e a beaten hound.

Tingling with my recent fear, I stood at my door, peering through the
night with the discordant cry of the fugitives still ringing in my ears.
At that moment a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the whole landscape
and made it as clear as day. By its light I saw far away upon the
hillside two dark figures pursuing each other with extreme rapidity
across the fells. Even at that distance the contrast between them forbid
all doubt as to their identity. The first was the small, elderly man,
whom I had supposed to be dead; the second was my neighbour, the surgeon.
For an instant they stood out clear and hard in the unearthly light; in
the next, the darkness had closed over them, and they were gone. As I
turned to re-enter my chamber, my foot rattled against something on my
threshold. Stooping, I found it was a straight knife, fashioned entirely
of lead, and so soft and brittle that it was a strange choice for a
weapon. To render it more harmless, the top had been cut square off. The
edge, however, had been assiduously sharpened against a stone, as was
evident from the markings upon it, so that it was still a dangerous
implement in the grasp of a determined man.

And what was the meaning of it all? you ask. Many a drama which I have
come across in my wandering life, some as strange and as striking as this
one, has lacked the ultimate explanation which you demand. Fate is a
grand weaver of tales; but she ends them, as a rule, in defiance of all
artistic laws, and with an unbecoming want of regard for literary
propriety. As it happens, however, I have a letter before me as I write
which I may add without comment, and which will clear all that may remain
dark.

"KIRKBY LUNATIC ASYLUM,
"_September_ 4_th_, 1885.

"SIR,--I am deeply conscious that some apology and explanation is due
to you for the very startling and, in your eyes, mysterious events
which have recently occurred, and which have so seriously interfered
with the retired existence which you desire to lead. I should have
called upon you on the morning after the recapture of my father, but
my knowledge of your dislike to visitors and also of--you will excuse
my saying it--your very violent temper, led me to think that it was
better to communicate with you by letter.

"My poor father was a hard-working general practitioner in Birmingham,
where his name is still remembered and respected. About ten yea