he
summer night he fancied that the very moon looked down upon him with a
chill stare as though wondering why he burdened the earth with his
presence when it was surely time for him to die!

It was not till he found that he was leaving the shore line, and that
one or two gas lamps twinkled faintly ahead of him, that he realized he
was entering the outskirts of a small town. Pausing a moment, he looked
about him. A high-walled castle, majestically enthroned on a steep
wooded height, was the first object that met his view,--every line of
its frowning battlements and turrets was seen clearly against the sky as
though etched out on a dark background with a pencil of light. A
sign-post at the corner of a winding road gave the direction "To Dunster
Castle." Reading this by the glimmer of the moon, Helmsley stood
irresolute for a minute or so, and then resumed his tramp, proceeding
through the streets of what he knew must be Dunster itself. He had no
intention of stopping in the town,--an inward nervousness pushed him on,
on, in spite of fatigue, and Dunster was not far enough away from Blue
Anchor to satisfy him. The scene of Tom o' the Gleam's revenge and death
surrounded him with a horrible environment,--an atmosphere from which he
sought to free himself by sheer distance, and he resolved to walk till
morning rather than remain anywhere near the place which was now
associated in his mind with one of the darkest episodes of human guilt
and suffering that he had ever known. Passing by the old inn known as
"The Luttrell Arms," now fast closed for the night, a policeman on his
beat stopped in his marching to and fro, and spoke to him.

"Hillo! Which way do you come from?"

"From Watchett."

"Oh! We've just had news of a murder up at Blue Anchor. Have you heard
anything of it?"

"Yes." And Helmsley looked his questioner squarely in the face. "It's a
terrible business! But the murderer's caught!"

"Caught is he? Who's got him?"

"Death!" And Helmsley, lifting his cap, stood bareheaded in the
moonlight. "He'll never escape again!"

The constable looked amazed and a little awed.

"Death? Why, I heard it was that wild gypsy, Tom o' the Gleam----"

"So it was,"--said Helmsley, gently,--"and Tom o' the Gleam is dead!"

"No! Don't say that!" ejaculated the constable with real concern.
"There's a lot of good in Tom! I shouldn't like to think he's gone!"

"You'll find it's true," said Helmsley. "And perhaps, when you get al