--relied
for help and advice upon an old shipmate of his, also a coast-guard,
called Ned Commins. It was Ned Commins they followed when he was moved
to the east coast, the father being by this time retired on a pension.
And that is really all. I was weary, ashamed of my curiosity, and
followed the search no further."

"You must follow it now," said Parson Chichester quietly.

"That's understood."

"What do you propose as the first step?"

"Why, to ride to Meriton to-morrow, and get Miles Chandon's address.
He's somewhere in the South of France. It's ten years or so since we
parted, that evening of the funeral; but a telegram from me will fetch
him, or I am mistaken."

"Let me save you some trouble. To-morrow is Sunday, and my parishioners
will be glad enough to escape a sermon at Morning Service. Let me cut
the sermon and ride over to Meriton, get the address and bring it to
Culvercoombe. I ought to reach there by three in the afternoon, but the
precise hour does not matter, since in these parts there's no
telegraphing before Monday."

"That's a good neighbourly offer, and I'll accept it," answered Miss
Sally. "I could ride over to Meriton myself, of course. But Tossell
has promised to bring the children to Culvercoombe in the early
afternoon, and this will give you an excuse to be present. Some
questions may occur to you between this and then; and, anyway, I'd like
to have you handy."

No more was said. They parted, having come to a point where the rising
moon showed their paths lying separate across the moor. Their lonely
homes lay eight miles apart. Even by daylight one unaccustomed to the
moor could hardly have detected the point where the track divided in the
smothering heather. But these two could have found it even in the dark;
being hunters both, and children of the moor, born and bred.

Had they known it, even while they talked together, something was
happening to upset their plans for the morrow, and for days to come.

The children, as they left the parlour, had been intercepted by Mrs.
Tossell with the information that tea was ready for them in the kitchen.

"Wot, another meal?" said Tilda.

Twenty-four hours ago a world that actually provided too much to eat
would have been inconceivable by her. But already the plenty of Inistow
was passing from a marvel into a burden. It seemed to her that the
great kitchen fire never rested, as indeed it seldom did. Even when the
house slept,