r.

"My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many
virtues and few vices," he mused aloud.

Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony
poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on
each occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly in
evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at a
dust-laden bottle.

"What is there in 'The Talisman' which needed so much research?" he
asked.

"Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott," was the answer.

"Are these they?" And Hart read:

One thing is certain in our Northern land;
Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
Give each precedence to their possessor,
Envy, that follows on such eminence,
As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace,
Shall pull them down each one.

"Yes," said Grant.

"Love isn't mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You're in luck, my
boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee
whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What
is a lyme-hound?"

"'Lyme,' or 'leam,' is the old-time word for 'leash.'"

"Good!" said Hart. "That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner
every day, Jack. He's a tonic!"

Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris
to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad
village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped
her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:

"Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don't worry. The tangle
will right itself in time."

"Poor Mr. Grant is suffering," she ventured to murmur.

"And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I'll wait here
till you are behind a locked door."

"No one in Steynholme will hurt me," she said.

"You never can tell. I'm not taking any chances to-night, however."

So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a hand
to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine June
night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each
other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel,
was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of
a ground-floor room in P.C. Robinson's abode.

The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.
Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.

"Who