ed to his narration greatly enhanced
Master Toogood's own delight therein, more especially as the petty
constable had, as if instinctively, measured his steps with those of the
younger man and was accompanying him on his way towards the Court.

Courage told his attentive listener all about Master Busy's surmises and
his determination to probe the secrets of the mysterious crime,
which--to be quite truthful--the worthy butler with the hard toes had
scented long ere it was committed, seeing that he used to spend long
hours in vast discomfort in the forked branches of the old elms which
surrounded the pavilion at the boundary of the park.

Toogood had no notion if Master Busy had ever discovered anything of
interest in the neighborhood of that pavilion, and he was quite, quite
sure that the saintly man had never dared to venture inside that archaic
building, which had the reputation of being haunted; still, he was
over-gratified to perceive that the petty constable was vastly
interested in his tale--in spite of these obvious defects in its
completeness--and that, moreover, Master Pyot showed no signs of turning
on his heel, but continued to trudge along the gloomy road in company
with Sir Marmaduke's youngest serving-man.

Thus Editha, when she ran out of Mistress Lambert's cottage, her ears
ringing with the fanatic's curses, her heart breaking with the joy of
that reverent filial kiss imprinted upon her hands, found the road and
the precincts of the cottage entirely deserted.

The night was pitch dark after the rain. Great heavy clouds still hung
above, and an icy blast caught her skirts as she lifted the latch of the
gate and turned into the open.

But she cared little about the inclemency of the weather. She knew her
way about well enough and her mind was too full of terrible thoughts of
what was real, to yield to the subtle and feeble fears engendered by
imaginings of the supernatural.

Nay! she would, mayhap, have welcomed the pixies and goblins who by
mischievous pranks had claimed her attention. They would, of a truth,
have diverted her mind from the contemplation of that awful and
monstrous deed accomplished by the man whom she would meet anon.

If he whom the villagers had called Adam Lambert was her son, Henry Adam
de Chavasse, then Sir Marmaduke was the murderer of her child. All the
curses which the old Quakeress had so vengefully poured upon her were as
nothing compared with that awful, that terrible fa