ity and seen themselves winning to the summit of their
ambition by bending to the widow's will; but Mark did not confound
the thoughts of duty and love nor did he even dream that success in
one might depend upon neglect of the other. He had only to raise the
question to answer it, and he swiftly determined that not Jenny, or
her Uncle Bendigo, or anybody on earth should prevent him from
securing Robert Redmayne on the following day if it came within his
power to do so. Indeed he felt little doubt that this would happen.
For that night there was no hurry. He slept well after an unusual
amount of exercise and emotion; and he rose late. He was dressing at
half past eight when there came a chambermaid to the door.

"There's a gentleman must see you this instant moment, please, sir,"
she said. "He's by the name of Mr. Doria and he comes from Captain
Redmayne out over at 'Crow's Nest.'"

Not sorry that his day's work might now be simplified, Mark bade the
girl summon his visitor, and in two minutes Giuseppe Doria appeared.

"I was clever to find you," he said, "for we only knew that you were
stopping in Dartmouth to-night, but we did not know where. Yet I
guessed you would choose the best hotel and I guessed rightly. I
will eat my breakfast with you, if you please, and tell you why I am
here. The thing was to catch you if we could before you went away. I
am glad that I was in time."

"So Robert Redmayne, the murderer of Michael Pendean, has turned
up?" asked Brendon, finishing his shaving; and Doria showed
astonishment.

"Corpo di Bacco! How did you know that?" he asked.

"I saw him on my way home," replied Mark. "I had already seen him,
before the tragedy on Dartmoor, and I remembered him. What is more,
I'm not sure that he didn't remember me."

"We are in fear," continued Doria. "He has not been yet to his
brother, but he is near."

"How can you tell that he is near, if he has not yet been to his
brother?"

"Thus we know it. I go every morning early to Strete Farm on the
hills above us for milk and butter. I go this morning and they have
an ugly story. Last night a man entered Strete Farm and took food
and drink. The farmer hears him and comes upon him sitting eating in
the kitchen--a big man with a red head and a red mustache and a red
waistcoat. The man, when he sees Mr. Brook--that is the farmer--he
bolts through the back kitchen by which he has come. Mr. Brook knows
nothing of the man and he tells me of his