be vainly trying to mend. As Delane came up
with him, he looked up and asked for a light. Delane produced a match,
and the young man, by the help of it, inspected his broken machine.

"No go!" he said with a shrug, "I shall have to walk."

He rose from the ground, put up the tool he had been using, and buttoned
up his coat. Then he asked Delane where he was going. Delane named a
little village on the farther edge of the common.

"Oh, well, that's straight ahead. I turn off to the right," said the
young soldier, "at the cross road."

They walked on together, Delane rather unwillingly submitting to the
companionship thus sprung upon him. He saw from the badge on the man's
shoulder that he belonged to one of the Canadian Forestry Corps in the
district, and was at once on his guard. They started in silence, till
Delane, pulling his mind back with a jerk, asked his companion if he was
going to Ipscombe.

"No--only to Great End Farm."

Darkness hid the sudden change in Delane's countenance.

"You know some one there?"

"No, but I want to see one of the ladies about something. There's two of
them running the farm. But Miss Henderson's the boss."

Cautiously, with assumed indifference, Delane began to ask questions.

He discovered that his companion's name was Dempsey; and before many
minutes had passed the murderer's grandson was in the full swing of his
story. Delane, despising the young man for a chattering fool, listened,
nevertheless, with absorbed attention to every item of his tale.
Presently Dempsey said with a laugh,--

"There's been people in Ipscombe all these years as always would have it
old Watson walked. I know the names of three people at least as have
sworn to seein' 'im. And there's an old fellow in Ipscombe now that
declares he's seen him, only t'ther day."

Delane lit his pipe, and nonchalantly inquired particulars.

Dempsey gave a mocking account of Halsey's story.

"He's an old fool! Did you ever hear of a ghost bleedin' before!" The
speaker threw back his head and laughed. "That's all rot! Besides, I
don't believe in ghosts--never did. But as Miss Henderson's farmin' the
very land where old Watson was done in, I thought she'd like to have the
true story and first hand. And there's no one but me knows it--not first
hand. So I wrote to her, and said as I would call at six o'clock this
evening."

"You know her?"

"No--o," said the young man, hesitating. "But I somehow fancy as I may
have