ooked forward to it throughout the day.
The companionship of this beloved brother of hers had been the chief joy
of her life.

But things were different now. It was her part to serve the meal, to
clear the table, and to wash the dishes Jack and Adela were complete
without her. Though they always welcomed her when the work was done, she
knew that her society was wholly unessential, and she often prolonged her
labours in the scullery that she might not intrude too soon upon them.
She was no longer necessary to anyone--except to Robin the faithful,
who followed her as her shadow. She had become Number Three, and she was
lonely--she was lonely!

CHAPTER III

FLETCHER HILL

There came a sound of hoofs thudding over the pastures. Robin lifted his
eyebrows and cocked his ears with a growl.

Dot barely glanced up from the saucepan she was cleaning; her lips
tightened a little, that was all.

The hoofs drew rapidly nearer, dropping from a canter to a quick trot
that ended in a clattering walk on the stones of the yard. Through the
open window Dot heard the heavy thud of a man's feet as he jumped to the
ground.

Then came Jack's voice upraised in greeting. "Hallo, Fletcher! Come in,
man! Come in! Delighted to see you."

The voice that spoke in answer was short and clipped. Somehow it had an
official sound. "Hallo, Jack! Good evening, Mrs. Burton! What! Alone?"

Jack laughed. "Dot's in the kitchen. Hi! little 'un! Bring some drinks!"

Robin was on his feet, uttering low, jerky barks. Dot put aside her
saucepan and began to wash her hands. She did not hasten to obey Jack's
call, but when she turned to collect glasses on a tray she was trembling
and her breath came quickly, as if from violent exercise.

Nevertheless she did not hesitate, but went straight through to the
little parlour, carrying her tray with the jingling glasses upon it.

Fletcher Hill was facing her as she entered, a tall man, tough and
muscular, with black hair that was tinged with grey, and a long stubborn
jaw that gave him an indomitable look. His lips were thin and very firm,
with a sardonic twist that imparted a faintly supercilious expression.
His eyes were dark, deep-set, and shrewd. He was a magistrate of some
repute in the district, a position which he had attained by sheer
unswerving hard work in the police force, in which for years he had
been known as "Bloodhound Hill." A man of rigid ideas and stern justice,
he had forced his way