e last words of
Miss Jones's sentence.

"He was like many famous characters in history, I used to think. Once
I remember reading about Oliver Cromwell... 'Where is that dog? Hamlet!
Hamlet! Perhaps he's gone after the sheep. Ah! there he is! Hamlet, you
naughty dog!'"

They were approaching one of their favourite pieces of country--Mellot
Wood. Here, on the wood's edge, the ground broke away, running down in a
field of corn to a little green valley with clustered trees that showed
only their heads, so thickly embedded were they, and beyond the valley
the sea. The sea looked quite close here, although it was in reality
four miles distant. Never was such a place as this view for light and
shadow. The clouds raced like the black wings of enormous birds across
the light green valley, and the red-gold of the cornfield was tossed
into the haze and swept like a golden shadow across the earth, bending
back again when the breeze had died. Behind Mellot Wood was Mellot Farm,
an old eighteenth-century house about which there was a fine tragic
story with a murder and a ghost in it, and this, of course, gave Mellot
Wood an additional charm. When they arrived at the outskirts of Mellot
Wood Mary looked about her. It was here, on the edge of the Rafiel Road
that skirted the wood, that she had once seen the dog-man eating his
luncheon out of a red pocket-handkerchief. There was no sign of him
to-day. All was silent and still. Only the little wood uttered little
sighs of content beneath the flying clouds. Hamlet, tired with his
racing after imaginary rabbits, walked quietly along by Mary's side.
What was she to do? She had once again the desperate feeling that
something stronger than she had swept down upon her and was forcing
her to do this thing. She seemed to have no will of her own, but to be
watching some other commit an act whose dangerous wickedness froze her
heart. How could she? But she must. Someone was doing it for her.

And in very truth it seemed so. Miss Jones said that now they were
here she might as well call upon Miss Andrews, the sister of the Mellot
farmer. Miss Andrews had promised her some ducks' eggs. They pushed open
the farm gate, passed across the yard and knocked on the house door.
Near Mary was a large barn with a heavy door, now ajar. Hamlet
sat gazing pensively at a flock of geese, his tongue out, panting
contentedly.

"Wait here one minute, Mary," said Miss Jones. "I won't stay."

Miss Jones disappear