he slope of the garden the detective had already
erected his easel, though a strong breeze blowing toward the sea rattled
and flapped his apparatus and blew about his fair (and false) beard
in the wind. Little clouds curled like feathers, were scudding seaward
across the many-colored landscape, which the American art critic had
once surveyed on a happier morning; but it is doubtful if the landscape
painter paid much attention to it. Treherne was dimly discernible in the
doorway of what was now his house; he would come no nearer, for he
hated such a public duty more bitterly than the rest. The others posted
themselves a little way behind the tree. Between the lines of these
masked batteries the black figure of the doctor could be seen coming
across the green lawn, traveling straight, as a bullet, as he had done
when he brought the bad news to the woodcutter. To-day he was smiling,
under the dark mustache that was cut short of the upper lip, though
they fancied him a little pale, and he seemed to pause a moment and peer
through his spectacles at the artist.

The artist turned from his easel with a natural movement, and then in a
flash had captured the doctor by the coat collar.

"I arrest you--" he began; but Doctor Brown plucked himself free with
startling promptitude, took a flying leap at the other, tore off his
sham beard, tossing it into the air like one of the wild wisps of the
cloud; then, with one wild kick, sent the easel flying topsy-turvy, and
fled like a hare for the shore. Even at that dazzling instant Paynter
felt that this wild reception was a novelty and almost an anticlimax;
but he had no time for analysis when he and the whole pack had to follow
in the hunt; even Treherne bringing up the rear with a renewed curiosity
and energy.

The fugitive collided with one of the policemen who ran to head him
off, sending him sprawling down the slope; indeed, the fugitive seemed
inspired with the strength of a wild ape. He cleared at a bound the
rampart of flowers, over which Barbara had once leaned to look at her
future lover, and tumbled with blinding speed down the steep path up
which that troubadour had climbed. Racing with the rushing wind they all
streamed across the garden after him, down the path, and finally on to
the seashore by the fisher's cot, and the pierced crags and caverns the
American had admired when he first landed. The runaway did not, however,
make for the house he had long inhabited, but rath