vista of two or three little
Pograms behind her was hastily removed by the maid. And they all went
into the garden.

"Through here," said Mr. Pogram, coming to a side door in the garden
wall, "we can make a short cut to the police station. As we go along I
shall ask you one or two blunt questions." And he thrust out his under
lip:

"For instance, what's your interest in this matter?"

Before Felix could answer, Derek had broken in:

"My uncle has come out of kindness. It's my affair, sir. The man has
been tyrannously treated."

Mr. Pogram cocked his eye. "Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! He's not
confessed, I understand?"

"No; but--"

Mr. Pogram laid a finger on his lips.

"Never say die; that's what we're here for. So," he went on, "you're a
rebel; Socialist, perhaps. Dear me! Well, we're all of us something,
nowadays--I'm a humanitarian myself. Often say to Mrs.
Pogram--humanity's the thing in this age--and so it is! Well, now, what
line shall we take?" And he rubbed his hands. "Shall we have a try at
once to upset what evidence they've got? We should want a strong alibi.
Our friends here will commit if they can--nobody likes arson. I
understand he was sleeping in your cottage. His room, now? Was it on the
ground floor?"

"Yes; but--"

Mr. Pogram frowned, as who should say: Ah! Be careful! "He had better
reserve his defence and give us time to turn round," he said rather
shortly.

They had arrived at the police station and after a little parley were
ushered into the presence of Tryst.

The big laborer was sitting on the stool in his cell, leaning back
against the wall, his hands loose and open at his sides. His gaze passed
at once from Felix and Mr. Pogram, who were in advance, to Derek; and the
dumb soul seemed suddenly to look through, as one may see all there is of
spirit in a dog reach out to its master. This was the first time Felix
had seen him who had caused already so much anxiety, and that broad,
almost brutal face, with the yearning fidelity in its tragic eyes, made a
powerful impression on him. It was the sort of face one did not forget
and might be glad of not remembering in dreams. What had put this
yearning spirit into so gross a frame, destroying its solid coherence?
Why could not Tryst have been left by nature just a beer-loving serf,
devoid of grief for his dead wife, devoid of longing for the nearest he
could get to her again, devoid of susceptibility to this youn