d far; for one thing,
he had no strength to do so, and for another, she knew intuitively
that the man lacked any purpose to carry him away. Therefore she
walked at her ease, keeping cool and comely, and at the first corner
in the road met a slim youth on horseback, who stopped to salute her.
It was Harry Wylde, son of the great man of the neighborhood.

"Afternoon, Miss Pond," he called cheerfully. "Have you lost a little
thing about the size of a pickpocket?"

"A little bigger than that, I think," she answered. "Have you seen
him, Mr. Wylde?"

"Yes," said Harry Wylde. "I've seen him before, too, I'll swear. I
knew the little beast at once. I say, Miss Pond, how the dickens did
you manage to get mixed up with him?"

"He's my patient," said Mary. "Where did you see him, please?"

Harry Wylde pointed down the road. "I passed him just now," he said.
"He was in the churchyard."

"The churchyard?"

"Yes, sitting on the grass, having no end of a time. Looked as happy
as a trout in a sand-bath. I knew him at once."

"How did you know him?" demanded Mary.

Harry Wylde leaned forward over his saddle. "Miss Pond," he said
seriously, "there's hardly a man that goes to races in all England
that doesn't know him. His name's Woolley--that's one of his names,
anyhow. He was a kind of jockey once, and since then he's been the
lowest, meanest little sharper in all the dirty little turf swindles
that was ever kicked off a racecourse. If I wasn't sure I wouldn't
say so; but you ought to know whom you are entertaining."

"But you must be utterly mistaken," cried Mary. "Professor Fish
brought him to us. It's impossible."

"Case of Fish and foul," suggested the youth. "But I'm not mistaken.
The man I mean has lost the tip of his ear, the left one. Somebody
bit it off, I believe. Now, have you noticed your chap's ear?"

He looked at her acutely, and she colored in hot distress.

"I see you have," he said. "I'd ask this Fish person for an
explanation, if I were you; particularly as Woolley is supposed to be
dead. The police want him pretty badly, you know. It looks queer,
doesn't it?"

"I--I can't understand it," said Mary. "I'm sure there's a mistake
somewhere."

Young Wylde nodded. "We'll call it a mistake," he said. "He was
injured on the Underground in London and taken to St. Brigid's
Hospital, where he died. I remember reading about it. Now, of course,
I shan't say anything to anybody; but you ought to have an explanat