do, for they merely peeped in at the door, and one
of them, in rather a relieved tone, said I wasn't in there, wherever I
was. One of the fishermen replied that he expected that I was far enough
off by that time. They stood at the door for a few moments, talking
about the murder, and then they went away.

"I stayed in the barn all day, but nobody else came near me. When it was
dark, I filled my pockets with apples from the shelves, and went out. I
wandered about all night, and found myself close to a railway station at
daybreak. I had been in that part of the country before, so I knew where
I was--not far from Heathfield, with Flegne about three miles away
across the fields. The country was nearly all open, and consequently
unsafe. As I walked through a field I spied a little hut, almost hidden
from view in a clump of trees. The door was open, and I could see it was
empty. I went in, lay down, and fell fast asleep.

"When I awoke it was getting dusk. I was very stiff and cold, so I
started out walking again to get myself warm. It was then, I remember
well, that the longing came over me to see Peggy again. I cursed myself
for my weakness, knowing what I knew--or thought I knew, God forgive
me.

"I found myself making my way back to Flegne as fast as my legs would
carry me--which wasn't very fast, because I was weak from want of food,
and so footsore that I could hardly stumble along. But I got over the
three miles somehow, and reached the wood, where I crawled into some
undergrowth, and lay there all night, sometimes dozing, sometimes wide
awake, and sometimes a bit light-headed, I think. It was there you found
me next day, and I was glad you did. I was about finished when I saw you
looking through the bushes and only too glad to come out. I didn't care
what happened to me then. And now, I have told you all."

The young man, as he finished his story, buried his face in his hands,
as though overcome by the recollection of the mental anguish he had been
through, and what he had endured.

"Not quite all, I think," said Colwyn, after a pause.

"I have told you everything that counts," said Penreath, without looking
up.

"You have not," replied the detective firmly. "You have not told me all
you saw when you were looking through the door between the two rooms the
night of the murder."

Penreath raised his head and regarded the other with startled eyes.

"What do you mean?" he said, in a whisper.

"I mean that you