, to Edinburgh and Glasgow.
But that I only knew from hearsay. At any rate it was old, and so were
the woods all about it. Centuries old they were, and the fine old
house among them was called Deep Moat Grange. It stood right in the
middle, and had always been inhabited by rich folk. But, only a few
years before, my father had done it all up for old Mr. Stennis, whom
they called the Golden Farmer, because of the great deal of money he
had made farming and dealing in cattle. He was living there now, and
for that matter was Elsie's very own grandfather. We called him the
Unnatural, because he would have nothing to do with her--all because of
something her mother had done long ago, before Elsie was so much as
born. But he was a lusty old cock bird, and being rich was much
respected. He bred first-rate sporting terriers that brought in a
power of money, my father said. We knew all about him, too, that is as
much as any one knew, because Nance Edgar sometimes worked there by
favour of the farm bailiff, Mr. Simon Ball.

Elsie and I were standing at the turn of the road looking at the tracks
of the wheels which Harry Foster's cart had made in the grass, when who
should come up but the very man, Mr. Ball, the bailiff at Deep Moat
Grange.

He knew me, which was nothing extraordinary. They say I am the image
of what my father was at my age, and, of course, everybody knows him.
If they don't, he tells them, and sees if he can do business with them.

Well, Mr. Ball came up and asked us what we were looking at, and when
we had told him, he blurted out all in a gabble that he had seen the
blue and red cart with the piebald mare come tearing over the moor road
yesterday morning. He had been in the little "lantern" above the
drying-room at the corn mill, which is so high that you can see over
the tree tops and look right out on the moor. He thought it was a
runaway, but when he had time to run down to the end of the avenue, he
could only see it like a little square dab rocking and lurching from
one side of the road to the other, and scraping trees and bushes like
all possessed.

"And has nobody come to tell you that poor Harry Foster is murdered?" I
said.

"I heard the men in the yard talking about some such suspicion," he
said quite calmly, "but nobody has been here. You see, Master Yarrow,
our old gov'nor, Mr. Stennis, has been up in London for three days
seeing his lawyer, and he don't like folk coming about the G