keeps," the old sailor declared. "This is your home now, Jenny,
and I'm very glad to have you here. There's only you and your Uncle
Albert and me now, I reckon, for I don't think we shall ever see
poor Bob again."

An elderly woman came in.

"Doria be wishful to know when you'll want the boat," she said.

"I should like it immediately if possible," begged Brendon. "Much
time has been lost."

"Tell them to get aboard, then," directed Brendigo, and in five
minutes Mark was taking his leave.

"I'll let you have the earliest intimation of the capture, Mr.
Redmayne," he said. "If your poor brother still lives, it seems
impossible that he should long be free. His present condition must
be one of great torment and anxiety--to him--and for his own sake I
hope he will soon surrender or be found--if not in England, then in
France."

"Thank you," answered the older man quietly. "What you say is true.
I regret the delay myself now. If he is heard of again by me, I'll
telegraph to Scotland Yard, or get 'em to do so at Dartmouth. I've
slung a telephone wire into the town as you see."

They stood again under the flagstaff on the plateau, and Brendon
studied the rugged cliff line and the fields of corn that sloped
away inland above it. The district was very lonely and only the
rooftree of a solitary farmhouse appeared a mile or more distant to
the west.

"If he should come to you--and I have still a fancy that he may do
so--take him in and let us know," said Brendon. "Such a necessity
will be unspeakably painful, I fear, but I am very sure you will not
shrink from it, Mr. Redmayne."

The rough old man had grown more amiable during the detective's
visit. It was clear that a natural aversion for Brendon's business
no longer extended to the detective himself.

"Duty's duty," he said, "though God keep me from yours. If I can do
anything, you may trust me to do it. He's not likely to come here, I
think; but he might try and get over to Albert down south. Good-bye
to you."

Mr. Redmayne went back to the house, and Jenny, who stood by them,
walked as far as the top of the steps with Brendon.

"Don't think I bear any ill will to this poor wretch," she said.
"I'm only heartbroken, that's all. I used to declare in my
foolishness that I had escaped the war. But no--it is the war that
has killed my dear, dear husband--not Uncle Robert. I see that now."

"It is all to the good that you can be so wise," answered Mark
quietly. "I