of un seed since.
They've sent to the station 'bout it a'ready; an' they 'm scourin' the
airth for un. An' 't was Maister Blanchard as fought wi' Bonus, for Sam
said so."

"Guy Fawkes an' angels! Here, you mix this. I must tell Miller an' run
about a bit. Gwaine to be a gert day, by the looks of it!"

He hurried into the house, met his master and began with breathless
haste,--

"Awful doin's! Awful doin's, Miller. Such a sweet-smellin' marnin', tu!
Bear yourself stiff against it, for us caan't say what remains to be
told."

"What's wrong now? Doan't choke yourself. You 'm grawin' tu auld for all
the excitements of modern life, Billy. Wheer's Will?"

"You may well ax. Sleepin' still, I reckon, for he comed in long arter
midnight. I was stirrin' at the time an' heard un. Sleepin' arter black
deeds, if all they tell be true."

"Black deeds!"

"The bwoy Ted's just comed wi' it. 'T is this way: Bonus be at death's
door wi' a smashed nose, an' Blanchard done it; an' Jan Grimbal's
vanished off the faace o' the airth. Not a sign of un seed arter he
drove away last night from the Jubilee gathering. An' if 't is murder,
you'll be in the witness-box, knawin' the parties same as you do; an'
the sow 's got a braave litter, though what's that arter such news?"

"Guess you 'm dreamin', Blee," said Mr. Lyddon, as he took his hat and
walked into the farmyard.

Billy was hurt.

"Dreamin', be I? I'm a man as dreams blue murders, of coourse! Tu auld
to be relied on now, I s'pose. Theer! Theer!" he changed his voice and
it ran into a cracked scream of excitement. "Theer! P'r'aps I'm
dreamin', as Inspector Chown an' Constable Lamacraft be walkin' in the
gate this instant moment!"

But there was no mistaking this fact. Abraham Chown entered, marched
solemnly to the party at the door, cried "Halt!" to his subordinate,
then turned to Mr. Lyddon.

"Good-day to you, Miller," he said, "though 't is a bad day, I'm
fearin'. I be here for Will Blanchard, _alias_ Tom Newcombe."

"If you mean my son-in-law, he 's not out of bed to my knawledge."

"Dear sawls! Doan't 'e say 't is blue murder--doan't 'e say that!"
implored Mr. Blee. His head shook and his tongue revolved round his
lips.

"Not as I knaws. We 'm actin' on instructions from the military to
Plymouth."

"Theer 's allus wickedness hid under a alias notwithstanding," declared
Billy, rather disappointed; "have 'e found Jan Grimbal?"

"They be searchin' for un. Jim Luke, I