l
the details, you'll think it for the best. Good-night!"

"Are you staying in Dunster?" queried the officer with a keen glance.

"No. I'm moving on." And Helmsley smiled wearily as he again
said--"Good-night!"

He walked steadily, though slowly, through the sleeping town, and passed
out of it. Ascending a winding bit of road he found himself once more in
the open country, and presently came to a field where part of the fence
had been broken through by the cattle. Just behind the damaged palings
there was a covered shed, open in front, with a few bundles of straw
packed within it. This place suggested itself as a fairly comfortable
shelter for an hour's rest, and becoming conscious of the intense aching
of his limbs, he took possession of it, setting the small "Charlie" down
to gambol on the grass at pleasure. He was far more tired than he knew,
and remembering the "yerb wine" which Matt Peke had provided him with,
he took a long draught of it, grateful for its reviving warmth and tonic
power. Then, half-dreamily, he watched the little dog whom he had
rescued and befriended, and presently found himself vaguely entertained
by the graceful antics of the tiny creature which, despite its wounded
paw, capered limpingly after its own shadow flung by the moonlight on
the greensward, and attempted in its own playful way to attract the
attention of its new master and wile him away from his mood of utter
misery. Involuntarily he thought of the frenzied cry of Shakespeare's
"Lear" over the dead body of Cordelia:--

"What! Shall a dog, a horse, a rat, have life
And thou no breath at all!"

What curious caprice of destiny was it that saved the life of a dog, yet
robbed a father of his child? Who could explain it? Why should a happy
innocent little lad like Tom o' the Gleam's "Kiddie" have been hurled
out of existence in a moment as it were by the mad speed of a motor's
wheels,--and a fragile "toy" terrier, the mere whim of dog-breeders and
plaything for fanciful women, be plucked from starvation and death as
though the great forces of creation deemed it more worth cherishing than
a human being! For the murder of Lord Wrotham, Helmsley found
excuse,--for the death of Tom there was ample natural cause,--but for
the wanton killing of a little child no reason could justly be assigned.
Propping his elbows on his knees, and resting his aching head on his
hands, he thought and thought,--till Thought became almost as a fire in