oodfellow glanced towards the stout, round man, who by this time
had drawn near, mopping, as he came, a face as red as the red
waistcoat he wore.

"Him a constable? Why, I took him for a loonatic! They put the
loonatics into them coloured weskits, don't they?"

"Nothing of the sort. You're thinking of the warders," Mr. Rogers
answered.

"Oh? Then I made a mistake," said Mr. Goodfellow, cheerfully.

"Look here, my friend, if you're thinking to play this off as a joke
you'll find it no joking matter. Madam"--he turned to Miss
Plinlimmon--"is this the man who called at the cottage two days ago."

"Yes," answered Plinny; "and once before, as I remember."

"And on each occasion did you observe something strange in his
manner?"

"Very strange indeed. He kept asking questions about the house and
garden, and the position of the rooms and about poor Major Brooks,
and what rent he paid, and if he was well-to-do. And he took out a
measure from his pocket and began to calculate--"

"Quite so." Mr. Rogers turned next to the constable. "Hosken," he
asked, "you have been making inquiries about this man?"

"I have, sir; all along the road, so far as Torpoint Ferry."

"And you learnt enough to justify you in arresting him?"

"Ample, y'r worship. There wasn't a public-house along the road but
thought his behaviour highly peculiar. He's a well-known character,
an' the questions he asks you would be surprised. He plies between
Falmouth and Plymouth, sir, once a week regular. So, actin' on
information that he might be expected along early this morning, I
concealed myself in the hedge, sir, the best part of two miles
back--"

"You didn't," interrupted Mr. Goodfellow. "I saw your red stomach
between the bushes thirty yards before ever I came to it, and
wondered what mischief you was up to. I'm wondering still."

"At any rate, you are detained, sir, upon suspicion," said Mr. Rogers
sharply, "and will come with us to the cottage and submit to be
searched."

"Brooks," asked Mr. Goodfellow feebly, "what's wrong with 'em?
And what are you doing here?"

"Mr. Rogers," I broke in, "I know this man. His name is Goodfellow;
he lives at Falmouth; and you are wrong, quite wrong, in suspecting
him. But what is more, Mr. Rogers, you are wasting time.
There's blood on the stile down the lane. Whoever broke into the
garden must have escaped that way--by the path through the
plantation--"

"Eh?" Mr. Rogers jumped at me a