strange and
apparently terrible thing, and in common with everybody else his
thoughts were distracted. To the detective's hearty annoyance and
much against his will, there confronted him a professional problem.
Though the sudden whisper of murder that winged with amazing speed
through that little, uplifted church-town was no affair of his,
there fell out an incident which quickly promised to draw him into
it and end his holiday before the time.

Four evenings after his first fishing expedition to the quarries, he
devoted a morning to the lower waters of the Meavy River; at the end
of that day, not far short of midnight, when glasses were empty and
pipes knocked out, half a dozen men, just about to retire, heard a
sudden and evil report.

Will Blake, "Boots" at the Duchy Hotel, was waiting to extinguish
the lights, and seeing Brendon he said:

"There's something in your line happened, master, by the look of it.
A pretty bobbery to-morrow."

"A convict escaped, Will?" asked the detective, yawning and longing
for bed. "That's about the only fun you get up here, isn't it?"

"Convict escaped? No--a man done in seemingly. Mr. Pendean's
uncle-in-law have slaughtered Mr. Pendean by the looks of it."

"What did he want to do that for?" asked Brendon without emotion.

"That's for clever men like you to find out," answered Will.

"And who is Mr. Pendean?"

"The gentleman what's building the bungalow down to Foggintor."

Mark started. The big red man flashed to his mind complete in every
physical feature. He described him and Will Blake replied:

"That's the chap that's done it. That's the gentleman's
uncle-in-law!"

Brendon went to bed and slept no worse for the tragedy. Nor, when
morning came and every maid and man desired to tell him all they
knew, did he show the least interest. When Milly knocked with his
hot water and drew up his blind, she judged that nobody could
appreciate the event better than a famous detective.

"Oh, sir--such a fearful thing--" she began. But he cut her short.

"Now, Milly, don't talk shop. I haven't come to Dartmoor to catch
murderers, but to catch trout. What's the weather like?"

"'Tis foggy and soft; and Mr. Pendean--poor dear soul--"

"Go away, Milly. I don't want to hear anything about Mr. Pendean."

"That big red devil of a man--

"Nor anything about the big red devil, either. If it's soft, I
shall try the leat this morning."

Milly stared at him with much disappointment.