nning hot-foot to the rescue.

Prompt and stringent measures saved the victim--but only just. For a
time the best sheep-dog in the North was pawing at the Gate of Death. In
the end, as the gray dawn broke, the danger passed.

The attempt to get at him, if attempt it was, aroused passionate
indignation in the countryside. It seemed the culminating-point of the
excitement long bubbling.

There were no traces of the culprit; not a vestige to lead to
incrimination, so cunningly had the criminal accomplished his foul task.
But as to the perpetrator, if there where no proofs there were yet fewer
doubts.

At the Sylvester Arms, Long Kirby asked M'Adam point-blank for his
explanation of the matter.

"Hoo do I 'count for it?" the little man cried. "I dinna 'count for it
ava."

"Then hoo did it happen?" asked Tammas with asperity.

"I dinna believe it did happen," the little man replied. "It's a lee
o' James Moore's--a characteristic lee." Whereon they chucked him out
incontinently; for the Terror for once was elsewhere.

Now that afternoon is to be remembered for threefold causes. Firstly,
because, as has been said, M'Adam was alone. Secondly, because, a few
minutes after his ejectment, the window of the tap-room was thrown open
from without, and the little man looked in. He spoke no word, but those
dim, smouldering eyes of his wandered from face to face, resting for
a second on each, as if to burn them on his memory. "I'll remember ye,
gentlemen," he said at length quietly, shut the window, and was gone.

Thirdly, for a reason now to be told.

Though ten days had elapsed since the attempt on him, the gray dog had
never been his old self since. He had attacks of shivering; his vitality
seemed sapped; he tired easily, and, great heart, would never own it.
At length on this day, James Moore, leaving the old dog behind him, had
gone over to Grammoch-town to consult Dingley, the vet. On his way home
he met Jim Mason with Gyp, the faithful Betsy's unworthy successor, at
the Dalesman's Daughter. Together they started for the long tramp home
over the Marches. And that journey is marked with a red stone in this
story.

All day long the hills had been bathed in impenetrable fog. Throughout
there had been an accompanying drizzle; and in the distance the wind
had moaned a storm-menace. To the darkness of the day was added the
sombreness of falling night as the three began the ascent of the
Murk Muir Pass. By the time they eme