this useful
habit. And, last," he added, flattening out a corner of the rag on the
table, "isn't it odd that it should be marked T.B.B.?"

The American gazed at the rudely inked initials, but hardly saw them.
What he saw, as in a mirror in his darkened memory, was the black figure
with the black gloves against the blood-red sunset, as he had seen it
when he came out of the wood, and which had always haunted him, he knew
not why.

"Of course, I see what you mean," he said, "and it's very painful for
me, for I knew and respected the man. But surely, also, it's very far
from explaining everything. If he is a murderer, is he a magician? Why
did the well water all evaporate in a night, and leave the dead man's
bones dry as dust? That's not a common operation in the hospitals, is
it?"

"As to the water, we do know the explanation," said the detective. "I
didn't tumble to it at first myself, being a Cockney; but a little talk
with Jake and the other fisherman about the old smuggling days put me
straight about that. But I admit the dried remains still stump us all.
All the same--"

A shadow fell across the table, and his talk was sharply cut short. Ashe
was standing under the painted sign, buttoned up grimly in black, and
with the face of the hanging judge, of which the poet had spoken, plain
this time in the broad sunlight. Behind him stood two big men in plain
clothes, very still; but Paynter knew instantly who they were.

"We must move at once," said the lawyer. "Dr. Burton Brown is leaving
the village."

The tall detective sprang to his feet, and Paynter instinctively
imitated him.

"He has gone up to the Trehernes possibly to say good-by," went on Ashe
rapidly. "I'm sorry, but we must arrest him in the garden there,
if necessary. I've kept the lady out of the way, I think. But
you"--addressing the factitious landscape painter--"must go up at once
and rig up that easel of yours near the table and be ready. We will
follow quietly, and come up behind the tree. We must be careful, for
it's clear he's got wind of us, or he wouldn't be doing a bolt."

"I don't like this job," remarked Paynter, as they mounted toward the
park and garden, the detective darting on ahead.

"Do you suppose I do?" asked Ashe; and, indeed, his strong, heavy face
looked so lined and old that the red hair seemed unnatural, like a red
wig. "I've known him longer than you, though perhaps I've suspected him
longer as well."

When they topped t