d also for
the lash cut from the butt of the whip!"

My father took the stained thong in his fingers. It was curiously
braided, plait laid over plait, rather flat than round, and exceedingly
neat.

"This is not the lash of Harry Foster's whip," he said. "I ought to
know, because I sold him the whip. This is a worked lash, and if I
mistake not I know the fingers that wrought that pattern."

CHAPTER II

POACHER DAVIE

There was no more thought of school that day--neither on the part of
Mr. Mustard nor of any of his scholars. All the world (but not his
wife--by no means his wife) must needs go in search of Harry Foster and
his probable murderer. It was the first real mystery ever known in
Breckonside.

Now the missing carrier and postman had no open enemies. He was a
quiet, middle-aged man who had lived long in the village, a widower
without children; no man's foe, not even his own; a steady,
trustworthy, kindly man, "and," said Miss Harbishaw, the postmistress,
"to be trusted with untold gold," or, what was much more
(departmentally), with unsealed mail bags.

The telegraph was no doubt working hard to bring up officers from East
Dene, Clifton, and Thorsby, the big towns to the south. Meantime,
however, all the male population of Breckonside poured northward. But
Elsie and I got away the very first.

I wanted her to stay at home, but she would not. She would be more
frightened alone in that house by the Bridge End, she said, than with
me. So as I could not refuse Elsie many things, of course she had to
have permission to come. Besides, she would have come at any rate,
permission or no permission. It was difficult to be even with Elsie.
So I was very gracious and let her.

As soon as we were clear of the village and across the bridge, Elsie
and I came out upon Brom Common. This is a rare place for Saturdays at
all times of the year, but specially in autumn, because of the brambles
that grow there. Now it was all green and yellow with gorse bushes.
Artists painted it, coming all the way from East Dene and Thorsby to do
it. And Elsie and I found it good to bird-nest in. There were two
roads across the waste. One to the left struck off just past Elsie's
cottage, and the other went to the right; that was the road which Harry
Foster must have taken the night before. He had no calls to make on
the way. The letters for that district would be delivered by the
walking post carriers going to Bew