in hand with better results. He agreed to tell all he knew, on being
promised full and certain protection.

And it was something like this that he told his story, as it proved the
only direct evidence in the case, at least for many and many a day.

"Doctor dear," he began, "ye are a married man yourself, and you will
not be misunderstanding me when I ask that anything I may say shall not
be used against me?"

The Fiscal looked up quickly.

"I warn you that it will," he said, "if you have had any hand in this
murder!"

"Murder, is it?"--(Boyd Connoway gave a short grunting laugh)--"Aye,
maybe, but 'tis not the murder that has been, but the murder that will
be, if my wife Bridget gets wind of this! That's why I ask that it
should be kept between ourselves--so that Bridget should not know!"

"Women," said the Fiscal oracularly, "must not be allowed to interfere
with the evenhanded and fearless administration of justice."

"Then I take it," said Boyd, with a twinkle of the old mirth flickering
up into his white and anxious face, "that your honour is not a married
man!"

"No," said the Fiscal, with a smile.

"Then, if I may make so bould, your honour knows nothing about how it is
'twixt Bridget and me. His riverence the Doctor now----"

"Tell us what you know without digressions," said the Fiscal; "no use
will be made of your evidence save in pursuing and bringing to justice
the criminal."

"He's gone," said Boyd Connoway solemnly, "and a good riddance to the
parish!"

"Wha-a-at?" cried the three magistrates simultaneously. And the Fiscal
started to his feet.

"Who has gone?" he cried, and mechanically he drew from his pocket a
silver call to summon his constables from the kitchen, where my uncles
and they were having as riotous a time as they dared while so many great
folk sat pow-wowing in the parlour near at hand.

"Who?" repeated Boyd Connoway, "well, I don't know for certain, but
perhaps this little piece of paper will put you gentlemen on the track."

And he handed over a letter, much stained with sea-water and sand. The
heel of a boot had trodden upon and partly obliterated the writing, the
ink having run, and the whole appearance of the document being somewhat
draggle-tailed.

But there was no doubt about the address. That was clearly written in a
fine flowing English hand, "To His Excellency Lalor Maitland, late
Governor of the Meuse, Constable of Dinant, etc., etc. _These_"--

We all looked a