by turns before the glass, that they could only
see " something dark bobbing up and down at
the end of it." At last it was suggested that
Martin, the vicar's factotum, who had been out,
must be at home by this time, and a servant
being despatched in search of him, he presently
appeared and took my place at the glass:
through which he could see perfectly.

"He lives just there, sir, between the part
of the road wnere you say he disappeared and
the station," said Martin, when he had heard
all the foregoing particulars. "Just behind
that row of poplars you see down yonder."

This opened a new view of the matter. Martin
suggested that perhaps he had gone home,
and that the right course might be to send there
to capture him. The propriety of this, however,
I doubted.

"Keep your attention fixed upon the station,"
I said, "and let me be informed of all
that goes on there. He will find his way there
at last."

Martin kept his glass fixed on the little
building in silence. Everything appeared to be
at a standstill for the moment.

"An old woman carrying a basket is making
her way slowly to the station," said Martin;
"one or two other people are beginning to

"What sort of people?"

"Oh, not our man. One is a lad, looks like
a gentleman's groom, come to fetch some
parcel. The other is a miller with a sack of
meal. There are signs of some stir about the
place, and I can make out the porters moving
about. What time is it, sir?" asked the man,
suddenly.

"Twenty minutes past four," I answered.

"The down train is due at 4.29," said Martin.
"That accounts for the bustle."

"Where does it go to?" I asked.

"It's the Bristol train, sir," was the answer.

Just the place where, I thought, the murderer
would want to go.

"There's a cart driven by an old man with a
great many parcels, which the porters are removing,
and taking into the station; there's a
man with a couple of pointers coupled. The
train's coining, sir, I can see the smoke, and
they're working the signals as hard as they can
go. Here's a carriage driving up with a pair
of white horses. It's the Westbrook carriage—
I can see the liveries. There's Squire Westbrook
getting out, and there are the two young
ladies. Here's the postman with his leather
bag. Here's a woman with a little boy; the
train's in now, and they're just going to shut
the doors. Here comes somebody running.
Hi's a volunteer, one of our own corps. He'll
be too late. No; the porter sees him, and
beckons him to make haste. The volunteer
runs harder than ever, the porter drags him
into the station and the door is shut."

"Is there nobody else?" I asked, in violent
excitement.

"Not a soul, sir, and now the train is off."

"And are you sure you've not missed any
one?"

"Quite sure, sir."

I was profoundly disappointed, and for the
moment puzzled how to act. Watching the
station was, for the present, useless. There
would not be another train until eight o'clock
at night. The only chance under these circumstances
seemed to be the chance of finding the
man at his own house. Thither I determined
to go, thinking that even if he were not there I
might obtain some information from the neighbours
which might prove of use. I got a description
of the house and its situation from
Martin, and, leaving him with directions still to
keep a watch on the station, ran down-stairs, and
finding the horse I had ordered waiting for me
at the door, went off at full speed.

The horse carried me so well that in a very
short time I had reached the little clump of
cottages to which I had been directed, and one
of which was the dwelling-place of the murderer.
I dismounted, and throwing my horse's bridle
on the palings in front of the cottage, passed
along the little path which led to the door, and
proceeded to try the latch. The door was
locked. Looking up at the windows—there
were but two—I saw that they also were firmly
secured, and that the blinds were down. The
small abode had a deserted look, and I felt that
it was empty; but I knocked loudly, nevertheless,
and shook the door.

The noise of my arrival, and of my knocking,
at length disturbed some of the neighbours, and
one or two of them appeared.

"Is this William Mason's house?" I asked,
addressing one of them: an old man, who looked
tolerably intelligent, but wasn't.

"Yes, sir. But he's not there now. He's
gone out," the man replied, after a minute or
two devoted to thought.

"Gone out? How long ago?"

"Well," replied the man, after more time
spent in reflection, " I should think it was
about half an hour."

"Which way did he go?"

The old man took more time than ever to
consider this question, driving me almost wild
with his delay. Then, after looking first one
way and then the other, he pointed in the
direction of the station. I was already on
horseback again, and just about to move off,
when another of the neighbours interposed.

"I do think," said this one, speaking, if
possible, more deliberately than the other,
"that he went to his drill."

"Drill!" I cried. "What drill?"

"Why, volunteer drill, to be sure."

"What!" I screamed. "Was he a volunteer?"

"Yes, sir. The parson he requires everybody
in his employment——"

I did not wait for more, but galloped off,
as fast as my horse could go, to the railway
station. I saw it all now. In the interval
during which we had lost sight of the man he
lad been home, and, thinking that a change of
costume might baffle pursuit, had assumed the
volunteer dress as the best disguise at his disposal.