ulse.

"To Duddon?" Faversham shook his head. "Thank you--impossible." Then he
looked up. "Undershaw told you what I told him?"

Tatham assented. There was an awkward pause--broken at last by Faversham.

"How did Miss Melrose get home?"

"Luckily I came across her at the foot of the Duddon hill, and I helped
her home. She's all right--though of course it's a ghastly shock for
them."

"I never knew she was here--till she had gone," exclaimed Faversham, with
sudden animation, "Otherwise--I should have helped her."

He stood erect, his pale look fixed threateningly on Tatham.

"I'm sure you would," said Tatham, heartily. "Well now, I must be off. I
have promised Marvell to put as many men as possible to work in with the
police. You have no idea at all as to the identity of the man who ran
past you?"

"None!" Faversham repeated the word, as though groping in his memory.
"None. I never saw Will Brand that I can recollect. But the description
of him seems to tally with the man who knocked me over."

"Well, we'll find him," said Tatham briskly. "Any message for Green
Cottage?"

"My best thanks. I am very grateful to them."

The words were formal. He sank heavily into his chair, as though wishing
to end the interview. Tatham departed.

* * * * *

The inquest opened in the evening. Faversham and the Dixons gave their
evidence. So did Undershaw and the police. The jury viewed the body, and
leave to bury was granted. Then the inquiry adjourned.

For some ten days afterward, the whole of the Lake district hung upon the
search for Brand. From the Scawfell and Buttermere group on its western
verge, to the Ullswater mountains on the east; from Skiddaw and
Blencathra on the north, southward through all the shoulders and edges,
the tarns and ghylls of the Helvellyn range; through the craggy fells of
Thirlmere, Watendlath, Easedale; over the high plateaus that run up to
the Pikes, and fall in precipice to Stickle Tarn; through the wild clefts
and corries of Bowfell, the Crinkles, Wetherlam and the Old Man; over the
desolate backs and ridges that stretch from Kirkstone to Kentmere and
Long Sleddale, the great man-hunt passed, enlisting ever fresh feet, and
fresh eyes in its service. Every shepherd on the high fells became a
detective, speeding news, or urging suggestions, by the old freemasonry
of their tribe; while every farmhouse in certain dales, within reach of
the scene of the murder, s