of a twig, he gripped his weapon; a
moment later a round, dark shape appeared through the hole in the
hedge. Without hesitating Malcolm Sage struck.

There was a sound, half grunt, half sob, and Malcolm Sage was on his
feet gazing down at the strangest creature he had ever encountered.

Clothed in green, its face and hands smeared with some pigment of
the same colour, lay the figure of a tall man. Round the waist was a
belt from which was suspended in its case a Gurkha's kukri.

Malcolm Sage bent down to unbuckle the belt. He turned the man on
his back. As he did so he saw that in his hand was a small,
collapsible tin cup covered with blood, which also stained his lips
and chin, and dripped from his hands, whilst the front of his
clothing was stained in dark patches.

"I wonder who he is," muttered Thompson, as he gazed down at the
strange figure.

"Locally he is known as the Rev. Geoffrey Callice," remarked Malcolm
Sage quietly.

And Thompson whistled.

III

"And that damned scoundrel has been fooling us for two years." Sir
John Hackblock glared at Inspector Wensdale as if it were he who was
responsible for the deception.

They were seated smoking in Sir John's library after a particularly
early breakfast.

"I always said it was the work of a madman," said the inspector in
self-defence.

"Callice is no more mad than I am," snapped Sir John. "I wish I were
going to try him," he added grimly. "The scoundrel! To think----"
His indignation choked him.

"He is not mad in the accepted sense," said Malcolm Sage as he
sucked meditatively at his pipe. "I should say that it is a case of
race-memory."

"Race-memory! Dammit! what's that?" Sir John Hackblock snapped out
the words in his best parade-ground manner. He was more purple than
ever about the jowl, and it was obvious that he was prepared to
disagree with everyone and everything. As Lady Hackblock and her
domestics would have recognised without difficulty, Sir John was
angry.

"How the devil did you spot the brute?" he demanded, as Malcolm Sage
did not reply immediately.

"Race-memory," he remarked, ignoring the question, "is to man what
instinct is to animals; it defies analysis or explanation."

Sir John stared; but it was Inspector Wensdale who spoke.

"But how did you manage to fix the date, Mr. Sage?" he enquired.

"By the previous outrages," was the reply.

"The previous outrages!" cried Sir John. "Dammit! how did they help
you?"