ng at Thorpe. I
sheltered a criminal and helped him to escape."

"So it was you who did that," she remarked. "You mean, of course, the
man who killed Mr. Hurd?"

"Yes!" he answered. "I showed him where to hide. He either got clean
away, or he is lying at the bottom of the slate quarry. In either case,
I am responsible for him."

"Well," she said, "he is not at the bottom of the slate quarry. I can at
least assure you of that. I have had the place dragged, and every foot
of it gone over by experienced men from Nottingham."

"Really," he said, surprised. "Well, I am glad of it."

She sighed.

"I want you, if you can," she said, "to describe the man to me. It is
not altogether curiosity. I have a reason for wishing to know what he
was like."

"He was in such a state of panic," Macheson said doubtfully, "that I am
afraid I have only an imperfect impression of him. He was not very tall,
he had a round face, cheeks that were generally, I should think, rather
high-coloured, brown eyes and dark hair, almost black. He wore a thick
gold ring on the finger of one hand, and although he spoke good English,
I got the idea somehow that he was either a foreigner or had lived
abroad. He was in a terrible state of fear, and from what I could
gather, I should say that he struck old Mr. Hurd in a scuffle, and not
with any deliberate intention of hurting him."

She nodded.

"I have heard all that I want to," she declared.

They walked on in silence for several minutes. Then she turned to him
with a shrug of the shoulders.

"The subject," she declared, "is dismissed. I did not ask you to walk
with me to discuss such unpleasant things. I should like to know about
yourself."

He sighed.

"About myself," he answered, "there is nothing to tell. There isn't in
the whole of London a more unsatisfactory person."

She laughed softly.

"Such delightful humility," she murmured, "especially amongst the young,
is too touching. Nevertheless, go on. It amuses me to hear."

The note of imperiousness in her tone was pleasantly reminiscent. It was
the first reminder he had received of the great lady of Thorpe.

"Well," he said, "what do you want to know?"

"Everything," she answered. "I am possessed by a most unholy curiosity.
Your relatives for instance, and where you were born."

He shook his head.

"I have no relatives," he answered. "I was born in Australia. I am an
orphan, twenty-eight years old, and feel forty-eight, no profe