n
terror; but both neighbours and police firmly believed that he had seen
the murderer. There were also various mysterious thefts of food reported
from mountain farms, indications hotly followed up but to no purpose.
Would the culprit, starved out, be forced in time to surrender; or would
he die of privation and exposure among the high fells, in the snowdrifts,
and leave the spring, when it came, to uncover his bones?

Toward the end of the month the snowstorms of its earlier days passed
into a chilly and continuous rain; there was still snow on the heights.
The steady downpour presently flooded the rivers, and sent the streams
racing in torrents down the hills.

Christmas was over. The new year was at hand. One afternoon, Boden,
oppressed in spirit, sallied forth from the Tower into the floods and
mists of St. John's Vale. He himself had taken no part in the great
pursuit. He believed now that the poor hunted creature would find his
lonely end among the wintry mountains, and rejoiced to think it might be
so. The adjourned inquest was to be resumed the following day, and no
doubt some verdict would be returned. It was improbable, in spite of the
malice at work, that any attempt would be made--legally--to incriminate
Faversham.

It was of Faversham that he was chiefly thinking. When he had first
proposed his companionship, the day after the murder, it had been quietly
accepted, with a softened look of surprise, and he and Undershaw had
since kept watch over a bewildered man, protecting him as far as they
could from the hostile world at his gates.

How he would emerge--what he meant to do with Melrose's vast heritage,
Boden had no idea. His life seemed to have shrunk into a dumb, trancelike
state. He rarely or never left the house; he could not be induced to
go either to Duddon or to the Cottage; nor would he receive visitors. He
had indeed seen his solicitors, but had said not a word to Boden on the
subject. It was rumoured that Nash was already endeavouring to persuade
a distant cousin of Melrose and Lady Tatham to dispute the will.

Meanwhile, through Boden, Lydia Penfold had been kept in touch with a man
who could not apparently bring himself to reopen their relation. Boden
saw her nearly every day; they had become fast friends. Victoria too was
as often at the cottage as the state of Netta Melrose allowed, and she
and Lydia, born to understand each other, had at last arrived thereat.

But Mrs. Melrose was dying