these, and a jolly easy way, too--that is, the police were not going to
do anything more in the matter, unless something fresh turned up. And
it would have to be something mighty fresh, too, to move them. They
had all got so sick of the whole business.

There was just one thing that kept me back. That was, I was nearly
sure that Elsie's grandfather had something to do with the whole series
of crimes of which the death of poor Harry was only the last and the
most senseless. Perhaps not Mr. Stennis directly, but somebody about
Deep Moat Grange. So, of course, I did not want to bring Elsie into it
if I could help it. Because if her grandfather was a murderer, and if
all the missing drovers and absconding cattle dealers were laid to his
account, and he hanged for it, it would be clearly impossible for Elsie
to go on living with Nance Edgar at the Bridge End. And as I was not
yet ready to make other arrangements for her (besides being mortally
afraid of the curate), I said nothing to any one--least of all to Elsie
herself.

I think I had suspected everybody for miles round in turn--from Mr.
Codling the policeman to the vicar himself. As for poor Mr. Ball, I
had him so completely under observation, and was so sure of his guilt,
that when the unfortunate bailiff went out only to fodder the cattle, I
followed stealthily in his footsteps, sure that the secret of the
mystery lay in the range of cattle sheds or under the pigs' feeding
troughs. In the end I only managed to get a welting from father for
coming home all muddy from head to foot--and not pleasant mud at that.

But really I did not mind. I was always glad when I got home safe.
Now I know that I was taking my life in my hands every minute. Even
then I had glimmerings of the fact. The folks of Breckonside might
say, as they always did, that the killing of poor Harry was the work of
some chance tramps, who would be far away by the next morning. But
putting everything together, just as Sherlock Holmes used to do, I
couldn't make it out at all. I had his spirit, but not his luck--no,
not by any means his luck.

This, however, was what I made out. Harry had jogged on till he met
with some one whom he knew, that is, almost immediately after he parted
with Davie Elshiner, the poacher. He had talked, parleyed, and then
accepted company. Then some one of these, sitting on the back seat of
the dog cart, had covered up his mouth and butchered him most foully.
A