ed. Mary, still under the strange sense that it
was not she, but another, who did these things, moved back to the barn,
calling softly to Hamlet. He followed her, sniffing a rat somewhere.
Very quickly she pulled back the door; he, still investigating his rat,
followed into the dark excitements of the barn. With a quick movement
she bent down, slipped off his collar, which she hid in her dress,
then shut him in. She knew that for a moment or two he would still be
pursuing his rat, and she saw, with guilty relief, Miss Jones come out
to her just as she had finished her evil deed.

"Miss Andrews is out," said Miss Jones. "They are all away at Liskane
Fair."

They left the farm and walked down the road. Hamlet had not begun his
cry.

IV

Miss Jones was pleased. "Such a nice servant," she said. "One of the
old kind. She had been with the family fifty years, she told me, and
had nursed Mr. Andrews on her knee. Fancy! Such a large fat man as he
is now. Too much beer, I suppose. I suppose they get so thirsty with
all the straw and hay about. Yes, a really nice woman. She told me that
there was no place in Glebeshire to touch them for cream. I dare say
they're right. After all, you never can tell. I remember at home..."

She broke off then and cried: "Where's Hamlet?"

Mary, wickeder than ever, stared through her spectacles down the road.
"I don't know, Miss Jones," she said. They had left the wood and the
farm, and there was nothing to be seen but the long white ribbon of road
hemmed in by the high hedges.

"Perhaps he stayed behind at the farm," said Miss Jones.

Then Mary told her worst lie.

"Oh, no, Miss Jones. He ran past us just now. Didn't you see him?"

"No, I didn't. He's gone on ahead, I suppose. He runs home sometimes.
Naughty dog! We shall catch him up."

But of course they did not. They passed through the gates of Cow Farm
and still nothing of Hamlet was to be seen.

"Oh dear! Oh dear!" said Miss Jones. "I do hope that he's arrived.
Whatever will Jeremy say if anything has gone wrong?"

Mary was breathing hard now, as though she had been running a desperate
race. She would at this moment have given all that she possessed, or all
that she was ever likely to possess, to recall her deed. If she could
have seen Hamlet rushing down the road towards her she would have cried
with relief; there seemed now to be suddenly removed from her that
outside agency that had forced her to do this thing; now,