brains, you are sometimes singularly dense. Do you mean to say that you don't know that Mr. Swanton dislikes you?"

"I know he's a bit jealous, Gwen, if that's what you mean. But hang it all, he wouldn't go so far as to put Nick up to quarrelling with me. Besides, how could he?"

"Very easily indeed. He might have told Nick that you had said something about him. Yes," she continued in a tone of conviction, "the more I think of it, the more certain I feel that I am right. But never mind I'll see Nick to-night and give him a good talking to. I'll go in at once, Kit, and catch him before he has a chance of seeing Mr. Swanton again."

"I wish you luck, dearest," he said. "I hate rows, and particularly with my brother-in-law to be."

Gwen smiled brightly, and went in, and Willoughby, filling and lighting a pipe, resumed his stroll on the terrace.

It was more than half an hour before he caught sight of her white dress through the gloom. He turned eagerly to meet her.

"It's not well, Kit. Nick is in a very queer mood indeed. He's in debt for one thing. I found out that much, and I've promised to help him."

"But you're always helping him, dearest," interposed Willoughby quickly. "Let me give him the necessary this time."

"No, certainly not," said Gwen, with decision, "especially after the way he has treated you. It was atrocious."

"I could get nothing out of him, and I still believe that Mr. Swanton is responsible. Still, he has calmed down, and has promised to apologise."

"Just one thing, Kit. He's going up on the moor after snipe to-morrow. I want you to go with him."

"But I thought you and I were going to fish to-morrow," said Willoughby, rather blankly. "Why this sudden change of plans?"

"Because," said Gwen, "if you go with him Mr. Swanton won't. And I particularly want to keep him away from that man for the rest of the time he is here. He is leaving the day after to-morrow."

"I can't say I shall grieve," Willoughby answered drily, "All right, Gwen, I'll go and slay snipe with Nick. We ought to be back in time for tea, and I'll give you a lesson in casting afterwards."

"Now then, you young people, it's nearly ten," came Colonel Keeling's deep voice from the open drawing-room window. "And I want my tune, Gwen, dear."

"You go and talk to Nick, Kit," she added in an undertone. "You'll find him in the billiard-room."

Willoughby obeyed, and sure enough found Nick, idly knocking the balls about. The boy looked up as the door opened, and flushed slightly when he saw Kit.

"Oh, that's all right," answered Willoughby quickly. "Don't say any more about it. Will you have a game?"

Nick willingly agreed, and so the awkward moment was got over, and the ugly episode apparently forgotten.

But only apparently. Unfortunately neither of them had the least idea of the strange web which Fate was weaving out of the occurrences of the past evening.

CHAPTER III. — THIS SHADOW OF DEATH.

MR. JOSEPH HOBBS had been in the service of Colonel Keeling for twenty-seven years. He had began as page boy, and risen through the usual steps to his present position, which was one of considerable trust and dignity. A plump, pleasant-faced man of forty-three, there was not a grey hair on his sleek head, nor a wrinkle on his smooth forehead.

At half-past four to the afternoon of the day following the quarrel between Willoughby and Nick Keeling, he was in his comfortable pantry vainly endeavouring to piece together the broken fragments of a beautiful old china plate, while Slade, Mr. Swanton's valet, sat astride a chair and watched him, meantime leisurely puffing at a cigar the aroma of which went far to prove that its purchase price had certainly not come out of his own pocket.

"So, I don't know exactly how it happened, Mr. Slade," Hobbs was saying, "but it's one of the old Worcester plates, and the Colonel wasn't pleased when he heard it was broke. I've no doubt, myself, it was some of Mr. Nick's foolishness."

Slade took his cigar from between his lips. He was a small, keen-eyed man of uncertain age who had more the appearance of a jockey than a gentleman's servant.

"I wouldn't go so far as that," answered Hobbs cautiously. "True, Mr. Nick was speaking a bit loud, but the fact was that he'd had a glass too much of the old port."

"'No, you don't!' I heard him say pretty sharply, then Mr. Willoughby answered something which I didn't catch, and after that there came a scuffle and a crash. When I went in afterwards there was the plate and finger-glass on the floor, both of them broke to pieces."

"Man alive, why didn't you go in at once?" said Slade. "You might have seen something worth seeing."

Slade's thin lips curled, but he did not speak. He had no wish to quarrel with the chief personage in the domestic arrangements of this very comfortable house.

He got up leisurely and walked over to the window of the pantry which gave on to the large, old-fashioned yard at the back of the house.

"Looks like rain," he remarked, by way of changing the subject. "My guv'nor's lucky. He got in from fishing about half an hour ago."

"No, he's alone. And looks as if there was something wrong. He's limping. Yes, and he's got a handkerchief tied round his bead. Must have been an accident."

Hobbs jumped up hastily. Willoughby's kindly and cheerful disposition had made him popular with all the servants at Combe Heriot, and with Hobbs he was especially a favorite.

He bustled off, and met Willoughby just as he came in by a side door. Willoughby was limping badly, the left knee of his breeches was torn, there was black peat mud on his Norfolk jacket, while the handkerchief which was tied round his head was spotted with blood.

"Nothing, Hobbs—nothing to worry about," answered Willoughby, frowning slightly. "I've had a tumble and cut my forehead and bruised my knee. Just bring some hot water to my room, Hobbs, and do you think you could find me a bit of sticking plaster?"

"No—certainly not!" replied Willoughby, with a touch of irritation. "And, Hobbs, don't say anything to the Colonel or Miss Gwendoline. I don't want any fuss."

Hobbs had had plenty of experience in domestic surgery. Both Gwen and Nick, as children, had frequently demanded his services in this direction. With his aid, Willoughby soon stopped the bleeding, and when, half-an-hour later, he went down to tea, there was no sign of his recent misfortune except a slight limp and a tiny patch of sticking-plaster half-hidden under the edge of his close-cropped hair.

It had began to drizzle, and the Colonel and Gwen, driven in from the tennis court, were both in the drawing-room.

Swanton, too, was standing on the hearth-rug in front of the newly-lit fire. He had exchanged his fishing clothes for an extremely well-cut suit of blue serge. Swanton's clothes were always the envy and despair of his acquaintances.

"What have you been doing to yourself Kit?" broke in Gwen anxiously. "You've cut your head."

"It's nothing," answered Willoughby hastily, "nothing at all. Coming down across Wild Tor I slipped on a loose stone and bruised my knee. That's why I came back early."

"That's not like you, Willoughby," said Swanton with the suspicion of a sneer—"to tumble about, I mean. I thought you rather prided yourself on being so sure-footed."

"Pride always has a fall sooner or later," answered Willoughby, easily. "And I've had mine this afternoon."

"He offered to, but I wouldn't let him. I knew he was keen to shoot Callington Mire."

"I tell you I wouldn't hear of it, Gwen," remonstrated Willoughby. "You mustn't really blame him."

As he set the great silver tray before his mistress a flicker of distant lightning was reflected on its polished surface and was followed a few seconds later by a low rumble of thunder. Then the rain came down in earnest, roaring on the verandah roof, filling the air with a thick grey haze.

"This is pretty bad," he said rather anxiously. "I hope Nick is off the moor by this time."

"Oh, Nick knows the moor like a book," said Gwen. "Besides, this to too heavy to last. Come and have your tea, dad."

Gwen was right. The storm soon passed, but the sky remained heavy and lowering, and the clouds hung thickly over the moor, cutting off all sight of the tall tors which formed its western boundary.

From the combe below the house the river sent up a deep roar, a very different sound from the musical tinkle of the past dry weeks.

The Colonel was clearly uneasy. He kept going to the window at intervals, and looking at the clock. In spite of Nick's delinquencies, his father was devoted to him.

It was not Nick, but Hobbs who came into the room—Hobbs, with his usually ruddy face the colour of ashes, and his whole appearance eloquent of misfortune.

"Who is he? Where to he? Does he know anything about Mr. Nick? Speak up, man. Don't keep me in suspense."

"It's Coles, sir—Coles from Wild Tor Farm. He's in the study. Will you please to come at once?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir. Don't ask me. You'll hear soon enough." And bursting into tears, Hobbs fled from the room.

Instinctively Willoughby turned to Gwen. Her face had gone very white and she was trembling.

"I'm afraid—I'm afraid it's the worst, Gwen," he answered. "We shall hear in a minute."

"The worst—what do you mean, Willoughby?" said Swanton. "Why do you say 'the worst'?"

Before Willoughby could reply the Colonel was back in the room again. He was shaking all over. He could hardly stand.

"Gwen—oh, Gwen," he cried in a pitiable voice. "Coles says he's been murdered—that my boy has been murdered."

CHAPTER IV. — WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN A MAN.

"Murdered?" he repeated. "Murdered! How does Coles know? Has he—" he hesitated—"has he found the body?

"Then—you'll forgive me, Colonel—but how can he be sure that the body is Nick's, and how can he possibly know that Nick has been murdered?"

"He says," replied the Colonel hoarsely, "that he saw two men struggling together on the river bank but it was too far away to recognise them. Then he began to run towards them. The ground hid them and when he got there he could see neither. The bank was broken away, and thinking they had both fallen in he hurried down stream. Just then he caught sight of a man running away up the hill in the distance. But he was gone in a moment, so Coles went on down stream as quickly as he could. And when he reached the Spinning Pit—there—"

The colonel's voice broke and it was some seconds before he could speak again—"there," he continued almost inaudibly, "was Nick's body swirling in that dreadful place."

"Pardon me, colonel," he said quietly, "but even now I fail to see how Coles can be certain that the body was that of your son."

"By his clothes. Willoughby and Nick had passed him earlier, as he was cutting turf. They spoke to him. He recognised the check suit that Nick was wearing."

"There's still just the chance that he may be wrong," said Gwen. She spoke bravely, but her lips were quivering. "We must go and see."

"Wait, Kit," said Gwen. "It is no use going alone. You must have help. Crocker and Pritchard can go with you."

"I'll fetch them at once," said Willoughby, and hurried out. Swanton followed, and Gwen and her father were left alone.

"I must go too," declared the colonel, and though Gwen implored him not to, she could not alter his resolve.

The bad news had spread apace. Willoughby met Pritchard, the gardener, in the drive, and sent him to fetch Crocker, who was the Combe Heriot gamekeeper. Pritchard wasted no time, and five minutes later he and Crocker were at the house, both carrying lanterns, and Crocker was provided with a coil of rope, to the end of which were attached a pair of ominous looking steel hooks. Two other men, a groom and chauffeur, were there with a litter.

It had stopped raining when the party set out, but although clouds still covered the sky, there was a moon behind them, and the night was not as dark as might have been expected. Even so, when they left the road to cross the moor, all found it as much as they could do to steer clear of bog holes and boulders. The colonel, whom the shock seemed to have turned suddenly into an old man, stumbled more than once, and Willoughby had to insist that he should take his arm.

Long before they reached the river they could hear its hoarse roar rising from the deep combe below. The sound had an ominous note which made Willoughby shiver in spite of himself.

"The pool's just below, sir," he said to the colonel. "You'll be careful coming down, if you please. The path's main awkward after the rain."

"Go on, Crocker, go on," answered the colonel impatiently, and then they were all slipping and stumbling down the narrow, muddy track, which led steeply into the basin below.

It was just before they reached the bottom that the clouds parted, and the moon, two days short of the full, shone out brilliantly, throwing its pale, white light upon the great pool known as Spinning Pit.

A fearsome place it was. At its head was a steep slope of smooth rock, down which the river, now in full flood, plunged in a brown spout laced with wire-like streaks of foam, and fell into a black pool which, at first sight, seemed to have no outlet.

The whole weight at the rapid struck a smooth face of dark-coloured limestone opposite the fall, and was forced back upon itself, escaping eventually through a narrow gorge on the right. The result was the formation of the whirlpool which gave the place its name. Dangerous enough at any time, its force was now terrific, and the roar which rose from its tortured depths was deafening.

Willoughby and the Colonel beside him stood at the edge of the cauldron and stared, appalled, at the fury of the great swirl. All sorts of rubbish spun within the circle, broken branches from which the bark had been stripped, leaving them spectral white, pieces of sawn timber, grass, rubbish of every description whirled round and round in a giddy procession.

The keeper came close, and raising his lantern flung the light across the whirlpool.

"There might be a dozen bodies there," said Willoughby, leaning over and speaking in Crocker's ear. "But you would never see them in this light."

Turning to the left, he began to climb the rock opposite the fall. It was very steep, but bushes and brambles gave hand hold, and after a tough scramble they reached the top and stood immediately over the pool, and at a height of some thirty feet above it.

It needed a steady head to stand there and look down into the roaring tumult beneath, but fortunately for himself Willoughby had never been troubled with giddiness. Crocker took an electric torch from his pocket, and switching it on focused the white beam upon the centre of the swinging pool.

"Now you can see all that's in it," he said. "Ah, I reckoned it 'ud be near the middle. Look you there, Mr. Willoughby."

Kneeling on the very edge of the crag, Willoughby leaned over straining his eyes into the depths.

Something—an object larger than the rest—swung into the small white circle of bright light, and was instantly gone. But not before he had recognised it. With a shiver he turned to Crocker.

"We'll get it, sir. Never fear. It isn't the first time that Pritchard and me have had to take a body out o' the pit."

"I'll tell the Colonel," he said in a low voice. The keeper caught his arm as he turned.

"Get him away from here, sir, if you can," he begged. "Whether 'tis Mr. Nick or not, the body'll not be a fit sight for the master. The pool uses 'em something cruel," he added significantly.

But the Colonel was not to be moved. He flatly refused to leave the spot. Willoughby did his best to persuade him, but it was no use.

Meantime Pritchard, in obedience to signs from Crocker, had taken the grappling irons and stepped on to a ledge of rock which ran some little distance out into the pool. He swung the irons round his head and cast them in the direction indicated by the light of Crocker's torch.

Time and again he tried, but fetched nothing except dead branches. Willoughby began to think that it was useless and that they would have to wait till daylight.

No one spoke. All stood with their eyes fixed on that cruel circle of dizzily whirling water. Willoughby, like the rest, felt the horrible fascination which it exercised.

At last Crocker came down from his post, and took the grapnels. Pritchard, with the electric lamp, climbed to the top of the crag. By this time the clouds had blown clean away, and the moonlight fell full on the gleaming surface of the whirlpool.

Crocker was a taller man than Pritchard. He went out to the extreme edge of the ledge, and standing nearly knee deep in the water whirled the heavy irons lightly round his head.

"He's got him," said Willoughby under his breath, and sprang forward on to the ledge.

Hand over hand, Crocker shortened the rope, and with Willoughby's help gradually drew a heavy object out through the swirl and spin of the rushing water. The current tugged at it fiercely as though loth to part with its spoil, but the keeper and Willoughby dragged it steadily out through the racing eddies, and presently it was within reach, and they lifted it gently and carried it back to the bank.

Coles lifted one of the lanterns which had been left standing on a rock and held it so that its light fell full upon the body.

"It isn't Nick, it can't be Nick," groaned the Colonel, and covering his eyes with his hands staggered away.

He was right. The state of the poor remains which they had rescued from the maw of the whirlpool was almost indescribable. It was difficult to believe that they could possibly be those of a man who, a few hours ago, had been full of health and strength. The body had been pounded again and again against the iron hard crags until not a feature was recognisable. The whole head, indeed was battered to a pulp, and apparently almost every bone in the body had been broken.

"So can I," said Swanton. "And here"—he bent down and raised the left hand of the battered corpse—"here is another clue to his identity. This is Keeling's signet ring."

There was no doubt about it. The ring bore the falcon crest granted long ago to a Keeling who had distinguished himself in the French wars.

"We'd better carry him home, hadn't we, sir?" asked Crocker of Willoughby. The Colonel being incapable of giving orders, his keeper evidently considered that Kit was the proper person to act in his stead.

It was a sad and silent procession that followed the litter on which, covered with a coat, lay the remains of poor Nick Keeling. As for the Colonel, he seemed utterly dazed, and he leaned heavily on Willoughby's arm during the journey.

As the tramp of their feet sounded on the gravel of the drive, the front door was flung quickly open, and Gwen stood bare-headed in the bar of light which shot out from the hall.

Willoughby hurried forward, but she had already seen the litter with its burden.

"It's true, dearest—true at least that we have found a body in the Spinning Pit. But, Gwen, you must not see it. It is horribly battered. And you must be brave, my darling. Your father is terribly upset. The shock has been too much for him."

Gwen drew a long sobbing breath. Then with a marvellous effort she controlled herself.

"I will see to him, Kit. Tell the men to take the—the body to the little room at the end of the hall. I have had everything made ready."

Gwen led her stricken father into the drawing-room and closed the door. The men, under Willoughby's directions, carried the body into the small room, and laid it there on the bed which Gwen had had prepared.

"Has word been sent to the police, Willoughby?" he asked. "There'll have to be an inquest, you know."

"Yes, I have asked Crocker to see Cleave, the constable," answered Willoughby quietly. "He will let the coroner know."

Swanton gave Willoughby a quick glance. He opened his mouth as if to speak, checked himself, then yawned deliberately.

"There's nothing more to be done to-night," he said. "I think I shall turn in. Good-night!"

"Good-night!" said Willoughby absently. He hardly gave Swanton a thought. His mind was too full of Gwen's trouble to have room for anything else.

Swanton lit a candle and went upstairs. Willoughby stood by the fire waiting. At last the drawing-room door opened and the Colonel came out, followed by Gwen. The Colonel's face shocked Willoughby. It was white and lined and his lower lip quivered pitiably.

"How can I rest with my boy dead, and his murderer still alive and free?" he demanded almost fiercely.

"Come, sir," said Willoughby, firmly, "we can do nothing more to-night, but there is much before you to-morrow. For Gwen's sake as well as your own you must get some sleep. Let me give you an arm upstairs."

The faithful Hobbs was waiting upstairs, and he and Willoughby between them got the Colonel to bed.

Gwen, looking very white and worn, was still waiting up when Willoughby came down again.

"Yes, and managed to get him to take a sleeping draught, Gwen. I think he will be all right now."

"Thank you, Kit. You have helped me so much. I don't know what I should have done without you."

Willoughby took her in his arms. He was wise enough not to speak or attempt to check her tears, and after some minutes her sobs ceased, and she looked up and gently released herself from his arms.

CHAPTER V. — THE INQUEST.

IT was about eleven o'clock on the following morning that Mr. Bowden, the coroner, arrived. He was an elderly man with a smooth-shaven face and sleek grey hair.

Cleave, the constable, had already empanelled a jury from the village, and after viewing the body coroner and jury took their seats in the dining-room where chairs had been set in a double row.

The first witness called was Colonel Keeling. He was looking terribly white and broken, but he had regained his composure, and gave his answers in a firm voice.

He identified the body by the pattern of the suit and the ring, also by the keys, purse, knife, and pipe found on the pockets, and by the marks on the under-garments. There was, as the coroner admitted, absolutely no other means of identification.

"Do you know if anyone bore your son a grudge, Colonel Keeling—if he had any enemy?" asked Mr. Bowden.

"Then I won't trouble you with any more questions for the present. Call Mr. Willoughby.—I understand that you and Mr. Nicholas Keeling went shooting together yesterday, Mr. Willoughby?" began the coroner.

"That is true, sir. He and I went out together about half-past ten to shoot snipe on the moor. We went alone and took our lunch in our pockets. About three o'clock, as we were coming down Wild Tor, I slipped on a loose stone and fell, cutting my face and bruising my knee. As I felt rather shaken, I told Mr. Keeling I thought I had better go home.

"He offered to come with me, but I knew he was keen on shooting Callington Mire—there are generally some teal there—so I persuaded him to go on alone. That was the last I saw of him."

"Quite true. We passed close to where he was cutting turf, and Mr. Keeling spoke to him."

"As straight as I could. It was beginning to rain, and as you know the mist makes it difficult to steer a straight course over the moor."

"Not a soul, I cut across the fields when I left the moor, and saw nobody until I reached the house."

"Thank you. That will do," said Mr. Bowden, and Willoughby bowed and left the room.

Coles was a man who would have stood well over six feet, but for the crook in his spine to which he owed his nickname of "Humpy." He was very powerfully built, and his best suit of dark stuff hung clumsily on his huge frame. He was about fifty years of age, and his thick hair and beard were both beginning to gristle.

He came in awkwardly and glanced round with little suspicious eyes set deep under shaggy eyebrows.

"I do," answered the man. His voice was very deep, and he spoke with a strong Devonshire accent.

"I reckon 'twere a goodish bit away. My turf ties be over the hill from my place."

"Mr. Nick, he passed the time o' day, and then they went along over towards Callington Mire."

"It began to rain, and I got up out o' the tie to see what 'twas a-going to du. I seed 'twere setting in for wet, so I took the shovel and started along home. I'd got so far as the Roundle Stone when I happened to look down, and there was two chaps a-fighting long by the river."

"That's nigh on a quarter of a mile from Roundle Stone," put in one of the jurors.

"Thank you," said Mr. Bowden. "Please continue, Mr. Coles. The men, you say, were fighting. Did you go towards them?"

"I watched 'em a while first. Then I seed both fall over, and I took and run towards 'em."

"The ground be terribly rough, and I couldn't go very fast. When I got to the place where they'd been fighting, there wasn't no sign on neither on 'em. But the bank was all broke away and first I reckoned they'd both fell in, so I started on down the river to see if I could find 'em. Just then I seed a chap running up the hill left handed from the river."

"He was going up a gully, like. The ground hid him till he were pretty well up the hill."

"I see. I take it, Mr. Coles, that you presumed that he was one of the pair who had been fighting?"

"In that case you must have realised that it was he who had thrown the other into the river. Why did you not chase him?"

"Chase him," he repeated scornfully. "Why, he was half way up the hill when I seed him. I couldn't have catched him to save my life. 'Sides, I reckoned 'twere better to get t'other chap out if he weren't dead already."

"Your decision was probably right. Now tell us, Mr. Coles, did you recognise the man who ran away?"

The silence is the room was absolute. No one moved. They hardly seemed to breathe.

"That may be necessary, later. Meantime, was there anything by which you could identify the man?"

CHAPTER VI. — THE VERDICT.

A CURIOUS sound followed Coles' last sentence. It seemed as though everyone in the room drew a long gasping breath.

"I bain't telling you no lies, if that's what you mean," returned Coles with a touch of truculence.

"I implied nothing of the kind," said the Coroner gravely. "But you will understand the significance of the statement which you have made."

Swanton's face had the exact touch of gravity suited to the situation as he took the oath. His evidence too was given very quietly, but did not at first seem to contain anything of moment, until the Coroner asked.

"Usually—why do you say usually?" asked Mr. Bowden quickly. "Was there any difference recently?"

"You will understand, sir, that this is a very difficult question for me to answer."

"I believe," said Swanton deliberately, "that there was some slight unpleasantness on the evening of the day before yesterday. Mr. Keeling and Mr. Willoughby remained together in the dining-room after dinner. Strolling outside in the garden, I heard high voices and the sound of breaking crockery. But as I passed straight on I caught nothing of what was actually being said."

"We will call him. One more question. Was there any trace of strained feeling between Mr. Willoughby and the deceased next morning?"

Hobbs, who came next, was questioned about the broken crockery, and admitted that a plate had been smashed; but catching the drift of the Coroner's questions was insistent that it was just a "lark."

"Mr. Nick was always one for playing tricks," he said, "and trying feats of strength and that sort of thing. But as for him and Mr. Willoughby quarrelling, why they were always the best of friends, sir."

On the whole Hobbs' evidence produced a good impression, and this was decidedly strengthened by that of the young mistress.

Mr. Bowden's questions to her were more carefully framed than any he had yet put, but it was at once evident that she had not the faintest suspicion that Kit could be in any way implicated in her brother's death. She had not, of course, heard any of the previous evidence.

"Miss Keeling, Mr. Willoughby, as we know, was the last person of the household to Combe Hariot, who was in the company of your brother before his death. In the course of the evidence, we have learnt of some disagreement between the two on the previous evening. Can you tell us anything of this?"

"It is true that there was a slight disagreement between my brother and Mr. Willoughby on that evening in the dining-room. I came into the room while it was in progress."

"The two were struggling together. Mr. Willoughby had hold of my brother's wrists. The moment I came in they dropped apart."

"Afterwards I asked Mr. Willoughby what was the matter. He told me that Nick—that my brother—seemed upset about something, but he did not know what. He asked me to speak to my brother. I did so and he apologised to Mr. Willoughby. Later that evening the two were playing billiards together, and next morning they were as good friends as ever."

"There has never been anything of the sort. They have always been the best of friends."

That ended Gwen's examination. Then one of the jury requested that Willoughby should be recalled.

Willoughby looked a little surprised as he was ushered back into the room. The coroner went straight to the point.

"Mr. Willoughby, we have heard that there was a disagreement between yourself and the late Mr. Keeling the evening previous to his death. Is that a fact?"

If Willoughby gave a start it was so slight as to be hardly perceptible. His only feeling at the moment was one of surprise as to how the fact had leaked out. Gwen, of course would never have mentioned it, and he could not conceive how else the quarrel had come to light. But his answer was prompt and frank.

"It is true. There was a quarrel. Mr. Keeling was rude to me and I resented it. He tried to strike me, and I seized his hands. At that moment Miss Keeling came in and the incident was over. Later that evening Mr. Keeling apologised to me and asked me to have a game of billiards."

"There was no cause. Something—what I don't know—had upset Mr. Keeling. He ate hardly any dinner and spoke to no one. Afterwards, when we were left sitting together, I asked him if he minded my going out. He swore at me and I resented it. That is all."

"One other question occurs to me. Was Mr. Keeling under the influence of liquor at the time of this upset?"

"He had had rather more port than he usually took," answered Willoughby, "but he certainly was not drunk."

Willoughby, as he walked out through the hall into the garden, was so deep in thought that he never even saw Gwen, who was waiting for him, until he was quite close to her.

"How could he have known anything about it? When he went out of the dining-room he said he was going to write letters."

"He said so," replied Gwen significantly. "But he did not go at once. At least, there was no light in his room when I went out into the garden that evening."

"No, there was no light there, either. Kit, I feel as sure as possible that he was prowling about, listening."

"Dearest, haven't you got Swanton on the brain a little?" remonstrated Willoughby.

"Perhaps I have. And yet somehow I feel convinced, as I told you that night, that it was he who somehow stirred Nick up to quarrel with you."

Willoughby was silent while they, side by side, strolled the length of the long gravel walk above the tennis courts. Under the great cedar of Lebanon at the far end he came to a standstill.

"Gwen," he said deliberately, "I was the last person in Nick's company. It is unfortunate that this squabble has come to light."

"I hate to say it as much as you to hear it. But facts must be faced. You know what Coles said when he brought the news—that Nick had been murdered. If he had given the same evidence before the jury it is entirely possible that I may be suspected."

With the wonderful courage which was her heritage, Gwen pulled herself together.

"Kit, this is terrible! And yet from the way in which Mr. Bowden questioned me, I had already almost suspected it. But—there is not one atom of evidence against you."

"Not much, certainly," answered Willoughby, trying hard to consider the matter impartially. "Still, lawyers do build up cases out of circumstantial evidence, and—and the mere shadow of such a suspicion would be disaster. Think what it would mean to you and me."

"Kit," she said, firmly, "it is not right to talk like that. Nothing shall interfere between us—nothing, do you hear? If everyone else in the world were against you I should still believe in you."

"I know you would, dearest," he said softly, and beading forward, kissed her on the lips.

"It's Mr. Swanton," whispered Gwen. "Go and meet him, Kit. I can't speak to him."

"Yes," answered Swanton, "person or persons unknown. Where is Miss Keeling?" he added.

"She is under the cedar. But she wished me to say that she is very tired and does not wish to see anyone."

Swanton bit his lip. For a moment he looked very black. But his powers of self-control were equal to the occasion.

"Then perhaps you will make my adieux for me," he said. "After an event of this sort the house is hardly a fit place for anyone outside the family."

If the last part of the sentence were intended to convey a hint, it was lost on Willoughby.

Swanton did not offer his hand. "Good-bye!" he said, and turning abruptly, went back through the house.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see the last of him. Is the inquest over, Kit?"

"Yes. The jury have brought it in murder against some person or persons unknown."

"It makes no difference, dearest," Willoughby explained. "A coroner is not a judge. It is his duty to discover the cause of death, not the guilty person. The rest is in the hands of the police, Gwen," he went on presently, as she did not speak. "Gwen, I've been thinking. I ought to follow Swanton's example. I ought to be moving."

"But your father, Gwen. What will he think? And then you will be having relatives here for the funeral."

"Father is not fit to do anything, Kit," Gwen answered. "He badly needs someone to help him with the arrangements. And as for relations, well surely, Kit"—she smiled faintly—"you may count yourself one of the family."

"Very well then, Gwen, I will stay for the present. And you must make as much use of me as you can. Afterwards I shall go to John Wharton for a while at Endsley. I shall be near enough to ride over and see you."

The voice was Hobbs', and its tone such that Willoughby and Gwen both sprang up at once.

The butler came rushing along the gravel walk towards them. His face was grave and drawn.

He turned harried back to the house, and the others, full of dismay, followed. Hobbs led the way to the study.

Colonel Keeling was seated in his big leather-covered arm-chair by the window. His head lolled forward on his chest, his face was darkly flushed, and the veins on his forehead stood out like cords. His breathing was heavy and stertorous.

But Willoughby was before her, and reaching the Colonel picked him up bodily out of the chair and laid him flat on the door.

"Hobbs, send for the doctor. Send the car. Don't waste a moment. Tell the chauffeur to say that every minute counts."

"It's a stroke, Gwen—an apoplectic seizure. Open the windows, while I loosen his collar. That is all that we can do for him until the doctor comes."

CHAPTER VII. — A FRIEND IN NEED.

That was the remark which an old friend had made at first sight of John Wharton's home on the Moor.

Endsley was one of the ancient freehold tenements of which a few still remain on the moor, and the house, with its three-foot granite walls and narrow windows, had withstood the winter gales of the last four centuries and appeared capable of doing so for as many more.

It stood on the steep side of a great ridge, high above the turbulent Arrow, but was protected from the worst of the weather by a grove of ancient, wind writhen beeches which spread along the hill side behind it.

It was one of Wharton's boasts that not another house was visible from his windows, and that he was the only doctor in England who could say as much. All the same he had his patients. The district over the health of which he presided was as large as one of our smaller counties, and his two stout cobs most certainly earned their keep. It was nothing uncommon for him to cover fifty miles in the saddle within a single day.

The morning sun was streaming warmly through the leaded windows as Wharton came downstairs on the morning after Nick Keeling's funeral. He himself had been unable to attend it, for he had no assistant, and an accident up at the Silver Dagger Mine had kept him busy all the previous day.

"And I'm ready for breakfast, Mrs. White," he answered with a smile as he passed through the hall into the low-roofed dining-room which was full of the pleasant scent of fresh coffee and well-crisped bacon.

He set to with a fine appetite, and had reached the stage of toast and marmalade, when he heard a quick tapping at the front door.

Mrs. White, he knew, was busy in the back regions. He got up and went out into the hall.

The front door was wide open, and in the small stone porch stood a girl in black. For a moment John Wharton paused, staring in a surprised way that he was unable to conceal. Then he stepped quickly forward.

"You, Miss Keeling?" he exclaimed incredulously. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Wharton picked her up bodily in his strong arms and carried her into the dining-room sitting her down gently in the big leather chair by the window. Then turning to the table, he quickly poured out a cup of coffee.

"Drink this," he ordered, "No, not a word until you have finished every drop. It was madness to drive all this distance without any breakfast!"

Gwen's hands shook so that she could hardly hold the cup. He himself put it to her lips, and insisted that she should drink it all.

"Now tell me," he said with a gentleness in strong contrast to his usual bluff manner.

"My dear lady, that is nothing to be surprised at," he answered. "Kit himself wrote to me that he thought it was not unlikely. He knew that he was under suspicion. But there is a big difference between arrest and conviction—a very wide difference indeed. You must remember that, and not distress yourself unduly. Remember, too, that Kit is thinking more of you then of himself, and that for his sake as well as for your own you must keep up your courage."

Gwen looked up at the strong, rugged face, and, for the first time since the fear of Kit's arrest had come upon her, felt a little glow of comfort. Here at any rate was a friend worth having. With all a woman's instinctive power of judgment, she realized Wharton's strength and staunchness.

"And now," he went on, "the first thing that I am going to ask you is to eat some breakfast. After that we will talk things over and see what is best to be done."

Gwen felt as if a mouthful would choke her, but she knew that all her strength would be needed for the ordeal before her, and she managed to swallow an egg and some toast and butter, and drink a second cup of Wharton's delicious coffee rich with cream from his own dairy.

"Very ill, I am afraid," answered Gwen in a voice which trembled slightly in spite of herself. "Doctor Heberden does not give much hope."

"It was the shock. It is hard luck on you, Miss Keeling. Well, he is in good hands, and now we must see if we cannot find equally capable ones to which to entrust Kit's affairs. You have heard of Glendon?"

"That is the man. He and I were at school together. If you approve I shall wire him at once."

"Yes, do," said Gwen earnestly. "I have never met him, but they say he is wonderful."

"He is. There is not a better man in the country. I will see Kit myself and ask him if he approves. And now about yourself, Miss Keeling. You ought not to be alone at Combe Hariot. Is there anyone you can get to come and stay with you?"

"It is quite worth thinking about. Someone I mean, who would take the household cares off your shoulders—someone you know well, and could talk to."

"There is Miss Stayner, who used to be my governess. I am very fond of her, and it would be a great comfort to have her with me."

"Then we will wire to her. No!—stay. The distance is not great. Why not take your car and go down there? You might bring her back with you."

"And on your way back you could see Kit, if you wished, and tell him that we are arranging. He is at Exeter I suppose?"

"Bless you—yes. He is in the first division, as they call it. He can see visitors and have letters just like anyone else. And if you like to send him in fruit or anything of that sort, you can do so."

"You think of everything," said Gwen gratefully. "I am glad Kit sent me to you."

"And I am glad you came," answered Wharton. "Only"—he shook a finger at her—"you must never go flying off without breakfast again. Please remember that!"

"To-morrow. I would come to-day, only that I must not leave my patients in the lurch. I shall ride round now and see two or three special cases. Then I shall go on to Taviton and arrange with Berkell to come here as locum for a few days. After that I shall be at your service."

"I think you are the kindest man I ever met," she said. "Kit is lucky indeed to have such a friend."

"Bless you, dear lady, what are friends for except to be useful?" said Wharton, with that smile which made his plain features so very pleasant. "Now, you are not to worry. All will be well. And one thing we must be grateful for. The assizes begin a fortnight from Monday next. This time of suspense will not last long."

He went with her to the car which was waiting on the main road half a mile away on the far side of the river. Gwen, looking back as she was whirled away, saw him standing, hat in hand, a stiff, sturdy figure in the warm sunshine, and breathed a little prayer of gratitude that, in her time of need she had found so strong a staff to lean on.

CHAPTER VII. — UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE.

THE lofty yet gloomy court at Exeter Castle was packed to suffocation. It was years since a trial of such importance had taken place in the old Cathedral City.

Two quiet looking gentlemen escorted by a policeman appeared in the gallery above. One of them attached a slip of paper to a wire running down to the clerks' desk below and it slid rapidly downwards. The grand jury had returned a True Bill against Christopher Willoughby on the charge of murder of Nicholas Keeling.

All eyes were turned on Willoughby as, pale but composed, he pleaded "Not guilty," Then the trial began.

Gwen was the first witness called. She was in deepest black. Only on the previous day her father had been laid to rest under the walls of the old parish church at Combe Heriot, and now that he had passed it fell to his daughter to give the evidence which he had given at the inquest as to the identification of the remains, and her evidence was confirmed by that of Crocker, the keeper, and Pritchard, the gardener. The Court was breathless as these men, in plain homely language, told of the recovery of the body from the roaring horror of the Spinning Pit.

Then the case was carried back to the previous evening, and Gwen was closely questioned by Mr. Harding, counsel far the Crown, as to the quarrel between Kit and Nick.

Could she swear there had never been bad blood between the accused and the deceased?

"Never!" she retorted. "Never! They were always the best of friends. If my brother were alive he would be the first to say so."

Swanton, called next, repeated the evidence he had given at the inquest. He had, he declared, no knowledge whatever of the cause of the quarrel. Asked about Nick's disposition, he said that he certainly had shown signs of a quick temper. All his evidence was given very quietly and with seeming reluctance to say anything that might in any way incriminate Willoughby.

Hobbs, the butler, followed, and the incident of the broken plate and finger glass was gone into.

"Did you yourself hear anything of the altercation between the two gentlemen? asked Mr. Harding.

"Yes, sir. I did hear something," answered Hobbs slowly. "I was going to clear away when I heard the two gentlemen talking rather loudly. Then there came the crash."

"I heard Mr. Keeling say 'No, you don't!' That was all. Then I turned to go back to the pantry. The noise of the plate falling reached me just as I was going through the swing door at the end of the hall."

"That is all," answered Hobbs quietly, and turned, evidently thinking that his examination was over.

"Carry your mind back to the afternoon of the next day, Mr. Hobbs. You were in your pantry between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, and Mr. Swanton's valet, Slade, was sitting with you. It was beginning to rain, and Slade noticed Mr. Willoughby coming in by the back way. Am I correct?"

"The left knee of his breeches was torn, there was mud on his jacket, and he had a handkerchief tied round his head."

"He told me that he had had a fall. He asked me to get him some hot water and sticking-plaster. I asked if he would have the doctor and he said no—that it was nothing."

"Tell me this, Mr. Hobbs, was Mr. Willoughby's condition consonant with that of a man who had been engaged in a fight or struggle with another person?"

"I have told you facts, sir. It isn't my business to draw conclusion. But I'll tell you this, I've known Mr. Willoughby a good few years, and he's a gentleman if ever I met one. People like us can judge better than some above stairs, and I know that there isn't many like him."

He spoke warmly, and there was a slight murmur of applause. Harding, having got more than he asked for, told the butler rather curtly that he might step down.

When the next witness came forward there was a rustle of excitement. Everyone knew that Abner Coles was the principal witness for the prosecution, and all eyes were on the huge, uncouth figure, as he tramped heavily up the steps into the box.

His evidence was practically a repetition of what he had given at the inquest, but in slightly greater detail. A plan in relief was shown of the valley of the Strane, and Coles pointed out unhesitatingly the spot where he had been working at the turf tie, and the place near the Roundle Stone where he had stopped to watch the fight by the river side.

The plan clearly showed the gully up which, according to Coles' story, the survivor had escaped, and the point where he had come into sight again, some distance up the hill.

Then came the question as to the identification of the fugitive. Several suits of the type which Willoughby had been wearing on that day, but of different colours and patterns, were shown. Coles unhesitatingly picked out one which was as a matter of fact the actual suit worn by Willoughby on that day.

By this time the Court was quiet as a church. The audience were hanging on every word. Wharton glanced across at Willoughby. The lather's face was set like a mask, and if he realised the horribly damaging nature of Coles' evidence, at any rate he gave no sign of his inward feelings.

Glendon's cross-examination failed to shake Coles' evidence in any important particular, and at last he gave up and the farmer was allowed to leave the box.

"Inspector Rawlings," said the usher, and a clean shaven, middle-sized man in a quiet dark suit stepped up. He had a square jaw and a pair of keen grey eyes, and as Wharton knew, was the Scotland Yard detective to whom the investigation had been entrusted.

In a level, unemotional manner he described how he had visited the scene of the tragedy. In spite of the storm which had followed so shortly afterwards, marks of a struggle were still, he said, plainly to be seen, and a large section of the overhanging bank had been broken away. True, the heavy rain had largely obliterated the footmarks, so that he would not swear to them, but there was other evidence which pointed to the identity of one of the combatants.

From his pocket he took a knife—a pocket-knife with a nickel handle. It had two blades, a corkscrew and a cartridge extractor. The steel parts were red with rust.

"I picked this up about a yard from the bank," he explained. "It is undoubtedly the property of the prisoner, for his initials, 'C.W.' are on the handle. It had evidently been stepped upon in the struggle, for it was embedded in the earth. Besides that, I also found this cartridge."—he held it up as he spoke. "It is an ordinary twelve-bore gas tight cartridge loaded with No. 8 shot but of a make which is not widely used or known. I can prove that it is the same type as those which the prisoner has been accustomed to use, and was using on the day in question. It is of a different make from that which the late Mr. Nicholas Keeling used."

For the first time during the long and trying day, Willoughby's iron control showed again of giving way.

"That knife is mine," he said sharply, "but I did not take it out on the day when I was shooting with Mr. Keeling."

"Later you will have an opportunity of explaining, Mr. Willoughby," he said. "You must wait until that time comes."

It was a long wait, for the prosecution had witnesses to bring to prove the ownership of the knife and cartridge. It was getting well on into the afternoon before Willoughby was able to give his testimony.

He told the story with admirable restraint, beginning with the quarrel between himself and Nick, and ending with his return home after his fall on the following afternoon. He admitted that the knife and cartridge were both his, but entirely denied having ever been on the spot where they were found.

Mr. Harding questioned him closely as to the cause of the quarrel, and Willoughby was forced to confess his entire ignorance of the cause.

"But a man does not insult another for nothing," insisted the barrister, "especially if the other is not only his friend, but staying in his father's house, and his future brother-in-law into the bargain."

"I can only repeat what I have said," replied Willoughby quietly. "There was no reason that I know of for his sudden outburst."

"You drive me to the conclusion that the cause of the quarrel must be something which, for some reason, you do not wish revealed."

"And you, sir, force me to the conclusion that you are unable to tell when a man is speaking the truth," rapped back Willoughby. "Once more, I repeat that I am as ignorant of any cause for Mr. Keeling's outburst as you are yourself."

Harding shrugged his shoulders, but dropped the subject, and Willoughby's evidence being concluded the Court rose for the day.

CHAPTER IX. — THE VERDICT.

"What do you think?" she asked, in a low voice, and he saw that, in spite of her outward composure, her lips were quivering.

"I think," he replied, "that we shall all feel happier when we have heard Mr. Glendon's speech for the defence. That is his strong point. They say that he can appeal to the jury like no other man alive."

But Fate had not yet done her worst for Willoughby. When Wharton came down to breakfast, tired and unrefreshed, his waiter came bustling up with the morning paper.

"Heard the news, sir," he asked eagerly. "Terrible bad thing for the gentleman that's accused of murdering Mr. Keeling."

"What do you mean?" cried Wharton, startled quite out of his usual composure. "Out with it!"

"Mr. Glendon, sir," answered the waiter, glibly, "He's been hurt—accident to his car, sir, as he drove out last night."

Wharton snatched the paper from the man's hand. For a moment the print waved cloudily before his eyes. Then his brain cleared, and here was the heading:—

We regret to say that the well-known barrister, Mr. Sinclair Glendon has met with a serious accident. Court, he drove out in a taxi-cab to Salterne, where he was staying with friends. About two miles out of the town a front tyre burst, and the vehicle, which was travelling at considerable speed, swerved out of the road, struck the edge of the footpath, and was upset. Mr. Glendon was thrown out on his head and picked up unconscious. We understand that he is suffering from severe concussion and a broken am. He was taken to a neighbouring farmhouse, where he lies in a precarious condition.

A groan burst from Wharton's lips as he dropped the paper. The shock was stunning. Sorry as he was for Glendon himself, that feeling was completely swallowed up in his anxiety for Willoughby and for Gwen. Caird, Glendon's junior, would, of course, do his best, but he had none of that magnetic personality which was Glendon's great attribute, none of that burning eloquence which could sway a jury to his will.

He hastily poured himself out a cup of luke-warm coffee, and buttered a slice of toast. Forcing himself to swallow this scanty breakfast, he hurried out to find Caird.

By this time the news of Glendon's accident was all over the town, and great as had been the interest shown in the trial on the previous day, it was nothing to the excitement which now reigned. Long before the Court opened, the great yard in front of the Castle was crowded. There were a score of applicants for every seat.

Wharton found Caird looking decidedly nervous. He had had the news the previous evening, and he had, he confessed, been up nearly all night, working at his speech. Wharton was secretly dismayed to see how white and fagged he appeared.

"It's a big chance for you, Mr. Caird," he said. "If you get Willoughby off your reputation is made."

As he entered the Castle yard, Gwen drove up. The moment he saw her, Wharton knew that she must have heard the bad news. It gave him a pang to see how worn she looked, yet he could not but admire her admirable composure.

The evidence had all been finished the previous day, and Harding rose at once to put the case for the Crown. He did it mercilessly. Beginning with the quarrel between Nick and Willoughby, he threw doubt upon Willoughby's evidence, insisting that there must have been some cause, and that Willoughby was aware of this cause.

"There are," he said, "some cases in which a man of otherwise upright mind considers it no disgrace to perjure himself. In the matter, for instance, of a woman's honour, I do not suggest that this applies in the present case, but this I do say—that a sane man does not go out of his way to insult his father's guest and his future brother-in-law without good reason, and if the deceased had or ever fancied, that he had such reason it is, to my mind, out of the question that the accused could have been ignorant of this reason.

"It has been suggested," he continued, "that Mr. Keeling was intoxicated. Yet we have the evidence of the accused himself that this was not the case."

He went on to give in detail the events of the next day. After pointing out that Coles' identification of the suit worn by Willoughby made it practically certain that the man who escaped up the hill was Willoughby himself, he suggested that what had happened probably was this.

As the two walked together from one snipe bog to the next, the subject of the previous evening dispute had in the course of conversation arisen afresh and the discussion had grown hot. Mr. Keeling, whose temper was notoriously quick, had again become angry, and words had led to blows.

The two had struggled together, neither realising how close they were to the water's edge, then suddenly the bank had given way, and the deceased fallen in.

"Even then," he said, "it was open to the accused to have rescued the other, and the fact that he did not attempt to do so tells heavily against him. In any case the evidence is clear that Willoughby was the man at whose hands the deceased met his death, and the only question before the jury is whether their verdict should be one of murder or manslaughter."

Wharton glanced at Gwen who was sitting beside him. Her face was white and tense, but she did not speak. She was watching Caird as he rapidly glanced through his notes.

Then he rose. He began with a reference to Glendon's accident, and with a modesty which became him well, spoke of his inability present the case as his principal would have done. Then he launched out, and did his best to pull Harding's arguments to pieces. Very nervous at first, he gained confidence and made a sound presentment of the facts in Willoughby's favour.

But sound as it was, there was nothing of Glendon's brilliancy about Caird's speech. Caird was absolutely lacking in that personal magnetism which enabled Glendon to play upon the feelings of an audience as a violinist on the strings of his instrument. It was only too clear to Wharton that Caird had done little to shake the impression made by Harding's keen and merciless analysis, and his spirits sank to a lower ebb than they had yet reached.

There remained now only the summing up, and Lord Colyton did this to his usual clear and impartial manner.

He ended by pointing out that there were three alternatives before the jury. They night decide that the deceased had met his death by accident which, however, in face of the evidence, seemed hardly likely. If, on the other hand, they concluded that his death had been caused by violence, they might still find that there was not evidence sufficient to incriminate the accused. In the third case, if they decided that the accused was the guilty person, it remained with them to bring in the verdict of either murder or manslaughter. He added that in any case he hardly thought there were grounds for the former verdict.

The jury tramped solemnly out to their deliberations, and most of the audience slowly dispersed. Kit, in charge of his warden, was marched below.

He saw that she had almost reached the limit of endurance, and he led her to a secluded seat in the Castle Gardens.

"Leave me," she said hoarsely. "I can't talk, even to you. You'll tell me when it's over."

There came times when the very intensity of suffering mercifully dulls the capacity. Such was the case with Gwen, as she sat there gazing out with unseeing eyes into the mellow autumn sunshine.

At last she heard steps on the path and looked up. Wharton was approaching. There was no need for speech. His face told her that it was the worst.

"They have," he answered. "The verdict is manslaughter, and the sentence fifteen years."

CHAPTER X. — GWEN'S DECISION.

THE first hard frost of the New Year held the moor in its iron grip, and the hoofs of Wharton's cob rang sharply on the frozen ground as he trotted up the slope leading to Endsley. Smoke from the chimneys rose straight up into the still afternoon air, and the pleasant reek of peat came to his nostrils.

"Rug her up well, Halstead," he said to his man as he gave the mare into his charge. "It's going to be a bitter night."

"Bring tea as soon as it is ready," he said, and flinging off coat and cap hurried into the sitting-room.

Gwen, all in black, was kneeling on the hearthrug by the great glowing fire. She rose as Wharton came in, and stepped forward to meet him.

Wharton took both her slim hands in his big muscular ones, and stared hard at her for a moment.

"By Jove, I'm glad to see you," he said warmly. "But what a day for you to be motoring."

"I don't mind the cold," she answered, then her face shadowed, and instinctively Wharton knew that she was thinking of Kit and wondering if he were protected from this bitter weather.

"I don't mind it really, and I was anxious to see you. You know I always come to you when I want advice."

"I am glad," said Wharton simply. "Sit down and tell me all about it. But first, have you heard from Kit?"

"I got my first letter yesterday. He has finished his 'separates,' and they have moved him to Moorlands."

Wharton nodded. "I thought they would. Well, it is very near—that is one comfort. We shall neither of us have to travel far when we are allowed to visit him."

"But I want to be nearer still," said Gwen. "I am thinking of letting Combe Hariot and going to live close to Moorlands."

"Living close to Moorlands!" Wharton's tone indicated his surprise. "But surely that is a mad plan! You know as well as I do that at present you can only pay Kit one visit in three months, and even later when he has gained stage, once a month."

"But I may he able to see him much more often than that. You know the main road runs right through the prison farm."

"I know that very well," Wharton answered, "but, my dear lady, tell me, do you think that that sort of thing would add either to his happiness or your own?"

"One can hardly talk of happiness, can one?" said Gwen with a sad little smile. "But I think that at any rate I should feel more content. And surely it would cheer Kit to know that I was near at hand.

"Besides," she added, "I have other reasons. One is that I cannot bear to live alone in that big house at Combe Heriot. Since father's death it has been terribly lonely."

"I should have her too at Moorlands. I have talked to her about this plan, and she is quite ready to come with me."

"It—it would hardly be fair to him to say that. But he—he has called more than once. He has sent game. I never know when he may suddenly arrive.

"He is a nightmare to me," she continued with a sudden vehemence which startled Wharton, "a perfect nightmare. I dread the very sight of him. In some vague way I feel as though he were responsible for all our troubles."

"I think I know how you fell," answered Wharton. "I can't stand the fellow myself. At the same time I don't quite see how he could have caused all this mischief."

"But he would follow you just as easily to Moorlands as to Combe Heriot," he added.

"No—No, he would not. If I go there I shall go as Miss Stayner's niece. I shall change my name. I am going to call myself Drummond. I shall live very, very quietly. Remember, there is no society up there at the top of the moor. No one will be likely to recognise me. And I shall let all the people I know suppose that I have gone abroad."

"A very pretty plot. It seems to me, Miss Keeling, that the last thing you came for was my advice."

"Shall we say your approval?" suggested Gwen with a smile, and before Wharton could answer, the door opened and Mrs. White came in with the tea.

There were tuff cakes fresh from the oven, Devonshire cream rich and yellow, and homemade blackberry jam. The tea itself was a regular bachelor brew, strong and hot in a sturdy brown pot.

Gwen enjoyed the good things. Wharton, watching her as she ate, noticed that, though she was thinner than when he had first known her, she was clearly in perfect health, and he was filled with admiration at the pluck which had carried her through an ordeal which would have killed many a girl. It was marvellous how she had accepted the situation and, without a thought of the self-sacrifice involved, calmly determined to devote her whole life and energies to clearing the man she loved from the shadow of guilt, or, if that were impossible, to quietly waiting his release.

"Kit's a lucky man in spite of it all," his thoughts ran. "He need never despair so long as he can feel that she is waiting for him."

"Quite soon. I have found a house. It is called Tor Cot, a funny little old fashioned place where a chief warder used to live after he retired. It is off the main road and has some trees round it."

As on her first visit, Wharton walked with her to the car. A crimson sun was sinking behind the high tors to the westward, and its light falling through a gap in the hills upon the broad pool below the house, turned the river to the colour of blood. The wide expanses of the treeless moor stretched desolate to the far horizon, and the frosty silence was unbroken by any cry of bird or sound of life.

For some distance they walked in silence. Then, as they were crossing the river bridge, Gwen turned suddenly to her companion.

"Because, right or wrong, British law is not the sort of thing to run your head against."

"Because, after knowing you for some months I am able to realise the sort of woman you are, and I am certain that you will not be content to sit down quietly and watch the man you love suffering as he must be suffering."

"Exactly. You have employed the best detectives you could find for the purpose of proving Kit's innocence. You have spent money like water. And so far, without any result whatever."

"And I fear they never will. Meantime you know that Kit is suffering unjustly. What is the only alternative?"

"And that is what you have in your mind when you talk of going to live at Moorlands. Can you deny it?"

"Do you realise that it is thirty years and more since any prisoner has made good his escape from Moorlands?"

"I know that. He was the man who got away in a friend's dogcart and reached Australia. He was recognised by a detective in Sydney seven years later, but the Home Office refused to re-arrest him."

"You seem to know a good deal about it," said Wharton, in evident surprise. "Do you know also what the penalty is for assisting an escape?"

"Two years imprisonment," replied Gwen promptly. "I do not mind telling you, Mr. Wharton, that I know everything that books can tell me about penal servitude, and especially about Moorlands."

"You are a wonderful woman. And I am perfectly aware that nothing that I can do or say will turn you from your purpose. At the same time I warn you that you are running a desperate risk, and for Kit's sake as well as your own I beg you to be careful."

"It is Kit I am thinking of," she answered simply, and with a glance at the fast darkening sky moved forward again.

Wharton handed her into the car and wrapped her warmly in her rugs. He watched the car till it was a mere dot in the distant twilight, then turned and walked slowly back to the house.

"It's a big risk," he muttered,—"a big risk. And yet—yet if anyone can do it she can, A wonderful woman, yes, a wonderful woman."

CHAPTER XI. — PREPARATIONS.

FOR the third time since five had struck Miss Stayner went to the door and looked out.

"I can't think where Gwen is," she said, and there was a troubled expression on her plump, pleasant face. "The train is in long ago. I heard it whistle. And she said she would be in time for tea."

She shivered a little and threw her shawl closer around her shoulders. Though it was April, the evening air bit chill at these heights.

At that moment the purr of a motor engine broke the silence, and sliding up the narrow lane leading to Tor Cot, came a neat grey two-seater driven by a lady well wrapped in furs, and wearing a motor bonnet and motor veil.

"Myself, Stannie, and as you see, driving myself," answered Gwen, pulling up neatly on the small gravel ring in front of the little house. "What do you think of my new car, Stannie?"

"It looks a beauty, dear, but what on earth made you buy a new car? I thought you meant to live so quietly here."

"So I do, but we must have some way of getting about and going to market. So I have bought this little car."

"We shall not want one. I am going to take care of it as well as drive it. It is so simple that a child could manage it, and so small that I can keep it in the little shed."

All of which was very true, but only a part of the truth. The car which had been built specially to Gwen's order by a well-known firm, was far more powerful than might have been judged by the size of her bonnet, and was fitted with a self-starter and every modern device for ease of handling. For Gwen had long ago realised that, if Kit was to escape, it was she who would have to drive him to safety, and that for such a purpose she must have a really fast car, yet one that would not attract undue attention by its appearance.

With her usual thoroughness she had attended to every detail of the body construction herself, and spent several days at the works learning to drive and manage the car. Now she felt that, once the chance came, she could defy pursuit.

But the chance—that had to be made, and she quite realized that it would take a good deal of making.

At present her one craving was to get a sight of Kit. It was more than six months since she had set eyes on his face, and she longed for even a passing glimpse of him, but she knew from his first that he had applied for a farm party, and though she had, of course, no idea where he was working, she determined to have a look around with as little delay as possible.

The next morning after she had brought the car home turned out bright, though cold, and it was with a heart beating rather more rapidly than usual that she drove quietly down the road leading to Moorlands.

The larches in the gloomy plantations were just beginning to show their delicate cloud of spring green, the rooks were busy building, and from the depths of the prison quarry to the right came the click of picks and tap of hammers.

As the road emerged from the plantation, the great prison lay before her, on the left of the road, the lofty granite walls pierced with tier upon tier of narrow windows. Gwen shivered slightly. Even in the bright spring sunshine, the place had a gloomy, repellent air.

She passed the grim granite arch which guards the entrance, but it was only a casual glance that the civil guard on duty cast at her. A great convict prison is always a centre of interest for the morbid minded, and trippers afoot or awheel were no novelty in his eyes.

Driving on down the broad village street, she turned to the left at the end, and made her way quietly down the slope leading to the Stone Brook. To the right was open moor, on the other hand the solid stone wall bounding the prison farm.

Here she caught her first glimpse of convicts at work—a long line of them in drab breeches and sleeved waistcoats digging in the slow, half-hearted fashion which is the mark of convict labour the world over. Half a dozen warders in dark uniforms and peaked caps and armed with carbines were guarding them. On the road and also on the side of the field were stationed civil guards mounted on wiry moor ponies.

Gwen slackened to a crawl, but a mist rose before her eyes, and it was a moment or two before she could see clearly enough to make certain that Kit was not among that long row of workers.

Pushing on again, she crossed the Stone Brook bridge, and pressing down the accelerator shot up the slope beyond. There were no workers in the eastern fields, and half-way down the next hill she turned to the left and sent the car steadily up the long hilly road which rises from the valley of the Arrow and cuts through the very centre of the great two thousand acre farm.

Once more she descended into the valley of the Stone Brook, and crossing the upper bridge had nearly completed the circuit when quite close to the road she caught sight of a group of half-a-dozen convicts under charge of two warders only, engaged in rebuilding a ruinous stone wall.

Gwen's heart gave a great throb, and for a moment seemed almost to stop beating, for among them she plainly recognised the tall, upright figure of Kit Willoughby.

It was purely by instinct that she kept the car moving. She did not even dare to cast a second glance at her lover so deadly was her fear of betraying herself.

But that one glance had been enough to give her a most terrible shock. Kit was changed almost beyond the recognition of any eyes but her own. His face, disfigured by a close-cropped beard and moustache, was shockingly thin and haggard, his cheeks seemed to have fallen in, and in his eyes was a strained and hopeless look which nearly broke Gwen's heart. As she drove mechanically onwards her own eyes were so dim with tears that she could hardly see the road.

The fact was that Kit was still suffering from the long months of solitary confinement in the local prison. Even the most hardened old lag finds "separates" the most trying part of his punishment. To an educated man this period is purgatory. Once it is ended, and he is sent to a convict prison, and is put to outdoor labour on a more generous diet, he soon picks up health and strength. But this Gwen had not realised, and a fear that was almost panic seized her that if she did not act quickly it might be too late.

That night, for the first time since Kit's sentence, her self-control gave way completely, and for hours she lay in wide-eyed misery, raging against the cruel fate that condemned an innocent man to lose the best years of his life, herded with the very scum of the earth under the rifles of his guards.

Gradually she fought her emotions down, and by a great effort of will forced her thoughts back to the problem of Kit's escape. She remembered again what Wharton had said—that for a generation past no convict had ever made good his escape. Some, she knew, had been caught within a day, some had been at large for as much as a week. Yet all in the long run had been re-captured.

But in every one of the cases of which she had read, not one of these a unfortunate fugitives seemed ever to have had a friend outside. There had been no one to provide food, money, or—most important of all—a change of clothes. The escapes had been forced to commit burglaries in order to obtain these necessities, and it was usually through these thefts that the police or warders had eventually succeeded in running them down.

In Kit's case it would be different. She would be at hand with a change of clothes and the car. The more she thought it over, the more convinced she became that, if only he could make the first bolt, she could get him clear.

For that first bolt a fog was essential, or one of those sudden and furious rainstorms which at all seasons of the year lash the high moor.

On every day, when the weather seemed suitable, she would have the car at a certain place. The upper Stone Brook bridge would be as good as any, for the river would give an excuse for loitering. She could either fish or sketch. She would have ready a chauffeur's uniform with cap and coat complete. Once Kit reached the car, she would drive straight across the moor in a northerly direction to a port on the north coast, where she would have a yacht in waiting. Once at sea, they could snap their fingers at pursuit.

Gwen's own fortune was a considerable one. Since her father's death she was a very rich woman. She knew the power of money, and was prepared to spend any amount in order to make her scheme a success.

The next question was how to get word to Kit of her intentions. An ordinary letter was out of the question. Her books had informed her that all letters entering or leaving the prison are read by the governor or his deputy before reaching their destination. But from the same source she had also learned that there is such a thing as "trafficking"—in other words that for certain monetary considerations it is possible to bribe a warden to convey a letter to a prisoner.

Here was the rub. How was she to find the right man for her purpose? Her commonsense told her that, although among the hundred and forty warders at Moorland, there were certainly one or two open to a bribe, yet the majority were undoubtedly honest men who would not only refuse any offer of hers, but also most infallibly inform their superiors. Such a blunder on her part would be fatal. She would never have a second chance. How then was she to find the man?

Dawn was already breaking as she pondered vainly over this problem, and at last, tired out, she fell asleep.

In spite of her short rest, next morning saw her driving the car out at the same hour as on the previous day. And as she drove she racked her brains for some solution of the puzzle before her. Had she only been a man, it would have been simple enough. A man can scrape acquaintance with other men. But a woman cannot lounge in bars, or join in concerts in the warders' recreation room. She felt as if she were up against a dead wall, and the more hopeless did the situation appear.

There was an unwonted stir in the broad village street. The square at the far end opposite the Feathers Hotel was crowded, and Gwen stopped the car opposite the nearest shop, she went in and inquired the reason from the plump-faced woman on the other side of the counter.

"'Tis the spring pony fair, miss. But 'tis only small like. Nothing like to the fair we have along in the fall."

Gwen thanked her, made some small purchase, and drove on. As she came nearer she saw the ponies—some score of them—rough-coated, active little animals herded in bunches around the edges of the square. The owners, sturdy-looking moormen, stood about bargaining with the buyers who mostly came from Somerset and Gloucestershire collieries. A good many village people were standing about, among them a number of children.

Gwen pulled up to watch. As she did so a massive figure stepped out of the crowd opposite, leading a shaggy little wild-eyed beast which looked hardly bigger than a dog beside its owner's towering form.

It did not need the voice. The first glance at those great shoulders told Gwen that she was looking at Humpy Coles. A shiver ran through her, and her hand went to the switch of the self-starter.

At that very moment the pony lashed out. There was a yelp of agony, and a small terrier which had incautiously ventured too near the pony's heels rolled over in the dust.

With a scream, a little girl of nine or ten rushed forward and gathered the poor little beast in her arms.

"Shouldn't ha' let 'un come so close!" growled Coles brutally. "And you shift along out yourself, or mebbe you'll get kicked, too!"

Gwen's blood boiled, and impulsively she sprang out of the car and hurried across to the child, who was now crying piteously. Her own troubles never blinded her to those of others, and for the moment she did not give a thought to the risk of being recognised by Coles.

CHAPTER XII. — GWEN BIDES HER TIME.

"GIVE him to me, dear," she said to the child. "I know about dogs. I can tell whether he is much hurt."

Gwen was wearing a motor veil which partly hid her face. But her voice and manner clearly satisfied the little girl. She handed over the puppy without hesitation.

The puppy was a good looking little rough-coated terrier of the well known Jack Russell type, and a very brief examination was enough to show Gwen that the near fore leg was broken.

"Then we will take him to Taviton. There is sure to be a veterinary surgeon there. Would you like to come with me?"

The house was only a few hundred yards away, one of a row of neat but ugly cottages. Arrived at the door, the girl rushed in, and a moment later was out again, dragging with her a stout, pleasant-faced woman, evidently her mother.

"It's very kind of you, miss," said the latter, "but Bessie and me couldn't think to trouble you that way."

"It is no trouble at all," Gwen assured her. "I should be very much more troubled if I felt the poor little dog was suffering. Will you trust Bessie to me for an hour or so? I will take great care of her."

The good woman smiled. "Well miss, since you're so kind, it isn't for me to say no. And if the doctor can do anything for the little dog there's more than Bessie will be glad."

Gwen rolled Bessie warmly in a rug, and settled Peter on her lap. A minute later the car was speeding away towards Taviton. It was Bessie's very first run in a motor car and she was almost too excited to speak.

With her fair hair blowing straight out, she sat very still, watching the dry road reel by like a long strip of brown ribbon.

The car swooped down the long bare hills at a great pace, and in less than twenty minutes the roofs of Taviton loomed up among the trees.

"You are right," Miss Drummond, he said presently. "There is no damage beyond the broken bone. I think we can mend that up and make him as good as ever. If you could hold him a minute or two I will set it and put it in plaster."

In Gwen's steady hands the operation was performed with hardly a whine from the patient. Then the puppy was made comfortable in an outhouse on a thick bed of straw, and Bessie bade him an affectionate farewell.

"Suppose we have some luncheon before we go home, Bessie?" she said. Bessie's eyes shone at the suggestion. They were brighter still when, seated at a table in the back of the confectioner's shop, dainty cakes and fruit in syrup with Devonshire cream were placed before them. And then the car bore them stoutly up the steep hills back to the moor. Bessie was hugging a big box of chocolates tied with blue ribbon.

Gwen had done a far better morning's work than she could possibly have suspected. That evening the maid came in to say that Principal Warder Paton would like to see her, and going out into the hall she found an upright, sunburnt man in the familiar dark uniform of a prison officer.

"I called to thank you for your great kindness to my little girl, Miss Drummond," he began. "There isn't many ladies would have taken that much trouble, and my wife is as grateful as I am."

"It was no trouble at all, Mr. Paton," answered Gwen with her charming smile. "Sit down, won't you?" He obeyed without a trace of awkwardness, and Gwen, realising all of sudden that here was her chance to learn something first hand of the prison, began to chat. She found Paton extremely well informed, and he stayed for nearly half an hour.

"Well, miss, if you'd come and drink a cup of tea any afternoon that was convenient we'd take it as an honour and a pleasure."

"Indeed I will," Gwen answered cordially. "I will come to-morrow if that will be convenient."

So it was that Gwen, quite without any scheming on her part, came to know a warder. Paton, finding that she was interested in prison matters, gave her a quantity of information about the daily life and routine of the great convict establishment. He told her how the men worked, all about their hours and their food, he even gave her a piece of prison bread to taste, and Gwen was vastly relieved to find that its quality was much superior to what her books had led her to believe.

On the whole her immediate anxiety about Kit was much lessened by that she heard from Paton, but for all that she did not waver for a moment in her determination to effect his escape, and every energy she possessed was bent towards that purpose.

Patton, however, would do nothing to help her. Of that she was sure. She had recognised from the first that he was incorruptible. But she learnt from him that trafficking still existed and that "snout"—that is, tobacco—and other similar luxuries were frequently conveyed to prisoners whose friends were willing to pay for the privilege.

In those days Gwen went very carefully. She was anxious above all things to retrain from arousing the slightest suspicion, and although she constantly drove her car in and about Moorlands, and often on fine days drew it up by the roadside on the pretext of sketching, she purposely kept away from the spot where Kit was working. Several times she took long runs over the main road to the north, with a view of becoming thoroughly familiar with it.

A letter came from the vet in Taviton to say that Peter was well enough to come home, and next afternoon Gwen drove Bessie Paton in to fetch the little dog. On her return Mrs. Paton begged her to come in and have a cup of tea. Gwen, who had become quite fond of the stout, even tempered woman and her pretty daughter, accepted, and presently was eating tuff cakes and strawberry jam with an appetite sharpened by her run in the keen moorland air.

Mrs. Paton had just poured her out a second cup of tea when the door of the sitting-room opened hastily, and Paton himself came in with a very disturbed look on his face.

"Here's a nice business, missus!" he began, then seeing Gwen pulled up with a hasty apology.

"Don't mind me," begged Gwen. "In any case I must be running away in a minute or two."

"Please don't, miss," said Paton earnestly. "I was only going to tell my wife about her cousin, Harry Corder."

"Corder," repeated Gwen, "that smart looking young man you pointed out to me the other day, looking after a road cleaning party. I hope there is nothing wrong?"

"Indeed there is, miss. He was caught giving a newspaper to one of the lags, and they've given him the sack. It's rough on the lad, for I believe he did it out of kindness—not for money. But the Governor's terrible down on that sort of thing."

"I'm sure I don't know," Paton answered. "It's a bad look out, for he's got an old mother dependent on him."

"I wonder if he knows anything of gardening," she said quietly. "I want someone to look after the garden. It is too much for me. And the car requires washing, too. Do you think he would care for work of that sort?"

Corder called that very evening. He was a slightly built but active looking young fellow of about twenty-four. His skin was very dark, and his eyes deep-set below thick dark eyebrows, yet he looked Gwen very straight in the face, and she sized him up at once as the sort of man able to keep his mouth shut, and probably capable of gratitude to anyone who was good to him.

Gwen resisted the temptation to sound him at once. To hurry slowly had become her motto in these days. After a little further talk she engaged him at a pound a week to work in the garden and wash the car. She was purposely careful not to pay more than the usual wages, for it was all important not to let Corder or anyone else suspect that she was a rich woman.

Corder was evidently very grateful, and he began work next day. He never knew how carefully his new mistress watched him, but she found nothing to complain of. True, he did not know much about gardening, but he did his best and obeyed all orders without demur.

So another week passed, and then Gwen made up her mind that she would risk broaching her proposal to Corder.

"That is not as much as you were earning in the prison, Corder," she said, as she handed him his money.

"No, miss," he answered regretfully—and then with a smile—"But the work's a deal easier here."

"Still you have not the prospects that you had in the prison service. And what will you do when I leave, here?"

Corder looked startled. Clearly this event had not entered into his calculations.

"We are only here for the summer," Gwen answered. "What will you do next winter?"

"Have you any particular ambition?" Gwen asked. "Is there anything you would like to take up?"

"For that you would need training in a garage. You would have to spend at lease three months without pay, and meantime keep yourself and your mother."

"I know, miss. I know there's no chance of it. It would take three or four years to save the money."

"Supposing that I told you that you could earn fifty pounds down?" continued Gwen.

"Certainly I do. I am prepared to pay that sum in return for a service which I think you can render me."

"I am not going to ask for any promises, Corder," she told him. "If you mean to play me false no amount of promises would go for anything."

"That's very true, miss. So I won't make any. But if this that you want me to do is against the law, why I reckon it's just as much to my interest as yours to keep a still tongue. I'd only get myself into trouble if I was to blab."

"What I want," she said deliberately, "is to get a letter to a prisoner in Moorlands."

CHAPTER XIII. — THE MESSAGE.

"Is that all?" he said. "Why, miss, I'd have done that for a five pound note, let alone fifty. I can do it easy."

"Better not ask, miss. It won't do any good to go mentioning names. But I give you my word I can do it all right, and the letter shall be delivered within twenty-four hours after I have it."

"All right, miss," said Corder, then hesitated. "Begging your pardon, miss, you won't sign it? Not that there's any real risk, but just in case it might get into the wrong hands."

"No, I will not sign it—nor address it," she answered gravely. "And I can promise that, even if it does fall into wrong hands, it will not be easily read."

After he had gone, Gwen went to her desk and set to work on her letter. After many erasures and alterations it ran eventually as follows:—

"You will know who writes this. I have done everything I could to clear you, but failed. The only alternative is that you should escape. On every likely day I shall be with my car at any place on the road you think best. The first opportunity you get, make a run for it and join me. Leave the rest to me. In answering this write one word only—the place where the car is to be."

When this was completed Gwen proceeded to transpose it. She and Kit had known one another nearly all their lives, and like many a boy and girl, had delighted in mysterious cypher communications. The cypher they had chiefly used was a very simple one. It consisted merely of using the next successive letter of the alphabet instead of the proper one. Thus "Gwen" became "Hxfo" and "Kit," "Lju."

It was years since either had used this childish cypher, but Gwen knew that Kit would recognise it instantly. At the same time, a letter so written made such apparent gibberish that it was highly unlikely that anyone else would be able to read it.

Eventually she transcribed it on a half-sheet of very thin foreign paper. This she rolled tightly, and cutting open a small piece of plug tobacco, packed it inside, afterwards fastening down the tobacco with a little cement. When she had finished her missive looked so innocent that she felt fairly certain that, even if it was pounced upon, no one would ever suspect its contents.

Next morning when Corder came for the day's orders, she handed him the plug of tobacco. He looked at it in surprise.

"Well, I never!" he remarked, shaking his head. "This does beat all. No one would ever think there was aught inside it."

"Indeed I do, miss. I think it's proper clever. And now, if you please, who is it for?"

Corder opened his month as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it, and was silent. He remained staring at her.

"I don't know nothing, miss," replied Corder frankly. "But I couldn't help thinking."

"That there's only one person as would be likely to want to write to Mr. Willoughby, and that's the lady he was going to marry."

"You are quite right," she answered quietly. "I am Miss Keeling. Now, are you still ready to do what I ask?"

"A sight more ready than I was before, miss. My father used to work for Colonel Willoughby, Mr. Christopher's father, so it isn't likely as I'd believe Mr. Christopher would ever do a thing like that."

"If you knew him as I know him you would be quite certain that he could never have committed such a crime," said Gwen, earnestly. "Well, Corder, it is a great comfort to me to feel that you have a personal interest in Mr. Willoughby. And now will you take the letter?"

"I will, miss. He'll get it some time to-morrow, and you'd ought to get the answer next day. But I shall want some money, miss."

"You shall have the rest when I get the reply," Gwen promised. "And—and you will be careful, Corder?"

Next morning Gwen drove to Taviton, where she had opened an account at a local bank, and drew a considerable sum in notes and gold. Then she went on to the big seaport of Tarnmouth, and there purchased a ready-made chauffeur's uniform, together with an overcoat and cap. She also bought a false moustache, a wig, some spirit gum, and grease paint.

It was late when she got home, and she was tired, but even so she was too excited to sleep much.

The following morning was cold and windy. It was past ten before Corder appeared, yet Gwen did not dare to run out and meet him for fear of exciting the suspicion of their maid.

"It's all right, miss," he said, fumbling in his pocket and producing a tiny roll of paper.

Gwen's hand shook as she took it. It shook more as she saw that it was her own note come back.

Gwen nodded, and with trembling fingers unfolded the tightly folded strip. Corder, with a delicacy that could hardly have been expected of him, turned his head away.

The answer was there. Scrawled apparently with the end of a burnt stick, yet unmistakably in Kit's hand were these words:

It took Gwen but a moment to decipher this as "Stone Brook bridge. Prison road." It was the very place she had thought of, herself.

For a moment she stood staring at the precious words, then with a sigh of deepest relief, she folded the note again and slipped it inside her dress.

CHAPTER XIV. — SUSPENSE.

"WONDERFUL weather, Miss Drummond," was Warder Paton's cheery greeting as one blazing day, about a week later, Gwen met him coming back from duty, in the village street.

"Wonderful, indeed!" Gwen answered pleasantly. "But I thought, Mr. Paton, that Moorlands was supposed to be a wet place."

"Wet!" said Paton with a laugh. "Bless you, miss, I've known it rain thirty days in the month. We seldom measure less than ninety inches a year in the prison rain gauge That's what makes me say that it's wonderful to get a week like this.

"But it won't last," he added, glancing at the sky. "Them mare's tails means something. You'll see the wind round south-west to-morrow morning, and then I reckon we'll make up for these fine days."

Gwen too looked upwards, and noticed the long films of fleecy cloud that spanned the blue, yet hardly dimmed the sun glare. A little shiver ran through her, half fear half hope.

Paton proved a true prophet. Next morning Gwen woke to the sound of wind roaring in the chimney and the rush and spatter of rain on her window-panes. She looked out into a swirling greyness of storm. All day it rained, and all the next and the next, till every gulley was a river, and the moorland brooks rose high above their banks, roaring down their valleys in raging flood.

In such weather all farm work was suspended, and no prisoner left the confines of the prison.

Gwen began to think it was never going to stop, but on the third evening the wind lulled and the glass began to rise. The fourth morning dawned warm and bright, yet with a strong breeze from a little north of west, and great masses of smoky vapour racing across the rainwashed blue.

It would have considerably started Miss Stayner to see the lunch which Gwen packed in the box at the back of the car, and the other etceteras which were also there carefully concealed from prying eyes in those black bags which chauffeurs use to carry spare tubes.

Not that Gwen had any immediate expectation of Kit effecting his escape. She knew that she might have to wait many days before a suitable opportunity arose. Yet at the same time she meant to be ready for all emergencies.

It was not quite ten when she drove through Moorlands, and as she took the turn to the left at the end of the street she saw a drab clad gang at work in the self-same field where she had seen them that first morning.

Her heart beats quickened, but she kept straight on, and turning again to the left finally arrived at the top of the hill above the upper Stone Brook bridge. As she coasted slowly down the slope her eyes were busy searching the broad, open fields.

There was no work going on near the road, but presently she caught sight of a long line of men digging in a field not quite half a mile away to the west.

They were too far away for it to be possible to recognise faces or figures, yet she had a conviction that Kit was among them, and the blood throbbed in her veins as she reached the bottom of the hill, and turning the car drove it up into a little open space just beyond the bridge. She shut off the engine, got out her sketching block and paint-box, and set to work with a great appearance of energy. Yet every few moments were raised to the summit of Misty Tor, watching the clouds that broke like waves upon it, and occasionally hid entirely its rock crowned crest.

An hour passed in alternate dim and shine, then in the distant the great clock in the tower over the prison clanged out eleven, and soon the gangs gathered for the march back to dinner. Now Gwen changed her position so to as to get a view of the road, as the working parties crossed it on their way to the prison. Still pretending to paint, she watched them keenly. One after another, they dragged by, their nailed boots clanking on the metalled surface. Two parties passed, then came a third. Gwen's heart gave a great throb. That tall upright figure who headed it her love-quickened eyes told her was Kit and no other.

The party vanished through the opposite gate, but for many minutes after they had gone Gwen sat perfectly still, no longer even pretending to paint.

A little after one the long files came marching back two and two, with the fan of warders and civil guards wide spread on either side.

A civil guard mounted on his sturdy, well-kept pony, rode slowly down the road to take up his position on the top of the hill above her, and her heart sank as she saw how thoroughly the workers were surrounded.

Time passed, the weather did not improve. The clouds were thickening, and it was only at rare intervals that the head of Misty Tor was visible. Further to the north the high moor was entirely hidden by drifting veils of grey vapour.

Gwen's suspense became almost intolerable. Every minute seemed to make it more certain that this was going to be Kit's chance, and although she never for one instant wavered in her determination, yet she had to fight against a feeling that was almost panic.

Suppose that he made his attempt and failed. Supposing he was shot down. Although she was aware that the Warders' carbines were loaded with buckshot only and not bullets, yet there were cases on record in which escaping prisoners had been killed. Even if he were not shot, but merely captured, his punishment would be a heavy one. Yellow dress and chains, cells, bread and water, loss of all privileges and remissions. Her heart sank at the prospect, and she found herself shivering so that her teeth chattered. The clouds closed thicker, there was no longer a glimpse of blue overhead. A chill wind rustled the stunted trees in the little plantation by the brook. She looked round and saw the fog rolling like a high sea across the high land to the west. The upper plantation by the quarry vanished like a dream, and suddenly out of the field beyond whistles began to shrill. It was the signal to gather the gangs and march them back.

CHAPTER XV. — THE BEST LAID PLANS.

GWEN quivered all over. For a moment she felt faint and giddy. It was only for a moment. Then she fought down the weakness and was herself again, ready to do or dare for Kit's sake.

She thrust her painting things away, then sprang out and took a last look round to make sure that the petrol tank was full and the tyres well pumped up.

Down swept the fog. It rolled past in a vast gray wave, hiding everything beyond a radius of fifty or sixty yards. In spite of her pluck, she could feel the blood throbbing through her body to her very finger tips. It was difficult to breathe.

A minute passed. There was no sign or sound. With a sinking heart she began to realise that Kit had not found his chance. He was not coming. She must go home and wait for another day.

From out of the mist far up the hill came the whip-like cracks of a rifle. The sound smote her like a blow, and a groan burst from her lips. In her mind's eye she saw Kit writhing on the wet grass.

Suddenly she remembered that the first shot is always fired over the fugitive's head, but almost before this thought could bring her a grain of comfort came a second shot and then two more.

Shouts echoed dully through the smother. The suspense became agonizing. She clenched her hands till the nails bit into her delicate palms. An almost irresistible impulse came upon her to spring from the car and rush to the rescue.

Suddenly through the fog a figure loomed gigantic. A man running furiously down the slope towards the road wall. He reached the wall, made one spring on to the top, and with a wild scramble was in the road not twenty yards away.

A last rush, and he had flung himself into the car and dropped, panting beside her.

"Quickly!" he muttered. "They are after me." At at the same moment the clatter of horse's feet from up the road came to Gwen's ears.

She needed no urging. Kit was hardly in the car before she had turned the switch which started the engine The first gear was already in place, and as she raised her foot from the clutch the car started forward.

Now that the crisis was upon her, all her nervousness had vanished and she was perfectly cool.

The place was ready—a hollow large enough to hide a man, and as Kit dived into it and vanished. Gwen pushed the lever into second, and at a round twenty miles an hour the stout little car fled over the hump-backed bridge and breasted the hill beyond.

The hoofs behind sounded terribly distinct. Gwen glanced quickly back over her shoulder, but the kindly mist hid the galloping guard. She pressed down the accelerator, and steep as was the hill, the needle of the speedometer crawled to twenty-two. For a minute or two the guard seemed to hold his distance, then the clatter of hoofs began to die.

Another minute, and the car was at the top of the slope. Swiftly Gwen changed to third and then to top, and at nearly fifty they flew across the flat summit of the rise.

Half a mile of level ground, then came the long curving hill to the Arrow. Gwen shut off her engine, and silent as a ghost the car sped downwards through the smother.

Not a soul on the road, yet if there had been Gwen would not have stopped. The load was lifting from her heart. She knew now that she would be able to cross the Arrow before any guard could be set upon the bridge.

Like a live thing the car shot over the high crown of the narrow bridge, past the fishing inn beyond, and breasted the steep slope above at hardly abated speed. Once at the top, a sigh of deepest relief escaped Gwen's labouring lungs. Before them lay eight miles of lonely moorland road broken only by the one small hamlet of Archerton. For the moment they were safe.

True, she knew that there was a telegraph office at Archerton, but the road was wide and open. She reckoned to pass it before news could arrive of the escape.

Gwen had learnt to handle her car with almost professional skill, but never before had she driven at such reckless speed. The engine was warm now, and in spite of the hills it was but seldom that a change of gear was needed.

By this time the fog had covered the whole of the moor, and the only guides in their wild flight were the endless lines of grey granite wall on either side of the bare brown road.

It was barely ten minutes from the time of starting before the car was swooping down the long slope into the valley of Archerton. Near the bottom Gwen deliberately cut off gas, and slowed down to a bare twenty. She knew that to fly through the village at her former speed would infallibly attract attention, and naturally this was the one thing she wished to avoid.

Down in the hollow the fog was less thick, and the cottages standing back from the road in their patches of garden were more or less visible. Several people were on the road, but none paid any particular attention to the small, quietly driven car. As for Gwen herself, she was so wrapped up in mackintosh and motor veil that the chances were strong against anyone recognising her.

At any rate no one interfered, no one even saluted her, and in a couple of minutes the scattered hamlet was left behind and the car climbing the hill beyond it. This was the steepest gradient of any yet, and Gwen was down to first gear before the top was reached.

It was here that she got an ugly shock. On the very steepest part of the slope, where the rise was something like one in five, a mounted man loomed up out of the fog right in the path of the car.

Gwen blew her horn sharply, and the pony, evidently raw and only half broken, plunged violently and lashed out, missing the bonnet by a few inches only.

"Drat ye! What ye go making that noise for?" roared his rider, as he jerked the bit savagely. The pony reared so wildly that it nearly came over backwards, and to save himself the man was forced to fling himself off in a hurry.

Gwen's heart pounded. Was ever such ill luck? There was no mistaking that harsh, coarse voice for anyone else but Abner Coles. She forced the accelerator down to its lowest and the car jerked forward.

"All right. Ye can hurry all ye please, but I'll know ye again," bellowed Coles, struggling with his terrified pony. And even after he had vanished in the mist she heard him roaring out furious oaths and threats.

"Yes, dear. But never mind. I don t think he could have recognised me, and I did not speak."

"Splendid! But Gwen, I never dreamed you could drive like this. And through the fog, too?"

Gwen did not answer. They were at the top of the hill, and she was changing gear. The car leaped into her stride again and shot like a rocket along the open switch-back road.

"We are going straight on. I have petrol enough to take us right through to the north coast, and a yacht is waiting at a little place near Bideford. We ought to be aboard by dark."

"Not yet, Kit. Once we are off the moor, I mean to pull up for a few minutes in some quiet lane. There you must change. I have a chauffeur's uniform in the back, and a wig and moustache."

"You are wonderful," said Willoughby fervently. "You have thought of everything.

"I don't mind what the risk is so long as I can get you clear. It was driving me frantic to feel that you were in that dreadful prison. I had to get you away at any cost. All I was afraid of was that you might be shot as you ran."

"They did their best," answered Willoughby with a grim note in his voice. "The second charge was pretty close. But I was fifty yards away, and beating any record I ever set up. Did they see you, do you think?"

"I fancy not. That civil guard did his best, but the fog was too thick. I didn't see him, so he could hardly have seen me."

"I know that. And I mean to keep to bye roads all the way and avoid the towns. But you must not talk to me, Kit. There is an awkward bit before us, and I must keep all my attention for the driving."

Willoughby obediently crept back, into his hiding place, and Gwen devoted all her energies to getting the last ounce out of the car. They were now on one of the highest main roads in England, and for miles there was no human habitation except the little Lynxworthy inn and two or three miners' cottages. At this height the fog was denser than ever. The worst of it was that, here, the road was open and unfenced. This made driving doubly dangerous, for in the first place there were no walls to guide by; in the second there was nothing to prevent the sheep and ponies which graze in hundreds on the moor from straying on the road. With the best will in the world, it was impossible to keep up a speed above thirty, and even so Gwen knew that she was taking her own and Kit's life in her hands.

The little inn loomed up on the left. Through the window Gwen caught the glow of the great peat fire burning in the tap. The fog beyond seemed the thicker by comparison.

The strain on nerve and eye was a heavy one, yet every mile post that flashed by lessened the chances of recapture, and in spite of her anxiety Gwen's heart grew lighter.

The car was now fast approaching the eastern edge of the moor. Down below it would he clearer, and she would be able to make up for lost time.

She came to Heelbarrow Hill. It was the last big drop, more than a mile long, steep, with a bad surface, and an awkward bend near the bottom. But the upper part was straight enough, and knowing that she could depend on her breaks she let the car swoop downwards at hardly abated speed.

She was half way down when, with a sharp snort a wild moor pony, which must have been lying actually in the road, started suddenly to its feet, almost under the bonnet of the car.

Gwen wrenched her steering wheel round. She cleared the pony by a matter of inches, but the road was narrower than she knew, and the front wheels shot up on the sloping turf of the left hand bank. She tried to turn again; but it was too late. The car took the bank like a jumping horse, the near front wheel struck one of the many granite boulders which strew the moor, and Gwen, flung clean out of her seat, felt herself flying through the air.

She struck the ground with a shock that knocked all the remaining breath out of her body, and lay flat on her face.

CHAPTER XVI. — THE RETURN OF COLES.

SHE was not stunned, but the blow on her chest had for the moment paralysed her lungs, and she lay gasping painfully for breath, utterly unable to move.

"Gwen! Gwen!" It was Willoughby's voice sharp with suspense, but in spite of her relief at hearing it, she could not by any means reply.

"Gwen! Oh, my God, she's dead!" And with this bitter cry he dropped on the wet turf beside her.

"No—no. I'm not hurt," Gwen managed to gasp out hoarsely. "D—don't move me. I—I shall be better in a minute."

At last he was able to turn and sit up, but the sight before her brought a faint scream from her lips.

Willoughby had sunk down in a heap on the ground. His face, deadly white, was streaked and smeared with blood which was pouring from an ugly gash over his right eye. His right arm hung helpless at his side, but with a coarse handkerchief held in his left hand he was trying to staunch the wound.

The shock pulled Gwen together as nothing else could have done. In an instant she was on her feet.

The car lay forlornly on its side. The screen was smashed, but what damages there were besides Gwen did not wait to see.

Fortunately she was able to open the box at the back, and in a moment she had out the little ambulance case which case which she always carried.

"It was the screen," said Willoughby feebly, as she came back to him. "I—I must have hit it."

The blood was gushing out in sharp little spurts. It was clear that a small artery was cut. Gwen knew what the consequences would be if the bleeding were not quickly stopped, and set to work without a moment's delay.

It was no easy matter, but happily she knew enough of Red Cross work to manage it successfully, and presently the bandage was in position and the flow of blood checked.

"Thank you, dear," said Willoughby. "That is much better. Now do you think you could manage to make a sling for my arm? I'm afraid it's broken."

"Broken!" It was all Gwen could do to choke back the sob that rose in her throat. "And all my fault, Kit," she added despairingly.

"Don't talk nonsense, dearest," said Kit. "You have done splendidly—splendidly, do you hear? I am prouder of you than I can tell. I don't believe there's another girl in England could have handled the car as you did. And don't despair. Think how much worse it might have been. We can both walk. We are a long way from the prison. We shall get through all right somehow."

He spoke warmly. He saw that, between shock and disappointment Gwen was near to collapse, and he wisely did his best to hearten her.

He succeeded, too. To some extent at any rate, for she tried to smile, and set to work at once to arrange a sling for his arm.

"It's only the forearm," he told her, "and only bone so far as I can tell. There, that's better already."

She had just finished the sling when there came the sharp click of trotting hoofs on the hill above. She started up in alarm.

"Get down behind the gorse," he whispered. "Don't worry. It's only some farmer or moorman. The warders can't have got this far yet."

The fog was sweeping across in gray wreaths. It was so thick that, from their hiding-place behind the prickly gorse, they could hardly see the opposite side of the road. They crouched close together, quiet as mice, hardly daring to breathe, while the loose stones rattled under the hoofs of the rapidly-approaching horse.

Gwen pushed herself softly forward and peeped through a little loop-hole in the prickly branches. The rider came opposite, forcing his mount at a speed which the slope made dangerous.

Gwen quivered all over. Kit was so close to her that he could almost feel the heavy beating of her heart. He himself held his breath in suspense. If the rider caught sight of the overturned car it was all up.

But the bank at the road side was higher than the ground where the car lay, and a fringe of stubby gorse rushes partly hid it from view. The fog helped. The man passed on, pressing his pony recklessly down the steep, and Willoughby sighed with relief as the sound of the hoof-beats died away.

"It's all right, Gwen," he said cheerfully. "The beggar's gone." Gwen turned towards him, and her face was white and set.

"I'm sure of it. He has seen the car before in Moorlands. When he reached Archerton he must have heard of your escape. He put two and two together, and made up him mind to have a try for the reward. He would do anything for five pounds."

"I shouldn't be surprised if you were right, Gwen. I wonder why the beggar hates me so. His evidence was a pack of lies, but it was that and nothing else which cooked me at the trial."

"I don't know," Gwen answered wearily. "The whole business is a mystery. But never mind that now. The thing is to get away from here as soon as we can."

"I can't go tramping about the country in this guise," answered Willoughby, indicating his shapeless red-and-blue striped slop and canvas breeches, plentifully bestrewed with heavily-stamped black arrows.

"Oh, I'll manage," he answered, with assumed carelessness. "Give me the things, dearest."

She was back in a moment with the bundles, and Kit meanwhile had found a nook among the thick gorse bushes.

She laid the things out for him and left them, but it was much more than a minute before he hailed her, and in spite of all his pluck, the sweat of pain stood in beads on his forehead.

Gwen had a flask in her hands. She filled a small silver can with brandy and gave it to him.

"Jove, that's good," he breathed as he took it in his left hand and drained it. A fleck of colour came back to his pale cheeks, and his eyes brightened.

With the scissors from the ambulance case she deftly ripped the seam from wrist to shoulder. Then very gently she succeeded in slipping on the coat without disturbing the injured arm. The overcoat she managed in the same way. Willoughby had somewhat succeeded in getting out of his heavy prison boots with their tell-tale broad arrows in hobnails on the sole, and Gwen herself changed his socks and put on the new pair of boots which she had brought.

"I can't put on the wig, dearest," she told him. "I dare not remove those bandages."

"Never mind. The cap will hide my shaven crown, and if you will turn up my collar I shall pass in a crowd."

"This is first rate," he continued with a smile. "I feel like a civilised being once more. The things fit splendidly, Gwen. And jolly warm, too."

His cheeriness was wonderful, and Gwen did her best to follow his lead. All the same, she could not hide from herself the fact that their position was well-nigh desperate.

They were miles—six to be exact—from the nearest railway station, and it was flatly impossible for Kit to walk so far in his present damaged condition. Even if he could have done so, it would be madness to risk anything of the sort, for every station for miles around would by now be guarded by police. Nor did she know of any shelter where they might take refuge. The nearest was Wharton's house and that was nearly ten miles away. Besides, it would not be fair to allow Wharton to run the risk of harboring an escaped prisoner. Altogether the prospects were black indeed.

"What next, dearest? We mustn't stay here. That car is a dead give away, and if Coles passes again he is not likely to miss if a second time."

"Then suppose we push on to Okestock?" suggested Willoughby. "We might get a trap of some sort there, and drive on."

"I dare not risk it," answered Gwen. "Remember, they will have had the news already, and every soul in the place will be on the lookout. And your arm is bound to attract attention."

"Yes, I suppose it would hardly do," he said slowly. "But anyhow, we must not stay here near the car. Let us walk on and you get off the moor. There are lanes in every direction through this low country, and once we are off the main road no one is likely to take much notice of us."

He started quite briskly, but before they had reached the bottom of the hill, Gwen saw that he was flagging. He had lost a lot of blood, and though he would not admit it, his broken arm was giving him agony.

"It is no use, Kit. You cannot possibly walk. I will tell you what we must do. You must hide in this coppice and I will go on to Okestock, hire a car or a carriage, and come back for you."

"I don't like the idea, Gwen. I hate the notion of your walking all that way alone, and then it would be almost certain to cause suspicion. Attractive young women don't go driving off alone in cars or carriages at sunset on a foggy afternoon."

"But there is nothing else for it," Gwen argued. "We cannot spend the night without shelter of some sort, and even if we could, we should be no better off in the morning. And your arm must be attended to."

"No, Gwen, it is too dangerous. I flatly refuse to let you run any further risks. Suppose that you met Coles or a civil guard? Warders will be all over the country by this time."

"But I must," Gwen tone showed that she had nearly reached the limit of her endurance. "There's nothing else for it."

"There is," said Willoughby firmly. "I have thought of a plan. The old Silver Dagger Mine is not much more than a mile away. The mine house still has a roof. I passed it, shooting, one day last year. I can lie up there, and later, when the hue and cry has died down a little, I shall be able to slip away. You can leave me the sandwiches and some money, and now that I have a change of clothes I shall do very well. Believe me, Gwen, this will be best."

"I think you could set it for me, dearest," Willoughby answered. "Well enough, at any rate, for a day or two. And I thought perhaps that to-morrow you could let Wharton know. I feel sure that he would slip across the moor and fix it up for me and bring me some food."

Gwen protested vehemently, but Willoughby stuck to his point, and over-ruled all her objections.

"I tell you plainly, Gwen," he said firmly, "that I would rather go back to prison than let you run further risks. If I am hidden in the old mine no one can possibly connect my escape with you. All you need do then is to go back to the inn at Lynxworthy, and say that you have had an accident. Old Crocker will drive you home in his pony trap, and to-morrow you can come out quite boldly and recover the car."

Much against her will, Gwen at last yielded, and they turned out of the lane into the main road. It was the only way to get back to the moor.

"We can always bolt into the hedge if we hear anyone coming," said Willoughby comfortingly. "And the fog will hide us."

Gwen was right, however. Undoubtedly the fog was thinning. The wind had gone round several points towards the north of west, and was blowing harder. There was every prospect of a fine night.

Willoughby, somewhat refreshed by his rest and by a second dose of brandy, struggled along manfully. Yet his tight-set lips and white cheeks told their own tale to Gwen's quick eyes.

They were within a couple of hundred yards of the foot of the hill when Gwen stopped short.

"Someone coming," she breathed, and as she spoke the sound of wheels reached their ears. At that very moment a strong puff lifted the fog, and before they could take any steps to hide themselves a dogcart pulled by a fast trotter came bowling round the corner towards them.

CHAPTER XVII. — A FRIEND INDEED.

GWEN dared not look up. In spite of the most intense effort of self-control, she was trembling from head to foot. It required every ounce of her remaining will power to keep on her feet. Had she relaxed for a single second she felt that she must have dropped down fainting in the road.

The hoof beats came rapidly nearer. She knew that her face was white as chalk, and she prayed desperately that the driver of the dogcart might not notice.

She heard the horse's steps shorten and check, and realised that the man was pulling up. The strain became unendurable. She bit her lips in a desperate effort to save herself from screaming out loud.

The quiet voice was Wharton's, and Gwen, hardly able to believe her ears looked up into the strong, ugly face of the doctor. She staggered and Willoughby, flinging his arm around her, just saved her from falling.

"I know. I spotted the car, and came in a hurry. Besides, I see you're damaged."

As quietly as though meeting an escaped convict was the most ordinary event in the world, Wharton took a flask from his pocket, and poured out a stiff dram of neat spirit.

"Now get in, please. You, too, Kit. Take it easy. No need to hurry. So far as I know, there are no warders near yet."

The atmosphere of quiet strength which Wharton brought with him acted as a tonic on both the others. Next minute they were both in the cart, then Wharton scrambled lightly into his driving seat.

"But Coles is after us. He recognised the car at Archerton Hill passed us again after the accident riding hard towards Okestock."

"Then he won't be back this way for a while yet. We must get rid of those clothes. Don't worry. It won't take five minutes."

As he spoke, he had sent the mare on, and in spite of the extra load she went jogging easily up the slope. In a couple of minutes they were level with the scene of the accident.

"Take the reins, Miss Keeling," said Wharton, and jumped down. "All right, Kit. No need for you to get out. I can find the bush by your tracks."

He ran lightly up the bank, and plunged through the gorse. A fresh wave of fog beat down and hid him.

Neither Willoughby nor Gwen spoke. Their ears were straining for sound of horse's hoofs.

But the silence was unbroken except for the sough of the wind across the lonely hill side and the faint cry of an unseen curlew winging through the mist above.

It seemed a long time, but was actually no more than three minutes by the clock on the dashboard before Wharton reappeared. He had a bundle under his arm.

"Think I've got 'em all," he said as he thrust them into the back of the cart. "Wish I could get rid of the car too, but that's out of the question. We'll have to bluff that out."

"I was an idiot to leave those clothes there," said Willoughby remorsefully. "But ought you to have them in the cart? They are a dead give away."

"I shan't keep 'em long," answered Wharton coolly as he turned the mare's head down hill again. "They will go down the next mine shaft we pass."

"And anyhow," he added with a smile, "they're not as dangerous as you, old man."

"I know," answered Willoughby with quick remorse. "I ought not to be here. I am bringing you and Gwen both into danger. Drop me, and let me get across to the Silver Dagger. That's where I meant to hide. Stop, Jack, and let me get out."

Instead, Wharton touched the mare with his whip, and she broke into a rapid trot.

"Sit still, Kit," he said quietly. "You know as well as I do that I was only joking. Why, hang it all, the only reason I came this way was the off chance that I might be some use to you."

"I didn't know, but I thought it extremely probable," said Wharton drily. "This happens to be the first for at least a month."

As he spoke he turned to the right off the main road into a lane and steadied the mare to a quieter pace.

"Now I think we ought to be all right," he said quietly. "We shan't meet Coles again anyhow, and with any luck we can get to Endsley without being spotted."

"Mrs. White and Halstead. Both very good friends of yours. Both of them as little likely to give the show away as I myself."

"But it isn't fair," urged Willoughby. "It isn't fair to you or to them. Even if I didn't do what they said I did you are making them break the law."

"I don't fancy their consciences will worry 'em," was the dry rejoinder. "Mine won't, anyhow."

"Now be sensible, Kit," he continued. "Even if I did let you, you're in no shape to go wandering about the moor. That arm of yours has got to be seen to, and you'll have to lie up till you're fit. What better place than Endsley? There's the old attic room which no one knows of but Mrs. White and myself. The door's all papered up, and I'd chance warders searching the place, if they wanted to. Besides, who is going to suspect yours truly? I haven't been on the moor these twenty years and more for nothing."

"But what about Gwen?" he went on quickly. "Suspicion may fall on her, particularly when the car is found."

"I think we can manage that all right," Wharton answered. "When I have put you to bed, I mean to drive her straight back to Moorlands. It's a bit of a bluff, but I think it will work all right.

"I don't think so," she answered. "The fog was so thick. In fact, I am almost certain. And when we met Coles, Kit was under the seat, so whatever he suspects he can't know there was anyone else in the car."

"Good," said Wharton. "Then the bluff ought to work, and if I were you I would simply say that you were driving to Okestock and had an accident, and would send for the car quite openly."

The fog was lifting and glints of blue sky had began to appear. But by this time they were well off the main road, and driving through a maze of narrow lanes—lanes with such steep banks and high hedges and of such strange and unexpected curves as would have utterly puzzled anyone less familiar with them than Wharton. Gwen still wore her thick motor veil, and Willoughby was so muffled up in his heavy overcoat and cap that the few labourers they met returning from their work could certainly not have recognised either again, even if they had troubled to try to.

Half an hour of this sort of thing, then they were on the moor again, and now Wharton touched up the mare and sent her along as hard as she could go. His face showed no change of expression but inwardly he was very anxious. Although this road did not lead directly to Moorlands, yet there was always the chance that mounted men from the prison might be on it. But luck was kind. They saw no one in the least suspicious, still it was with a feeling of great relief that Wharton drove over the bridge and up the by-road leading to the beech grove where Endsley nestled among the trees.

Halstead, as usual, was on the look out for his master, and opened the drive gate.

That was all, but Gwen and Willoughby, both, well as they knew Wharton, could not but wonder at the devotion which their friend inspired.

It was just the same with Mrs. White. For a moment her pleasant, comely face showed a gleam of surprise. Then it passed, and she received the escaped convict exactly as though he were an ordinary guest.

The long drive had shaken Kit badly. He was very white and tremulous as Wharton helped him into the hall.

"I am going to take him straight to his room," he said. "I shall set the arm at once. Mrs. White will look after you and give you some tea. Then she will come up and help me to put Kit to bed."

"All is quite ready." Wharton smiled slightly. "Like you, I have made ready for emergencies. Now take your hat off and go and sit down in that big chair, and rest. Rest properly. Remember, those are doctor's orders."

Gwen did as she was bid. Tired she knew she was, but how heavy the strain had been—that she did not realize until she lay back in the deep chair. She was aching all over. She felt as though she had been beaten. In spite of her anxiety, in spite of everything, she was almost instantly sound asleep.

The room as dusk when she awoke, and for the moment she could not remember where she was nor what had happened.

"This has done you more good than tea, but all the same you shall have a cup before you start. Cream and no sugar, I think."

"Kit's doing fine," went on Wharton, cheerfully. "I've given him a sleeping draught and he's gone off like a lamb."

"Bless you, that's nothing. Only the small bone. He'll be all right in about ten days."

"Of course. Now don't thank me. Just remember that Kit is one of my oldest friends. Indeed I knew him before you did," he added with a smile. "And now, if you have finished your tea, we ought to be getting on, Miss Stayner will be growing anxious."

The dogcart was at the door with a fresh horse in the shafts, and a couple of minutes later they were bowling, rapidly away in the direction of Moorlands.

CHAPTER XVIII. — GWEN FACES THE MUSIC.

The curt command out of the darkness made Gwen start violently. She had for the moment entirely forgotten that after an escape every bridge and cross-roads for a radius of some five miles around the prison is guarded by warders.

It was on the Arrow bridge, the same which she had crossed in her car some six hours earlier, that the dogcart had been stopped.

A sudden chill seized her, and for the moment she felt as though she could not utter a word to save her life.

But Wharton did not seem to share her emotions. He pulled his horse up and leaned forward.

"Why, it's Doctor Wharton!" said the warder in a tone which was suddenly friendly. "Yes, sir, there's a man gone. Haven't you heard?"

"I have only just come from home," answered Wharton. "No telegraph my way, you know. Who is it?"

"Indeed I did. He was a friend of mine—is, I might say, for I never believed he was guilty. And so he ran away?"

"He has that!" The warder's tone was grim again. "Did a clean bunk in the fog this afternoon, and hasn't been heard of since."

"He ran east, sir, across the Stone Brook. That's all we know. Chances are he took across the High Moor towards Ashampton. They're watching the stations that side of the moor."

"He'll never get there," said Wharton, gravely, "not with the moor as wet as it is. Every brook is in flood still."

"I'm very sorry for Willoughby, if he is out there," said Wharton. "I do hope no harm will come to him. And now I must push on. I have to take Miss Drummond home. She had an accident to her car in the fog this afternoon."

"Indeed, sir! I'm pretty sorry to hear that. We all know Miss Drummond up at the prison. I hope she wasn't hurt."

"Nothing to speak of, thank you, Mr. Raden. I was trying to avoid a pony which was lying on the road. It was my poor little car came off worst."

"I'm glad it wasn't no worse, miss. They ponies are proper dangerous. Well, I won't keep you no longer, doctor, but I must search the cart as a matter of form."

He turned the shade of his bull's-eye and shone the light in under the seat. It gave Gwen an odd feeling to remember how lately Kit himself had been in this very cart.

"Good-night," answered Wharton, and set the cob at the hill. He waited until out of earshot of the warder, then spoke.

"I see you've been making friends of the guardians of unrighteousness," he said with a low laugh. "There is not much that you forget. If Kit gets safe out of the country he has a lot to thank you for."

"And you," put in Gwen quickly. "If you had not come up when you did I do not know what we should have done. And it is you who are taking all the risk now."

"Not enough to worry about," smiled Wharton. "I'm the very last person anyone on the moor would suspect of harbouring an escaped convict. And you see, they think that he has gone over the High Moor, so it is evident that they know nothing of the car."

"I heard what Raden said, and it was a great relief," Gwen answered. "But I am not so easy about Coles."

"Coles is a nuisance, I'll admit," said Wharton. "Still, I fail to see what harm he can do since, as you tell me, Kit was hidden under the seat. The only real danger is whether he has ever recognised you as Miss Keeling."

"That is what I am afraid of," Gwen confessed. "I do not think that he has, but there is just the chance."

He paused a moment, evidently thinking. "If you will take my advice you will go about exactly as usual for the next few days, and then I think it would be wise that you should announce that business takes you to London. You can go there or anywhere else and work back to your yacht. I will keep you posted as to Kit's health, and when he is fit to travel I will either send or bring him to you. Properly disguised, I do not think that he will run any risk at all of being recognised."

Gwen tried again to thank him, but he would have none of it, and touched up the cob again, sending him spinning along the level road above the Stone Brook.

The lights of the great prison gleamed through the darkness, every tier of narrow cell sharply outlined against the night, and Gwen breathed a prayer of gratitude that Kit was no longer behind those iron bars. A minute later the cart whirled up the lane leading to Tor Cot, and Gwen saw the plump figure of the faithful Miss Stayner hurrying out to meet her.

In spite of her anxieties Gwen slept well that night. While deeply disappointed at the failure of her original plan, she realised for how very much she had to be grateful. And her faith in Wharton was so profound that she was convinced that Kit was absolutely safe under his care.

Next morning, however, it was all that she could do to drag herself out of bed. She was miserably stiff and sore, and her left side and arm were black and blue as the result of her fall. But a hot hath, followed by a cold douche, and then a thorough massage with oil, made all the difference, and she went down to breakfast with a fair appetite.

It needed some pluck to carry out the programme laid down by Wharton, and in spite of the fact that she possessed her full share of this useful quality, her heart quailed a little as she walked down the main street of Moorlands in the blazing sun of a brilliant morning.

No prisoners were outside either in the street or the fields, and on the faces of the few warders who hurried past was a worried, resentful expression. Seven-tenths of their colleagues were scattered far and wide over the moor, and those remaining were working double tides.

Passing the police station, a new bill caught her eye. In dry official language it offered a reward for the recapture of an escaped prisoner. Christopher Willoughby by name. Then followed his description—"five feet eleven in height, broad shouldered, upright carriage, hair brown, face oval, nose straight, eyes blue."

Gwen glanced round guiltily, but there was no one near. The broad street was deserted except for a tradesman's cart and a couple of children flattening their noses against the sweet-shop window.

She went to the Post Office, and bade the girl at the counter good morning in her usual pleasant tone. The latter returned her greeting with a smile. Miss Drummond was already a favourite with all the tradespeople in the village.

But she made no reference to the escape. Such incidents rouse far less interest in the neighbourhood of a prison than at a distance.

"I want to use the telephone, please, Miss French," said Gwen. "I had an accident to my car yesterday. I ran into a pony in a fog, and upset. I must call up Martin's in Taviton and get them to send out for it."

"Upset, did you, miss?" exclaimed the girl, as she opened the flap in the counter to let Gwen through.

"A little bruised. Nothing to speak of," said Gwen with a smile. "Luckily for me, I ran on to the grass at the side of the road."

She called up Martin's, explained the whereabouts of her car, and received a promise that they would send out at once. Then she walked home again.

The first person she saw was young Corder quietly at work with a hoe in the little gardens. He looked up, touching his cap, and Gwen caught a questioning gleam in his eyes.

In the excitement of the past twenty-four hours she had almost forgotten his existence, but now she realised that he of course must be aware of her responsibility for Willoughby's disappearance, and probably dying with curiosity to know what had happened.

Cautious as she was, Gwen was capable of sudden resolution. She walked quietly across to where he stood.

"That's quite enough for me, miss," answered Corder emphatically. "And I'm proper glad to hear it."

All that day Gwen was very nervous. Every time the gate clicked it gave her a start. But nothing happened and there was no sign that anyone suspected her.

Next morning two letters arrived. One was from Wharton to say that Kit was doing excellently and that nothing suspicious had occurred. The other told her that her car was safe in the shop, and nothing wrong with it beyond a bent front axle, a burst tyre and a few spokes gone in the near front wheel. It would be ready for her within three days.

Gwen answered Wharton's letter and enclosed with it a letter for Kit. Then she went to Miss Stayner who was sitting out in the garden.

"Stannie, I'm going to take the train into Taviton," she said, "I want to see how the car is getting on. I shall be back at four o'clock."

Again she was telling the truth, but only part of the truth. The real object of her trip was to post her letter to Wharton. She had a sort of notion that it might be safer to post it in a town like Taverton than in a little village such as Moorlands.

It was a long slow journey by rail with a change and a wait at Yenadon Junction, and she did not reach Taverton till nearly one. She lunched at the same pastry-cook's where she had previously taken little Bessie Paton, and then walked up towards Martin's garage.

It was a hot day and she was carrying a parasol. From under its shade she suddenly became aware that someone was saluting her, and glancing up saw Gerald Swanton on the other side of the street.

He lifted his hat, and for a horrid moment Gwen thought he was coming across to speak to her. She gave him a quick little bow, and hurried on, her heart beating a great deal more rapidly than was pleasant.

The shock was a very ugly one, for she had never for one moment imagined that he ever came to this side of the Country, and indeed she had fancied that he was in London.

To be recognized, especially by Swanton, at this particular juncture, was about the worst piece of ill luck that could have befallen her. And he—even if he had not heard of the escape—what must he be thinking? She had given him to understand that she was leaving England for some time—that she would probably be away all the summer. It was certain that all his suspicions would be aroused and that he would do his best to find out where she was living and what she was doing.

The rest of the hour and a half which she had to spend in Taverton before her train left was a perfect nightmare. She dared not show herself in the streets, and as soon as she had seen her car, she walked quickly down a bye street, and so out of the town, and wandered along through secluded lanes until nearly half-past three.

CHAPTER XIX. — BLACKMAIL.

THEN she took a roundabout way to the station, and reaching it just as the train came in slipped quietly into a carriage.

There was no one else in the carriage, and she pulled the blind down between herself and the platform, and waited breathlessly for the train to start.

At last came the whistle. She drew a long breath of relief. The wheels were actually beginning to turn when the door was flung hastily open, and Swanton himself sprang into the carriage.

Swanton's manner was perfection. There was just surprise enough in his voice, without being overdone. As he spoke, he offered his hand, and Gwen, chocking down the sick feeling of repulsion with which his presence inspired her, took it.

"This is luck indeed!" went on Swanton, as he sat down opposite to Gwen. "When I saw you in the street just now I could hardly believe my eyes. You left all your friends under the impression that you were going to be abroad for at least six months."

"I had business which detained me," Gwen answered coldly. She was doing all she knew to get a grip of the situation, but felt that it was almost beyond her. Here she was shut up with this man for nearly half-an-hour. What was she to do, how keep him at arm's-length and avoid dangerous topics? How much or how little did he know or suspect?

"My lawyers wished me to remain in England for a time," she continued, "but I am hoping to get away very shortly."

"I have been to Taviton to see an old friend," Gwen answered calmly. "But I might ask you the same question. I thought you never came further south than Exeter."

"I have been on a motoring tour," explained Swanton. "A friend brought me down in his car. But he is staying in Taviton for a couple of days, and I am on my way to Tarnmouth to do a little necessary shopping."

"Ah, Taviton is not much of a shopping centre," said Gwen. She was talking merely to gain time. As a matter of fact, she would almost have welcomed an accident if it had only enabled her to get rid of her vis-à-vis.

Swanton was silent a moment. Gwen, though pretending to look out of the window, felt that his dark, deep-set eyes were upon her. Every moment deepened her conviction that he was merely playing with her as a cat does with a mouse. She racked her brains for something to say, but could find nothing.

"To-morrow we think of running up to the Moor," remarked Swanton smoothly. "My friend has a permit from the Home Office to go over the prison."

He paused again, and Gwen felt the blood leap to her cheeks. She was filled with a sudden boiling indignation, that, knowing what he did, he should have dared to mention the prison in her hearing.

"I am glad that they have not," she answered deliberately, and her eyes met his without flinching.

"That is rather a serious statement, is it not, Miss Keeling?" he said, and though his lips smiled, there was a queer gleam in those deep-set eyes of his. "I mean that, whether guilty or not, Willoughby had a fair trial and in the eyes of the law—"

"It is a subject which I do not care to discuss with you, Mr. Swanton," she said with dignity, "and one which, knowing as you do of my engagement to Mr. Willoughby, I am surprised at your mentioning."

The smile vanished from Swanton's lips, and the gleam in his eyes became a glitter. The mask of geniality which he wore habitually vanished completely, and the man's true nature, predatory and dangerous, rose to the surface.

"I am sorry to have offended you," he said with cold deliberation, "but, as you might have guessed, I had an object in bringing up the subject of Willoughby."

Gwen opened her lips to protest, but he silenced her with a movement of his large, well shaped hand.

"It will be as well to listen to what I have to say, Miss Keeling," he went on smoothly, "both for your own sake and that of others. You have made the mistake of taking me for a fool. I want to assure you that I am nothing of the kind, and in order to prove what I say, I will tell you at once that I am quite aware of the method of Willoughby's escape."

He paused again, but Gwen did not speak. She was sitting straight and rigid in her seat. Her lips were dry, the blood was drumming in her head; she felt as a bird might, fighting vainly against the fascination of some deadly snake.

"It was a bold move on your part, Miss Keeling—a very bold move, and but for that unfortunate accident to your car, might very well have succeeded, but—" he shrugged his shoulders—"it failed. And Willoughby has not yet managed to leave the country."

"I do not know how you have come by this information which you profess to have acquired, Mr. Swanton. Nor do I know why you say that I have taken you for a fool. On the contrary, I have received you at my home, and that is itself is sufficient proof that I have hitherto accepted you as a gentleman. And as a gentleman and, a friend of Mr. Willoughby, you will naturally keep silence as to anything you have learned."

"My dear Miss Keeling, you are quite mistaken. I am no friend of Willoughby's. On the contrary, we have been rivals. Rivals in love are not usually friends. Still, I am quite willing to keep silence. I am even willing to assist in getting Willoughby out of England—on condition."

Suddenly he leaned forward. His eyes were burning, and his breath came quick and hot.

"Gwen, I don't want to threaten. Don't force me to do so. You know I love you. Marry me, and I will do any thing you ask."

All the loathing that filled her was in her voice. Swanton flushed dull red as though he had received a blow in the face. For a moment the tense silence was broken only by the drum of the wheels as the train rolled steadily onwards.

"So that's the way you feel, my lady," Swanton said in a snarling undertone. "So you still stick to the convict—to the man who murdered your brother?"

"Liar!" flashed Gwen. "Liar and cad!" Her wonderful self-restraint had broken, and there was the scorn and passion of months in her words and in her face. "I believe that you know at well as I do that he is innocent."

Furious as he was, Swanton flinched, and Gwen saw it. But before she could speak again he had returned to the attack.

"If that is your opinion of me civility is wasted," he sneered. "Let me remind you that there are worse things than death. Two years' imprisonment is, I think, the minimum penalty for assisting a prisoner to escape."

"Ah, but your accomplice. What about Wharton? Will you see the good doctor in the dock alongside of you? Think of his practice. Think too, of your beloved Willoughby. Do you know that, once a lag has escaped, they never give him a second chance? They never allow him outside the gates again. I hear that they make things highly unpleasant for recaptured prisoners. Cells, bread and water diet, yellow dress and chains for six months. Loss of stage and of remission. I feel sure that you will enjoy the knowledge of what he will be suffering."

"I am what you have made me," he answered sullenly. "I love you, and I will use any means to marry you."

"It is my money, not myself that you are in love with," Gwen answered. "I will give you ten thousand pounds for your silence and freedom from your persecution."

Once more it seemed that Swanton was not quite dead to shame, for his whole face went dark red from chin to forehead.

"It's you I want," he exclaimed violently. "And you I will have. Do you hear me?"

Then came the hiss of the brake; the train was slackening speed as it ran into Yenadon Junction.

"You need come nowhere. I will give it you now. Since it in the only way by which I can save my friends from you, I will marry you."

The train came to a standstill, and without another word Gwen sprang to her feet, brushed past Swanton, opened the door before he could reach it, and hurried straight across the platform to the waiting Moorlands train.

CHAPTER XX. — GWEN'S AGONY.

SHE could tell nobody. That was perhaps the most terrible part of Gwen's situation. There was not one soul on earth to whom she could go in her sore distress.

Knowing Wharton as she did, she had the absolute conviction that, had he any knowledge of her plight, he would sacrifice anything and everything to save her. One word to him and he would take Kit, and clear out of the country on the instant.

As for Kit himself—it wrung her very soul to think of him—he would go further still. He would infallibly kill Swanton, wipe him out of existence with as little compunction as he would have set his heal on the head of an adder.

There was no way out. She must go through it alone. No one must hear until the sacrifice was accomplished, until she was married to Swanton.

Twenty-four hours had passed since her meeting with Swanton in the train—twenty-four hours of such misery as would leave its mark upon her for the rest of her life.

That morning she had had a letter from Swanton in which he had briefly informed her that he had procured a special licence and had arranged for the marriage to take plane at the church at Meripit.

Meripit was a tiny hamlet lying on the flank of the moor, about seven miles from Moorlands. A more lonely, out of the world place was not to be found in the country.

Swanton suggested—"ordered" would be perhaps a better word—that she should be there at eleven o'clock the following morning, when he would meet her for the ceremony. He had engaged a car which would call for her at Tor Cottage at half-past ten, and had arranged all details.

However great the tragedies in the midst of which one may be living, the ordinary details of every-day life must be attended to, and Gwen was packing—packing for her wedding journey. With her usual carefulness and thoroughness she was selecting dresses, skirts, blouses and the like from wardrobe and chest of drawers. Some she laid upon her bed ready for packing, the rest she wrapped carefully in tissue paper and stowed away.

She meant to take as little as possible. She certainly would not trouble to beautify herself for Swanton's sake, and one small trunk and her dressing-bag would comprise the whole of her luggage.

As she smoothed her hair, the sight of her own face in the glass absolutely startled her. She had not slept at all during the previous night. Her cheeks were pale and sunken, there were dark rims around her eyes. Her head was throbbing terribly.

For herself she cared not at all, but she did not want to frighten Miss Stayner. She had of course not told the latter anything of what had occurred. All she had said was that she was called away on business, and did not know when she would be back. It gave her an added pang to think what Miss Stayner's feelings would be when she heard of the marriage, as she must do sooner or later. For Miss Stayner had never liked Swanton, and being ignorant of the causes which were driving Gwen into his arms, would find it difficult to forgive her old pupil for taking such a step.

Gwen turned to the wash-stand and bathed her face thoroughly with cold water. This freshened her a little, and she went down.

"It is rather bad still," Gwen answered as she took the cup of tea which the other offered her.

"I am so sorry," said Miss Stayner in her soft, pleasant voice. "Oh, there is a letter for you by the second post. It is on the table beside you."

Gwen caught sight of Wharton's strong angular writing on the envelope, and almost snatched the letter, which read as follows:—

"All is well here, and as for Kit, I am really proud of him, I never knew a more rapid recovery. His head is practically well, and as for the broken bone, it is knitting splendidly.

"Really I am rather pleased with myself and my doctoring. He is up and about, but of course, I have to keep him in his room. Just as well, too, for Halstead tells me that he spotted that tousle bearded ruffian Humpy Coles watching the house last evening from Brake Coppice on the hill opposite.

"I don't know whether it means anything, but I am strongly inclined to think that the sooner Kit is shifted the better. Though, of course, he must keep his arm in the sling for a while yet, he is perfectly well able to travel. Do you think that you could manage to meet me to-morrow to consult about moving him? I can, of course, manage it myself. Indeed I mean to, for as I have told you, it will be safer for him to remain in my charge than in yours. Safer, I mean, as regards arousing suspicion. So long as you stay where you are, no one can suspect you.

"Still I should like to talk with you and if you could walk out to-morrow across the moor and be at Whitern Cross about twelve o'clock, I could meet you there.

Kit's letter was enclosed in a second envelope, and Gwen's fingers shook as she slipped it back into the first. She did not dare to open it before Miss Stayner. There are limits to human endurance, and she knew that she would not he able to read it without breaking down.

As soon is possible she slipped away, and reaching her room locked the door and took out Kit's letter.

No need to transcribe it. It was a lover's letter. Every line of it breathed his devotion and his hopes for meeting her soon. He told her how intensely grateful he was for all that she had done for him, and vowed that every minute of his life would not be long enough to repay her.

Gwen read it to the end. Then it came to her that it was the last letter that she would receive from him—the very last. Before another day was past she would be Swanton's wife. A dry sob racked her, and she flung herself face downwards on her bed and lay there in tearless agony.

CHAPTER XXI. — THE WARNING.

Willoughby was lying at ease in a long chair, a paper in his sound hand and a pipe in his month. A breakfast tray was on the table, and by the look of the dishes Willoughby had done full justice to it.

"I've a letter from Gwen," said Wharton. "It is in answer to mine of Tuesday. But she says she cannot meet me to-day."

"My dear Dr. Wharton,—I am so very sorry but it is impossible for me to meet you to-morrow as you suggest. I have only just time to catch the post. My dearest love to Kit—Yours very sincerely, Gwen."

"I don't understand this at all," he said slowly. "It isn't a bit like Gwen. If it wasn't for the writing I'd any it was a forgery. What do you make of it?"

"Frankly, I'm puzzled. As you say it is not like Miss Keeling. And even though she did not get my letter until the second post, still she ought to have had plenty of time to answer it."

"You—you don't think there is anything wrong?" questioned Willoughby uneasily.

"I don't see what could be wrong. Besides, if anything were amiss, she would certainly let me know before anyone else."

"Hardly," answered the other, "You see, Kit, I am too well known on the Moor. I should most certainly be recognized in Moorlands, and the mere fact that I called at Tor Cottage would be commented on. It is not as if the excitement about your escape had died down yet. There was a reward of fifty pounds out last night, so Halstead tells me."

"I wish I knew what she was doing," said Willoughby wistfully. "It must be a fearful strain for her. I can never do enough to make up for it."

"True, Kit," Wharton answered with the smile that made his strong, ugly face so pleasant to look upon. "You will certainly have to buck up for the rest of your days and try to make her life as happy as you can. But after all it is I who come worst out of it. I lose both my friends."

"No, Jack, no. Never that. And later, when things have quieted down you will come and stay with me in whatever remote corner of the earth we have picked upon."

"Perhaps," said Wharton. "But never mind about that now. The thing is to get you safely out of England. After that we can make plans for the future."

"Not that I know of, old chap. In fact I am pretty sure he has not, for Halstead was hiding in Brake Coppice for hours last night, and he saw nobody about. No, I don't think that anyone is on your track, but remember that, if they are, the other hiding place is ready."

"Yes, we have fitted up quite a snug retreat there, and though if you have to try it you may find it rather damp and lonely, yet you won't lack for blankets, food, candles or books."

"'Pon my soul, in spite of everything, a man with friends like you and Gwen has got a lot to be thankful for."

"Hulloa, there's Mrs. White," he broke off, as there came a gentle tap at the door.

The housekeeper entered the room. There was an expression of some anxiety on her capable face.

"Who is she?" asked Wharton, startled for once out of his usual equanimity. "Is she a patient?"

"She wouldn't give her name, sir, but I don't think she is a patient, sir. I never saw her before."

"I'll come down at once." He turned to Kit. "Don't worry, old man. It's not likely that it's anything to do with you. Anyhow I'll let you know as soon as I can."

He found the "young person" in his consulting room. She was a tall, handsome girl with a high colour, black hair and extraordinarily dark, bright eyes. She looked like a farmer's daughter, and at his first glance Wharton's quick eye took in the fact that her boots and the hem of her skirt was muddy. She had evidently walked a long way, and probably right across the moor.

"Are you doctor Wharton?" she asked fixing her brilliant eyes anxiously upon him, and quite evidently sizing him up.

"Coles?" broke in Wharton sharply. "Any relation to Abner Coles of Wild Tor Farm?"

"His niece, sir," and if she had said it in so many words Wharton could not more clearly have understood her to mean "Worst luck!"

"No indeed." She gave a short little laugh. "He doesn't know I've come. He'd be proper angry if he knew where I was."

"I take it, then, Miss Coles, that you have heard something which you think I ought to know."

"Well, someone ought to here it, sir. And I didn't know who else to go to but you. You see I was at Exeter to see the trial and I knew you were a friend of Miss Keeling."

"I don't quite know, sir, but I can't help thinking it. Did you hear that she was to be married this morning?"

"Married!" Wharton sprang out of his chair as if propelled by a spring. For once his accustomed self-control went to the wind. "Married? You must be mad."

"I beg your pardon," Wharton said quickly as he got a grip on himself again. "I am sorry if I frightened you. But surely—surely you are mistaken."

"There is no mistake about it, Mr. Wharton," answered Nettie. "At least, not if I heard right. Mr. Swanton, he said that he and Miss Keeling were going to be married this morning."

"My God, then he's found out!" were the words that burst from Wharton's lips. Like a flash, a part at least of the truth had dawned on him.

Wharton glanced at the clock on the chimney-piece. The hands pointed to ten minutes past ten.

He sprang to the bell, and pealed so vigorously that Mrs. White came running in.

"Tell Halstead to put the mare in at once.—At once, please, Mrs. White. And bring the sherry decanter and a cake."

"I must hear your story on the way, Miss Coles. You will drive with me to Meripit."

"Oh no, sir, I must get home. If uncle found where I'd been—" She stopped, but her silence was more expressive than words.

"So that's the sort he is," said Wharton quietly. "But you need not come so far as Meripit. I can drop you at Venaford, and from there you can cut across the moor to Wild Tor. Will you come?"

"Help yourself, Miss Coles," said Wharton. "I have something to see to before we start."

"Kit," he said sharply. "I am afraid they are on your track. I am off at once to warn Gwen. Halstead will take you to Whitern. I mustn't stay. I must be off at once. Halstead will make all arrangements." And cutting short Willoughby's eager questions with a gesture, he ran down quickly as he had come up.

CHAPTER XXII. — JUST CAUSE.

WHARTON'S one extravagance was his horses. They were always the best that money could buy. As soon as the dogcart reached the main road he gave the mare her head, and she went off at a round twelve miles an hour.

"Now, Miss Coles," he said briefly, "how did you hear? Perhaps I should say overhear, for I do not suppose for a minute that either Swanton or your uncle knew that you were listening."

"No, sir, they didn't know. You may be sure of that. And I wouldn't have heard anything if they hadn't got so angry and shouted so.

"I'd gone to bed, you see, and was nigh asleep when I heard uncle just a shouting. At first I thought he wanted me, and I jumped out of bed. But then I heard Mr. Swanton's voice."

"They were quarrelling about money, sir. Uncle said that Mr. Swanton owed him sixty pounds and that he'd been waiting for it for three months, and wasn't going to wait no longer. He was proper angry, uncle was."

"Every word, sir. I'd opened my bedroom door, and was standing just inside. I was a bit frightened, for uncle don't mind what he does when he gets in a rage. He nigh killed a man over to Narracombe seven years ago.

"Well, sir, Mr. Swanton said it would be all right that he could pay in a week and would throw in something extra to make up. But uncle, he wouldn't listen. He declared that he'd heard that sort of thing before, and was tired of promises—that he'd split if he didn't get his money.

"Mr. Swanton, he rounded on him, and asked how he'd figure—that they would have him for—for perjury, I think it was."

"Then uncle swore he didn't care what happened to him so long as he got even. He was fair bellowing with temper. Mr. Swanton told him it was no good threatening that way, that he could give him proof that he could pay.

"I didn't mean to tell you," he said, "but Miss Keeling, she's given consent and we're going to be married to-morrow."

"Still uncle wouldn't believe him, and then Mr. Swanton, he got vexed. 'You come to Meripit Church to-morrow at eleven,' he said sharp like. 'Then you can see with your own eyes.' And as Miss Keeling's got seven thousand a year of her own I'd ought to be able to pay you sixty pounds."

"Uncle, he cooled down a bit, but he wanted something in writing, and Mr. Swanton wouldn't give it, so there was more fuss about that. But I'd heard enough, so I slipped back to bed. But it wasn't much I slept. I'd seen enough of Mr. Swanton to make me feel sorry for any girl that was going to marry him, and I couldn't forget how sweet and pretty and sorrowful Miss Keeling looked that day at the trial. So at last I made up my mind to try and let you know."

"The very best thing you could have done," said Wharton, with hearty approval. "But how did you manage to get away?"

"That was the trouble, sir. I had to wait till uncle left home, and that wasn't till after eight. And 'tis a terrible long way across the moor."

"It is, and bad walking, too. It was very plucky of you to face it. Well, Miss Coles, you have done a better morning's work than you know. Just at present there is no time to explain things, but you have saved two lives from the most terrible unhappiness."

"Here we are opposite Venaford," he continued, as he checked the mare and pulled up. "Now go home, and do not say a word of this to anyone. I shall see you again in a few days, and I hope I shall have some news for you."

"You'll be sure to stop that man from marrying Miss Keeling, sir," she said, looking up.

His lips set very grimly as he touched the mare and sent her flying along the road towards Meripit. This was a pretty story that Nettie had told him, but though he could fill in some of the gaps, he was still considerably puzzled as to the hold which Coles had evidently acquired over Swanton.

Was it possible, he wondered, that Swanton had engineered a plot again at Kit from the beginning? He worked it out somewhat in this way. Nick Keeling had had a fall or some other accident which had ended in his death. Swanton had found him dead, and had deliberately made up his mind to charge Kit with the murder. He had then thrown Nick's body into the river, and Coles having accidentally seen the proceeding, Swanton had bribed him to come into the conspiracy.

That was how his thoughts ran, and his anger rose hot against the man who had been the source of all this misery.

Well he would euchre him this time. He would stop the wedding at any price. Then he began to wonder how this was to be done.

"Just cause or impediment." Had he any such to offer? the mere fact that Gwen happened to be engaged to another man counted for nothing in the eye of ecclesiastical law. Gwen was evidently marrying Swanton with a view to save Kit from being recaptured, and also no doubt to save him—Wharton himself—from getting into trouble.

Would she consent to break it off at the last moment, and risk the consequences? How much did Swanton really know? Was he aware of Kit's presence at Endsley? These and a score of other questions ran riot through Wharton's mind as he drove the good mare at the top of her speed up hill and down dale. But the hills were long and steep, and when at last the grey spire of Meripit Church came into view in the valley below, Wharton, glancing at his watch, saw that it was just on the stroke of eleven.

"Get up, girl!" he said sharply, and sent her trotting recklessly down the steep descent.

Outside the churchyard gate stood a little knot of village folk, women and children for the most part. A wedding, like a funeral, draws some people like a magnet.

These looked up with interest as Wharton came rattling up. Some knew him, and one or two of the women were old fashioned enough to curtsey.

Wharton pulled up sharply, and sprang out. His quick eyes spotted a boy of twelve or so, whose features gave some signs of intelligence.

"Hold my mare?" he said quickly. "Just stand at her head. You shall have a shilling when I come back."

The boy's eyes shone at the prospect of such a reward, and he at once placed himself in position.

For a moment Wharton glanced sharply round. From what Nettie had said he fully expected to see Coles among the spectators. But there was no sign of him.

In a panic lest he might be too late, Wharton ran hard up the path. As he entered the cool dim interior of the little church he heard the low drone of the clergyman's voice from behind the chancel screen, and his panic deepened to absolute terror.

This lasted but a moment, for there were the words which came clearly to his ears:

"Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help and comfort that the one ought to have of the other—"

For a moment he stood in the opening of the screen taking in the tragedy that was being enacted before him. There at the altar rails stood the clergyman in his white surplice, grey headed, but tall and athletic in spite of his years. In front of him were Swanton and Gwen.

Swanton was smart in a well-cut blue serge. Gwen wore a dark tweed travelling dress. As they had their backs to Wharton, he could not see their faces, but Gwen's attitude, her bent head, her utter immobility told its own story.

A fresh gust of rage seized Wharton, his big fists clenched and for a moment he saw red.

"Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter for ever hold his peace," went on the clergyman's quiet level tones.

For an instant there was a deathly silence. The three at the altar and the old pew-opener who seemed to be the only witness, all appeared to be struck into stone.

Swanton was the first to recover himself. He wheeled round and Wharton saw his face literally livid with rage.

"Who are you, sir?" he demanded. "And what does this mean? What objection have you to offer?"

"My name is Wharton," was the clear answer. "And my objection is that Mr. Swanton is forcing this lady to marry him against her will and by means of threats."

"Have you any proof to bring of this assertion?" he continued, addressing himself to Wharton.

The clergyman turned to Gwen, who, white as a sheet, only kept herself erect by clinging to the altar rails. The expression of the old pew-opener was a study had anyone chosen to watch it, and at the door a ring of curious faces had appeared.

She glanced round at him and something in his strong, steady face reassured her.

"It is quite true," she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. Then she slipped softly down on the cushioned step and lay very still.

"Quite," said the clergyman calmly "But Miss Keeling has fainted. Mr. Rennie,"—this to the pew-opener—"run across to the vicarage and get some brandy and some cold water."

Swanton sprang suddenly in his way. His face was ugly with rage, his deep-set eyes glowed like smouldering coals, while his fists were hard clenched.

"You dare to touch her!" he threatened. "You—a common criminal, a harbourer of escaped convicts!"

"You had better be careful what you say, Mr. Swanton. Such words in the presence of a witness are actionable."

"You deny it? You mean to say that the escaped convict Willoughby is not harbouring in your house?" cried Swanton almost choking with fury.

"Most certainly I deny it. If you doubt my word you had better go and see for yourself. And now perhaps you will move out of my way. Miss Keeling requires my attention."

"She'll wish she was dead before I am through with her," snarled Swanton, absolutely beside himself. "Perhaps you will deny that she aided Willoughby to escape."

"She knows no more about his escape than I do," answered Wharton, as he brushed past the other. "As for you, if you are reduced to threatening women, I think that you had better find some other place in which to do it than this."

"And I agree. Doctor Wharton," said the clergyman in a tone as stern as Wharton's own.

"Be good enough to leave the church at once," he bade Swanton, and in spite of his cloth and his years he looked perfectly able and willing to put his order into force.

"I'll go," he hissed in a savage whisper. "I'll go. But if you think, Wharton, that your lies are going to help you, you are mistaken. I have proof—proof do you hear—that you and Miss Keeling got Willoughby out of prison and have been harbouring him since. You both, as well as he, will taste prison before you are many days older."

Wharton, busy with Gwen, did not even look up, and Swanton, after glaring at him for a moment, turned and made a sort of blind rush out of the church.

"A most unpleasant person," remarked the clergyman, his lips curling with contempt. Then in a tone of relief. "Ah, here comes Mr. Rennie. Now, Doctor Wharton, if we can bring the lady round we might carry her to the vicarage."

CHAPTER XXIII. — WHARTON'S RESOLVE.

THE first thing that Gwen saw as she opened her eyes was Wharton's kind ugly face bending over her, and it gave her such a sense of peace and security that, for the moment, she was content to lie quiet on the comfortable sofa where he and the clergyman had laid her.

But presently her brain, numbed by shock and fainting fit which had followed, began to work again, and all of a sudden she started up.

"Quite safe," Wharton answered soothingly. "Lie down again and keep quiet, and I will answer any questions."

"Let him tell." Wharton's lips tightened a little. "Let him do his worst. He cannot hurt us."

"But he knows. He will inform the police," she urged. "Oh, Doctor Wharton, you ought not to have interfered. I had made up my mind to go through with it, and then you and Kit would have been safe."

"Listen to me, Gwen," he said. "Even if that scoundrel really had any proof against us—which I do not believe that he has—do you think that Kit and I would have accepted such a sacrifice on your part? You must know that we would both have gladly taken any chances rather than know that you were Swanton's wife. Neither of us could have had a happy minute again so long as we lived."

"But no more could I if I thought that Kit was back in Moorlands," broke in Gwen, "or that you were in prison for helping him."

"But prison is only a temporary matter. Yours would have been a life long bondage. Imprisonment is only for the body; a marriage such as yours would have destroyed soul as well as body."

"In any case," he want on, "there was no need for it. Not that I blame you, for I have no doubt but that Swanton terrified you into it. But you should have remembered what I told you that I had a safe hiding place for Kit. He is there now. Halstead has taken him to the old mine in White Tor Mire. All the warders in Moorlands might hunt for a year without finding him."

"My dear, I am sure of it. And fairly comfortable, too, for I have stocked the place well with blankets and food."

"Always excepting Kit," replied Wharton with a smile which hid more than Gwen ever knew or suspected.

"But how did you hear?" she asked suddenly. "How did you happen to arrive when you did?"

"But this seems to prove that Coles has some hold over Mr. Swanton," she said keenly.

"Undoubtedly he has," Wharton replied. "I believe that there is more behind all this than we have as yet any idea. My own notion is that Swanton has been plotting against Kit from the beginning, and that Coles is his accomplice."

"I believe that you are right," said Gwen eagerly. "We must follow it up. This may give us some chance of proving Kit's innocence."

"I hope so," said Wharton. "Indeed, I hope so. But you must not build upon it. And in any case we must go very carefully. Coles is in his way every bit as dangerous a man as Swanton himself, and whatever he may have said when threatening Swanton, be sure that he will think twice about betraying him. You see, if he does so, he lays himself open to prosecution."

"We must try, and we will try. All now, if you are feeling well enough I think that I had better take you home. The chances are that Swanton will, as he threatened, get my place searched, and I confess that I should like to be on the spot when the police arrive."

"I don't think so," Wharton answered with a smile. "But if they did what could it matter?"

"But they will know I have been there under another name," said Gwen nervously. "He will have told them. Will not that cause me to be suspected?"

"I had thought of that, and frankly it is possible that it may. But suspicion and proof are two very different things, and so long as Kit is not found they can do nothing—absolutely nothing."

"Then you do not think that they have any proof—Mr. Swanton and Coles, I mean? You do not think that either of them saw Kit with us?"

"I'm not worrying about that for a moment. Kit was hidden under the seat when he was in the car with you. Afterwards, in the dog-cart, we did not meet a soul except two or three labourers. And then Kit was in disguise, so if anyone did see him they certainly could not swear to his identity."

"You are very comforting, Doctor Wharton. You have made me feel very much happier."

"That is as it should be. And I, too, have the comfort to feel that if you are questioned you are not likely to lose your head and say anything foolish."

"You can trust me for that," said Gwen with a rather wan smile. "I do not think that they will get very much information out of me."

The kindly vicar wanted them to stay to lunch, and when Wharton explained that this was impossible, insisted upon their having a glass of wine and a biscuit before leaving. The hands at the church clock pointed to half-past twelve as they drove through the village and started on the long drive to Moorlands.

It was uphill work all the way, and fully an hour elapsed before the tall grey buildings of the prison loomed up on the hill side set against the background of dark fir plantations.

"Had you not better stop here and let me walk the rest of the way?" suggested Gwen.

"No need," was the answer. "Swanton has done his worst by this time. And in any case you are not fit to walk."

Gwen's heart beat faster as they passed a couple of warders in charge of a small road-mending party. But though they had evidently recognised Miss "Drummond" they paid no particular attention to her, and presently Wharton drove into the gate at Tor Cottage.

"I must get back as soon as possible," he said. "You know why. But before I go I want to say a word as a doctor to a patient. You will please eat a light meal and go straight to bed. And there I hope you will stay until to-morrow morning. And don't worry about Kit or anything else. For the present he is safe enough, and I shall keep you posted as to what happens. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Gwen, giving him her hand. "Good-bye." And then moved by a sudden impulse she added softly, "God bless you."

The mare had covered some seventeen miles already during the morning, and Wharton, always merciful to his beasts, took her back very quietly. It was with a very curious mind that at about four o'clock he came within sight of Endsley. In spite of the bold front he had displayed before Gwen and of the confidence which he reposed in Halstead, there was always the off chance that something might have gone wrong. In order to get to Whitern Kit would have had to walk a good three miles across the moor in broad daylight.

"It's all right, sir," he said in answer to a questioning look. "I got him there safe and sound, and was back again and busy in the garden before the police came."

"Been and gone, sir. And none the wiser either." Halstead permitted himself the luxury of a grin.

"Every bit of it, sir. Outbuildings and all. They had a paper they showed me. A search warrant, I think it was. But, as I said, they was none the wiser. Mrs. White, she'd tidied up the top room, and put the dust sheets on, and you'd never have thought there'd been anyone there for a month."

"Excellent!" said Wharton with warm approval. And leaving the tired mare with Halstead, he went in to eat an appetizing tea, and be further reassured by Mrs. White.

Late as it was, he had to take out another horse, and see some patients. He got home again about seven, and as he ate his solitary supper he thought of Kit camped in the lonely mine in the heart of White Tor Mire, and it came to him how terribly anxious Kit would be to hear what had happened.

Before he had finished his meal he had made up his mind that he would not allow him to remain in suspense but that, before morning, he would see him and let him know of the events of the day.

CHAPTER XXIV. — SWANTON GETS THE WORST OF IT.

IT was about ten o'clock when Wharton left the house. It had clouded over and a warm drizzle was falling, but there was no fog, and as a moon was shining somewhere behind the clouds the spring night was not quite dark. He wore a mackintosh, heavy boots and an old cap, and carried a six-foot otter pole and in his pocket a small electric flash lamp.

Slipping out the back way he crossed the kitchen garden and gained the belt of beeches behind it. He kept along these to the eastern end, then struck across the moor.

These precautions had a definite object. There was he knew rather more than an off-chance that Endsley was being watched. Talk of the fury of a woman scorned, it would be nothing to the rage that must be consuming Swanton at the complete failure of his plans for getting hold of Gwen. Wharton felt perfectly sure that the man would go to any length for the purpose of obtaining his revenge. Half a mils out, he reached a clump of thick gorse, and slipping quietly into it, sat down on a lichened boulder and waited.

It was very still. The breeze which had been blowing freshly all day had dropped at nightfall, and a fine rain fell soundlessly from the unseen canopy of cloud. Nothing was moving, and the silence was so intense that Wharton could distinctly hear the rush of the river in the valley three quarters of a mile away to his left. The only other sound that reached his ears was the steady crop-crop of a moor pony grazing somewhere out in the darkness.

For fully five minutes he sat motionless, and at last came to the conclusion that his fears were groundless. He was in the act of rising to pursue his way when the unseen pony stopped grazing, snorted and galloped off.

Wharton gave a soundless chuckle. He had not been twenty years on the moor without knowing what that meant. He dropped down flat and laid his ear to the ground, and, just as he expected, caught the sound of feet moving uncertainly through the heather. After listening for a moment or two, he was able to tell from which direction the steps were approaching, and to make certain that it was the same direction from which he had come himself.

He waited until the steps were within about fifty yards, then rose to his feet and moving out of the gorse clump again walked straight ahead.

For a man who knew he was being followed, he walked with curious carelessness. He brushed roughly through the heather and more than once his nailed boots grated harshly on one of the lumps of granite which strew the moor in every direction.

After a while the ground began to drop. It was a steep, stony hillside, and Wharton was still surprisingly careless in the matter of loose pebbles. But the stones which his feet moved were echoed by others higher up the hill side, and his pursuer would have been considerably astonished, could he have seen the smile on Wharton's face. He might have been alarmed, too, for the set of Wharton's lips was decidedly grim.

At last Wharton reached level ground. The soil became very soft, and here and there Wharton's feet squelched through the miry edges of black pools. He went more slowly now, and began to exercise a good dealt of care as to where he placed his feet.

Small wonder, for he was on the edge of Ling Tor Mire, a bog which, if small in size, is justly dreaded by those who know it best for the depth and danger of its black peat slime. Down in those dark recesses to Wharton's left, lay the bones of countless ponies and, if report spoke true, of more than one over venturesome moor man.

Scores of times had Wharton shot snipe and teal along these perilous edges, but even he, well as he knew the ground, dared take no liberties, and was careful not to venture beyond the thick clump of reeds which marked the limit of moderate safety. He smiled again as a faint sound of splashing came from out of the darkness behind him, for it told him that his pursuer was still following him.

Ling Tor Mire has the peculiarity that it is in two parts. A neck at fairly sound ground divides the smaller, southern end from the larger northern. This neck is very narrow, and in order to cross it at all it is necessary to follow the reed clumps which mark it. In some places these are several feet apart and it is a matter of jumping boldly from one to another.

Wharton was quite aware that he ran considerable risk in attempting this passage by night, but he took it deliberately. Ever since he had realized that he was being shadowed, he had been making for this spot, for he felt fairly sure that the man, whoever he was would never venture to cross it. And if the fellow went round, it meant a good half mile of extra distance, quite enough, for him to shake his follower off altogether.

There was just light enough to see the reed clumps looming up in front. Some could be reached with one long stride, others required a real jump. Now and then he had to stop and test them, and it was here that his otter pole came in useful.

Twice a tuft gave and let him in almost to his knees in the clinging bog slime, but he made no mistake, and in less than five minutes found firmer ground beneath his feet. He walked on slowly until he reached the edge of the heather, then stopped and listened.

To his surprise and somewhat to his dismay, he distinctly heard squelching splashes and a sound of heavy breathing.

"The beggar's got pluck, anyhow," he muttered. "Either that, or he doesn't know what he's up against."

The words were hardly framed before it became abundantly clear that the latter supposition was the true one. There came a heavy splash, a smothered oath, and the sound of something or somebody plunging desperately in water or mud or both.

Wharton would not have been human if he had not laughed. But as the struggle went on out there in the gloom, he quickly became grave again. No one better than he knew how easy it is to get into a bog and how extremely difficult to get out again.

He stepped slowly back towards the edge of the mire—slowly because he was not minded to give his assistance unless it was really needed, and in any case he meant his shadower to have his full dose of mud before he was hauled out.

The struggling went on, he could plainly hear the sound of panting breath as the individual, whoever he was, fought desperately to gain a footing. This continued for quite a minute, then grew fainter, and presently came a despairing cry for help.

Wharton started. Faint and hoarse as it was, he recognised the voice as that of Swanton himself.

Temptation so strong as to be almost irresistible was suddenly upon him. Why should he rescue the man? Why not leave him to meet the fate he so richly deserved? No one would be the wiser except himself. Swanton could not know that anyone was near enough to hear his appeal. He had nothing to do but turn and walk quietly away, and within a couple of minutes at most all Gwen's troubles would be at an end, and this blackguard who had caused them would be sunk for ever out of human ken in the black depths of the mire.

To do Wharton justice, he never gave one thought to himself in the matter, or to the share that Swanton might have in his own ruin. All his anxiety was for Gwen, the girl whom long ago he had realised that he admired more than any woman he had ever met.

Strong man as he was to every sense of the word, the temptation was almost overwhelming, and he actually turned again and had walked several steps away from the brink when from the bog Swanton's voice rang out once more in agonized appeal.

All in a flash Wharton knew that he could not do this thing, that whatever Swanton's power for evil, it was nothing but murder to leave him to perish.

"All right," he shouted. "I'm coming," and grasping the stick firmly he went springing out across the mire, leaping with extraordinary accuracy from one reed clump to the next until, almost in the very centre of the trackway, he caught sight of a dark object which was Swanton's head, shoulders, and arms, all that was above the surface of the mire.

"Catch hold," he add curtly, extending the end of his stick, at the same time bracing himself upon the nearest footing that seemed anything like firm.

The clump beneath him swayed and bent, it was all that he could do to keep his footing, and well he knew that once he overbalanced and dropped into the gap beside Swanton there was no more hope for either of them.

"Steady!" he said again. "This clump is going. I must find better foothold before I get a pull on."

As he spoke he felt the reeds breaking away beneath him, and made a quick jump for another bunch. Just as well that he did so, for Swanton had quite lost his head, and next moment gave a jerk at the end of the stick which as near as possible pulled Wharton over. For a moment it was touch and go, but luckily for them both Wharton now had made good his footing.

Getting his weight well back he set himself to pull, but by this time Swanton was so thoroughly "stugged" that he could not move him at all. Peat mire has some of the qualities of quicksand and holds like a vice.

Then the reeds on which Wharton was standing began to go under the strain, and again he was in danger of slipping in on top of the other.

"This is no good," he said at last. "I must get a bundle of heather. I'll leave you the stick, and if you prop it across these two reed clumps you can keep your head up."

"I've got to, man. I shan't be long. Unless I get a decent foothold I can't do any good at all."

Leaving the stick in Swanton's grasp, he once more made his perilous journey back to firm ground. It had stopped raining and was growing lighter, and this made things a trifle easier.

Arrived at the edge of the heather, he took out his knife and cut a big armful of the tough springy branches. These he tied together with an old surgical bandage which he happened to have in his pocket, and carried the faggot out to Swanton. Laying it top of the biggest reed clump, he at last got some real foundation to work from, and getting hold of the pole again, began to pull in earnest.

Inch by inch, like a tight cork from a bottle, Swanton was dragged from the greedy embraces of the mire, and at last hauled to comparative safety alongside his rescuer. There he stood shaking and shivering with cold and fright, his teeth chattering like castanets.

Swanton took it greedily, and presently his shivering ceased, and although it was too dark to see his face, Wharton realised the strong spirit had done the man good.

"Come on, now," he ordered. "You have got some more jumping to do before you are safe. Follow me carefully."

"Then stay where you are!" Wharton answered, losing patience. "It's only about six hours to daylight."

Wharton started at once. By this time he knew every step of the journey, but he went slowly, and Swanton contrived to follow. Just as they reached the bank the clouds broke and the moon came through, throwing its cold, white light on the great basin of bog and the wild bare hills surrounding it.

Wharton turned, and the sight of Swanton brought a flicker of a smile to his grim lips. Swanton looked like nothing human; he was a mere pillar of mire. His hat had gone, and even his hair was plastered thick with peat slime mixed with trails of green bog moss. He was a curious contrast to the spruce, well-groomed figure who, just twelve hours earlier had stood at the altar-rails in Meripit Church.

Possibly Swanton caught the smile. At any rate, instead at any words of thanks for his rescue, he burst out savagely: "You swine! You trapped me into that!"

A fierce oath burst from Swanton's lips, and he took a threatening step forward.

"I wouldn't!" he said with ominous quietness. "I'm just longing for a chance to kill you fairly."

"What brought you into this game, Wharton?" he asked sullenly, "Are you in love with her, too?"

"We will leave Miss Keeling's name out of this," he said sternly. "I am in this game, as you call it, to see fair play for two friends of mine. That is enough for you."

"Whether he does or not, you, at any rate will not," Wharton answered. "Now, which way are you going?"

Wharton laughed outright. "I should have thought you had had enough of that by this time," he answered. "Well, if you will—come on!"

Without another word, he started away up the hill opposite at a pace which few could match. Reaching the top of the ridge, he glanced back. Swanton was hardly half-way up. Wharton crossed the ridge, swung to the left, and went off faster than ever. The sky was now clearing rapidly, and the moon was bright enough to see a man moving at a considerable distance. Reaching the next ridge, he looked back again, and saw Swanton toiling down the valley more than half a mile away.

"The fellow won't last much longer," he said with a grim chuckle, and dropped down in a convenient gorse clump, seated himself comfortably on his mackintosh, lit a pipe, and waited.

Ten minutes later, Swanton passed within thirty yards, and pulled up on top of the hill, began marching round in every direction. Naturally he did see Wharton, and the latter chuckled again as he heard his pursuer cursing aloud.

Wharton had chosen his position carefully. The hill side below was one mass of tall gorse, fit to hide a regiment, and at last Swanton, no doubt coming to the conclusion that his opponent was tracking through it, plunged down into the midst of it. Wharton watched him till he was almost out of sight, then crawled out of his refuge, slipped away down the slope he had just climbed, and went off full-tilt in the opposite direction—the direction which, as it happened, was the right one to lead him to his destination.

CHAPTER XXV. — AT WILD TOR FARM.

IT was said that the original settler at Wild Tor was a man from the in-country who, having been disappointed in love, had turned hermit. Whether the legend was true or not, it is certain that no recluse could have found in all England a more suitable spot in which to avoid his fellow men.

The farm-house stood in a desolate valley near the source of a small tributary of the River Strane. It was nearly four miles from the nearest high road, and quite three from any other human habitation. The only way to reach it was by a deeply rutted cart track which wandered unevenly along the side of the steep river valley. In wet weather this track was cut by flood water coming from the high plateau to the right, and in fog it was abominably dangerous.

Along this track, on the next morning after the scene in Meripit Church, Swanton came riding on a wiry looking moor pony. All traces of last night's adventure had been removed from his person, and he was got up with his usual care in well-cut riding breeches and gaiters, a tweed coat and soft hat of similar material.

In spite of the fine air and the magnificent view, he did not seem happy, for there was a settled scowl on his face, and when his unfortunate pony stumbled in crossing a gully cut by the recent rain, he cut it so savagely that the startled beast very nearly took him over the steep bank into the rocky gorge below.

Rounding a projecting shoulder of the hill, he came within sight of the farm-house which stood on a natural terrace some fifty feet above the brook. With its immensely thick walls of weather-worn granite, its deep thatch of reeds and little narrow windows, it suited its wild surroundings to perfection, and in spite of its bareness had a picturesqueness all its own. Around it was a considerable patch of grass land which had been laboriously cleared of heather and granite and which was surrounded by a dry-stone wall. Beyond the wall was wild moor tenanted only by a few shaggy ponies.

Two cows grazing in a walled paddock, a flock of geese and a few chickens—these were the only inhabitants in view as Swanton rode up. As a matter of fact it was a few minutes past twelve, and the Coles family had just sat down to their mid-day meal.

Swanton dismounted, tied his pony to the gate, and walking up to the house knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by Nettie, who started slightly at sight of the visitor.

"Yes, Mr. Swanton, he's at his dinner." It was noticeable that, while Nettie had addressed Wharton as "Sir," she did not bestow the same compliment on Swanton.

"Then he'll have to wait till I've finished my dinner," came the growling answer. "He can come in and sit down if he wants to."

Swanton's scowl deepened, but he made no further remark as Nettie ushered him into the parlour opposite the kitchen. It was a dreadful room with shiny horsehair sofa, chairs with woollen antimacassars, and a mantlepiece ornamented with two badly stuffed squirrels and a vase of wax flowers under a glass shade. The window was tightly shut and the air close yet chilly.

Swanton flung himself down on a chair, and lighting a cigar waited with what patience he could.

It was a good twenty minutes before Humpy thrust his shaggy beard and broad shoulders through the door, and it was no friendly glance that he shot from under his shaggy eyebrows at the visitor.

"Brought the money!" he repeated, "Do you mean to say you don't know what happened yesterday?"

"I seed 'ee bring the young lady to Meripit Church. Ain't you married with her all right?"

"I didn't wait. I'd summat else to do," was the surly reply. "Wouldn't she have 'ee then?"

"That I'm certain she didn't. It was as much to save him as anything else that she consented to marry me. It must have been you. You must have got drunk and let out something."

"I ain't had two drops of liquor in a month outside o' my own house," Coles answered violently. "I never said a word to nobody."

"Then how did Wharton hear?" demanded Swanton. "That's what I want to know. Someone told him, and did it between the night before last and yesterday morning."

"Then how could it ha' been me?" retorted Coles. "You didn't leave here till past ten o' Tuesday. D'ye reckon I went and rode nine miles across the moor to Wharton's in middle o' night?"

"Someone told him," he insisted. "If they hadn't, he wouldn't have come. As it was, he only just got there in time. Two minutes more, and he'd have been too late.

"Anyhow," continued Swanton, as Coles did not speak. "Anyhow he's done us. You, too, as well as me. I'm broke to the wide, and you won't get a penny piece of your sixty pounds."

Coles growled deep in his throat and stepped forward. His great hands were twitching. He was a miser, and Swanton's last words had cut him on the raw.

"What's the use of that?" he sneered. "You can't get blood out of a stone or money out of a man who hasn't got it. At present I owe twenty times what I can pay, and if you made any attempt to recover what I owe you, you know as well as I do where it would land you. You'd be in the dock alongside of me.

"See here," he went on with savage earnestness "There's only one thing left for you and me. That's to get square. I've got to find where they have hid Willoughby, you're got to find out who blabbed."

"He'll never tell naught else if I finds 'un out," he said with a savage deliberation which made Swanton almost shudder.

For a moment or two Coles stood quite still, his heavy brows knitted, evidently deep in thought. Then all of a sudden he raised one ponderous fist and brought it down with a sharp smack into the palm of the other hand.

"By gor, I've got 'un," he almost shouted, and turning made for the door and strode across the passage into the kitchen.

CHAPTER XXVI. — COLES GOES TOO FAR.

SWANTON had no particular reason to be fond of Nettie. Indeed, from the beginning she had never concealed her dislike for him, and latterly had treated him with galling curtness.

And now that he suddenly realised that it was she who must have upset all his schemes by warning Wharton, his ugly, dangerous temperament rose to the surface, and for the moment he felt that he could have killed her with his own hands.

At the same time Swanton, unlike Coles, was as a rule able to keep his temper under control. He realised that Coles, in his present state of fury, was quite capable of committing murder, and after a moment he hurried after him into the kitchen.

In the room were three people, Nettie, her uncle, and a poorly-dressed young man whose thin, brown face was partly hidden by a rough beard and moustache.

Nettie faced her uncle with the table between them, while the young man, with a half scared look in his rather vacuous eyes, stood close to the fireplace behind her.

"Where did 'ee go yesterday morning?" demanded Coles again, and his formidable voice rumbled so that the very window rattled, His great knotted hands were outstretched upon the table, across which he was leaning, the veins on his forehead were swollen into cords, and his deep-set eyes glowed like live coals.

Nettie was frightened. Swanton could see that plainly. Yet she faced her uncle without flinching.

"What is it to you where I go?" she retorted volubly. "I can go out when I've a mind to, can't I? I'm not a child, though you do seem to think so, and I won't be treated like one either, you mind that."

Coles clenched his immense fist and brought it down on the table with a crash that made the dishes leap.

The words were hardly out of her month before Coles made a rush around the table.

Nettie, now really terrified, sprang away towards the wall. But Coles, thrusting out his enormous long arm, grasped her by the shoulder—grasped her with such cruel force that she screamed with the pain.

"I'll learn 'ee," he said with an oath. "I'll learn 'ee to put your finger in other folks' pies. So 'twas yew carried tales to Wharton. I might ha knowed it, ye two-faced slut."

He caught her with both hands and shook her so furiously that her teeth rattled together, and big, strong girl as she was, she went limp in his savage grip.

All this time the bearded youth in the background had been standing watching, his head craned forward, his hands twitching oddly, and a look half-frightened, half-puzzled, on his weak and rather witless face.

When Nettie first screamed he had taken a step forward, then stopped. But her cry for help galvanised him into sudden and unexpected activity.

He made a sudden dash at Coles, flung both his long, thin arms round the man's neck from behind, and pulled with all his might.

But only a pace or two. His bulk and strength were so great that the other's weight was not enough to throw him off his balance. Next moment he had steadied himself, torn away the clinging hands and whirled round.

It was too late. Coles had already let drive with all his force, and his ponderous fist caught the youth on the side of the head. The weight of the blow almost lifted him off his feet, and as he fell, the back of his head came full against the edge of the heavy table.

For a moment there was utter silence. All the three occupants of the room stood staring at the broken creature on the floor and the ominous crimson stain which spread slowly on the bare boards.

Nettie was the first to move. She sprang past her uncle and flung herself on her knees beside the stricken man.

Nettie looked up at her uncle, and her face was that of a tigress robbed of her young.

"You've killed him," she said in a voice of quivering intensity. "You've murdered Ben, and you shall hang for it."

Coles did not seem to hear her. He stood gaping down at the fallen man. His hands had relaxed and his face, which a moment before had been livid with rage, was turning to a sickly white.

Swanton came closer and looked keenly at the body on the floor. He shook his head.

Still Coles did not move. All the life seemed to have gone out of his great crooked carcass.

"Do you hear?" he said sharply. "You've killed him, and the best thing you can do is to make yourself scarce. Take any money you've got and clear out."

He walked out of the room, and Swanton, after one glance at Nettie who was still kneeling beside the fallen man, followed.

Nettie never even looked up. All her mind was concentrated upon Ben. With a handkerchief she was trying to staunch the blood which welled from the long gash over his left ear.

It was a purely mechanical proceeding on her part, for, like Swanton, she fully believed that Ben was dead. But after a minute or two she saw, or thought she saw, his chest heave slightly. In an instant she was unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt and laid her ear against his heart.

As she raised her head there was incredulous joy in her face. His heart was beating. There was life in him still.

She was on her feet in a moment, and putting her strong young arms around him, with a great effort lifted him bodily, and staggered across to the old fashioned settee against the wall, where she laid him tenderly. Then she flew to the dresser, and opened a drawer, took out a bundle of soft rags.

Life on this lonely farm had given the girl a rough but efficient knowledge of first aid, and had taught her the virtues of cold water in dealing with wounds. Within a very few minutes she had snipped the hair away from around the gash, and arranged a cold compress which she bound firmly into place.

He was still insensible, but he was breathing regularly and his heart beating weakly yet steadily. For the moment she could do no more, and she stood over him, gazing down at him with all her heart in her eyes.

A sound of hoofs outside attracted her attention, and looking out of the window she saw her uncle and Swanton riding away together. There was no thought in her mind of letting Coles know that Ben was after all not dead. On the contrary, she shook her fist at the backs of her enemies.

"The cruel brutes!" she muttered. "I hope I'll never see either of 'em again, dead or alive."

For the next half hour she sat beside Ben, occasionally sponging his face, and hoping every moment that he might recover consciousness. But he showed no signs of doing so, and she grew frightened.

She was not aware that, after an injury of this kind, the patient may lie insensible for hours or even days. It came to her that she must get help, and the thought of Wharton was the first that flashed into her mind.

But it was a long way to Endsley, and there was no one to look after Ben in her absence. Could she possibly leave him all that time?

At first she felt that this was impossible, but the fear of losing him grew stronger, and at last she ran up to her room and put on a hat. Then she came down and went out to the stable. Coles had taken his own pony, but there was another there, a three year old, which Coles had been breaking to saddle. It was a half wild, shaggy little beast, but Nettie, like all moor girls, could ride anything with four legs, and she had saddle and bridle on in very short order.

The pony strongly objected to being girthed and kicked and tried to bite. But Nettie was equal to him, and presently led him out into the yard. Here she had another struggle to mount, but once on his back she was off as hard as she could go down the rough track along the valley.

She reached the main road, but instead of keeping it, put her pony at the bank of the far side and made straight across the open moor. It was rough and dangerous going, but she knew every inch of the ground, and in less than an hour from the time she had started, galloped up the hill to Endsley.

As she reached the gate she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel and saw Halstead bringing the dogcart round from the yard. He stared when he saw her, and no wonder, for her hair was down, her print dress which she had not waited to change was splashed with mud, and as for her pony, he was dripping with sweat and nearly foundered.

Before he could speak, Wharton himself appeared at the door in driving coat and gloves.

He helped her in, and leaving Halstead to look after the pony, drove off as fast as the mare could lay legs to ground.

"But who is this young fellow?" he asked when Nettie had finished her story. "What is his name?"

"Caldwell," repeated Wharton thoughtfully. "That is not a moor name. Where does he come from?"

"I don't know," Nettie answered. "The fact is, sir,"—Nettie hesitated slightly—"he doesn't know himself."

"I suppose he has, sir. Uncle, he picked him up wandering about the moor, one day about seven or eight months ago. He'd had a fall and was in a terrible state, and it was two or three weeks before he was about again."

"Yes, sir, I nursed him. And—and that was how I came to get fond of him, I suppose."

"There is nothing to be ashamed of in that," said Wharton kindly. "On the contrary, it does you credit, Miss Coles.

"And he doesn't remember anything?" he continued. "He can't tell you anything of his past life?"

"Not a thing, sir. B-but he's got proper nice manners, sir, and always takes a bath every morning. And he doesn't swear, sir, of talk like most of the young fellows round about here."

"It was on his clothes, sir. At least it was on his handkerchief. The rest of the things was that bad I had to burn them."

The mare had been walking up a steep pitch. Now she reached the top and with a word Wharton sent her off again at full speed.

"What made your uncle bring Caldwell home?" he inquired. "It was rather a decent thing to do, and doesn't seem quite in keeping with Coles' character."

"I've wondered, myself, sir," Nettie answered frankly. "He said he'd be useful around the place, and sure enough he has turned out proper handy. Manages a pony like he always was used to them."

After this there was no more conversation. Wharton had turned off the main road into the track leading up the valley, and was obliged to give all his attention to the driving. In spite of the rough character of the road he kept the mare at a jog almost the whole time, and although the cart bumped and swayed in alarming fashion, yet by clever management he escaped disaster, and in a shorter time than Nettie had believed possible they pulled up in front of the grey old farm-house.

Nettie was out like a flash and into the house. Wharton, only stopped long enough to tie the mare to the stone hitching post and fling a rug over her, followed.

He went to work at once, and Nettie standing by watched him with pitiful eagerness.

"Live? Bless you, yes. He's got slight concussion certainly, but the only danger was from loss of blood, and that you have stopped with your cold compress. I congratulate you on your bandaging."

CHAPTER XXVII. — THE BLOW FALLS.

"THE fact is," Wharton continued, "that this young man is blessed with a singularly sound skull. And this is not the first time that it has saved him. Look here!"

As he spoke, he parted the brown hair on the top of the head, and showed Nettie a deep dent in the bone. "That," he said, "was a far worst injury than the present one. It would have killed many a man, and is in itself quite enough to account for his loss of memory. In my opinion the bone is actually pressing on the brain, but an operation would soon set that to rights, and then he would probably be himself again."

"There is no need to be alarmed," Wharton answered kindly. "There would be very little danger."

"B-but if he got back his memory he might forget me," she said in a low, tense voice.

"That is possible," said Wharton gravely. "At the same time it is by no means certain."

"Oh," cried Nettie clasping her hands in agonised appeal. "Oh, I couldn't bear that." Wharton saw that it was not the moment to press the matter. He set to work to do what was necessary for the sufferer.

"Now," he said to Nettie, "we must get him to bed. He will be on his back for several days, and will require careful nursing."

"I am sure you will, but this is too much for you, single handed. You cannot do without some sleep, and then there is the cooking, the house work, and the live stock to be attended to. I'll tell you what. I will get Nurse Sturgess, the district nurse. She is not very busy just now, and she can very well stay here for a few days until Caldwell is better."

"So that it might get to uncle's ears, I mean. You see, I don't want him to know that Ben isn't badly hurt. He'd be coming back then."

"Don't worry, Miss Coles. I'll give her a word of warning. I don't think that you need fear that your uncle will return."

"That's all right, sir. And now, sir, if you could help me to carry him up to his room, I can manage quite well by myself."

But Wharton did not leave until he had seen his patient comfortably put to bed. Then, leaving exact directions with Nettie as to what to do, he said good-bye and drove off.

Nurse Sturgess lived in a cottage on the Moorlands road, and to reach the house meant a long round. Wharton had to drive carefully, too, for the mare was none too fresh after the gruelling she had had on the way to Wild Tor.

It was nearly four o'clock when Wharton pulled up at the door. A disappointment was in store. Nurse Sturgess had been called away that very morning to see her mother, who was seriously ill. She would not be back for some days.

Wharton was worried. It was out of the question to leave Nettie at Wild Tor, single-handed, yet at the moment he could not think of anyone else to send to her. An ordinary cottager's wife would not do. It must be someone who could be trusted to hold her tongue.

It was just as he was climbing into his cart again that a bright idea flashed into his head.

The more he thought of it the better pleased he was with the idea. Gwen would make a good nurse, she could, of course, be trusted to keep silence. And the work would be far better for her than the idleness and suspense which she was suffering at Tor Cottage.

He drove the tired mare on in the direction of Moorlands, and reaching the bridge over the Arrow, turned to the right. He took the turn on purpose to avoid going through the village. He knew very well that Swanton's information, though up to the present it had led to nothing, had directed suspicion upon himself and Gwen, and he was anxious not to cause more talk by being seen in Gwen's company.

His luck was in. As he walked the mare slowly up the hill a girl came into sight over the top, walking briskly, and as she approached he saw it was Gwen herself.

"You, Doctor Wharton!" she exclaimed in surprise. "What brings you in this direction?

"Not with Kit," Wharton made haste to reply. "I saw him last night and he was all right. All the same it was you I was in search of."

She sprang in lightly. She was a little paler than usual, but showed no other trace of the ordeal through which she had passed on the previous day. Once more Wharton was filled with deepest admiration for her wonderful strength and pluck.

He slackened the reins and let the mare move at her leisure as he told her of that morning's scene at Wild Tor, and of its results to Nettie and young Caldwell.

"The girl cannot be left there alone," he ended, "and as the nurse is away I thought you would perhaps lend a hand for a few days. I shall be there myself again to-morrow, and can bring you news of Kit without any of the risk that I run by coming to Moorlands."

"Of course I will come," she answered. "I shall be only too glad to have something to do, and all the more because I shall be able to help this girl who has done so much for us."

"I knew you would," said Wharton cheerfully. "But you will have to tell Miss Stayner and pack some things. I had better drive you home, and after a little rest the mare will take us back."

"No, there is no need for that. The mare has done enough already, and more than enough. I got my car back this morning. If you will drop me here I will walk back, and then I can drive myself to Wild Tor."

But Gwen only smiled. "I can take the car anywhere that you can take your dogcart," she answered brightly. "Now let me get down. I will be at Wild Tor in little more than an hour from now."

Well satisfied with his afternoon's work, Wharton turned homewards. He had a patient or two to see on the way, and was glad of an offer of tea at the first farm he stopped at. Not so much for himself, but because it gave an opportunity of putting the mare up and baiting her.

He let her stand for a good hour, and it was nearly seven o'clock before he found himself jogging back up the hill to Endsley.

The drive gate was closed and, following his usual custom, he pulled up and whistled for Halstead.

There was no reply, and rather puzzled Wharton got down, opened the gate for himself, and drove in. The stable yard, too, was empty. He shouted, but no one answered.

Never before had he known Halstead fail him, and feeling decidedly uneasy he took the mare out himself and put her away, then hurried into the house.

"Where is Halstead, Mrs. White?" he asked, as his housekeeper met him in the hall. "He doesn't seem to be anywhere on the place."

"I don't know at all, sir," was the answer. "I haven't seen him since he came in to his tea. He didn't tell me he was going out anywhere."

Mrs. White hesitated. "I suppose you didn't tell him to go and look to Mr. Willoughby?" she suggested.

"No. There was no need. On the contrary, I warned Halstead against going anywhere near Whitern Mire in daylight."

"I expect he'll be in before long, sir," Mrs. White said consolingly. "And will you have your supper as usual, sir?"

"Yes, bring it in when it is ready," he answered. "Meantime I'll just go up the hill and have a look round."

He went out and walked up the hill. It was a glorious evening, and the moor, exquisitely green in the valleys and brown with heather on the heights, rolled in great sweeps to the horizon.

From the top of the hill he could see miles in every direction, but in all the vast expanse the only sign of human life was smoke curling lazily from the unseen chimney of the nearest farmhouse a mile down the river valley. Endsley itself was hidden by the beeches.

It was in the direction of Whitern Tor that Wharton gazed most earnestly. The mire itself he could not see, for it lay in a great cup among the hills and was shut off by the long ridge of Buzzard's Beam.

A vague uneasiness possessed him. Ever since Willoughby's escape, his friend's safety had been the one anxiety which was always at the back of his mind, and although there was no reason to suppose that anyone but he and Gwen, together with his own two servants, knew of the hiding place in the Whitern Mine, yet there was always the chance that some turf-cutter might have seen Halstead conducting Willoughby along the almost forgotten path through the treacherous swamp.

He went in and washed his hands. Usually he changed for supper, but to-night he did not even remove his boots before he sat down to the plain but excellently cooked meal which Mrs. White served in the quaint old-fashioned dining-room.

The first course was a small leg of lamb with excellent new potatoes and green peas, and Wharton, in spite of his anxiety, had finished his helping, when he heard rapid steps in the hall outside.

Before he could rise to his feet the door burst open, and Halstead rushed into the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII. — WHARTON'S WORST HOUR.

NOW that the worst had come, Wharton experienced an odd sensation of wonder to find how little surprised he was. He rose quietly from his chair.

"It was young Jabez Coaker told me, sir." Halstead was still breathing hard, and the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. "Seems he was cutting turf in the ties up by Awne Head and he seed a lot o' warders come across the Rattle Brook. He wondered what they were after, and left his shovel and went along up the ridge. Then he seed them going into Whitern Mire, and he waited and watched.

"After about an hour, out they came again with a man in plain clothes and handcuffs on him. Then it came to Coaker as it must be Mr. Willoughby, and he ran back to tell me."

Halstead stopped and mopped the moisture from his face with a brightly coloured handkerchief.

"I did, sir. I ran across the valley, and up to the road. They was passed by the time I got there, but I'd took your glasses, and I seed Mr. Willoughby plain enough."

"I don't know how they could ha' found him, sir. I'm ready to swear as no one saw us a going there."

"You cannot be certain, Halstead. But on the other hand someone may have tracked me last night. One person, I know, tried to, but I trapped him in Ling Tor Mire, and then I thought I was safe."

"It's a cruel bad job," said Halstead with sudden violence. "As nice a gent as ever lived. Him go and murder anybody! Why I'd so soon think I'd done it myself."

"You are right, Halstead. Mr. Willoughby is as innocent as you or I. He is the victim of a conspiracy. But we must not waste time talking. Put the saddle on the black horse and bring him round as soon as you can."

Five minutes later, Wharton was cantering hard across the moor bound for Wild Tor.

He tried to consider matters calmly and think out what was best to be done, but for once found himself unable to do so. Rage against Swanton swamped his judgment, and his hand tightened on his riding crop as the intense desire of revenge over-mastered him.

He wasted no time at all in crossing the moor, but daylight had gone before he reached the valley track, and though the moonlight was bright he had to check a little on the dangerous hillside.

Barely half a mile from the road, he saw something in front of him, and almost at once he realised that it was a car—Gwen's car. A spasm of fright made him draw his breath sharply, but as he came nearer he saw that she was not there. The car had run into a rut so deep that the back axle was hard against the ground. It was clear that Gwen, unable to move it, had abandoned it and gone on afoot.

The kitchen window was open and uncurtained and a bright light poured out. Looking through, he saw Gwen, her sleeves rolled up over her firm white arms, busy over the old fashioned open fireplace. She was humming softly to herself, as she stirred a saucepan.

Wharton paused. For the moment he felt physically unable to go in and tell her the cruel news. As he watched the kitchen door opened, and Nettie entered the room. Wharton noticed that she had regained her high colour, and that her face was bright and animated again.

"He's come round. Miss Keeling," Nettie announced delightedly. "His eyes are open, and he knew me in a minute."

"I am so glad," she answered, her face lighting up with the smile that Wharton knew so well. "That is splendid."

"Would you like to go up, miss?" Nettie asked. "You haven't seen him yet. I'd be pleased to hear what you think of him."

"Certainly I will go up," Gwen replied. "Just keep this stirring, will you, so that it does not burn."

She handed the spoon to Nettie, turned her sleeves down and left the room. Wharton felt a sense of momentary relief. It was something to be able to defer the telling of the ill news even for a few moments.

Pulling himself together with a strong effort, he went to the door. He did not knock, but walked straight into the kitchen.

At sound of his steps on the flags, Nettie turned quickly. A startled look sprang into her eyes.

"You, doctor?" she began, and then something in Wharton's face warned her that all was not well.

"The worst," said Wharton gravely. "They have found Mr. Willoughby and taken him back to prison."

"They've took Mr. Willoughby," she muttered. "And you've to tell that to Miss Keeling."

"Oh my goodness, she must have heard!" cried Nettie, and dropping her spoon fled towards the door.

As she reached it Gwen met her. Gwen, with her face white as chalk and her eyes unnaturally dilated. Never had Wharton seen her look so, and it terrified him.

Gwen paid no attention whatever to Nettie. She did not even appear to have heard what she said. Her eyes were fixed on Wharton and her lips were moving, yet she did not seem able to speak aloud.

She swayed forward, and Nettie caught her just in time to save her from falling.

CHAPTER XXIX. — SWANTON BLUNDERS.

THEY laid her on the settee where Nettie had laid young Caldwell earlier in the day. Nettie loosened her dress at the throat, and Wharton hastily fetched cold water and splashed it in her face.

"How stupid of me!" she said faintly. "It was the shock. But I knew him in a moment in spite of his beard. Oh, Doctor Wharton, isn't it wonderful? Nick is alive and Kit is safe."

"Nick, Nettie. Nick is my brother—the man whom Mr. Willoughby was accused of murdering."

"You—mean—that—Ben Caldwell—is—your—brother?" she said slowly, as though the words were wrung from her, one by one.

"That is it. That is the wonderful truth. It is Nick of whom you have been taking care all this time."

Nettie turned and walked quickly out of the room. As she closed the door behind her the sound of a sob came faintly to their ears.

"I wonder that I did not realise the facts earlier," said Wharton. "I never saw your brother before. That is my only excuse. This morning I was certain that Ben Caldwell, as Nettie called him, must be of gentle birth, and if I had only put two and two together I must have seen the truth. The mere fact that Coles had brought him home was enough in itself to arouse suspicion, the length of time that he has been here corresponds with your brother's disappearance and supposed death. All fits in perfectly."

"But whose was the body?" said Gwen suddenly—"the body that was found in the river."

"That I do not know. Probably that of some tramp, for it is hardly to be supposed that Swanton had time to procure a body or—"

"A tramp!" broke in Gwen quickly. "That is it. It must have been the poor fellow I saw the day before—the same day that Mr. Swanton met me down by the river. But could he have killed him?" she added with a shudder.

"He could, but I don't suppose he did. More likely he found him dead, and that put the idea into his head. But never mind these details now. I have my work cut out for me to-night."

"You will go and tell Kit," Gwen said eagerly. "How glad he will be! Oh, I wish I could tell him myself."

"I am afraid that I shall not be able to see him to-night," Wharton answered. "My reason for coming here now was to tell you that they have taken him."

"Yes. That was the news that Halstead brought me when I got home, and I came straight to you. God knows, I never undertook an errand more reluctantly, but I had to come. I felt that you were not safe—that Swanton would not be satisfied until he had both you and me in prison."

"That man again!" cried Gwen, and her voice had a ring of anger which was new to Wharton. "Was it he who took Kit back to prison?"

"He was not with the party, but I have not the smallest doubt that he is responsible."

"We must not think of him now," Gwen answered quickly. "The thing is to get news to Kit. Think what he must be suffering. They will have put him in one of those dreadful punishment cells. He must not be left there in misery all night."

"He shall not," Wharton answered. "I shall ride to Moorlands and see the governor."

Wharton hesitated. "I had not thought of that. Your evidence may be necessary. But how can I take you? I am riding, and your car is useless until we can get it levered out of that rut."

"But there is a cart here—Coles' cart. And harness, too, I believe. Could you not put your horse in, and we could drive together?"

Gwen got up at once and went straight upstairs. Wharton, waiting only to light a lantern, made his way to the stable.

He found the cart in a shed and pulled it out. It was only a rough tax-cart, but would serve well enough. The harness was hanging on a peg, and the only question was whether the collar would fit the horse.

He went to fetch his horse, and led him round to the back, and was trying on the collar when he was startled by a sound of horse's feet in front of the house. His first thought was that Coles must somehow have heard that Nick was not dead, and had come back. Very quickly he slipped the halter on the horse and fastened him up, then ran round again to the front.

The first thing he saw was a horse tied to the hitching post just where his had been. He hurried on to the door, and was in the act of opening it when he heard someone inside, apparently at the foot of the stairs, call out sharply:—

CHAPTER XXX. — EXIT SWANTON.

WHARTON'S first blaze of angry surprise was succeeded by a cold rage. As to Swanton's exact errand he was in some doubt, but probably it was to make sure that Nick was dead, and if not, to take some sort of measures against his real identity coming to light.

But whatever the cause of his visit that mattered little. It was sufficient that he was here, and it was with a grim yet pleasurable anticipation that Wharton slipped in quietly behind his enemy, and softly removed his crop from the peg on which he had hung it.

"Don't pretend you're not there, I saw the light from outside," he continued angrily.

"Miss Coles is there," said Wharton softly. "But fortunately for herself she is not alone."

Swanton started as if he had been stung, and as he swung round there was fear—stark fear in his eyes.

"Oh, so it's you, is it?" he said insolently, "Quite a squire of dames, upon my word, Doctor Wharton. It's a pity, but I am afraid your energies in that direction are about to undergo a temporary eclipse. Perhaps you have not heard that your convict friend Willoughby is safe back under lock and key."

"Well," answered Wharton calmly, "if that is to be my fate, I may as well have something pleasant to remember during my incarceration."

He was a big man—bigger somewhat than Wharton, but he was soft, while Wharton, who lived out of doors was as hard as nails. Before Swanton could use his fists or do any damage, Wharton had kicked his legs from under him. As he fell on his knees down came the crop.

It was a Malacca, one that had been presented to Wharton years before by a grateful patient, and it had done long and faithful service in opening gates and the like. But it was still strong and serviceable which was just as well, for certainly the old cane had never before had such a testing.

Nerved by the memory of all that his two best friends had suffered at this man's hands, Wharton laid into Swanton with the full strength of his very strong right arm. Across back, shoulders and loins the blows fell with a sound like the beating of a heavy carpet.

At first Swanton struggled, but his head was held hard against the wall, and he could do nothing. Then he began to pant and groan, cursing Wharton at every stroke.

Presently his groans turned to screams, and his curses to wild prayers for mercy.

Of coarse he got fully as much as he deserved, and that was not a great deal. It was not until he went limp in Wharton's grasp, and dropped grovelling on his face on the floor, that Wharton's grip slackened and he straightened his back.

"That was a proper beating," she said, her comely face one glow. "Miss Keeling, she wouldn't stay to watch, but I'll warrant she's just as pleased as I am, doctor."

"Miss Keeling here!" he groaned. His tone was plain indication of utter collapse.

"Aye, she's here," said Nettie triumphantly. "And she knew her brother right enough, for all the way you've served him. Talk of sending the doctor to prison! It's you will be there this time to-morrow."

Swanton, lying in a flabby heap at the foot of the stairs, groaned again. Wharton stooped, got him under the arms, and dragged him into the kitchen, where he placed him in a chair.

"Miss Coles is perfectly right," he said. "In your eagerness for revenge, Swanton, you have gone a step too far. The game is up, and I think that when this story goes before a British jury your sentence will be an even stiffer one than that of poor Willoughby.

"In fact," he continued deliberately. "I don't know whether prison will meet the case. I ratter fancy it will be the gallows, for you will find it difficult to prove that you did not murder the unfortunate man whose body you substituted for that of Nick Keeling."

"I didn't kill him," Swanton answered sullenly, lifting his livid face to Wharton. "He was dead when I found him."

"I am sorry to bring you into the presence of this man, Miss Keeling," Wharton said formally, "but I require you both as witnesses.

"Swanton," turning to the latter, who had not attempted to move from his chair, "you have just one chance, and that is more then you deserve. Make a clean breast of it, and with Miss Keeling's permission and on condition that you at once leave the country, we shall refrain from prosecution."

"I'll tell you how I fooled you," said Swanton. "It was that young idiot Nick himself who began it. That day of the storm when I went fishing up on the moor, Nick ran into me just as I was winding up my line and starting back. He began on me at once, slanging me up and down. Words led to blows, and Nick went over the bank and lay on a ledge by the water's edge. He hit his head on a rock as he fell and was pretty badly damaged.

"When I went down to pick him up there was the tramp that I'd seen the day before. He was lying in a hollow under the bank, dead as a door nail. Looked as if he'd died in his sleep. There was no mark on him.

"As I stood looking at the two of them I noticed they were just about of a size, and it was then that I got the idea of getting rid of Nick and putting the blame on Willoughby. And just as I was thinking it out I heard a voice behind, and saw Coles standing on the upper bank, and looking down.

"I knew Coles—knew he'd do anything for money. A couple of fivers and a promise of more did the trick. He helped me change the clothes.

"By that time the flood was beginning to come down. It had been raining hard on the high moor. We dumped the tramp's body into the river, and he and I carried Nick up to the turf ties where Coles had his cart. Coles took him along up here to Wild Tor, and I walked back to Combe Heriot, and got in well ahead of Willoughby. Willoughby's tumble was a bit of luck for me, for I hadn't known of it before."

"Not quite all," put in Wharton. "How about Willoughby's cartridge and the knife?"

"Bah, that was easy. I planted them there next day, before that fool of a detective came sniffing round."

"No," Gwen said with a slight shudder. "I have heard enough." She turned as she spoke and left the room.

"Do you want help to get on your horse?" he asked Swanton as he finished the contents of the glass.

"No," answered Swanton, as he limped across to the door. There he stopped and looked back. He seemed about to say something, but there was a look on Wharton's face that checked him. With a muttered curse he stumbled out into the night.

Wharton waited only until he had heard Swanton ride away, then went out and harnessed the horse. A few minutes later he and Gwen were on their way to Moorlands.

The governor, Colonel Peyton, an elderly military looking man, received them in the study of his own house. His manner was formal, and made it quite plain that he regarded them both with considerable suspicion. But Wharton had expected that, and he took no offence.

Indeed, it was worth the cold reception to see the extraordinary change that came over the Colonel's face as he listened to the story which Wharton unfolded. Wharton concealed nothing—not even the part that he and Gwen had taken in Willoughby's escape.

"You mean to say that you have let this man Swanton go?" was the governor's amazed comment when Wharton at last came to an end of his recital.

"I thought it best," Wharton answered. "Miss Keeling naturally wished to avoid further publicity."

"Yes, you are right. But you will, of course, understand that I can do nothing until I have my orders from the Home Office."

"Of course," Wharton answered. "There will be certain formalities to be gone through. We both know that."

"But there is something you can do, Colonel Peyton," said Gwen imploringly. "You can release Mr. Willoughby from the punishment cell, where I suppose he is at present."

"Or else I suppose I may expect another prison breaking," he replied. "Set your mind at rest, Miss Keeling. Willoughby is not in any cell at all, but in the infirmary. We do not confine men with broken arms in cells. Physically he is very comfortable indeed, and as I shall see him at once, and let him know what has happened. I have little doubt but that he will be equally happy mentally before he sleeps."

"And thank you, too, Miss Keeling," said the Colonel gravely. "If every woman were as devoted as you have shown yourself, my task would be a far lighter one than it is."

He showed them out, and presently they were bowling back through the moonlight to Wild Tor.

Nettie was waiting for them, and had supper ready on the table. They both did justice to her cookery, then Gwen said good-night to Wharton, and went up to her room for a few hours sleep before relieving Nettie in the sick room.

"I've been thinking it over while you were away," she said slowly. "And—and I wanted to tell you that I'm ashamed of myself, sir."

"You mean about Nick?" replied Wharton. "My dear, you need not be. Your feelings were perfectly natural. And I may tell you that Miss Keeling is of the same opinion as myself."

"And as for myself," he went on, "I, personally, think that that young scapegrace might do a great deal worse. By all accounts he badly needed someone to keep him in order. You have my very best wishes, Nettie, and my hopes that all will came right."

Nettie covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. But they were happy tears, and it was with a smile on his face that Wharton said good-night and went out into the moonlight.

In the event his hopes were justified. The operation on Nick, which was performed by Doctor Rayne, a famous surgeon and a personal friend of Wharton's, proved a complete success, and Nick, awoke again to his own long eclipsed personality.

At first, to Nettie's despair, he seemed to have forgotten all the events of the past eight months. But whether some vague recollection of Nettie's goodness still persisted, or whether it was her devoted nursing during his second convalescence, at any rate one day he announced to Gwen that he and Nettie were engaged to be married.

"You—you won't mind, Gwen," he said with a new found modesty that became him well.

"On the contrary, I am very pleased, Nick. Nettie is a dear girl, and I shall welcome her as a sister-in-law."

"Wharton says I may get up next week. And Kit declares that his hair has grown long enough to be respectable. What do you say to a double wedding, Gwen?"

THE END