opular," she said;
"they say he eats cats and dogs. Yes. I've talked to several old women,
and they say they lost their animals. One cat was found strangled in the
yard, and--"

"Strangled!" interrupted the detective. "Hum, and the man's an Indian,
possibly a Thug."

"What's a Thug?" asked Aurora, staring.

Hurd explained. "I ran through the book lent by Beecot last night," he
added, "and was so interested I sat up till dawn--"

"You do look chippy," said his sister, candidly, "but from what you say,
there are no Thugs living."

"No, the author says so. Still, it's queer, this strangling, and then
the cruel way in which the man was murdered. Just what a Hindoo would
do. The sugar too--"

"Oh, nonsense! Hokar left the sugar by mistake. If he had intended to
murder Norman he wouldn't have given himself away."

"I expect he never thought anyone would guess he was a Thug. The novel
is not one usually read nowadays. It was the merest chance that Miss
Norman came across it and told Beecot."

"I don't believe in such coincidences," said Aurora, dryly; for in spite
of her fluffy, kittenish looks, she was a very practical person. "But
here we are at 'The Red Pig.' Nice and comfy, isn't it?"

The inn was certainly very pretty. It stood on the very verge of the
town, and beyond stretched fields and hedgerows. The house itself was a
white-washed, thatched, rustic cottage, with a badly painted sign of a
large red sow. Outside were benches, where topers sat, and the windows
were delightfully old-fashioned, diamond-paned casements. Quite a
Dickens inn of the old coaching days was "The Red Pig."

But Hurd gave the pretty, quaint hostel only a passing glance. He was
staring at a woman who stood in the doorway shading her eyes with the
palm of her hand from the setting sun. In her the detective saw the
image of Deborah Junk, now Tawsey. She was of the same gigantic build,
with the same ruddy face, sharp, black eyes and boisterous manner. But
she had not the kindly look of Deborah, and of the two sisters Hurd
preferred the one he already knew.

"This is my brother, Miss Junk," said Aurora, marching up to the door;
"he will only stay until to-morrow."

"You're welcome, sir," said Matilda in a loud and hearty voice, which
reminded the detective more than ever of her sister. "Will you please
walk in and 'ave some tea?"

Hurd nodded and repaired to the tiny sitting-room, where he saw the
photograph of Hay on the mantelpiece.